Words: Aimee Eaton Photos: Copi Vojta 2016-12-16 14:53:33
The volume of a single rooster’s crow averages 90 decibels, about the same as a barking dog. So when I enter one of the barns at renowned hackle producer Whiting Farms where more than 3,000 roosters are kept in stack upon stack of looming microwave-sized cages, the sound is deafening. Every rooster in the place is a Labrador and I am the postman at the door. “They’re telling you this is their territory,” says Tom Whiting, the operation’s owner, president and primary poultry geneticist. He started Whiting Farms in 1989 after purchasing eggs from Henry Hoffman, who at the time had a small hackle business on the Oregon coast specializing in striped black-and-white grizzly hackle. The eggs were from the Hoffman Hackle line of birds and the barred feathers they produced were the starting point from which Whiting Farms hackle production began. As I walk with Whiting down the narrow rows between cages, several of the birds lunge toward us and I work to not shirk away. The barn has no windows and the artificial light that is programmed to encourage growth shows many of the roosters strutting and fluffing up their neck feathers in aggressive displays. They are both terrifying and beautiful. To illustrate how far these birds have come, Whiting holds up a cape of feathers from one of the original Hoffman Hackle roosters. The feathers are roughly five inches long and of nonuniform thickness. In contrast, he points out a cape from a descendant of those birds. They’re clearly related, but the feathers of Whiting’s stock are longer than my forearm and almost cookie cutter in their similarity. It occurs to me that with Whiting’s extensive work in genetics, these birds have not so much been born as they have been built. It occurs to me that with Whiting’s extensive work in genetics, these birds have not so much been born as they have been built. Whiting began working with chickens when he was just a kid living in the Denver suburbs. He had a small backyard coop and sold eggs around the neighborhood. No one else in his family had any interest in farming and especially not in chicken farming, and Whiting says even today at family gatherings he’s often labeled as the oddball, throwback agriculturist. In part the label is true, but he also holds a doctorate in poultry science with a specialty in genetics from the University of Arkansas. “Coming out of graduate school, I saw this as an interesting project,” says Whiting who is soft-spoken and prone to tangents in his conversation. “Some people think the hackle business is some sort of get-rich-quick scheme. It’s anything but. It’s a long-term, incremental process.” Whiting primarily breeds two stocks of birds: the Hoffman line and the Hebert/Miner/Whiting line. However, he has incorporated genetics from a range of other breeds, including bantam roosters and laying birds, in order to create the world’s best fly-tying feathers. “I have several consultants and professional tiers who test the product and advise me on what they would like to see developed,” says Whiting, who, with a caterpillar mustache and slightly feathered hair, looks more like an old-school cowboy than Charles Darwin. Common areas cited for improvement and enhancement by the advisory board include feather length, color, width, stiffness and amount of webbing. Whiting adds that when he started breeding feather birds, the focus was on the dry-fly market. It’s been in the last decade that he’s expanded his breeding program to include selections suited to wet flies, saltwater flies, bass flies and even flies aimed at the Esox family. “We’ve developed a musky pack with the longer feathers and brighter colors,” he says. Whiting stops in front of the cage of a Hoffman Hackle descendant. He reaches in and grabs the bird by the drumsticks, which seems rough but is kinder and gentler than holding a chicken by the back, breast or neck. After a fit of wing flapping, the rooster settles and perches on Whiting’s fist. It’s nearly 18 inches tall from its lizard-like talons to the cherry-red comb on its head. Like all the other birds in the barn, it appears in peak health with glossy feathers and bright eyes. This one is especially stunning to a tier’s eye, with white- and black-barred hackle feathers that brush the tops of its feet. “When the feathers start dragging on the ground, we know it’s time to harvest,” says Whiting, whose arms bear the white lines of old scars and a few newer wounds that still seep red blood. He shrugs the gashes off. “It’s like being a beekeeper,” he says. “You’re going to get stung.” “When the feathers start dragging on the ground, we know it’s time to harvest,” says Whiting, whose arms bear the white lines of old scars and a few newer wounds that still seep red blood. He shrugs the gashes off. “It’s like being a beekeeper,” he says. “You’re going to get stung.” Whiting Farms’ headquarters are located in Delta, CO just past the livestock yard, over the Uncompahgre River, past Deer Run Taxidermy and the Rocking Horse Childcare center and just before the county medium-security correctional facility. “There’s only one road in,” Whiting says. “In case of a prisoner escape, we’ve been warned to never leave the keys in any vehicle, not even the tractors.” More than a dozen long white barns and industrial buildings make up the farm, and though Whiting has another site a few miles away with newer, cutting-edge technology and sustainable infrastructure, this is the heart of the business. “Originally this was a mink farm,” says Whiting, who chose the area around Delta in part because land was relatively inexpensive, but also because the dry, arid climate helps to limit problems with disease, mold and rot. “When I bought it, it was a mess, with head-high weeds everywhere and buildings falling apart.” It also stunk. Several years and many updates later, the facility functions year-round as ground zero for the farm’s harvesting, preparing and shipping operations. The only odor is that of sun-warmed dirt and feed grain. In a back room of one of the midsized warehouses, the temperature is kept at 115 degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is close to zero. Coming in from a cool fall day, it’s stifling. A series of racks cover one wall of the room and hanging from the bars are rectangles of cardboard stapled together to sandwich the skins of birds harvested in the last 24 hours. In the Death Valley-esque conditions of the room the fat remaining in the skins turns liquid and leaches onto the cardboard. It leaves grease stains reminiscent of a fast-food bag left on the dashboard, and just like fast food it leaves me uncomfortable. I both covet these feathers and feel unease at their procurement. Once the drying process is finished, the skins are taken into another room where they are washed, and sometimes colored using specially formulated dyes. The process, Whiting says, is as much alchemy as chemistry. After being washed, the skins are placed on a circular drying rack and centrifugal force is used to spin out excess water and fluff the attached feathers. From there the skins are once again hung on cardboard in a hot room to finish drying before farm employees collect them. The skins are then trimmed into tidy ovals, damaged feathers are removed and the clean, nearly odorless end product is packaged into consumer-friendly cellophane stamped with the Whiting Farms logo. According to Whiting, the farm harvests between 600 to 1,000 birds twice a week using a humane carbon dioxide tank to kill the birds. “They just go to sleep,” he says. After being collected from the tank, the carcasses are skinned, the skins processed and the bodies, along with wood chips from the farm, are placed in a long black composter. Whiting then uses the compost on fields around the farm to enrich the soil. “The feather birds are not USDA inspected, so cannot be sold for food, even for animal food,” says Whiting, who also raises several types of USDA-inspected meat birds for high-end specialty markets. “Composting is the best solution we’ve found so far.” Staring at the large black cylinder that is the composter, it hits me. None of these birds are getting out of here alive. The cost of the world’s best fly-tying hackle is 100,000 chicken deaths a year and a few tons of soil amendments. I wonder if Whiting struggles with that reality. His wife, Suzette, is a nonpracticing veterinarian. She dedicates most of her time to running an animal rescue out of the couple’s home. “Our friends say she saves animals and I kill them,” Whiting says of the contrast in their work. “There’s some truth to that.” Staring at the large black cylinder that is the composter, it hits me. None of these birds are getting out of here alive. The cost of the world’s best fly-tying hackle is 100,000 chicken deaths a year and a few tons of soil amendments. Managing USDA regulations, insuring animal welfare, balancing relationships and determining what to do with the birds once they’ve been skinned are just a few of many complexities Whiting has had to work through in the 27 years he’s owned the farm. “When I started I thought I’d be doing genetics and breeding, but it’s really a three-part job: genetics, production and small business management. Genetics is the smallest part,” Whiting says. “If I knew when I started what I know now, I would have gotten an MBA rather than a PhD.” Whiting Farms has 23 full-time employees and a handful of part-time workers. And though the company has been profitable for the last decade it has never been able to fulfill 100 percent of placed orders. “When I start a breeder flock, I’m working 14 to 24 months out,” Whiting says. “The chicks from that breeding won’t have reached their feathered potential and be ready to go to market for more than a year. Part of the business is predicting what will be selling at that time and the products shops and tiers will be requesting.” In order to even come close to meeting market demand, Whiting is constantly breeding and hatching new flocks of chicks with novel genetic material. Upon maturation he personally examines each bird and selects individuals with traits he’s interested in—whether that is color, hackle texture, or something else entirely—for further study and possible entrance into the breeding program. Of the more than 100,000 chickens Whiting Farms produces every year, only about one half of one percent are used in the breeding program. It’s incredibly selective and has allowed Whiting to make huge leaps in genetic hackle development, but it’s not magic. Of the more than 100,000 chickens Whiting Farms produces every year, only about one half of one percent are used in the breeding program. The hatchery for the feather birds is in one of several new buildings Whiting has constructed at a separate farm about 10 miles from headquarters. The land, which backs up to Colorado’s grand mesa, is mostly undeveloped except for the infrastructure Whiting needs to run his operation. This includes the hatchery building, a nursery, several rooster and brooding barns, a pole barn under which the large composter and several pieces of farm machinery are stored and the largest solar array in Delta County. The solar panels are relatively new, but Whiting is already selling energy back to the electric company. He says it’s one way the business reaches for long-term sustainability. Unlike backyard chicken coops, Whiting Farms’ hens do not sit on nests to incubate and hatch chicks. Instead, the brooding barns are set up so that a single rooster is put together with several hens at a time in large wire cages that fill up multiple barns. Fertilized eggs roll down the sloping floor of the cages into a trough and are collected twice a day. Each egg is marked with its pedigree and transported to the hatchery where it is grouped with eggs from the same breeding before being placed either into cool storage or into a large, climate-controlled incubator. Once in the incubator, it takes 21 days for an egg to hatch and Whiting Farms conducts two hatches a week, each averaging more than 1,000 chicks. Whiting slides open a viewing window on one of the incubators and I peek in. It’s a Wednesday and the farm won’t process this hatch until Friday, but looking through the dim light I see a tiny head poking out of a shell. I watch for a few moments and spot other eggs shifting as more chicks begin the process of being born. A few emerge completely and stretch their tiny wings. Like most baby animals they’re cute, and it’s difficult for me to imagine them a year from now being prepped for processing. I picture my tying materials: four bins of feathers and furs stacked against a closet wall. My fly boxes are filled with labors made from this stuff. Before I visited Whiting I never thought about the cost of tying beyond the sticker price plus tax. Now those coveted feathers are chirping in front of me. The chicks will be taken from the incubators to the nursery—a long, low barn filled with warming lights and clean wood chips. It’s divided into sections and each new hatch gets its own area. They spend 14 weeks in this building before being separated and put into the appropriate barns. That’s a lifetime on most other commercial chicken farms. “These are some of the most pampered chickens in the world,” says Whiting, who talks to the birds and checks in daily on their well-being. “Each bird is handled with care, vaccinated against disease and not given any antibiotics. We only use probiotics and prebiotics.” On the nursery floor, a small gray chick has fallen asleep standing up. It slowly tips over until its beak touches the ground. It stops there like the world’s littlest ostrich. A minute later it wakes and runs off, a fuzzy golf ball with wings. Whiting says it’s a Coq de Leon, a bird with roots in Spain that he imported in the 1990s and has since bred to produce feathers specifically suited for making the tails and wings of dry flies. Walking around the brooding barn with its cement floors and conveyor belts moving excrement from underneath the cages, I see chickens of all sizes and colors. There are giant Leghorn laying birds, startling white Silkies, small bantams with iridescent feathers and sweeping tails, Polish birds that look like they’re wearing hats befitting the English royal family and one line of birds that seems to have fur rather than feathers. There are some a professor friend sent Whiting from Australia. Others come from Europe, a few from Asia. Every bird has been either chosen by Whiting or entrusted to him. “I’m the custodian of this genetic material,” Whiting says. “I’ve been trusted to insure the future of these birds. Some of them we’ll breed to improve certain characteristics, and others we’ll work to make sure the line is continued.” Back at headquarters I ask Whiting what came first for him, fishing and tying flies or the chickens? The answer is simple. He doesn’t fish, and besides one trip a year that he’s largely cajoled into, never has. “It’s always been about the birds,” he says. “I was a kid growing up in a regular blue-collar family in the suburbs of Denver, but my mind was on chickens. I’m not a fisherman, but I trust the fishermen I work with to tell me what they want and what works for them. Then it’s my job to go and make it. We’re responding to the market’s needs and there is never a moment where I don’t have more to do. Something is always in development.” Tom Whiting has spent his career providing the best fly-tying feathers in the world. Whiting Farms reflects that dedication in everything from the care that is given to the chickens to the dyes chosen to color the feathers. Employees at the farm appear happy—they bring their kids to work and joke as they go about their tasks. Whiting doesn’t have a middle-management structure. The buck stops with him. He says that someday maybe the right person will show up on the farm, and he’ll start thinking about secession planning, but that day is not today. Today he has a hatch of chicks to prepare, orders to ship to Singapore and Australia, a new website to proofread and 10,000 unread emails. The farm operates seven days a week and Whiting doesn’t often take holidays. It’s a grind, though he gives the sense he wouldn’t have it any other way. In certain lights, the work is exactly what he was looking for coming out of school, and it continues to provide challenges and opportunities. When it comes down to it, he says, “I just like to build things, whether it’s a chicken or a facility.” I picture my tying materials: four bins of feathers and furs stacked against a closet wall. My fly boxes are filled with labors made from this stuff. Before I visited Whiting I never thought about the cost of tying beyond the sticker price plus tax.
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Birds of a Feather
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/birds-of-a-feather