
As the first frost firms the ground, the great beet lift begins in the flat black soils of the valley, and mountainous piles of roots rise beside the factories at Drayton and Hillsboro.
The Red River Valley's lakebed soils — a heavy, coal-black gumbo laid down by glacial Lake Agassiz — are among the richest in North America, and each autumn they surrender one of the region's most valuable crops. The sugar beet campaign, as growers call it, opens with the first hard frost and runs day and night until the last root is out of the ground.
Sweetness from the Black Gumbo
Cooperatively owned by the growers themselves, the valley's sugar factories turn the muddy roots into refined white sugar and a molasses-rich pulp that feeds cattle through the winter. The great piles of harvested beets, ventilated by cold air to keep them from spoiling, become temporary landmarks visible for miles across the level plain.
From the almanac's reckoning:
- Valley sugar factories are cooperatively owned by the beet growers.
- The rich soil descends from the bed of glacial Lake Agassiz.
- Cold-air ventilation keeps the harvested beet piles from spoiling before processing.
It is a crop that rewards cooperation and punishes the careless frost. A sudden warm spell in a beet pile can spoil thousands of tons, and so the campaign is a race against the calendar as much as a harvest. The almanac tips its cap to the growers who turned a swamp into a sugar bowl.
Elsewhere in the Almanac

Reading the Sky: Drought, Irrigation and the Missouri's Water
In a state where most crops drink only what the clouds provide, the recurring specter of drought keeps every grower's eye on the rain gauge — and turns some toward the water of the Missouri.

Flax Returns: The Blue-Flowered Crop Finds New Favor
Prized for its oil and its omega-rich seed, flax has staged a quiet comeback across the plains, its brief blue bloom once again dotting the northern fields.

Passing the Land On: The Delicate Art of Farm Succession
As a generation of plains farmers reaches its later years, families across the state wrestle with the hardest harvest of all — handing the farm to the next hands, or letting it go.