Agritourism? Reflections from The Hudson Valley
New beginnings and the movement from consumption to contribution
This article was originally published by Jonathan Dean in the fall issue of the Northeast Organic Farming Association’s magazine, The Natural Farmer.
A Week of Reflections
It won’t take more than a quick scroll on Airbnb to happen upon a picturesque farm stay in the Northeast. The hills are rolling, the produce is (sometimes) organic, and the grass is mowed weekly for aesthetics. Renovated barns with solar panels host cider tastings. Sunrise yoga is accompanied by goats. Golden hour pictures are edited, uploaded, and tagged the night of. The neon pink sign reads “Upstate” and its bright cursive letters glow throughout the night.
The experience is highly curated and Instagrammable, but is it generative, healing, and connective?
This question simmers in my mind as my friends and I pack up our bags in Brooklyn and prepare for a weekend getaway in the Hudson Valley. We arrive late Friday night, stock up on some prepared food and snacks at Costco, and get ready for our morning hike.
Saturday
The sunrise is at 6, but we don’t get out the door until 9:30. On the morning trail, we ask a few locals if they have visited the farm we’re staying at. They haven’t heard of it, even though it’s right around the corner from where they live. This surprises our group given the amount of buzz about this place back in Brooklyn 100 miles south.
After our hike we spend the rest of Saturday hustling between the main streets of small towns, grabbing quick bites, enjoying matcha lattes, and visiting the highly touted Dia Beacon modern art museum. We purchase veggies from a roadside farm stand, go to a goat cheese and cider tasting, and check into our farm side A-frame Airbnb for the final night of our trip.
Sunday
Sunday morning arrives and we feel the tug back towards city life. The anticipation of New York’s energy is intoxicating, and yet it also makes my heart tighten. Suddenly the weekend is over and discontent washes over me. I feel like I didn’t even get to relax.
After morning breakfast sandwiches over $6 iced coffees, we hop on Amtrak to journey back down the river valley. I’m a bit embarrassed that I didn’t even get to page 2 of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s best seller, Braiding Sweetgrass. I thought I’d have hours under waving poplar trees to decompress and (re)connect with the natural world. I entered this trip hoping to experience local food, visit farms, and better understand upstate New York’s culture, but I leave feeling like our trip just floated along the surface; distant from the soil and soul that makes this place special.
As the train picks up speed and the small towns whiz by, the bigger questions begin to percolate…
Who is agritourism really for?
What makes an experience authentic?
Was I just a prop in a curated pastoral fantasy?
Did I actually contribute to the local farming and food economy?
How do farmers feel about this growing agritourism trend? Does it distract them from their work or enable them to continue doing what they love?
Has agritourism been greenwashed like the supermarket shelves? Can economic development coincide with environmental regeneration?
How can we curb the forces of gentrification in a countryside context?
What role can zoning and regulation play to create more housing for local residents?
How can we make rural experiences more comfortable, accessible, and safe for people of color?
The questions go on and on and after transferring to the 4 train at Grand Central Station, I begin to digest the confluence of the economic headwinds we are residing in. Farmers are strapped for cash, rural communities lack economic opportunities, and urbanites continue to seek respite from the city and connection with the natural world. I make my final transfer to the C train and try to settle back into my small Brooklyn apartment. It’s time to get ready for the work week.
Monday
Monday rolls along and after my last Zoom call I meet up with some friends to visit Brooklyn’s newest natural wine bar. Over sips of a chilled California orange, I ask the group what they think of agritourism gaining popularity. My most well-traveled friend says it feels like the ecotourism boom in Bali and Costa Rica where a surge in international interest has left infrastructure strained, hiking trails overcrowded, roads backlogged, and long-term housing options gobbled up by short-term guests. Yes, the economic activity creates jobs, but it also raises the cost of living for locals.
A silence is felt as we acknowledge the unfortunate reality that most of the money generated flows to the already capital-owning wealthy class. The conversation meanders and our group agrees that although the increased interest in agritourism presents an exciting opportunity to build bridges of connection and mutual support, it’s clear that we are currently missing the mark. Our role, and our group’s complacency, goes unstated.
Tuesday
On Tuesday I take an evening wander by myself to continue the reflecting. I can’t even find the sunset through downtown Brooklyn’s towering buildings and construction sites. As darkness emerges among the bright city lights, the moon is nowhere to be found despite it being full tonight. I settle for a somewhat cozy and somewhat quiet bench in Prospect Park and find myself looking back at photos from the weekend trip.
I now realize that we didn’t actually meet any farmers. We went to the goat cheese tasting only to learn that the goats didn’t live even on that farm. During the sunset cider experience, we found out that most of the apples weren’t actually grown onsite. The white, bright shiplap in the renovated barn suddenly felt sterile.
I leave the park bench to grab a few water balloon tomatoes at the corner bodega for my dinner’s salad and crawl into bed early. I mistake the street light shining through my window as the full moon and doze off to YouTube videos of exciting agroforestry projects around the world. I can’t help but feel a slurry of detachment — from people, from place, from food, and from the natural world I am part of.
Wednesday
On Wednesday I meet up with some friends from the weekend trip at the Union Square Farmers’ Market to “forage” for our weekly potluck. It seems we are trying to wash away the weekend’s consumption guilt by purchasing ingredients only from nearby farms. The irony is felt, and the conversation on agritourism continues as we cube the zucchinis. With each slice of the knife, I feel disappointed knowing that these would be best charred on an open fire.
Around the dinner table, we collectively reminisce on last weekend’s adventure and agree that future trips must be different. We will slow down and prioritize depth over novelty. We will get our hands in the soil and meet the farmers stewarding the land. We will connect with the culture keepers and seed sowers and listen to their stories. We will pause for deep breaths, make time for reading, and kick off our shoes to wander. We will avoid “stocking up for the weekend” at big box chain stores and resist the urge to “check places off the list.”
Thursday
As Thursday rolls around, the post-weekend emptiness begins to metamorphosize into hope. I begin to imagine a different future for agritourism, a brighter and more connected one. A future where local farms are cherished and held as core parts of resilient communities. A future where city dwellers prioritize local ingredients and support restaurants that source regional and seasonal goods. In this future, work-stay-learn exchanges replace pricey curated experiences and the gift economy is recognized as a legitimate and welcomed means of exchange. This is a future where intergenerational stories crackle with campfire embers and visitors learn to cook with the food they helped harvest that day.
I begin to fall in love with the future I am imagining. It’s circular, it’s reciprocal, and it’s supportive. It recognizes the importance of rebuilding systems so they uplift our most vulnerable neighbors. Education is valued over entertainment and contribution is prioritized over consumption. In this future, we humans understand that we are not the center or rulers of the natural world, but instead members of it — dancing and living in harmony with the interconnected beauty of life.
Friday
On Friday I decide to make an impromptu trip back up the Hudson River. Rain is in the forecast but I know I’ll be there to experience the smell as the fresh drops sink into the soil. I’m headed to Soul Fire Farm for a Work-and-Learn Day. I’ve long admired their work after reading Leah Penniman’s Farming While Black and am excited to learn more about their commitment to uprooting racism and seeding sovereignty in the food system. I come ready to listen, to learn, and to support with whatever is most helpful.
The train doors open in Albany and I walk off the platform into the slightly misty and overcast sky. There are still many unanswered questions but with each step I take I am left with a hope that maybe, just maybe, we can grow something truly lasting, together.
with love,
Jonathan Dean
Jonathan Dean is a writer, farmer, and artist living in upstate New York. You can follow his farming journey in greater detail by subscribing to the Farmer Dean Youtube channel.
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