The Local Fleece and the 100-Mile Vision

There is something deeply grounding about beginning at the very beginning.

This project starts not with yarn, not with needles—but with fleece. Raw wool from Rampart Farm, still carrying the quiet story of the sheep, the pasture, the wind that moved through the fields. My intention is simple, though not always easy: to keep every step of this process within a hundred-mile radius.

This is my 100-Mile Vision.

In a world shaped by fast fashion and long supply chains, choosing local, regenerative fibres feels like a gentle but firm act of resistance—especially as we reflect on the values of Earth Day 2026. This is about more than making a sweater. It’s about asking: Where does this come from? Who—or what—does it touch along the way?

When I hold this fleece, I am holding land, care, and time. And someday, this will become a garment—one that carries that connection forward, stitch by stitch.

Extracting Color from Foraged Pits and Peels

From fleece, we move to colour.

Not from a store shelf—but from the kitchen.

A quiet collection begins: avocado pits saved after meals, onion skins gathered and dried. These are the overlooked remnants of daily life, transformed into something unexpectedly beautiful. There’s a certain joy in that—finding richness in what might otherwise be discarded.

The process is slow. A gentle simmer. Water deepening in tone as the pigments release themselves—softly, steadily. The avocado pits yield warm blush tones, while onion skins bring golden, sunlit hues. Together, they create a palette rooted in earth: terracotta, peach, and quiet gold.

It feels like uncovering a hidden language of colour—one that has always been there, waiting.

Alchemy in the Dye Pot

And then—the moment of transformation.

The cleaned Rampart Farm wool is lowered into the dye bath, still warm from its slow simmer. There is always a sense of wonder here. No two skeins will ever be quite the same.

Natural mordants help anchor the colour, ensuring that these soft, earthy tones will last—through wear, through washing, through time. This is not disposable colour. This is colour meant to stay.

As the wool absorbs the dye, it changes before your eyes. Cream becomes blush, pale becomes warm and alive. It is a quiet kind of alchemy—where agriculture meets art, where waste becomes beauty, where patience is rewarded.

The Rhythm of the Slow Stitch

Once dried, the yarn carries its story forward into the next stage: knitting.

This is where the rhythm settles in.

Needles moving back and forth. Rows building slowly. Intentionally.

In a world that asks us to move faster, produce more, and consume without pause, slow crafting becomes something more than a hobby—it becomes a form of resistance. A reclaiming of time. A return to presence.

The pattern I’ve chosen allows the natural variation of the hand-dyed yarn to shine. No need to hide the shifts in tone or texture—those are the very heart of the piece. This is not factory-perfect. It is alive with variation, with story.

And then—at last—the sweater.

Each stitch feels like a quiet conversation between hands, fibre, and time.

A Finished Legacy of Soil and Skin

Not just a garment, but a record of place.

Every part of it—fleece, dye, labour—held within that hundred-mile circle. A small experiment in sustainability, yes. But also something more personal. More grounded.

Wearing it feels different.

It carries the memory of the sheep, the fields, the kitchen scraps, the dye pot, the quiet evenings with needles in hand. It reminds me that what we wear can be more than fabric—it can be relationship.

Relationship to land. To process. To care.

This is the heart of the 100-Mile Life: small circles, deep roots.

If this kind of slow, thoughtful making speaks to you, I’d love to have you along for the journey. Subscribe for more reflections and experiments in local, sustainable crafting—and tell me in the comments:

Doll Can Create

100 Mile Life/Grandma Core