2025: A Year of Homestead Wins, Chaos & Gratitude

Hello friends,

I’m sitting here by the woodstove on a late December night, a mug of hot cocoa in hand. Outside, the world is still – just starlight on snow and the distant hoot of an owl. It’s hard to believe another year on the homestead has come and gone. What a year indeed! If I had to sum up 2025 in a phrase, I’d borrow one from our own garden: “Life’s crazy, but the garden’s good.” We’ve had big wins, plenty of chaos, and more lessons than I can count. Through it all, we’ve been laughing (mostly at ourselves), learning, and leaning into the simple joys of country life.

Before I dive into the seasonal shenanigans, I want to say thank you. Thank you for being here, for following our adventures (and misadventures), and for sharing your own stories along the way. Writing these posts often feels like penning a letter to a friend – and in a way, it is. So consider this our year-end letter to you, from Rainy River Homesteaders to our extended homestead family. Let’s take a stroll through 2025 together – the triumphs, the troubles, and those little moments of peace that made it all worthwhile.

Winter: Dreams by the Woodstove

Winter at Rainy River Homestead is equal parts cabin fever and quiet beauty. Early 2025 arrived in a flurry of snow and temperatures that could make a polar bear shiver. We hunkered down, feeding the woodstove round the clock and watching frost lace the windows. There’s something magical about waking up to a world of white, bundling up to do the morning animal chores with your breath puffing out in clouds, then returning indoors to the smell of coffee and woodsmoke. In those frozen January days, life slowed to a molasses crawl – a welcome break after the harvest rush of fall.

Of course, a homesteader’s mind never really stops. By mid-January I had a notebook full of grand plans. Winter nights make for excellent homestead dreaming. I spread out garden layouts and seed catalogs across the living room, turning it into a mini command center of plans. (Nerd alert: there may have been color-coded charts involved.) The seed companies must love me in winter – I’m only slightly ashamed of how many packets I ordered while snow piled high outside.

Not all of winter was planning and projects, though. There were quiet moments that mattered. Often I’d step outside at night, just to breathe the cold, starry air and listen to the distant coyotes. And one frigid dawn, I was hauling warm water to the chicken coop when I had to stop in my tracks – not from the cold, but from the beauty of the sunrise painting the snow in pink and gold. The chickens were oddly quiet, as if they were watching it with me. I’ll treasure that frozen sunrise as a behind-the-scenes homestead moment that didn’t make it to Instagram but meant the world to me.

By late winter, the itch to DO something had set in strong. One midnight brainstorm had me sketching out how to predator-proof the chicken coop come spring. I vowed this would be the year we’d outsmart the local critters without turning our coop into an actual fortress (though I did joke about digging a moat – cabin fever does funny things to the brain). Winter gave us the gift of rest and reflection, but by early March I was chomping at the bit for spring. Little did I know, all those tidy plans were about to meet the messy reality of homestead life. Spoiler: not everything went as planned (and that’s half the fun).

Spring: New Life, New Lessons

Spring in our neck of the woods is a study in contrasts. One week we still had snowdrifts, the next it was mud and new sprouts in equal measure. As soon as the ground thawed in April, I was outside poking around for signs of life. Sure enough, tiny shoots of garlic we’d planted last fall were peeking up, and rhubarb buds were swelling red against the wet earth. I absolutely did a happy dance at the sight of those first green signs of life (the dog can attest to it). After a long winter, those little victories felt huge.

With warmer days came a to-do list emerging from hibernation. First up: implementing the grand Predator-Proofing of 2025 for our chicken coop. All those ideas I schemed up by the fire? Time to put them into action. Over a couple of weekends, we turned our humble coop into Fort Knox – or as close as you can get with scrap lumber and a lot of determination. We added sturdy locks to every door and hatch (no crafty raccoon is picking these!), reinforced weak spots with hardware cloth, and laid an apron of wire mesh around the base to stop diggers. It wasn’t all smooth sailing – I managed to staple my shirt sleeve to the wall at one point (to the chickens’ evident amusement), and I have a permanent lump on my head from forgetting about the low coop door. But by May the coop was secure. The real test came one midnight when a fox tried his luck – we found paw prints and scratch marks in the morning, but no breach. Take that, Foxy Loxy! I felt like a proud papa bear knowing my hens were safe inside their fortress.

Spring also brought new life in a far cuter form: baby chicks! We welcomed a batch of day-old laying chicks in April. The kids immediately named every last one (so much for “don’t get attached”). We had a tiny flock of fluffballs with names like Nugget, Marshmallow, and Princess Lay-a cheeping away in a brooder in our mudroom. Nothing says spring like the sound of peeping chicks under a heat lamp – and nothing tests your patience like keeping said chicks in the house for weeks. Let’s just say our mudroom temporarily smelled like a barn, and I was very eager to move them outside when the weather allowed.

And then there were the other chicks – the ones destined for the freezer. Yes, we undertook raising meat birds for the first time ever. In May a box of Cornish Cross chicks arrived. I told the kids, firmly, “These are food, not pets.” They nodded solemnly – then promptly named every single chick anyway. So much for detachment! Those fluffballs grew freakishly fast, eating nonstop and outgrowing their brooder in no time. Soon they were lumbering around the coop, white and chubby, like little feathered sumo wrestlers. When processing day came in June, it was tough, but we had help and did it as humanely as possible. By sunset our freezer was full, and that evening we roasted one for dinner and gave thanks. It was delicious, and a poignant lesson in appreciating our food.

Meanwhile, the garden was calling for attention too. Spring is planting season – a.k.a. the time of year I attempt to juggle twenty tasks at once. I started way too many seedlings indoors (as usual). By mid-May every sunny windowsill in the house was crammed with baby tomatoes, peppers, and herbs stretching toward the light. When the danger of frost finally passed (or so I thought), we hauled everything outside and planted our hearts out. There’s such optimism in those early planting days: neat rows, tidy labels, visions of overflowing harvests. Of course, Mother Nature loves a reality check. In late May, a surprise frost snuck in on the very weekend I gambled on planting early. Cue the late-night scramble: I was out by moonlight draping old sheets and blankets over every bed I could. Despite my efforts, we lost some tender tomatoes and beans. I learned my lesson (again): never trust a warm week in May! I dutifully re-planted and made a note to myself – next year, patience, patience, patience.

Not all of spring’s surprises were unpleasant. We had some delightful foraging adventures as the woods woke up. In June, the kids and I combed the trails for wild edibles. We struck green gold with a patch of wild asparagus along an old fence line – a total thrill to eat something so fresh and free, straight from nature. We also gathered dandelion greens and wild chives to toss into salads, feeling quite proud of our “gourmet weeds.” The crown jewel of spring foraging came when we stumbled on a handful of morel mushrooms near a poplar stump. I practically tripped over them. Morels are like the holy grail of wild mushrooms – finding them felt like winning the lottery (the nerdy homesteader lottery, anyway). We sautéed those morels in butter that very night to celebrate, and let me tell you, they tasted like victory. These little moments – an unexpected find in the woods, a meal made richer by something we discovered ourselves – added so much magic to our spring.

By the end of spring, our homestead was bursting at the seams with new life and projects. The garden was (mostly) planted and already sprouting, the coop was full of clucking residents big and small, and our fridge was plastered with the kids’ crayon drawings of flowers, chicks, and veggies. We collapsed into bed each night with mud on our boots and happy exhaustion in our bones. Spring has a way of renewing our enthusiasm (even as it reminds us we’re not really in control). As I drifted off to sleep on cool May nights, I often heard the peepers singing in the pond and the faint cheep of chicks in the next room. Chaos and all, it was a beautiful start to the year.

Summer: Abundance & Mayhem in Equal Measure

Ah, summer on the homestead – when everything explodes with life (and occasionally out of control). By July, the garden was a riot of green. All that winter planning and spring planting paid off: our veggie patch went absolutely wild. Tomato vines became a tangled jungle, heavy with green fruit. Cucumbers threatened to take over their corner. Pea plants climbed out of their beds and into the sunflowers. Every morning I’d head out with a basket and come back with it overflowing: crisp cucumbers, glossy peas, handfuls of green beans, and the first sun-warmed cherry tomatoes (which rarely made it to the house because I ate them like candy on the spot!). Our raspberry canes suddenly decided to produce a bumper crop – we were picking buckets of raspberries every other day. The kids turned into berry-stained little urchins, gleefully stuffing their faces as we filled bowl after bowl. We even discovered a wild blueberry thicket along the edge of our woods. Those berries were tiny but packed with flavor, and we proudly folded them into pancakes and muffins whenever we could gather enough.

Of course, with great abundance comes great… chaos. Let’s talk zucchini. Despite promising myself I’d plant fewer, I once again put in far too many zucchini seeds. And wouldn’t you know it – every single one germinated and thrived. By August we were swimming in zucchini. I’m talking monster squash lurking under every leaf, growing bigger by the hour. We ate zucchini in everything. I baked an alarming number of zucchini breads and muffins (much to the kids’ suspicion). We grilled it, pickled it, and I even snuck it into chocolate cake. By the end of summer, I was the phantom zucchini fairy, quietly leaving squash on neighbors’ porches just to offload the excess. If you found a mysterious zucchini on your doorstep… well, you’re welcome!

Pests tried to claim their share of our harvest as well. A wily groundhog nibbled our lettuce until I fortified the fence. Cabbage worms had their way with my broccoli for a bit. And I waged nightly war on slugs and beetles – many evenings you’d find me out there at dusk, headlamp on, hand-picking the little devils off my plants and muttering “so much for the peaceful life.” (Homesteading glamour, right?) It wasn’t always pretty, but we managed to keep the pests from totally overwhelming us.

I thought homesteading would be peaceful then I got chickens

Our spring chicks grew up and joined the flock in summer, causing some feathery drama until the pecking order got sorted out. There’s never a dull moment with chickens around – they truly are feathery little anarchists sometimes. One hen kept sneaking into the shed to lay eggs in my toolbox, and our rooster spent his days herding hens and crowing at odd hours like he owned the place. Still, I adore those clucking, curious creatures and all their antics.

Mid-summer we also enjoyed the fruits of our labor at the dinner table, which was immensely satisfying. One Sunday we decided it was time to cook Snowball – the biggest of our meat birds – for a family dinner. We seasoned her up and roasted her to golden perfection. The experience was a mix of pride and poignancy. As we sat down to eat, the kids asked quietly, “This was Snowball, right?” We all paused a moment. I nodded, and we said a little thank-you. It felt right to acknowledge it. After that, we traded a few funny memories of Snowball (who was, frankly, the laziest chicken I’ve ever met) and then dug in. The meal was delicious – tender and rich – and it meant so much more knowing the whole story behind it. If anything, it made us appreciate our food on a whole new level.

Summer days on the homestead followed a demanding rhythm. Up at sunrise (the rooster made sure of that), on our feet until dusk, then collapsing into bed. But we did carve out some sweet moments amidst the frenzy. On the hottest afternoons, we’d knock off work for a bit and let the kids splash in the creek to cool down (and, let’s be honest, give us grown-ups an excuse to sit in the shade for a minute). We caught fireflies on warm nights and had picnics in the field, complete with sticky homemade popsicles.

One late summer night, after a marathon day of homestead chores, my wife and I sat on the porch in silence, listening to crickets under a blanket of stars. In that stillness, all the hustle and hard work of the season melted into a deep contentment. Sometimes it’s those little pauses that remind you why you chose this life in the first place. I carried that calm with me into the next day – which was good, because a freak windstorm promptly flattened my corn patch and I needed every ounce of zen to not lose my mind! Homestead life, right? High highs, low lows, and a lot of humor in between.

Autumn: Harvest, Woodlands & Letting Go

Autumn arrived in a blaze of red and orange, and with it a welcome easing of the summer frenzy. There’s a certain relief when the days turn crisp – a signal that we can slow down (at least a notch) and reap the final rewards of the growing season.

September was all about bringing in the harvest and buttoning things up. We picked the last of the tomatoes (including many green ones I turned into chutney), hauled in pumpkins and squash, and filled crates with potatoes, carrots, and beets from the garden. The pantry and root cellar were filling up nicely. After a couple of light frosts and one final dash to save what we could, the growing season finally came to an end. We tucked the garden under straw and said 'see you next spring.'

Autumn isn’t just about cultivated crops – it’s a forager’s delight too. This year we had a mushroom bonanza thanks to the damp weather. We ventured into the woods and found all sorts of fungal treasures. One of the biggest surprises was a fairy ring of shaggy mane mushrooms that popped up along our gravel lane after an October rain. We harvested them at their prime (just in time, before they could turn to ink!) and cooked them with butter and garlic that night – absolutely delicious. Even our mushroom-cautious child gave them a thumbs-up. Fall foraging gave us other treats as well: a bucket of tart wild cranberries from a boggy patch near the creek, a handful of hazelnuts (we raced the squirrels for those), and rose hips that we dried for tea. Tramping through the woods on cool afternoons, basket in hand, was as much about the experience as the food. The golden light filtering through the birches, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the satisfied grins of the kids when we found something good – those moments were autumn’s real treasure.

This fall we also turned our attention to the wildlife around us. All summer we’d been hearing coyotes at night and spotting deer tracks, so we set up a trail camera deep in our backwoods to see what neighbors we had. When we finally checked the footage, it felt like uncovering a secret world. The camera captured so many visitors: sly foxes trotting by, a chubby raccoon family waddling along (one even poked its nose right up to the lens), elegant deer passing through, and even a big black bear lumbering past at 2 AM! It was a thrill seeing all these wild neighbors, and a good reminder that we share this land with many creatures.

Autumn also means hunting season. One chilly October morning I took my 7-year-old son out for his first grouse hunt. We flushed two grouse and I took the shots. The best part was seeing his face glow with pride when we cooked them for dinner and he told everyone, "I helped get this!" That moment alone made my year.

As days grew shorter, we shifted into winter-prep mode. November was spent on unglamorous prep chores: stacking firewood, cleaning the coop, draining hoses, and tuning up the generator and snowblower. All necessary tasks to get ready for winter. By early December, the first snow arrived, blanketing the homestead in hush. We found ourselves gathered around the woodstove again in the evenings, soaking in its warmth and reflecting on how far we’ve come since last winter.

Reflections and New Year’s Wishes

Now here we are at year’s end, watching the snowflakes dance outside the window once more. The seed catalogs have already started arriving (they just can’t wait, can they?), and I’m sure I’ll be poring over them by the woodstove soon, dreaming of next year’s garden.

Looking back, this year taught us so much. Homesteading has a way of keeping you humble, that’s for sure. We had plenty of wins: a predator-proof coop that kept our hens safe, healthy animals with quirky names and personalities, a garden and pantry overflowing with homegrown goodness, and foraging finds that added wild flavor to our table. We also had our share of mistakes and lessons: surprise frosts that taught me not to rush Mother Nature, a zucchini invasion that taught us (again) that five plants is four too many, and of course the emotional rollercoaster of naming animals that we later had to say goodbye to. But every stumble taught us something valuable, and every success felt earned.

Through all the wins and woes, I find myself deeply grateful. Grateful for this land that provides, and for the critters (tame and wild) that are part of our world. Grateful for my family’s hard work and sense of humor – my wife and kids who roll with the crazy and keep me smiling (even when I’m grumbling about flattened corn). Grateful for friends and neighbors who lent a hand or shared a laugh when things went wrong. And I’m especially grateful for you, dear readers. Sharing our journey through this blog – hearing your encouragement and your own homestead tales – makes this life feel a little less lonely. Thank you for being a part of our 2025.

As we turn the page to 2026, I want to send a hopeful message from our homestead to yours. May the new year bring you simple joys and new growth. May you find time to slow down and savor the little things – a quiet cup of coffee at sunrise, the feel of soil in your hands, the sound of wind in the trees. May you grow something (anything, no matter how small) and feel the thrill of nurturing life. And may you continue to discover the beauty in real life – the perfectly imperfect, wonderful moments that don’t come from a screen or a store, but from living fully and authentically.

From our homestead to yours, Happy New Year! We’re excited to keep learning, laughing, and growing in the year ahead, and I can’t wait to share more of that journey with you.

Until next time, keep your fire burning and your dreams growing.

Warmly,

Kevin (and the whole Rainy River Homesteaders crew)