A hard farming lesson, courtesy of black flea beetle

I know a few things. But not enough. I’ve learned enough to participate, but this farm won’t survive if I stop there.

Until I started farming, I’d never worked in an environment where professional development was so clearly tied to survival.

Take flea beetles, for example. They are tiny. Black specks, really. They can walk, fly and jump. And if they set their minds to it, they can destroy an entire crop in a single day. They especially enjoy feasting on young canola plants, of which I have millions. These details were new to me. For a farmer, I spend an inordinate amount of time in front of a computer. I write about agriculture and I work for a notfor-profit commodity group. I’m immersed in agriculture. But, knowledge of the industry and its workings is not the same thing as knowing how to grow a good crop.

I learned this the other day. It’s a lesson that I’m certain cost me a few dollars.

“Hey, are you at home?” asked my father.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m here on your canola field. I think you better come over here and see this for yourself.”

There was already damage. They were entire areas where these tiny insects had eaten and killed the newly emerged plants.

In this scenario, the farmer must make a judgment call. I acknowledged the damage but chose to do nothing about it, electing instead to wait and see. That flea beetles will not necessarily eat the entire field is both an accepted truth and the line I was repeating to myself.

Also, plants are resilient. They are living things that time and time again overcome formidable obstacles in order to survive and flourish. They will find a way. This adage also applies to flea beetles, whose version of “finding a way” meant eating my plants.

The next day — again, my father was the one to tell me

— the area void of living plants had grown significantly. Unable to make the decision myself, I called a local agronomist, who said that if the beetles have eaten or otherwise destroyed 25 per cent or more of that plant’s leaf, I should consider spraying

insecticide on the field. I was well past this. There was no question something needed to be done.

I’m not used to growing canola and never thought to check for flea beetles. This is my fault. I’m guilty of having abandoned the very plants I paid for and seeded. The job of a farmer is not done after the seed is in the ground.

No two growing seasons are the same. The disease and insect pressures present this year may not surface in 2019. New hurdles may arise. Unrecognizable symptoms may appear. Whatever the case, I needed to be more vigilant. I need to be out there, physically inspecting the crops I planted. I need to know more about providing the ideal conditions for growing healthy, profitable crops.

Without the knowledge and experience of those around me, my field of canola would have suffered irreparable damage. It would have been costly.

In my other work, professional development is something else. It’s a way for me to stay current, yes. It’s also a way in which to do the things I currently do, only better. Skills development is paramount to any job, and in many cases employers make it mandatory.

Nobody is going to tell me to get better at crop scouting or basic agronomy. This I need to do on my own. And once I do, I’ll know a few more things. But still not enough.