Where I live, southeast of Portland, Oregon, wild blackberries are the curse of the countryside. Swaths of flesh-shredding brambles spread like summer fires through field and forest alike. My property is no exception.
Because I don’t use chemical weed killers and my old Case tractor gave up the ghost years ago, my attempts to eradicate blackberries from my land are limited to manual removal with brush axe, scythe, mattock, sweat, blood and swearing. Until recently, I was making good progress. However, I am—at 78 years of age—slowing down. The blackberries are gaining ground as I fade.
Hence, goats and sheep.
Goats will browse thickets of blackberries down to bare ground. The plants, which store an enormous amount of energy in their root system, try to survive by vigorously throwing up…
