Here in The County, nothing says “springtime” quite like a freshly worked farm field awaiting the sowing of today’s major crops – potatoes, broccoli, grain – that solidify the area’s cherished reputation as the garden spot of Maine.

And nothing is more impressive than watching a modern-day agribusiness outfit whip the land into shape with a bedazzling array of expensive machinery – powerful behemoths whose operators work in teams to accomplish in hours what the outdated machinery of old in the employ of a single farmer and his hired help would be hard-pressed to get done in weeks.

From my modest property, I can see state-of-the-art equipment worth several millions of dollars moving efficiently over the landscape. These are no small-time operations. In this land of the bountiful harvest, the small-time operations are rapidly fading into the shadows of history. They made this land’s lofty reputation for raising the world’s best potatoes, and may God bless the stalwarts still stubbornly hanging on. But, for better or worse, farming here has become pretty much a big boy’s ballgame with new rules of engagement.

With the precision of an elite Army drill team, 10 huge tractors work the land nearest me, and off in the distance I can see four more at work. Three tractors, trailing monstrous plow and disc harrow combinations reminiscent of some contraption designed by zany cartoonist-inventor Rube Goldberg, turn over the rich earth. In their wake two smaller tractors tow mechanical rock pickers to smooth the way for four tractors hauling gigantic potato planters and another towing a dual grain drill. Assorted equipment stands by to service the machines when they run low on seed and fertilizer. By midafternoon, the entire farm has been planted and the crews have moved on to another farm to repeat their amazing performance.

In some parts of this fertile farm belt, farm operations are recognized by the brand of tractors and related equipment they favor. Farmer A is partial to the mighty blue Fords, Farmer B prefers the Case line, and if you were to stick Farmer C he likely would bleed John Deere green and yellow. The common denominator: Whatever the make of machine, it does not come cheap. Anyone contemplating getting into the business would be well advised to have as backup a sugar daddy with deep pockets, I am told.

Team colors and brand loyalty aside, at $500 a ton for fertilizer and with diesel fuel pushing $4.50 per gallon, farmers putting in this particular crop realize that if they are to survive where so many smaller outfits have not, they must pay attention to business.

During planting and harvest seasons, that translates into long days and short nights. When I awakened to the hum of tractors working in a nearby field Thursday, the clock on the nightstand showed 5:40 a.m. At 8 p.m., as darkness set in, the tractors and the machinery they towed moved in a convoy up the highway to their home base, their operators apparently calling it a day. In farm country, one makes hay while the sun shines. And sometimes a wee bit afterward, as well.

As I enjoyed the hectic to-and-fro surrounding the annual spring planting ritual on yet another trademark blue-sky Aroostook County day, it occurred to me that among old potato farmers who have gone to their heavenly reward there may be two schools of thought when it comes to this newfangled equipment.

Some might curse their rotten luck at having been born 50 years too soon to get in on a deal that would have made their lives more enjoyable. As for others – some of whom I knew well – I can imagine their derisive comments at the thought of operating a tractor from the cushy interior of an air-conditioned cab featuring all the comforts of home, rather than from a precarious perch on an unforgiving metal seat exposed to the whims of the weather gods. There, a man who could eat dust and swat at black flies while managing to plow a straight furrow won the respect of his peers.

But a more practical reason for an old-timer to be leery of the urge to acquire all of today’s shiny bells and whistles in the farming business might be the ungodly amount of collateral he’d have to put up to become a player.

With the benefit of hard-won experience, he’d likely be mindful of the poet Will Carleton’s cautionary suggestion: “Worm or beetle – drought or tempest – on a farmer’s land may fall. Each is loaded full o’ ruin, but a mortgage beats ’em all.”

BDN columnist Kent Ward lives in Limestone. Readers may e-mail him at

olddawg@bangordailynews.net.