Certified Organic
Lynn Bayne says organic hay smells sweeter.
The farmhouse was built in the early 1800s. Farm dog Maggie chases the tractor.
Pleasant Valley offers a green and natural way to raise cattle — and the hay they eat, too.
By Victoria Bradley | Photography by Megan Wylie Ruffing

Lynn Bayne put on his good shirt because he knew we were coming. He stands outside of the old stone farmhouse, his weathered hands shoved into faded denim pockets, his lips pasted over his welcoming smile. He squints even in the shade of his “Pleasant Valley Organics” ball cap, so crisp and clean that I can tell it’s not part of his everyday uniform.

“You missed it,” he says first. “There were 10 or 12 wild turkeys on the hill this morning.” The farm land rolls away into the blue, with thick patches of green calico’ed with dry yellow spots. A deep silver pond glistens in the lowlands, and in the shade, I can see the red shadows of the cattle.

Pleasant Valley is a grass-fed beef farm, the home of 51 head of cattle today.  Twenty are solely breeders, and there’s one mammoth bull among them, the only cattle with a name. “We call him Steeler,” Bayne says, huffing a short laugh.

The farm is owned by Arthur and Jasna Keys, who work most of the time in Washington, D.C. Keys is president of International Relief and Development (IRD). “We use the same sustainable organic practices in Washington County that we do in agricultural development projects overseas,” Keys says. Bayne is his first cousin and a retiree. He was hired to look after the farm four years ago, when the organic certification went into place. The farm was homesteaded by Keys and Bayne’s great, great, great, great grandfather in 1785.

Today, they do as much business in organic hay as they do in organic beef.  Bayne slow-boots up the ramp to the ash white barn and fiddles with the latch. He swings the blistered door open to reveal giant spindles of hay bales.

“They smell different,” he says, chalking his hands over the straw, releasing aromatics and floating few dry tufts to the barn floor. “Sweeter, I think.”

There are no chemicals or pesticides used on the land. Most of the weed control is handled through strategic planting. Not even the wood for the fence posts have been specially treated. And if the telephone poles weren’t 20 years old, they’d have to be special ordered without any varnish. Nothing can compromise the cleanliness of the soil, the grass, the hay, or the cows.

And, organic hay is pricy. It would take two 600-pound bales to feed Bayne’s 51 cows on a winter day, and each bale costs $40, compared to hay that is not organic, at just $20 per bale. Bayne says they sell mostly to the Amish, “but come January and February, a lot of farmers run out, and they come by.”

The farmer scoots onto the seasoned seat of the tractor, and I climb in next to him. There are long amber plumes cinched on either side of the front window. “Turkey feathers,” he says, and I start to catch on to his deep love for the wildlife here. “I keep the male ones, these darker ones, here on the left,” he says, strumming their silk. “Those are female ones,” he says, gesturing at the blonder bouquet.

We sput and sputter over the gravel path, through the shade of the hills and the trees, closer to the gunmetal pond, where Bayne reveals he swam as a boy, and past the fields that are almost knee-high and ready for their second cutting. Maggie, the chow/lab mix he adopted last year to keep him company, runs along behind us, her spotted black tongue hanging out as she huffs.

At the top of the property, there’s another barn. This one’s empty, ready for the harvest. The farmer shuffles around, pointing at the wide boards that are walling us in. “Those come from pretty big trees, you have to figure,” he says. “They don’t cut wood like that anymore.”

Outside, he points to the young steers grazing on the higher pastures.  At 18-30 months, these are the next to be sent to slaughter. Pleasant Valley sends two each month, as orders come in. The beef is sold by the whole, half, or quarter and mostly to individuals, restaurants, and resorts (Nemacolin Woodlands and Seven Springs have accounts).

We swing back into the tractor and roll into the valley, where more of the cows and calves are cooling in the shade. Bayne steps softly toward them, not sneaking, but walking gently. He treads past the few chomping in the foreground to an auburn beauty near the back, and pats her curly face. Two bow-legged babies hobble out from the herd, licking one another’s snouts and sending the flies whirling about.

Bayne steps out from among them and climbs the hill toward me again. His face peels into a toothy grin. “Want to hear ‘em moo?” he says.

I raise my eyebrows.

He turns back to the herd and cups his hands around his mouth. “Coome Cow!” he hollers, sing-song. One large heifer bellows back and then a second. And then, their chorus grows, loud and deep, rolling over the hills and sending a baritone current through the windy grass.

Pleasant Valley Organic Farm, 25 Pine Road, Amity. 202.213.5237.  www.pleasantvalleyorganicfarm.com .