I think readers will find our experiences with no-till to be equally foreign and familiar. Foreign in the fact that on our family farm, the horsepower that runs our field operations comes from actual draft horses.

I'm a sweeper in my local curling club. It’s my job is to manipulate the ice, helping guide the stone down the perfect path to its ultimate target.

We were uncharacteristically resistant when our agronomist, Joe Nester, first brought up the idea of using cover crops. Now we’re hooked and they’re helping bring our no-till farming system to the next level.

My soils were on the verge of giving out on me when I finally made the switch to no-till. I’m a first-generation farmer.

Working smarter not harder was the leading reason my husband initially made the switch to no-till about 18 years ago.

“Lazy man's farming,” is what my Dad called no-till. It was the 1980s, and in his mind both no-till and organic farming were dirty words. They were the two extreme ends of the farming spectrum.

I've served in township government for a quarter century. One never-ending task and expense is cleaning silt from road ditches and culverts — the product of field erosion — and putting it back where it belongs.

“No-Till is not a machine, not a crop and not residue. Instead, no-till is a combination of all the critical things you need to produce the best crop with the least cost and the most sustainability. That’s been our farm goal for the past quarter century.”

We’re not out for the highest yield at any expense. We’re out for the highest yield we can produce profitably.

The Gallatin Valley is a bustling place. Snug in the shadow of towering Rocky Mountain peaks, the valley is home to Montana State University, the hip and thriving town of Bozeman and a diverse, often progressive community of farmers — ranging from container hydroponic growers of salad greens to large-scale commercial producers — that make it feel more like a California valley than one in Montana.