Chosen Places: Cold Antler Farm, New York

Jenna Woginrich takes us to the farm.

I read a lot of newsletters. I read newsletters about culture, fashion, physics, construction, you name it. But some of my favorite newsletters are the ones that transport me into a different life, and

Jenna Woginrich

does that every week. Her newsletter

Cold Antler Farm

is not an Instagram Reel about the joys of milking goats while children giggle in the background. It is the reality of running your own farm.

And it’s beautiful.

Jenna, take us away.

Where have you lived so far?

I was born, raised, and educated in Pennsylvania. I suppose that’s the address for complaints if this questionnaire disappoints, but it’ll probably get magically forwarded here to Cold Antler Farm. This is the place where I actually grew up.

I’m writing from a very old house in upstate New York. My chosen place is this small homestead tucked into a mountain hollow. You drive up my winding road and when you make the big turn over a stream, there she is! A little white house in the woods with sheep on the hill beside it. It’s as charming as it sounds if you don’t mind the goose poop.

It feels like I’ve always lived here but the paperwork says it’s only been 15 years. I was one of those idealists with a dream to quit my office job, buy a farm, and make an independent living working on it. Unlike most idealists, I was reckless enough to actually do it. It’s been the struggle and joy of my life since. I’m 42 and just starting to get the hang of it.

I bought this farm five years after graduating college. Looking back that seems so young, but I did get around a bit before marrying this dirt:

• After graduating from a small state college in PA, I got my first “real” job in Knoxville, Tennessee. I moved to Appalachia to be a graphic designer for a television network. I took the gig because of the Smokies. That National Park lifted me into adulthood and solidified my love of mountains.

• Two years later, I moved cross-country to Idaho for a different graphic design job and different mountains. The Rockies were wonderful and wild, but I missed the lushness, fireflies, and thunderstorms of the east.

• Sometimes life makes choices for you. When the 2008 recession hit, I got canned along with 80 other recent hires at my company. I was open to moving anywhere. I was young, single, and childless. This was a time for adventure! I applied to jobs all over the country. The Green Mountain State took me on next.

• I moved to Southern Vermont—was moved, actually. Hired for a design job at a fly-fishing retailer. It was a slow burn, but I fell in love with fly fishing. It’s nice having an excuse to stand in a river at dawn and not look crazy.

• Two years into life in Vermont, I made the decision to buy a cheap old farm. At the time, land in Vermont was more targeted towards the ski vacation set, and far more expensive than a few miles over the state line in Washington County, New York. Those are the clumsy circumstances that lead me to this mountain.

How did you end up where you currently are? What drew you to this place initially?

I started looking for a permanent residence when my landlord in Vermont alerted me I had six months to move out. So I started looking for anything in the area that could handle me.

There were some complications. I not only had to find a new place close to work, I had to find a new place that would also accept my two dogs, three sheep, a myriad of poultry and one young goat. I also had a gardening problem and was showing burgeoning symptoms of Horse Girl.

Since I am very bad at asking for permission I decided to buy a farm.

I was young. I was an idiot. But I was an idiot who had earnestly fallen in love with agriculture and it was terminal. Learning to grow food and tend my own tiny flock gave me the taste of something I thought only existed in storybooks. I decided then and there I wanted to live like fiction.

I didn’t want a career anymore. I wanted a pony, dammit.

The first time I saw Cold Antler was winter 2010. I found the listing online and emailed the realtor to make an appointment to see it. I followed the directions he gave me, past cornfields and barns, until it turned me onto a small road off a main highway. The kind of road I’d driven past a hundred times and never noticed.

Half a mile uphill was a stern white breadbox of a house. It was not handsome or fancy. The siding was algae-tinted white vinyl. The sheet of ice coating the property made it look bleak, more like an antarctic research facility than The Shire.

The house looked solid, built with axe-hewn timber and set on stones when Lincoln was president. It needed a lot of work, but its scrappy matched mine and I always felt safer in old houses.

The living room I’m typing in existed before electricity or disco. Hell, Idaho wasn’t even a state yet when this place was warding off blizzards for years. I like equity in presence. I think the ability to remain is an underappreciated trait.

I remember walking around with the realtor that day feeling guilty I wasted his time. He didn’t even need to come out and show this place to me, I already made up my mind. The farm fit every requirement: It was affordable (this was 15 years ago and very rural). It had pasture, a barn, outbuildings, running water, and internet. It was 20 minutes from my office. Everything else was preferences and details.

The ancient floorboards were so warped your body raised and sank four inches as you crossed certain rooms. The upstairs was tiny and looked haunted. The ceilings hung low, the basement was terrifying, and I could walk across the whole downstairs in 12 steps. What a piece of work…

It was the only place I looked at. I told him I’d take it within the hour of introducing myself.

I don’t waste time on decision. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; fretting over choices is for people who don’t read poetry, for those who think they have more time. Your heartbeat is a stopwatch, darling. Act accordingly.

I signed the deed in 2010. I was 27 years old.

What’s a small, everyday joy that comes from being there?

Small everyday joys are the entire reason I’m here, they fuel motivation and balm hardship. The way it felt pulling ripe tomatoes off the vine and canning sauce. The thrill of sitting in the saddle of my first horse. Taking up falconry, finding peace fishing the river, dedicating my life to labor outdoors in a wild place that was entirely mine. I can’t imagine wanting to trade my life for anyone else's, not for any price.

Sometimes falling in love leads to scary, but necessary, change. I ended up leaving the day job two years after buying the farm. My plan was to make a go of homesteading in earnest, which meant making a living entirely on my land.

I had skills in my quiver. I wrote a popular blog and had years of professional branding experience. By this point I had also published three books, and had a fourth in the works. I felt like I could do anything and had the arrogance of youth to encourage my foolishness.

I barely knew myself when I quit that job, but I did know this: few adult women ever find themselves in the position to pursue their wildest dreams, so I went for it. I was betting my entire future on the farm.

That was 12 years ago and I’m still here. I’m here because of those small, everyday joys…

…walking with a hot mug of coffee on an October morning in my forest, surrounded by the confetti of a thousand cascading golden leaves… ending a hard summer day sitting in my stream with a frosty coke from the icebox and a joint grown by friends… watching fireflies and falling stars from a yoga mat on my deck… kissing during thunderstorms…

Listen, I don’t have a passport and I haven’t been on a plane in twenty years, but you’ll never convince me I’m poor. Hobbits have done worse.

In what moments does this place really feel like home?

Every. Single. Moment.

Recently, this place has felt more like home than ever. I find as I grow older I also grow kinder to myself. I’ve been putting in the effort to take better care of this place and myself. The farm and I are healing together.

Has this place changed how you see yourself or affected your priorities in life? Do you feel different—mentally, emotionally, physically—since moving there?

The best part of living here was realizing I don't want or need more than this. I feel very lucky to be here, to have pulled this off for so long. I feel like I’m the last of a dying breed: full-time working class single artists. It’s make it or break it every month.

Living that way for decades changes a person. At first it made me very afraid, and then brave. You go over a decade not letting yourself go hungry or homeless and character doesn’t just build, it calcifies. I’m a far better person than I would have been without this place.

I used to want to be a writer, but I have upgraded to aspiring folk hero. I want to earn enough sharing my story that I can start helping other women trying to do the same. Once the farmhouse is secure and I have enough money saved to not be afraid of the next month’s bills— I want to start writing checks covering other women’s rent and mortgages on their farms. Figure out how to start a charity or donate grants to people just scraping by. A person covering one month of housing costs can change an entire growing season for a small operation.

There were times I nearly quit it all, and strangers I never met helped me. Cold Antler only exists because of the support of my readers. They are the ones subscribing to my substack, buying pork shares, and hiring me to design their logos. It’s only proper that I pay all that forward if I’m ever in the position to do so. I want to save as many women’s farms as possible by giving them a little more time. We need it more than ever.

How about that? The place I chose for my future, chose mine.

How long do you see yourself staying in this place?

I will stay here as long as possible.

What is community like there and how do you see yourself as part of it?

I live on the outskirts of a farm town of 2,000 people. It’s one of those old factory towns that was once booming and has since settled into something smaller, but still whole. The people are everything from fifth generation dairy farmers to recent exotic imports, such as myself. Folks are kind and small talk comes easy to New Yorkers, regardless of latitude.

I’m not sure how to be a part of my community sometimes, it’s tricky for women like me. I’m a middle aged, single, childless lesbian. It’s not that we’re unwanted as much as not even regarded. Being a gay woman in a small town is a lot like being a coyote. You never know if the person you’re talking to sees you as a natural part of the ecosystem or a menace.

I do wish there was a larger queer community, but our tiny one is thriving. My town has a Pride celebration in June, which is encouraging to see in any place with one stoplight.

Lately, my community involvement has kicked into overdrive. Local groups are meeting to focus on taking care of each other as times get harder. We are planning donations for the food bank and rescue squad. We’re discussing expanding our gardens and growing more for our neighbors and friends as grocery prices soar. It feels good to work with people to solve problems. I hope the longer I live here, the more useful I can be.

I appreciate your time. Now go make the most of yours.

Jenna Wogintich is a farmer and writer living in upstate New York. You can learn more than you could possibly want to know about her at

Cold Antler Farm

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