Abstract
The following excerpt is from Philip Ackerman‐Leist's book, A Precautionary Tale: How One Small Town Banned Pesticides, Preserved Its Food Heritage, and Inspired a Movement (Chelsea Green, 2017) and is printed with permission from the publisher. Philip Ackerman‐Leist is Professor of Sustainable Agriculture & Food Systems and is the Sustainable Food Solutions Initiative Director at Green Mountain College (Poultney, VT). He serves on the editorial board of Sustainability: The Journal of Record. More information on the book can be found at: www.chelseagreen.com/product/a-precautionary-tale/
It wasn't the first time that the small town of 5,300 inhabitants had come under siege. Far from it. Situated at the intersection of three countries and two historic passes over the Alps, the town of Mals had a long history of being caught in the middle of various turf battles waged by warring tribes, bishops, counts, emperors, and even nations. But this newest turf battle was a little more literal—it was about hayfields.
Medieval watchtowers still dot the landscape, springing up from promontories and village centers, while castles in various states of glory and disrepair cling to valley edges. Fortified village walls and massive iron‐clad doors are now part of the local charm, drawing in tourists from regions that were once rival territories. Concrete pillboxes erupt ever so slightly from the ground in the broad, tilting upper reaches of the valley, most of them shrouded with grassy sod spilling over their rounded tops like unkempt hair, given away only by the narrow slits that hid all but the watchful eyes of the World War II gunners sent to guard the relatively new borders of modern‐day Italy, Austria, and Switzerland.
With this newest incursion, though, there were no warnings or obvious outsiders. No screams, bells, or sirens. Even though vigilance seemed embedded in the cultural DNA of the locals, they weren't quite sure whether the dangers were real or simply the delusions of alarmists, people who wanted to deny the new economic order and live in the past. Watchtowers, binoculars, cutting‐edge night‐vision goggles—none of it was any help in detecting the newest interlopers. Safe in quiet café corners or at home among family and close friends, some locals would talk quietly about the imminent threat when they first suspected it, but every time they tried to pinpoint it, the enemy in question had a way of vaporizing, literally.
This invasion wasn't anything like the last war, which had taken the lives of a number of Malsers—a proud but simple people eking out a living from the steep slopes but caught between the Fascists of the south and the Nazis of the north. This time it was completely different. In the valley below them, the pounding of mortars was replaced by the pounding of concrete posts, and barbed wire was traded for trellis wire. Laser beams were cutting through farm fields along established coordinates, providing the precision needed to commandeer the terrain and turn hay‐ and grain fields into fruit factories. The new orchards followed a combination of laser‐straight lines and tilted topography, taking over strategic positions for capturing maximum sunlight and avoiding the coldest of temperatures.
The incursion itself was no secret. It was years in the making; the people of Mals had watched the gradual march of the orchards up the slopes, directly toward them, with a few infiltrators already ensconced in the town's network of villages. But the biggest threats were hidden in the enveloping mists blasted from the spray machines mounted on the back of the advancing tractors. Even after the tractors passed and the mists dissipated, the stench would linger in the air, permeating a landscape with more than five thousand years of documented agricultural traditions in this high Alpine valley. It was all up for grabs.
Big Apple was rolling into town. And it seemed like nobody was going to stop it.
Tucked up next to the Swiss border, Laatsch is one of eleven villages making up the town of Mals. Most of the locals refer to their township as Mals (pronounced maltz), its historic German name, while Italian officials and tourists typically use the lilting Italian version, Malles (MAH‐less). The twin names of the town are but one reminder of a long history of power plays evident everywhere around the Alpine outpost. Before becoming a part of the Italian autonomous province of South Tirol, Mals was a proud part of das Land Tirol, a region ruled for centuries by the Hapsburgs but known today primarily for its seminal role in the development of winter sports. In return for their allegiance in protecting the strategic mountain territories, the Hapsburgs had always treated the Tirolean farmers more as compatriots than lowly peasants. The royal family depended upon the farmers' fierce loyalty and vigilance.
If you enter Laatsch by way of the Swiss border—presuming you successfully evade the Italian border guards in search of your cache of Swiss chocolates—it's not the speed limit signs that will slow you down as much as the architecture plopped directly in your trajectory. Laatsch is a village of twisting passages, not roads. The flared foundations of its medieval buildings are the reason the structures are still standing, but their angled bulk creeps into the streets. Farmers' and merchants' wagons were well accommodated in the days of yore, but there was clearly no anticipation of modern‐day cars, much less milk trucks and tractors.
When you drive into Laatsch, the initial warning of impending vehicular doom comes in the ironic form of a church. As you round one of the first curves entering the village, the road suddenly splits, with oncoming traffic going through two narrow stone arches underneath the church while you are forced to swerve to the right and around the church before entering the narrow main thoroughfare through the village. The steady plod of oxcarts might have at one time ensured the safe simultaneous passage of two vehicles through the winding thoroughfare, but the precision steering of modern vehicles is compromised by our penchant for speed: There is no room for four‐wheeled velocity in Laatsch. The wisest travelers use two feet or two wheels for safe and speedy passage. That said, the farmers on tractors do not necessarily operate under any basic laws of physics other than velocity×mass=victory. It should be no surprise: Farmers have long been the driving force in the area.
The main route through the village opens up slightly where a torrent of water shoots its way through a stone‐lined channel that used to power a number of the village's mills. Only one of those mills remains, conveniently and not coincidentally set just across the street from Bäckerei Schuster, the local bakery. A few hundred feet uphill past that waterway and near the opposite end of the village is another, larger flume that races its way down toward the Adige River. If you drive over the wooden bridge crossing the brook in the warmer months, you might notice a cow patty or two. But chances are Günther Wallnöfer already shoveled up any deposits left by his cattle. He doesn't think a farmer should leave messes that someone else has to clean up.
Günther is adept at putting a halt to anything rolling his way when he maneuvers his two dozen cows through the crooked streets of his village and across the bridge twice each day, escorting them from barn to pasture and back. However, he never thought he would be the first in Mals to slow the growing momentum of Big Apple as it came his way, much less become a figure who would inspire organic markets and social justice movements in Europe and beyond.
No matter what time of day or night you might meet him, your lasting impression of Günther is likely to be of a man in motion. Tall, lean, and equipped with a strong stride accustomed to craggy hills, he is adroit at leaping into and out of his tractor cab. The velocity of Günther's local dialect matches his pace, and his hand gestures tend to be the only punctuation in his high‐speed commentary. Chances are, if you're talking to him, it's while he's doing something else, and his hands are constantly shifting between completing the task at hand and conveying a point of emphasis.
With an ever‐present hat tilted to deflect the intensity of sun, wind, or cold from his receding hairline, Günther tends to keep his head down and his long gait in motion, focusing on everything that has to happen within the constraints of a twenty‐four‐hour day—a time frame obviously devised without any consideration for how much a dairy farmer has to achieve in the allotted time span. A dairy farmer anywhere in the world is up against the odds, but the steep slopes and short summers of the Alps make the life of a mountain farmer an even greater challenge. Günther's fast clip, no matter the means of locomotion, is a constant reminder that there's no time to slow down when you have to be one step ahead of what some call progress.
Inheriting a family business, much less a farm, can be as much a weight as it is a gift, and the local inheritance practices don't make it any easier. As a young man, Günther began managing his family's dairy farm in Laatsch. Unlike many other places in the region, the farmers in Laatsch and the other villages of Mals tended to have their houses and main barns inside the village proper, with the buildings huddled tightly around the inevitable spire of the village church. The surrounding fields were used for hay, grains, vegetables, and pastures. It was, by design, a means of countering the vulnerability of the coveted valley with a tight collective identity and a stone‐fortified armory to protect their livestock and winter stores.
However, that design meant that each farm family, even up to this day, has managed a patchwork of very small, scattered fields, many of them less than an acre or two in size. Crops that needed to be brought to the barn for winter storage were grown close to the village, while most livestock were sent to the high mountain pastures for summer grazing so that hay from the nearby fields could be readily transported to the barn. This scattering of exceedingly small parcels, at least by modern standards, would ultimately play a key defensive role for the locals in their newest onslaught— one that no one could have predicted.
Günther was fortunate enough to inherit a relatively large assortment of fields. With 47 acres (19 ha) to divide among hay, pasture, grains, and even some vegetables, he had the ecological base to support about twenty‐ five milking cows and seven to eight calves, along with pigs and a small poultry flock. However, a sound ecological base doesn't automatically translate into a manageable income.
Whereas his ancestors had struggled simply to subsist through the seasonal cycles of each year, Günther had to endure not just the Alps' temperamental seasons but also the tempestuous markets that dictated whether he was in debt or on modest economic footing. As he gradually took over his family's farm, he continued to manage it conventionally and sell to the local dairy processor, much as his father had. However, the consistently meager economic return created by the combination of market plunges and increased costs forced him to question whether he would be the last in his family's long line of diversified farmers if he kept going that route.
That long lineage stretched far beyond just three or four generations. Archaeologists have discovered the relics of several settlements in the area that date back as far as the Stone Age. They have even unearthed a variety of grains in the carbonized remains, including some strains that are still grown in the area for the hearty traditional breads and dishes. The rich diversity of the Upper Vinschgau was coveted long before it ever appeared on a map.
After too many nights long on worry and short on sleep, Günther eventually came to the conclusion that the only way he could ensure the economic viability of his family's farm was to certify it as organic and tap into those more lucrative and stable markets, earning him 20 to 30 percent more for his milk. He could also diversify his products, adding organic poultry, grain, and vegetables, and capitalize on those added income streams. In 2001 he went bio (pronounced BEE‐oh) and became certified organic. In the end it wasn't such a radical decision: Going organic was, for him, a return to the traditional ways. He would be managing livestock, crops, and the landscape the same way his ancestors did. It turned out, however, that his decision to go organic put him directly in the path of progress. Big Apple was on its way up the Vinschgau Valley, and he could see it coming. He just didn't realize how quickly he would be surrounded.
The Vinschgau Valley, known by the Italians as Val Venosta, forms the westernmost corner of the autonomous province of South Tirol in Italy. The driest valley in the Alps, with an average of 16 to 20 inches (40–50 cm) of rain and nearly 300 days of sun per year, it is ideal for growing apples, grapes, cherries, pears, and other fruits. Since moisture and cloudy weather create optimal conditions for the spread of plant diseases, the sunny slopes, good air drainage, and deep valley soils in the Vinschgau combine to create a Paradise for fruit growers. And nothing is more tempting than an apple in Paradise.
While apples had a long history in the lower reaches of the Vinschgau Valley, they weren't a big part of the traditional agricultural economy of the Upper Vinschgau. Because neither climate nor custom was conducive to growing apples in the eleven high‐elevation villages of Mals, which range from 3,300 to 5,600 feet (1,000–1,700 m) in elevation, inhabitants of the region have relied upon livestock and crops well adapted to the intensity of weather and topography in the area at least since the Stone Age.
Mals is flanked on three sides by some of the highest mountains in the South Tirol, including the Ortler, the highest at 12,812 feet (3,905 m). The Adige River gathers its force from the downward‐flowing waters of the surrounding mountains and pushes its way eastward through the valley and into the city of Meran, then veers southward toward Verona, eventually dumping into the Adriatic Sea. Despite the constraints of elevation, the inhabitants of the higher reaches of the Vinschgau long ago discovered ways in which to optimize slope and turn it into a useful variable for agriculture.
Cattle, goats, sheep, and even pigs traditionally followed the greening of the grass as it gradually moved up beyond the tree line and then back down, essentially following the rise and fall of the mercury through the course of the year. With much of the livestock sent to the high pastures, farmers could use the lower fields to grow grains, vegetables, and the linchpin of the system: hay. In such a risky growing environment, farmers grew fruits for subsistence but not extensively for commercial purposes. Milk products, cold‐hardy vegetables, and grains were a better bet for market. Even as modern markets evolved and fruits began commanding higher prices and better incomes than the other high‐elevation products, the farmers of the Upper Vinschgau generally stuck by the traditions and conservative wisdom that had served them well for millennia.
That aversion to risk began to melt away not too long ago, virtually in sync with the shrinking of the glaciers in the mountains high above the valley. Suddenly a warming climate and hardier fruit varieties conspired to create not just new but also more lucrative market opportunities for farmers. The sweet possibilities were hard to resist, and in the course of a few short years locals found themselves watching what looked like a big game of tic‐tac‐toe progress up the valley, with farmers weighing their options before filling the patchwork grid of open fields with trellised apples, grapes, and cherries. Günther was just one of many farmers about to find themselves caught in a game they'd never agreed to play.
Emboldened by the ever‐earlier retreat of winter, Big Apple's avantgarde began to brazenly take up position in a few fields in Mals. In a township covering just over 90 square miles (233 sq km), it would seem that there was plenty of land to spare, and a few apple and cherry orchards wouldn't matter. However, fruit growers and livestock farmers both preferred the flatter fields in the broad valley floor, and those areas were in limited supply.
In 2010 Günther noticed the first concrete posts and trellis wire delivered to his neighbor's adjacent fields. Soon the reverberations of the post driver seemed to pound the fear of what was coming deeper and deeper into his consciousness. Workers came in to stretch the trellis wires and anchor them to the posts before installing the drip irrigation system. Only after the engineering was complete did the planting begin. More workers planted the young apple whips about 3 to 9 feet (1–3 m) apart so that each row of apples would become a highly efficient production line: Pruning, anchoring, watering, spraying, and harvesting could all be done with relative ease and consistency.
Although Günther wasn't so keen on the intrusive aesthetics of the intensive trellising system, that was the least of his worries. The real intrusion wasn't visible, but it put everything that he had worked so hard to build at risk.