Broody Hens, Breeding and Multi-age Flock Raising

Right now, our star hen, Frog, is brooding for the third year in a row. She’s tucked into a nest she claimed, and while the other hens try to lay eggs on top of her—or even push her out—she’s holding her ground. She is committed. Another younger hen is showing signs of going broody, too, though gets bored and wanders off. But it’s good for her to observe. She’s learning from Frog, who is now the great-grandmother of the flock.

Some of our first chickens were Brahmas—big, beautiful birds with feathered feet and white plumage that didn’t fare well in our muddy, hilly terrain. They also didn’t go broody or show much maternal instinct. Eventually, we rehomed or lost them and focused on more adaptable breeds. Today, we raise barred rocks and hearty black sex links that thrive here.

We’ve learned a lot about breeding, too. You can’t just keep every chick, especially the roosters. With only one rooster per 10 hens recommended, we’ve had to make tough decisions. The reality is that roosters have to be managed—whether that’s rehoming to one of many local sanctuaries, culling, or dispatching to process for meat. You have to find a way that feels respectable.

This year, I’m using my experience to do things differently and hopefully better. Frog will be moved to a separate “maternity ward” with her own run and perch to protect her and her chicks. In the past we left her in the main coop which invites chaos—too many eggs, broken shells, and squabbles from hens trying to lay where she’s brooding. Last year we overshot on purpose and ended up with too many chicks. This time, I’m aiming for a better balance.

I’ll move her eggs first, then Frog. If she takes to the new space, great. If not, we’ll start again. I’ve learned that hen dynamics can’t be forced. Once the chicks hatch, they’ll stay separated until they’re strong enough to safely mix with the flock. The perfect time to move the eggs is when she gets up midday to drink water eat food and go to the bathroom. Interestingly, he can hold themselves from going to the bathroom for 23 hours so that they don’t get feces on their nest. The first thing she will do when she emerges from the coop is I learned is called. a “Broody poop” and it smells awful!

Raising a flock this way is part instinct, part science, and a whole lot of heart. I’ve learned to spot illness early, handle loss, and appreciate the fierce maternal strength of a broody hen defending her chicks—even from me.

At the feed store the other day, I mentioned it takes 24 days for chicks to hatch. “No, it’s 21,” the guy corrected me. Technically, yes—but in natural settings, hatching unfolds over several days, not all at once like in a commercial incubator. That’s what makes it magic. You wait, you hope, and then—suddenly—there’s slowly hatching over the course of 3 days. Allowing a Brody hen to hatch for more than three days can cause her too much harm so we never allow our hand to sit past 24 days. Any eggs that hasn’t hatched at that time we compost.

When you raise chicks yourself naturally, you don’t just get eggs. You get lineage, personality, heartbreak, and reward. You witness the full cycle—birth, growth, protection, and sometimes loss. But you also gain something deeper: a connection to life’s rhythms and your place in it.

So yes, keeping a free-range flock on a rugged mountain is not for the faint of heart. But for me, it’s been one of the most meaningful, challenging, and unexpectedly joyful experiences of my life.