LimeStone Station

Our rented light blue Toyota Camry kicked up a tornado of red dust as we sped down the narrow dirt road into the Outback. The cloudless sky added to the endless horizon where red met blue. Aside from the occasional goat or donkey wandering through the bush, we were alone. As my thoughts drifted looking out the window, I couldn't help but wonder, “What kind of a farm tour were we going to have with such sad looking land and roaming goats and donkeys?”

As we drove through the rusted gate, my husband was very excited to see abandoned vehicles and their parts littering the yard. We knew then, that Limestone Station was our kind of farm.

In the shearing barn, we watched as the sheep baaed their complaints while they waited to be wrestled. The state of the freshly shorn sheep was pitiful, like a proud lion getting it's mane shaved off. As they were led outside to the paddock, they seemed embarrassed to be naked.

Leaving the barn for the fresh air and blazing February Australian summer sun, we came to a pre 1940s flathead Ford V8 engine with aluminum heads and an aluminum intake. I imagined we found it exactly how it looked when it was pulled from its owner. It reminded me of home, of the exact engine that my husband and I purchased months earlier, only ours had a truck to go with it.

As the tour moved to their olive and carob trees, we discovered their methods for raising produce in such extreme conditions. Their white pots gave me goosebumps as they described the huge poisonous spiders that could be seen by birds, which would otherwise go unnoticed on black pots. The birds gladly lending a sharp beak.

As I wandered through the rows of potted plants under the black shade cloth, clicking pictures of the interesting carob plants, I heard my husband ask about a motorcycle. I glanced at the open garage door and saw a V8 engine on a long wheelbase with a seat and handlebars, which looked nothing like any motorcycle I had ever seen. As I walked into the garage, the smell of oil and junkyard rust reminded me of our garage at home. The owner detailed his plans for his land speed motorcycle, which was quite impressive. Even more impressive, when he explained that he would race later that month on the salt flats of Australia.

Ten years later, we purchased our small farm with it's black dirt, green pastures, and 83 ¾ feet tall white pine trees framing the northwest corner of the property. It's apple and pear trees that attract deer all year long. The pig paddocks that permit wallowing, running, and rooting. The laying hens that run wild through the garden in the sunshine and roost in their coop at night. While we molded our farm this first year, we took great care in naming it. It was only appropriate that we name our farm LimeStone Station. We have molded our farm to meet our needs and drive our passions just as its namesake has.  

Limestone Station combined our greatest loves: agriculture and engineering, our passions for producing food while building something new with something old. They did all this in the middle of the Outback with so little resources. This place was an inspiration for my husband and I, which is why our farm is it's namesake. Our farm is Limestone Station's baby that grew up to live far away from it's parents and didn't want to be like them, but realized that it had it's parents to thank for everything and started to act like them. We were on the other side of the planet and it still felt like home. Limestone Station was where it all started for us, and ten years later we are paying homage.

www.limestonestation.com