w ild Fibers
Vol. 13 Issue 1 $14.95
Dedicated to the world of wool
Looking for Shepherds and Spaceships in Kalmykia Bijou Basin's Brain Trust Down and Dirty by The Dead Sea A Micro Yarn Mill Tinged with Exotica Diggin' it in Alaska
ANCIENT FUTURES Pangong's New Cashmere Center Signals a Brighter Future
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wILD FIBERS Publisher and Editor Linda N. Cortright
Contributing Editors Leslie Petrovski, Nancy Zeller
Copyeditor Kim Lincoln, Holly Menino
Advertising Sales Linda N. Cortright
Circulation and Proofreader Suzanne Lacasse
Subscription rates are $14.95/yr. in the U.S. and its possessions, $18.95/yr. Canada, $22.95/yr. International. Please send payment to: Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841. (207) 594-9455 or online: www.wildfibersmagazine.com. Contributions: Address all editorial communications to Editor, Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841. We consider contributions in the form of manuscripts, drawings, and photographs. All material must be identified with the sender’s name and address. Material returned only if accompanied by sufficient return postage. Care is taken with contributions, but we are not responsible for damage or loss. All contents of this issue of Wild Fibers are copyrighted by Grumble Goat Productions, 2016. All rights reserved. Projects and information in this issue are for inspiration and personal use only. Exact reproduction for commercial purposes is prohibited and violates copyright law. Wild Fibers is published by Linda Cortright at 574 Davis Rd., Union, ME 04862 (Issue 13, Volume 1). Periodical postage paid at Rockland, ME and other mailing locations. Postmaster send change of address to Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841.
Fantasy Fibers
CUSTOM CARDING, DEHAIRING & SPINNING
Janell Casey
Canby, OR 97013 â—† 503-263-4902 www.fantasyfibers.com ffibers@wed-ster.com 6
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Is That a Magazine or a Mattress Your Carrying? For many years I had a sticky note attached to my computer screen that read, “Small is the new Big.” It was a popular business axiom that has gone from novel, to normal. And yet, it makes me feel stupid … again. This issue of Wild Fibers is not small. It’s huge! It feels like the California King of magazines — not mattresses. And oddly, there is even a real king or two mentioned herein. But in truth, Wild Fibers is still quite small. Last fall I made a decision to change from publishing four magazines a year, to just one. It was not an easy decision. I do, however, have increasing health issues, which simply can’t sustain the rigors of a quarterly publication. I am not one who easily follows directions, but when my doctor (who is a subscriber!) started wagging her finger at me and using that tone which eerily resembles my mother’s warnings, I sat up. “If you don’t do something now,” she began, “the decision will be made for you.” Roger. So there you have it. The unburdening of three issues has meant that I am able to devote more time to the development of the Cashmere Center and leading tours, which, in fact, leads me to something very big! Last December I visited the Cashmere Center to begin implementing the necessary systems for running a small handcraft operation (note: small!). But the Cashmere Center is actually quite large relative to most structures in the High Himalayas, causing Stobgais and I to begin pondering what purpose it could serve during the summer months when the majority of the women need to be working in their fields. Although it is still in its infancy, we hope to use the Cashmere Center as a facility for student internships, enabling young adults to learn about the environment, farming, nomadic life and, in turn, helping the women and their families with the endless tasks too few hands are able to complete.
I am formally appealing to you, my readers, who have children and grandchildren, undoubtedly full of aspiration and adventure, to think about being part of the first student internship in Ladakh in June 2018, incorporating lessons about nature, culture, and the tools to go forward. As you will understand after reading “Chasing a Dream,” my own experience in Ladakh has been life changing (which is not the same as “change of life”). Speaking of getting older, it is always curious to see how certain themes develop in each issue, and in this issue “Got Yak” and “Living in One of the Last Great Places” both feature couples who have turned to fiber in retirement or, more precisely, as a second career. Little did I know that my own fiber career would not only lead me around the world, but also take me to a place with kangaroos and a one-eyed zedonk. Now, that’s wild! There is something else unusual about this issue beyond its size — it is about the style. I have chosen to write this issue in a tone that might typically be more reflective of a book. In some — not all — of the articles I have chosen to share some intimate moments, which have made the experience so much richer for me, and I hope, for you as well. Unfortunately, although this issue is double in size, it still means only one back page. I know from our highly scientific surveys, everyone likes the back page and so I have interspersed four back page-style stories throughout the issue. I suspect I will never run out of humorous anecdotes to share, which brings me to my other appeal, or should I say invitation. Arriving at the airport in Kalmykia, I have decided to bring back our popmy hat and bag finally match! ular New York Dinner (October 14th), held during the weekend of the New York Sheep and Wool Festival. This year we will be hosting it at the prestigious Beekman Arms Inn in downtown Rhinebeck. The cash bar will open early for those who need a little libation after a day of shopping, followed by dinner and a presentation filled with stories and pictures from around the world. Unlike our previous New York dinners, which were big, this will be small. In my heart, Wild Fibers will always feel small, I guess it’s because it will always feel like family. Thank you for being part of mine.
Linda Cortright Publisher and Editor w i l df ib e rsmag az ine.com
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Chasing a Dream Konchok Stobgais is not your average nomad. Growing up in a small nomadic village in India’s High Himalayas, he has become a front runner for change, carefully blending the old with the new with an unwavering spirit of generosity. story and photos
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The magnificent beauty of the Himalayas is nearly impossible to capture in a photograph.
It was a heavy burden for a young man still in his twenties. By the following morning my blood/oxygen level was still holding at a safe level and Stobgais and I were off, tucking an oxygen tank in between our sleeping bags and camping gear, just in case… Leh is at the head of the Leh-Manali Highway, a 298mile stretch of road open from June to October. The average altitude along the highway is 13,000 feet, and even under the best of circumstances, it takes two days to reach Manali (6,720 feet). The road bends and curves, crossing snowcapped mountains and glacial melts (without a bridge), and is under a continuous state of repair as large boulders tumble 14
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down or the entire roadway gets washed out. At one point Stobgais got out of the car and the car began filling in the “cracks” large enough to inhale our vehicle, or, at the very least send us hurtling over the mountain’s edge. In truth, only one thought repeatedly went through my mind during our eight-hour journey to the nomadic camp: “This is great!” My first cashmere goat sighting was in Upshi, a small village about an hour’s drive south of Leh. Upshi is the site of the government’s cashmere breeding program, which is dedicated to breeding top quality bucks for the nomads. The program not only serves to enhance the overall quality of Ladakh’s cashmere, but helps to ensure genetic diversity, a
task not easily achieved due to vast distances between nomadic camps. In addition to the goats there are just 26 homes in Upshi. There is a Customs and Excise Office that checks the special permits that are required if you wish to turn off the highway and go east toward Tibet. It is also the road that leads to Stobgais’s home and I clearly remember him telling me that his home was in the most beautiful part of Ladakh. As a foreigner, I could not go there without special permission, which was tantamount to a papal blessing, only more involved. Stobgais’s village is next to Pangong Lake, now famous throughout all of India not only for its cerulean beauty, but following the Bollywood mega hit, The Three Idiots, which was filmed there. I can’t imagine why anyone would favor Bollywood over cashmere! The Internet is now rife with pictures of hair-raising scenes from India’s mountainous roadways, but at the time, it was all quite new to
me. Trucks painted in bright colors reminiscent of the peace-not-war hippie era, coming head to head on the single lane highway, providing inches on either side from certain death. One minute, the entire Himalayan range was unfolding before me and the next, we are traveling in a blizzard. It was August. Stobgais and I talked the entire time. He had one story after another from his childhood. He talked about women taking herds of cashmere goats into the mountains where it was not uncommon for them to deliver a baby — unassisted — and then bring the newborn (along with the goats), back home in the evening. He talked about the nomads crossing Pangong Lake during the early spring migration. The lake is 83 miles long with approximately 60% of it inside China’s border. Traveling with thousands and thousands of goats, Stobgais explained that the journey must begin before sunrise in order to complete the crossing in one day. It is treacherous. Often, they must belly crawl along the frozen lake to keep from being knocked over by the voracious winds. It is an arduous journey for man and animal and my admiration for Stobgais continued to grow. There was never an undertone of boastfulness in the telling of these outlandish adventures, just a simple story about a “simple” way of life. After hours of spellbinding travel in every way imaginable, we suddenly turned off the highway and began off-roading through the dusty plateau. There was no street sign, or mailbox along the road, nothing whatsoever to indicate this was the place to turn. The shock absorbers screamed for a rest and under normal conditions so would I. But I could not feel anything but full-blown excitement as a large dust cloud began to emerge on the horizon. It was not the dust from another vehicle, it was the telltale dirty flurry of more than 10,000 cashmere goats returning home for the night, oblivious to the beauty of their surroundings and their fiber. I could barely wait for the car to come to a complete stop before hopping out to join the goats for the last few hundred yards of the trip, and I no longer think you have to be a whacky goat lady to appreciate the ease at which the goats were herded. No dogs. No fences. And no one on w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com
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Top: A nomad washing her handspun wool in the stream.
horseback to keep them corralled. They simply shuffled on home together, and if one of them strayed, the herder would shout a few words of reprimand, occasionally tossing a small stone at the offender as a last resort. I think of all the times I have smugly stood in my barn, having successfully captured all 20 goats, using copious amounts of molassescoated grain for enticement. I am both in awe and humbled by the nomads, and it was during this first encounter that I began to see the often-touted phrase “working in harmony with nature” actually prac-
ticed. So many of my American ways seemed forced and impatient, not to mention heavily dependent on treats. The nomads don’t rely on grain to manage their goats; they barely have enough grains to feed themselves. Yet, they are no worse for wear because of it. In fact, they are better off for it. If I had thought my first night in the hospital was pivotal, my first night in the nomadic camp was epic. It is only in hindsight that I can appreciate how narrow my worldview had been. I had little more than lip service to offer, regarding people who lived year-round in a tent without running water, a toilet, or even a bed. I didn’t know how to keep warm by feeding dried yak dung into a stove, or churn butter by rolling a goat stomach across your knees. I didn’t know how thoroughly rewarding a simple life could be until I took a chance and followed a man I met in Central Asia into the heart of the Himalayas. What to do? When Stobgais dropped me off at the airport five days later, I felt inspired and yet helpless. I had no idea how to properly thank him. The trip had been too important not to do something and though a generous tip was not without benefit, it would hardly be life changing. For the next few months I did little else but think, live, and dream Ladakh. I had already con-
A nomad bringing home his goats at dusk.
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Reflections on Ladakh
Photos by Linda Cortright
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A few moments from the Grand Opening of the Cashmere Center. Above: A woman singing during a traditional dance. Opposite page: Top: Following the opening ceremonies, the men of the village gathered for horse racing and games. Stobgais succumbed to the group’s urging, borrowed a horse, and took off like a pro. Bottom: (right) The day before the opening, the women in the village took turns spinning at the new treadle wheels. Left: (top) Stobgais joining hands with Mr. Rigzin Spilbahr (center), and Bryce Halonen (second from right) during the final dance. Bottom: The women all join hands together.
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? k a oG t Y
Enticed by the wilderness, the West, and the sheer joy of leaving New Jersey behind, Carl and Eileen Koop reinvented themselves in their retirement as yak ranchers and fiber chefs.
story and photos
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he feeling is inevitable. At one time or another everyone experiences that interminable mantle of awkwardness that is so pervasive it fills the cosmos. Sometimes the floundering can ease within moments. For others, these scenarios resemble the discomfort Carl Koop must have felt at his first yarn convention, a bit like Bruce Springsteen at a Tupperware party. Carl and his wife, Eileen, are the founders of Bijou Basin, America’s premier retailer of yak yarn and other exotic fibers. They are fiber chefs, concocting beautiful flavors with imaginative ingredients, offering their creations to yarn connoisseurs from coast to coast. (Bijou actually participates in a local Knit Nosh: a food, wine, and yarn tasting event.) You might say Carl and Eileen are like the famed chef, Gordon Ramsey, except for one small detail — neither Carl nor Eileen can knit. Before their fiber career, Carl and Eileen would have been labeled “nerds.” Nice nerds, mind you, but nerds nonetheless. Eileen is a chemist and can wax about polypeptides with enough passion to approach pornography. She is one of the chemical geniuses behind several well-known cleaning products, including Scott’s Liquid Gold, Orange Glo, and OxiClean (in fact, she holds several patents), but her real badge of honor from the lab bench is Alpha Hydrox, a simple acid from sugar cane now marketed by the cosmetic industry for its anti-aging properties. “Eileen developed it, and Estée Lauder made it famous,” Carl says, in an undisputed moment of spousal pride. Alternatively, Carl belongs to that squadron of computer geeks of yesteryear, eventually parlaying his talents into high-level security work for NASA and Boeing. “I started working in the computer industry as a stock boy in the billing department for Sears and Roebuck, back when it was still referred to as ‘Sears and Roebuck’ and not just ‘Sears.’” A friend of my father’s had arranged an interview and I remember walking about a half mile from the bus stop to get there. It was pouring rain. I had hair halfway down my 30
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back. I was wearing an army jacket, and they said ‘Great! When can you start?’” Carl worked late afternoons and evenings after school The Yak “Boss” - Carl Koop stocking computer punch cards (do not even begin to think modern day laptop), and as a young kid full of brains (and attitude) the learned “elders” — who were probably all of age 25 — were more than happy to teach Carl how to program computers so they could sit around, play poker, and look at girlie magazines. Eventually, Carl made the transition from invoicing customers for three pairs of pantyhose and a lawn tractor on a punch card, to working for a Russian mathematician who created mindboggling equations for radar simulators (!) that Carl would convert into code. “I just have a knack for that kind of stuff. Don’t ask me why, I just do,” he says. Now nearing an age when the Social Security checks will begin appearing in the mailbox, it is peculiar, at best, to note that Carl doesn’t hold a
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they always had. They were not, however, used to working with the large quantities of the wool that the project soon required, and it wasn’t long before measures were taken to ensure personal safety regarding the use of highly caustic mordants. Eventually synthetic dyes imported from Switzerland replaced natural ones. The head dyer motions to guide me to another building. It is her kitchen. The shelves are full of jars with colored powder and foreign labels. She opens a three-ring binder and flips through page after page, individually encased in plastic sleeves, showing off her recipes with samples of colored yarn for every single dye lot. Trying to replicate the exact dye recipe is challenging even in modern settings. In the desert, where water, which is both precious and expensive, must be hauled in, it is nearly impossible. I marvel at her skill and color consistency, recognizing the impediments of her environment. She appreciates my words of praise, in fact so much so that as we are leaning over the binder together, she wraps her arms around me and squeezes, long and tight. For those who have never explored the true meaning of travel, a single moment like this is what makes many of us continue to stretch the limits of comfort, seeking out different cultures, forging new relationships, and relishing moments like these, if only for a second or two. Interestingly, twenty minutes earlier, I was kissing a goat in a manner that I guarantee resembled how 99 percent of Americans kiss their dog or cat (and likely their goats too, if they own any). Now, I am standing next to a total stranger, I don’t even know her name, and she is holding me closer than my own mother with her Puritan upbringing would ever have allowed. Where I came from, people didn’t go around hugging strangers, and if they did, they were soon taken elsewhere. It is a mixed-up world we live in. “Would you like to visit the spinners?” asks Gretta, “I think there is still time. They work from their home.” Back in the car with the air-conditioning set to “tornado,” I try to adjust to the relentless heat and barren landscape. Undoubtedly my glorious Maine winters with subzero temperatures and acres of snowfall would be equally disturbing to those who call the desert home. We pass only a handful of cars on the way to the spinners’ home. Again, there are no female drivers in sight. Unlike the weaver, whose home is more on the outskirts of the village, these women live in a closer community. In fact, it is a designated community of spinners, which has evolved as the result of Bani Hamida. The houses are by no means stacked on top of each other like Jenga blocks. They are, however, 52
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within easy walking distance, allowing the women to enjoy the benefits of a common purpose.
A Tale of Two Sisters We pull up to the spinner’s house where two sisters live. It seems quite large in fact, as it has two stories. There is no gang to greet me. There is, however, a moppy-headed young girl who catapults at me from the front door, screaming the whole way. She is several years older than the previously distressed child. But still, the fact that my presence is so disquieting feels equally disquieting in return. By the time we reach the front door, I have a different read on the situation and surmise that the little girl has probably been screaming for hours, possibly all week. Two women in black abayas are standing in the doorway. They are the sisters, and they appear older than the other women I have met. Possibly they are in their late fifties or sixties. The harsh sun is certainly no friend of gentle skincare. Inside, there is a large receiving room with a kitchen
Top: A dyer carefully removes a freshly “cooked” skein. Below: The two spinning sisters. Left: Freshly dyed wool, set outside to dry.
in the back and another room to the side. At least five other things brown and varying shades thereof. people are milling about, occasionally appearing in door“It’s imported from New Zealand,” says Gretta. ways to catch a glimpse of the foreigner. At least three genA combination of the volume of wool needed for Bani erations live here: the two sisters, one husband, an undeterHamida, the amount of water needed to thoroughly scour it, mined number of children and plus the difference between grandchildren—the screamer using native brown wool verWhy should Jordan be any different belonging to the latter catsus all white to maintain dye from so many other lands, utilizing clean, consistency makes New Zeaegory. One of the grandchildren, a land wool a better and more beautiful, white wool, direct from young boy in his teens, runs to economic alternative. Down Under? the kitchen to get me a chair, Why should Jordan be any assuming I will not want to sit different from so many other on the floor. Mind you, it’s not sitting on the floor that I find lands, utilizing clean, beautiful, white wool, direct from troublesome, it’s the getting up. Still, I wave my hand and say Down Under? it is not necessary. After all, when in Makawir … Part of my conversation with Gretta regarding the sheep Without prompting, the women get their wooden drop is translated for the two sisters, I’m just not sure which part, spindles and begin to demonstrate, wrapping huge wads of but one of them disappears and returns moments later, handcombed wool around their arm, absently rolling the spindle ing me a pair of sheep shears. I am not sure if they still own across their thighs, and setting the process in motion. The sheep, but the shears are clearly worn, although still sharp wool seems surprisingly white, and I can’t imagine where to the touch. I return the shears so I can hold my camera they are keeping all the white sheep in this land noted for all instead. Once again, the sister disappears, shears in hand, w i l df ib e rsmag az i ne.com
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A Life in Threads Tucked away on a backstreet in Amman, Jordan, women piece together the fragments of their life.
story and photos
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