Eagle Heights Farm
- Ginger Jenne
- Oct 6
- 3 min read
When I first met Anna Terwilleger of Eagle Heights Farm, it was around this time last year, and I immediately knew she had chosen the right direction for her life—farming. There was something in the way she moved across the land, in the easy familiarity of her gestures, that spoke of a deep connection with the earth. She was at home in her surroundings, not because she had curated them into a picture-perfect scene, but because she lived and worked with nature every day. She built a cedar structure and covered it in fruiting kiwi vines to create a whimsical hideaway, flowers she encouraged sprang from every nook they could find, life spilled out wherever it could, despite the crisp autumn chill in the air. It was as if her feet had rooted into the soil, and with every step she took, the tendrils of these roots were preparing to dive deep, ready to grow.
It made sense, really. This was land that had been in her family for years, and Anna had chosen to breathe new life into it. She cultivated flower patches wherever space allowed, built a high tunnel to start flower and vegetable seedlings for the community, and tended to the warmer-loving tomatoes and resilient winter greens with patient care. The land itself seemed to respond and have conversations with her- she would plant- it would grow.
As we walked through the property, Anna shared memories and pointed out markers of the past—old deer bones, fallen timber, and traces of previous generations. Each of these elements carried a story, a weight of experience she understood intimately, turning the wild edges of the farm into a living narrative that weaved into human timelines.
You might have glimpsed her farmstand along Route 169 in Canterbury; an old 1923 Model T pickup truck brimming with whatever was in season, the colors and textures of the farm’s bounty spilling over into a small shed, an old tractor, all displaying what felt both practical and charming. At this time of year, the stand shouts autumn in fiery reds, golds, and oranges—pumpkins, gourds, hay, and mums—but it also invites play as her Halloween decorations provide the backdrop to the farmstand display. It’s impossible not to feel the joy of the season there.As we moved from the main growing areas through the woods and onto an open field, Anna shared her dreams for the future. This is where the next phase of the farm will take shape: more room for rooting daikon, pumpkin vines stretching and crawling, dahlias and sunflowers reaching for the sun. Hay had its place, but now the land was ready for something more, ready to respond to the care she could provide. Some trees had to be let go to the emerald ash borer, but she saw potential in the open spaces, imagining what she could grow for her neighbors, for the community that cherishes her work.
We took a soil test while I was there (because every farmer should!) and I could recognize the deep satisfaction she felt with the dark cool soil piled into her hands; it often made me feel that way too. A plot of land, full of potential that was just waiting.
These are the types of people that you find at small farms in our community. People that have a reason to grow food beyond what they can get from the land. This is why our small farms are important. They are stewards of a rich history that has life and its own stories. You don’t get that with 6000-acre farms. You don’t get that with fields turned to apartment complexes.
So yes, even if she doesn’t realize it, the work that Anna is doing has deep significance, as deep as the roots that seem to spring from her feet. As she isn’t always at the stand, which operates on a self-serve model, if you ever have the chance to meet her, take it. The warmth, dedication, and quiet magic she brings to the land are infectious, leaving you with the sense that you’ve witnessed something rare: a life rooted so fully in the soil and in service to both land and people. And get to know your other farmers too. They too have more to them than a dozen eggs or fresh heirloom tomatoes.
