Llama Time!

Of all the things I’d hoped to accomplish by the time I turned 42, placing my hands on the buttocks of a stubborn llama and trying to push it across a babbling brook wasn’t high on the list. But until today, I’d no idea what I was missing. Hamilton, the recalcitrant llama, is no fan of water, and this is the second stream he’s refused to cross. We changed direction about an hour ago at the lip of a shallow pool of marshy grass, and Deanna, my guide, isn’t happy. “This is the only way home, Hamilton,” Deanna says, gesturing me towards Hamilton’s hind quarters and taking my own llama’s lead from me. Dizzy, my llama, is too busy eating to worry about wet feet. He’s like a chubby kid in an éclair factory – the Augustus Gloop of the even-toed ungulate family – wolfing down everything he sees – oak leaves, wet grass, and pine needles. Dizzy’s also kept up a steady hum the entire hike, and it’s either nerves at my novice llama leading skills, or he’s just naturally musical. Either way, his humming gets louder as Hamilton digs his hooves into the mud.

My pushing gets us nowhere, so Deanna switches places. I’m now tugging on the halter while Deanna pushes. I’m half-expecting Rex Harrison to emerge from the brush and break into song about the Push Me Pull Me, but the only sounds are Dizzy’s humming and Deanna’s gentle chiding. For a large beast getting shoved and yanked in a direction he has no interest in heading, Hamilton’s silent, save for his heavy breathing.

Just as Deanna’s about to give up and return the way we came, Hamilton’s hoof slips in the mud, and in an instant, he’s airborne, all four legs a foot off the ground as he leaps past me onto the trail. I almost drop the lead at the shock of it but hold on as Hamilton stops. We keep moving along the trail, Dizzy humming a tune only he knows.

Deanna Morrison is my guide and host today at Cicely Farm, tucked in the northeast corner of Concord on the Canterbury line. Deanna and her husband have lived at Cicely Farm since the mid ‘90s, and Deanna’s llama habit didn’t start until a few years later. “My husband bought me two in ’99, and I’ve just kept going,” she tells me as we stand in her barn. The farm’s a sprawling expanse of pasture, hay fields, thick woods, white farm house, stables and this barn that’s more than 150 years old. What I notice most are the llamas. There are lots of them. They stopped and stared from the fields as I drove in, and now as I walk into Deanna’s barn, the llamas approach from behind the gate. At least a dozen fill the stalls - big brown ones, multi-colored ones and a spotted, light gray one with droopy, hairy ears that make him look like Cyndi Lauper, if she were a large ruminant who spits at strangers.

Since starting with two, Deanna’s grown her collection to twenty five llamas and three alpacas. The alpacas stick out, smaller with different ears and cream-colored coats that look recently shorn. Deanna talks while she works, a whirlwind of activity and enthusiasm. I learn that llamas can live to be twenty-five years old, are pregnant for almost twelve months, have sharp “fighting teeth,” and are originally from South America. “It’s time to feed these fellas,” she tells me, directing me to the bucket of pellets. Deanna herds in Hamilton, Dizzy, Spotty, Tatonka and Woody, to name a few. Notorious, aka, “Tory,” sees me, pins his ears back, wags his tail and clucks at me with his tongue. Just before I can say something stupid like, “He likes me! He really likes me!” Deanna scolds Tory to back away and warns me to keep my distance. “He’s clucking because he’s threatened, and llamas only wag their tails when they’re not happy.” So much for first impressions.

“Where’s your bucket?” Deanna holds the cup of pellets out near the feed bucket and repeats, “Where’s your bucket?” The llamas dip their noses down to the bucket, and she pours in the food. She lets them finish, shuttling them out and the others in, her and their movements a gentle, silent dance, the only noise the clanging of the gates and the steady munching of food.

After an hour or so of watching, listening and learning, I have to ask. “Why llamas?” Based on what I’ve seen, you can’t ride, hug or eat them, so why own a llama farm? Deanna explains the many reasons to own llamas but doesn’t do it for any of the ones she mentions. She doesn’t breed her llamas or enter them into performance or “beauty events.” She doesn’t train them as guards for sheep farmers, and she thinks shearing and selling the fiber is a waste of time (“I’ve got plenty of it tucked away and if you want some, you’re welcome to it.”) “My llamas are pet-quality llamas. I have my llamas for the llamas,” she explains as we spread hay out for llama lunchtime. Some llama owners grow bored or tired of the routine, and they seek Deanna out to take the creatures off their hands. “Most of my llamas are rescue llamas – I took them because their owners were done with them.” Based on the attention and care she gives them, these llamas have “llucked” out, you might say.

But Deanna’s explanation begs another question. Why would anyone breed llamas? There can’t be many llama obstacle courses in the world, and ESPN has yet to broadcast the Miss Llama Universe competition. I wonder if somewhere the Bernie Madoff of the Camelid class sits in his llama-fiber and jewel-encrusted Snuggie, counting his loot while the market collapses, exposing the llama breeding industry for the Ponzi scheme it just might be.

But I’ve got manure to shovel and hay to spread, and as Deanna leads me down towards the females’ enclosure, it’s easy to see why she loves this so much. The eight females surround me, quiet and calm as they nibble at the hay bale I’m carting. Deanna shoos them away as we make our way across the field, but as we stop, one llama stands in my way. Every step I take she takes one to block me. “That’s Fiona,” Deanna says. “She does not play well with people.”

As Deanna tells me this, Fiona approaches from behind, smelling my hair and breathing in my ears from her massive nostrils, walking around me, her hot breath covering my face. Now, my experience with the ladies has been that whispers of sweet nothings from a whiskered muzzle in my ear usually means good times ahead, but Deanna’s seen enough, and she pens off Fiona until I can finish spreading hay, filling water and shoveling manure. Fiona stands behind the gate, staring at me with her deep, dark glassy eyes. “She’s trying to assert her dominance over you,” Deanna explains. Considering she’s watching me shovel her poop into a large bucket, I’d say Fiona’s won this round.

I bid goodbye to Fiona and her friends as Deanna and I prepare for our walk with Dizzy and Hamilton. Deanna runs a small business here - “Cicely Farm Llama Adventures,” where you can “Hike with the llamas on our wooded trails.” Deanna’s chosen Dizzy for me because he’s one of the original two llamas and is comfortable on the trails. Hamilton’s a wild card, as we later realize, but Deanna’s the kind of farmer who’s willing to give every llama the benefit of the doubt.

The walk in the woods is worth it – we cover acres and acres of winding trails across Cicely Farm’s property, and the llamas, except for the water hazard hesitations, were exemplary. There’s something very relaxing about taking a hike with a llama, and I’m going back for seconds. But if you get there before me, tell Fiona I said hi.

(Learn more about Cicely Farm by emailing cicely.farmer@comcast.net.)