Their farm in the foothills of the Adirondacks began with a leap of faith. Cody had taken a job with Ducks Unlimited in Michigan, and Kat — generous and steady as ever — followed him. When the position unexpectedly fell through, they packed up and returned home to New York, bringing with them a small herd of cashmere goats and the first sparks of a new idea: to become cashmere breeders.

Their original breeding stock had come from Bittersweet Farm in Indiana. Once back in New York, through a series of connections — and more than a little Google searching — they found their way to Sister Mary Elizabeth and her cashmere goat 4-H program. Her guidance helped shape the foundation of Aisling Farm’s breeding program and gave structure to their growing vision.

Fiber had become a shared passion. In Michigan, that passion had traction. There was a thriving fiber community — guilds, spinners, and a strong handmade culture. A single Facebook post could sell out a batch of fiber within hours. New York was different.

The market required a pivot — and quickly. In Michigan, Cody had also worked with Dexter cattle, training them for draft, meat, and milk. A few clients had even paid him to train their cows. But in New York, draft culture had largely faded. What once felt like a niche opportunity now felt like a relic. Still, the desire to work animals — especially draft animals — never left him.

They began exploring other ways to generate income. It became clear that fiber alone would not sustain the farm. Poultry — chickens, turkeys, quail — would likely carry much of the revenue. They considered goat grazing contracts, but the numbers were underwhelming. Hauling goats, setting fencing, and managing logistics for modest daily rates barely covered labor.

Then inquiries began arriving from an entirely different clientele — people willing to pay premium prices for curated outdoor experiences. One woman from Saratoga offered $1,000 for a two-hour sunset hike up Buck Mountain, complete with wine and a picnic delivered by pack goats.

At the time, their goats were still babies, barely halter-broke. They couldn’t carry a bottle of wine, let alone the weight of a luxury picnic. But the idea lingered. If someone in Idaho could build a name around pack goats, why couldn’t they do the same in the Adirondacks?

Today, they have goats that pack for hikes and picnics, and are trained to pull a cart.

As they refined their business model, diversification became essential. Angora rabbits joined the farm — an addition that proved humbling. Cody’s first attempt at shearing ended in tears and a disastrously uneven haircut that looked as though a weed whacker had been involved. Thankfully, Kat’s prior shearing experience — and steady hand — saved the day. The rabbits stayed.

The farm continued to grow, but something still felt missing: cattle. The local market no longer supported Dexters, and for a time, they let that dream rest.

Then opportunity arrived unexpectedly. A friend offered two yaks — a steer and a heifer — for $600 each, delivered. With cattle prices soaring, it seemed almost unbelievable. Kat didn’t hesitate. They could sell the manure pellets for that price alone, she reasoned. The yaks were coming home.

The decision aligned seamlessly with their conservation-minded approach. Working alongside recommendations from the NRCS, they had been carefully managing compost and soil health. Goat manure alone wasn’t providing sufficient nitrogen. The yaks helped close that gap, enriching compost and improving fertility management.

And like everything else on their farm, the yaks served more than one purpose.

Each animal carries three distinct fiber layers: a coarse outer coat suitable for rope (and even loom warp if spun finely enough), a durable mid-layer for sturdy textiles, and a soft down layer comparable in micron to cashmere. The down is warm, scarce, and luxurious — which explains its value.

Now, as they continue refining rotational and multi-species grazing practices to reduce parasite loads and strengthen pasture health, the yaks have become part of a larger ecological system. The farm is no longer simply about raising animals. It is about integration — conservation, fiber arts, youth education, livestock training, and creative agriculture working in harmony.

Their journey began in Michigan with a handful of cashmere goats and a hopeful Facebook post. It detoured through career shifts, market pivots, uneven shearing attempts, and unexpected livestock purchases. Today, back in New York, their farm stands as something far more intentional: a place where fiber, function, conservation, and experience intertwine — and where the original dream has evolved into something even greater than they first imagined.