Seed Roulette and the Snowbank Oracle
What happens when you don’t follow the herd
Sheri recorded this while I read it aloud on the couch. It’s rough, but so’s the season. Thought I’d share it anyway.
TL;DR: We didn’t plant last week. Ground’s still cold. Neighbors are out kicking up dust and chasing early yields, but I’m trying something different this year: patience.
Fighting the urge to follow the herd, trusting the long game, and conceivably coming out ahead, or looking like a lazy dumbass.
Either way, here’s the thinking behind it.
I haven’t written in a while. The usual resistance kicked in—head full of doubt, every excuse in the book. But the truth is, I’ve been busy. Not fake busy. Real-deal, seed-hauling, pre-plant chaos kind of busy. Family, farming, trying to keep the wheels on.
That’s where I’ve been.
Ran down to MSP last weekend to see the oldest boy. Spent Easter with the two youngest. Now they’re gone, and the house feels hollow again. Not sad exactly—just off. The kind of silence that makes you start a Substack post you weren’t planning to write.
Last week we didn’t plant. No way we could’ve—too much going on with wheat seed loadouts, and we didn’t have a rat’s hat of time to get the machinery ready. Not to worry, though. The ground was too damn cold anyway. Not that most guys seem to care. As soon as one goes, the rest follow—and pretty soon, it’s a race nobody meant to start, but nobody wants to lose.
See how easy it is to get distracted? One mention of dust and I’m back on the NDAWN (North Dakota Agricultural Weather Network) site checking soil temps like a junkie looking for a fix. Resistance or farming obsession?
Probably both.
I don’t see what the rush is to slam stuff in the ground when the soil temp’s hugging the freezing mark. Wheat doesn’t germinate until 35 degrees, and sugar beets start around 37, but they really get going closer to 50.
I used to be that guy. April 7th, I’d be ripping Jeff like, Let’s GO. Finally, he’d cave and let me sock a couple hundred acres into the refrigerator, and then we’d drive by for the next three weeks wondering when the hell it was gonna come up.
Most of it did, eventually. But what was the point? We could’ve waited two weeks, seeded it in better conditions, and still seen it emerge around the same time.
There’s a row of old evergreen trees along the north edge of the neighbor’s farmyard—towering sons of bitches that’ve stood there as long as I’ve been alive. Still holding snow in their shadows on Friday. Always the last to give it up. Doesn’t matter how warm it gets, that snow lingers, buried under needles and shade, slow to melt, slower to forgive.
Years ago—before I was on this ranch—Larry or Jack or somebody put sugarbeets in that field while there was still snow packed tight in that treeline. Not slush. Not melt. Snow. I don’t know all the details, but they’ve told me enough times: it didn’t go well.
Cold seed, wet furrows, poor emergence—the kind of mistake you only make once.
Ever since, that stretch of treeline’s been the unofficial gauge. Doesn’t matter what the mesonet says or how dry the topsoil looks—if there’s snow in that shadow, it ain’t time. Period.
Cold ground means cold seed. Cold seed means regret.
We didn’t follow the herd. And I’ll be honest—it’s hard not to wonder if that’s a mistake. Watching the neighbors kick up dust while you’re parked in the yard feels like getting lapped in a race you didn’t know you entered. Makes you feel slow. Stupid, even. Like they’re all in on something you missed.
I think that’s why so many of us just follow the neighbors.
Safer to be wrong together than right alone.
Talked to a guy last week, first thing he says is, “I don’t even know why I’m planting already. I’d rather be in the after-Easter camp with you guys. But everyone else is going … so…”
Then he stared at his boots and nudged a rock off the edge of the concrete. Just a soft little kick—like he didn’t want to say it, but his foot did. Sent it back into the gravel, back with its people.
That’s the thing about agriculture—most of us are followers.
talks about this all the time when it comes to marketing. We piss money away on radio spots, newspaper ads, and Zuckerberg’s algorithmic roulette wheel, hoping maybe someone notices us on Facebook or Instagram. But none of that shit works.I think it’s something like 5% of people who make buying decisions based on that stuff.
You know what actually moves the needle? What moves new ag tech forward?
Word of mouth.
“Yeah, I used that stuff last year. Worked great.”
“That chisel plow? Best thing I’ve bought in years.”
That’s all it takes. Out here, a guy you trust saying “I like it” is worth more than a hundred grand in ad spend. Drives 50% of purchases—probably more.
Anyway, I’m not saying it’s wrong to push it. Some of these guys are staring down way more acres than I am, and I get it—that kind of pressure nudges you toward, “Let’s sock a quarter in and see what happens.”
Two days later, they’ve got a couple thousand in the ground and a five o’clock shadow from running around the clock. Bleary-eyed, dust-covered, running on fumes and coffee. But hey … at least the planter’s moving.
You don’t always know if it’s progress or panic. You just know you’re in motion.
Look, I’m not here to judge. Waiting’s tough when the ground looks good—dry enough, firm enough, just barely ready. And yeah, I know waiting can cost you, too.
Maybe those little rain showers in the forecast don’t show up, and the ground dries out even more. Then you’re chasing moisture, planting too deep, hoping roots can stretch to something that’s no longer there.
Or worse—you wait, and then it starts raining. And it doesn’t stop. A month. Six weeks. I’ve seen it happen. Whole windows lost. And the whole damn time, you’re kicking yourself for not planting more when you had the shot.
I know the damn risks. I’m not being lazy, and I’m sure as hell not claiming to have all the answers. But this … this is me trying something I never used to be good at: patience.
Not because someone told me to. Not because I read it in a book. But because after enough years in the game, after enough early starts that turned into cold, soggy regrets … you start to realize that waiting might be the smarter play.
It doesn’t come easy. Especially not when the neighbors are out there turning dust and you’re just sitting on your hands. But I’m not here to chase approval. I’m here to manage risk.
Cold, damp seed doesn’t do a guy a damn bit of good. And if this thing flips wet—and it might—we’re gonna need every advantage we can get. We didn’t get much snow this winter. The drought map’s mostly yellow and brown. Rains have been skipping us north or way down south.
That’ll change. Sooner or later, it always does.
Only question is when.
That’s the gamble.
Playing seed roulette with your livelihood.
So yeah … there’s a lot riding on it. And I’m going against the grain this year.
Against the herd.
People already think I’m a weird bastard for half the things we’re running out here anyway, so what’s one more oddball decision?
Maybe I get burned.
Maybe I win seed roulette.
I’ve seen enough springs to know it might not make a damn bit of difference.
Like nothing ever happened. Just a dust-covered nothingburger on a cold April plate.
That’s the hope.
And that’s all this damn game’s really based on, isn’t it?
Peer pressure is crazy hard not to fall into. In my fifty years of farming on the farm where my husband grew up, I have admired his tenacity to be an organic farmer when he knew that we were being made fun of. The fact that he went against the grain and we farmed the land the best we could without chemicals has made me realize how strong his commitment is to do no harm to the land we have been caring for. Thank you for your honesty.
Glad you took time to write this. And sowing too early is rarely wise. I'm rooting for you!