The chicken coop Claire and I constructed was really a
hodgepodge of two different A-frame plans.
We liked different features of each plan but couldn’t seem to agree on
the final product. So, similar to our
soon to be tiny home, we gathered what we liked from each plan and threw in a
little of our own flare. We decided to make
the coop six feet long, five feet wide, and five feet tall. To do this, we used six, five foot 2x4s,
making a 60-degree cut at one end and a 30-degree cut at the other end of each
board. The 60-degree ends were attached
to a six foot 2x8 board that would act as the peak of the A-frame. Two eight foot 1x3 boards run along the sides
of the coop, jetting out a foot on either end.
We wanted our coop to be easily movable and ideally these will act as
handles. In order for chickens to be
safe, comfortable, and healthy, a chicken coop must have a run, a coop, a
roost, and a nesting box.
The run:
The run is simply an open area exposed to bare ground were
the chickens can scratch and forage for insects and rocks. It needs to be able to protect the chickens
against any predators (weasel, fox, raccoon, Misty, etc.) that might want a
tasty snack. We used ¼ inch hardware
cloth instead of normal chicken wire to secure our run. Generally, the run is where the chickens eat
and drink. Because the wind here is
constant and often harsh, we closed off three walls of the run with plywood
(one being a door for access to the water and food) so our chickens could enjoy
their meals in a relatively wind free environment. We bought a two-gallon metal fount for water
and a one-gallon plastic feeder for food.
We both agree that the plastic feeder was a mistake and would suggest
metal to anyone who asks. Both the fount
and feeder are raised off the ground about six inches to avoid dirt and grass
from mingling with the water and feed.
The coop:
The coop is a warm, dry, secure “home” for the chickens to
sleep and of course, lay eggs. Our coop
lies directly above the feeding and drinking area in the run. It is three feet long, two feet wide, and two
feet tall at its peak. It seemed small
to both of us, but we reminded ourselves that most chickens do well in
confinement and a good portion of their time would be spent in the run. All four sides are covered with plywood. A one-inch gap was left between the plywood
and the 2x8 ridge board for ventilation.
One side is a large door, which will aid in coop cleaning and egg
collection. This door (along with the
door to the run) has a spring-loaded latch to ensure nothing but a human with
thumbs can get in. Our dog, Misty, has
already tried to open the door with her nose, and would have been quiet
successful if not for the latch. The
side facing the run has a small chicken sized door with a ramp leading down
into the run. This door is opened and
closed with a string that runs through the hardware cloth. We are using pine shavings as litter and on a
biweekly basis will remove the old litter, compost it, and replace it with new
shavings.
The roost:
A roost is a long branch-like object located in the coop where
the chickens sleep. Ours is a three-foot
long green ash branch I cut from a dead tree.
In the past I have found ash to be an incredibly difficult wood to
split, and I found it even harder to attach to our coop. The branch sits one
foot off the bottom of the coop.
The nesting box:
The nesting box is 12 inch cubed box where the hens can find
some privacy from the others and lay eggs.
Our book suggested one box for every three hens. We will have four hens and only room for one
box, so we are eager to see how it works out.
After 20 hours of work, our first chicken coop is
complete! Not all of the cuts were
perfect and several cracks required caulk or spare pieces of wood. The important part is it’s secure and we
learned how to measure and cut weird shapes out of plywood, build a door, and
install hardware cloth using a staple gun and a hammer. Whether our chickens would enjoy it or not was unknown.
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We carried the coop to the front yard of the cabin, placing it near the shelterbelt with the hopes that some winds would be reduced. Just as we were hammering the last of the hardware cloth on the coop and cleaning up the tornado in the pole shed, Connor’s dad, John, turned the corner and pulled into the cabin’s driveway. In a dog kennel in the back of the van we could hear the insistent clucking of our four hens. My first thought when I gazed through the barred door at them was, “whoa those are big!” followed even more urgently by “crap! Our coop is too small!” Connor looked like he was thinking the same thing. “We’ll worry about that later,” he whispered.
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Two of our hens are dark, and two are white. The white hens
are Leghorns, and we believe the black hen with iridescent green and orange
tints is an Australorp. The largest hen, a barred black and white, we are still
not sure. We pushed the crate opening to the slanted door of the coop’s run,
and attempted to coax the birds into their new home. Connor reached in and
grabbed the nearest, the Aussie, and put her in the run first. After much
squawking and flapping, the other birds seemed to get the picture and joined
her in the run.
We had read in our chicken book that when introducing hens
to a new home we’d need to guide them up to the coop and onto the roost for the
night for the first couple of days. That first night we waited until dark,
hoping the birds would figure it out for themselves, but it was not to be so
easy. There they were, huddled together in a corner of the run against the wind
and cold, half asleep already. With our headlamps and flashlights on, we caught
the exhausted hens easily, placing them into the enclosed coop and shutting the
door.
The next night made a mockery of the first.
We came for the birds before the sun set. They were still in
the run, huddled together. Connor and I opened the run door, got on our hands
and knees, and waved our hands at the hens, attempting to shoo them up the
ramp. They flapped and squawked and did everything except enter the coop. Our birds hadn’t figured out the whole night
routine yet. Resigned to another “training night”, Connor army crawled halfway
in, and the Aussie flew out! She tottered across the lawn, clucking in freedom
and heading for the tall grasses of the shelterbelt. John, Connor and I rushed
to cut off her escape. She dodged our grabs as we repeatedly split our
formations and regrouped around her, until finally I caught her as she was
attempting to bury herself in some intertwining grasses. With her wings pinned
and her small body swaddled in my arms, she was at last calm.
Bending into the run a second time, one of the leghorns
squeezed past and made the next getaway. We were once again circling and
splitting and regrouping around her, running bent legged with outstretched arms
with all the concentration and tactics of sheepdogs herding livestock.
Only the large, barred black and white hen was caught
without any drama.
The last leghorn made the last courageous break for freedom,
flapping out of the run and then flapping right into John’s open arms.
I think the hens were as anxious as we were not to have a
repeat of that night, because on the following one they trotted obediently up
the ramp and into the coop with only a little stick waving in their direction.
Connor and I felt like proud chicken keepers… until we realized that we still
had to teach them about the whole roosting business.
Connor and my first thought that the coop was too small was
really stemmed from the fact that we nailed the roost too high for the bird’s
heads to fit. To confirm our suspicions, we caught the barred hen, the largest,
and lifted her to the peak of the coop, coaxing her feet onto the ash branch. She
turned her squashed head and gave us the most sullen look a chicken can manage,
clearly stating her un-comfortableness. Message received. We lowered and
centered the branch, and cut the nesting box so it fit against the slanting
wall. Connor chased and caught a leghorn
next, lifting her body until her talons grasped the branch, and then we watched
as she tested out our adjustments.
Two nights later, we've finally managed to coax all four
hens up onto the roost at the same time. We are, once again, proud chicken
keepers.
From the day they arrived, Misty has taken a particular interest in our hens. The first time we let her greet them, she positively stalked toward the coop, her ears perked and her nose outstretched, no doubt reveling in her luck at this tasty meal. She circled the coop, pawing the hardware cloth, jumping on the frame, digging at the base, and jabbing at the door handles, trying to lift them. I’m not really sure why I thought anything different would’ve happened. For three days Connor and I tried to make it clear that these hens were friends, not food. We waved our arms and yelled to startle her off the coop frame, we kept her inside the cabin, we sat her down and had “serious talks” about appropriate behavior. Our smart Misty finally got it. Now she sits in front of the coop, her nose to the hardware cloth, watching the meal that got away. The chickens ignore her.
From the day they arrived, Misty has taken a particular interest in our hens. The first time we let her greet them, she positively stalked toward the coop, her ears perked and her nose outstretched, no doubt reveling in her luck at this tasty meal. She circled the coop, pawing the hardware cloth, jumping on the frame, digging at the base, and jabbing at the door handles, trying to lift them. I’m not really sure why I thought anything different would’ve happened. For three days Connor and I tried to make it clear that these hens were friends, not food. We waved our arms and yelled to startle her off the coop frame, we kept her inside the cabin, we sat her down and had “serious talks” about appropriate behavior. Our smart Misty finally got it. Now she sits in front of the coop, her nose to the hardware cloth, watching the meal that got away. The chickens ignore her.
To our delight, the hens began laying eggs the same day they
arrived! Fittingly, the leghorns lay white, and the blackies lay brown. In one
week, we've received a dozen eggs, with golden, perky yolks that taste creamy
and rich.
After my Dad, John, helped us get our new pets into their
home, he stated that he was here for the weekend to help in anyway he
could. After much discussion about our
home and how building was going, we deemed it would be wise to pick a final
site to build on and with my Dads help, place all six footings in the
ground. We chose an area just North of the
pole shed for three reasons. 1. We are
only 150 feet from the well. 2. Our
porch leads into our garden. 3. We have a beautiful view of a 50-acre prairie
from our largest window. It was
difficult to tell whether or not the ground was truly flat with four-foot tall
grasses, so my Dad hooked up the mower to the tractor and cleared the area where
we wanted to build.
As if the ground were an ocean, waves and mounds of dirt rose and fell every foot or so, stopping Claire and me dead in our tracks. “Uneven” was an understatement. What do we do? As we stood there, pondering, it was clear my Dad already had a plan and was ready to implement it. Under his direction, metal stakes were driven into the earth and a string tightly wrapped around each, showing approximately where our house would be. We built six 20 inch x 20 inch square frames from 2x4s, with the idea that each frame would be placed on the ground, one at each corner and two in the middle, and would be set level to each other.
These would act as our footings. Easier said than done. The uneven terrain forced us to bury some frames eight inches below the ground and raise others above it. Once level, wooden stakes were nailed into the sides of each frame to hold them in place. With the string as our guide, two levels, a couple of 2x4s, and a lot of patience, we slowly but surely made every side of the frames level with one another. We owe a great thanks to my Dad for helping us with this part of the project. Truthfully, this aspect of building scared Claire and me so much that we hadn’t given it much thought, and we were both relieved to have received my Dad’s guidance.
As if the ground were an ocean, waves and mounds of dirt rose and fell every foot or so, stopping Claire and me dead in our tracks. “Uneven” was an understatement. What do we do? As we stood there, pondering, it was clear my Dad already had a plan and was ready to implement it. Under his direction, metal stakes were driven into the earth and a string tightly wrapped around each, showing approximately where our house would be. We built six 20 inch x 20 inch square frames from 2x4s, with the idea that each frame would be placed on the ground, one at each corner and two in the middle, and would be set level to each other.
These would act as our footings. Easier said than done. The uneven terrain forced us to bury some frames eight inches below the ground and raise others above it. Once level, wooden stakes were nailed into the sides of each frame to hold them in place. With the string as our guide, two levels, a couple of 2x4s, and a lot of patience, we slowly but surely made every side of the frames level with one another. We owe a great thanks to my Dad for helping us with this part of the project. Truthfully, this aspect of building scared Claire and me so much that we hadn’t given it much thought, and we were both relieved to have received my Dad’s guidance.
To finish the footings, Connor and I drove into town to buy
rebar, type 1 Portland cement, and precisely 180 shovelfuls of sand. I had
witnessed concrete being mixed only once in my life, but was excited to finally
understand the ingredients and process. John laid out the formula: 1 part
cement, 2 parts sand, 3 parts rock. Back at the cabin, Connor cut the rebar
into 22-inch lengths with a hack saw while I used the disk tiller in the pole
shed and a metal pipe to bend the rebar into wave hooks.
We combined the rock, sand, and cement with water in a wheelbarrow, mixing with shovels to a “plastic” consistency. Our first thought was that it was way too rocky to be proper cement. Feeling skeptical, we shoveled the mixture into the first footing, and smoothed the surface with a wooden iron-like tool. To our surprise, the rocks disappeared, leaving a smooth gray paste level with the top of the squares. We sunk a rebar hook into the middle, and stepped back to admire our work. It looked satisfyingly permanent. Back and forth we went from our rock and sand piles to the square frames, mixing, pouring, smoothing, sinking. As the sun began to melt into the horizon, we finished. We regarded the six footings, feeling that we had finally made the leap from fictitious to concrete (pun intended).
We combined the rock, sand, and cement with water in a wheelbarrow, mixing with shovels to a “plastic” consistency. Our first thought was that it was way too rocky to be proper cement. Feeling skeptical, we shoveled the mixture into the first footing, and smoothed the surface with a wooden iron-like tool. To our surprise, the rocks disappeared, leaving a smooth gray paste level with the top of the squares. We sunk a rebar hook into the middle, and stepped back to admire our work. It looked satisfyingly permanent. Back and forth we went from our rock and sand piles to the square frames, mixing, pouring, smoothing, sinking. As the sun began to melt into the horizon, we finished. We regarded the six footings, feeling that we had finally made the leap from fictitious to concrete (pun intended).
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| Mixing rock, sand, cement, and water to make concrete |
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| Our six finished footings |
We chose a rainy day to bake a plethora of breads. Two kinds
of whole wheat, Challah, and brownies (those count, right?) The cabin and
garage were so thick with the tantalizing aroma of yeast and spices that we
could taste it in the air. Half a day and a bag of flour later, our hands were covered with dough, our clothes were covered with flour, and eight loaves were nestled in the freezer. The other two were digesting in our stomachs.
After a long and rewarding day of making bread we switched from bakers back to carpenters.
With the floor nearly done, the footings in place, and a sense of
progress, Claire and I began to build our first wall frame. We started with the back wall, 8 feet by 16
feet, which will have a 3X6 foot window in the center. This window will look over the 50-acres of
prairie and a small granite table will sit underneath it. To begin, we constructed our soleplate and
top plate, making sure to offset the joints, meaning the soleplate (bottom)
consisted of two, eight foot 2X4’s attached together and the top plate (top)
consisted of two, four foot 2X4’s with an eight foot 2X4 sandwiched in the
middle. Next, I measured and marked 16
on centers down the entire 16 feet of both plates while Claire prepared 92¼-inch
2x4s for the saw. Our plan is to finish
all four walls by next Friday (lofty goal, we know) when we may potentially get
our first break visiting my Aunt and Uncle in Nebraska for Easter weekend.
Note: birds of all sizes and colors are flying back in earnest now, blackening the sky and throwing poop bombs down on our unsuspecting shoulders. Connor has thus far dodged the black and white missiles. I have not. Connor thought it was hilarious. I did not.
Note: birds of all sizes and colors are flying back in earnest now, blackening the sky and throwing poop bombs down on our unsuspecting shoulders. Connor has thus far dodged the black and white missiles. I have not. Connor thought it was hilarious. I did not.
