What Temperature Is Too Hot for Chickens?

The sun was relentless that day, beating down on the High Prairie like it had a personal grudge. Even in the early morning, the air was thick and stale. By noon, it wasn’t just hot—it was miserable. The kind of heat that makes you question why you ever thought raising chickens was a good idea.

I knew I needed to check on the flock.

Chickens are tough, but they’re not invincible. Out here, where the land stretches wide, and the sky never seems to end, there’s little relief from the sun. I trudged toward the run, my boots kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on my skin. Usually, the flock would be busy—scratching, dust bathing, clucking over whatever scrap of feed had sparked a debate.

But today, something was off.

The birds were still. Clumped together in the sliver of shade under the coop, beaks open, wings slightly lifted. No scratching. No movement. The Rhode Island Reds, usually bossy and bold, barely looked up as I approached. The Barred Rocks, normally the first to greet me, just sat there, panting.

Heat stress.

I’d seen it before, but not like this. Chickens start feeling it at 85°F, struggle in the 90s, and if it climbs past 100°F, it can be deadly. They were already showing the signs—rapid breathing, lethargy, and darkening combs. If I didn’t fix this fast, I’d be dealing with more than just stressed birds.

I moved quickly.

Hosed down the dirt in the shaded areas, cooling the ground so they could lay on it. Set up extra water stations—deep bowls of fresh, cool water. Tossed frozen water bottles into their drinking buckets. At first, they hesitated. But after a moment, a Buff Orpington stepped forward, dunked her beak, and drank deep. The others followed, slowly shaking off the worst of the heat. A few got up and moved toward the damp ground, settling in. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was enough to get them through the day.

That evening, as the sun dipped low and the air finally cooled, I leaned against the coop, thinking about everything I should have done differently. I knew better. Shade alone wasn’t enough. I should have set up better ventilation, stretched a tarp over the run, and started freezing water bottles before the heat wave hit.

Out here, mistakes aren’t just lessons. They’re warnings. And the weather doesn’t wait for you to catch up.

One day, I was fighting to keep my birds from overheating.

The next, I was bracing for the cold.

What Temperature Is Too Cold for Chickens?

The first frost came early that year.

One day, the prairie was golden, the grass swaying under a crisp fall breeze. The next, the wind had a bite to it. And then, winter slammed down like a fist.

I woke before dawn and stepped outside into a world that had turned silver overnight. The sky was clear, but the air was sharp, the cold that cut through layers. I could hear the frozen earth crunch beneath my boots as I approached the coop.

The birds were awake but quiet, their breath barely visible in the dim morning light. Most had puffed up their feathers, huddling together on the roosts. But as I scanned the flock, I saw what I had feared.

A Rhode Island Red perched near the window had frostbite. The tips of her comb had paled, stiffened from the cold. It wasn’t bad—yet. But if I didn’t make changes, it could get worse.

Most people assume chickens can’t handle the cold. But they can—if they’re prepared. A well-adapted flock can survive well below freezing, even down to zero. The real enemy isn’t the cold. It’s moisture.

And that’s where I had messed up.

I thought I was helping, so I had sealed up the coop too tightly, trying to keep warmth inside. But in doing so, I had trapped the moisture from their breath. That damp air clung to combs and wattles, and when the temperature dropped, it turned to ice.

I moved fast. Opened the vents just enough to let fresh air circulate without creating a draft. Checked the bedding, ensuring it was dry and deep enough to trap warmth. Ran my hands over the Buff Orpingtons—thick feathering, goodinsulation, but they still needed wind protection.

That night, I scattered extra scratch grain before they roosted, giving them something to digest overnight to generate warmth from the inside out.

The temperature had dropped even further by morning, but the coop felt right. The air was cold, but it was dry. The birds were active, clucking and moving, their feathers fluffed against the chill. The Rhode Island Red’s comb was still scarred, but she was fine—lesson learned.

And just in time.

The Real Danger Isn’t Heat or Cold—It’s the Change

The thing about life on the High Prairie is that the weather doesn’t care if you’re ready. One day, it’s blazing hot. The next, the temperature plummets, and the wind howls through the grass like it’s trying to rip the land apart.

Chickens can handle a lot. But sudden swings? That’s what kills them. That’s when heat stroke sets in, or frostbite takes hold before they’ve built up their natural resistance.

It’s not enough to react. You have to anticipate.

That’s why I start preparing long before the seasons change. When the last frost of spring melts away, I think about shade structures, extra water stations, and frozen treats. When the first leaves start to turn, I make sure the ventilation is right, the bedding is deep, and the windbreaks are set.

Because if I’ve learned anything from this land, it’s this: waiting for the weather to tell you what to do is a fool’s game.

And the same goes for food.

For too long, we’ve been told that feeding chickens is as simple as buying feed. That sprouting, foraging, and regenerative systems aren’t enough. That the only way to raise birds is to stay dependent on the system.

But what if that was never true?

What if the answer to feeding chickens and ourselves was never supposed to come from a store?

What Temperature Is Too Hot for Chickens?

The sun was relentless that day, beating down on the High Prairie like it had a personal grudge. Even in the early morning, the air was thick and stale. By noon, it wasn’t just hot—it was miserable. The kind of heat that makes you question why you ever thought raising chickens was a good idea.

I knew I needed to check on the flock.

Chickens are tough, but they’re not invincible. Out here, where the land stretches wide, and the sky never seems to end, there’s little relief from the sun. I trudged toward the run, my boots kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on my skin. Usually, the flock would be busy—scratching, dust bathing, clucking over whatever scrap of feed had sparked a debate.

But today, something was off.

The birds were still. Clumped together in the sliver of shade under the coop, beaks open, wings slightly lifted. No scratching. No movement. The Rhode Island Reds, usually bossy and bold, barely looked up as I approached. The Barred Rocks, normally the first to greet me, just sat there, panting.

Heat stress.

I’d seen it before, but not like this. Chickens start feeling it at 85°F, struggle in the 90s, and if it climbs past 100°F, it can be deadly. They were already showing the signs—rapid breathing, lethargy, and darkening combs. If I didn’t fix this fast, I’d be dealing with more than just stressed birds.

I moved quickly.

Hosed down the dirt in the shaded areas, cooling the ground so they could lay on it. Set up extra water stations—deep bowls of fresh, cool water. Tossed frozen water bottles into their drinking buckets. At first, they hesitated. But after a moment, a Buff Orpington stepped forward, dunked her beak, and drank deep. The others followed, slowly shaking off the worst of the heat. A few got up and moved toward the damp ground, settling in. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was enough to get them through the day.

That evening, as the sun dipped low and the air finally cooled, I leaned against the coop, thinking about everything I should have done differently. I knew better. Shade alone wasn’t enough. I should have set up better ventilation, stretched a tarp over the run, and started freezing water bottles before the heat wave hit.

Out here, mistakes aren’t just lessons. They’re warnings. And the weather doesn’t wait for you to catch up.

One day, I was fighting to keep my birds from overheating.

The next, I was bracing for the cold.

What Temperature Is Too Cold for Chickens?

The first frost came early that year.

One day, the prairie was golden, the grass swaying under a crisp fall breeze. The next, the wind had a bite to it. And then, winter slammed down like a fist.

I woke before dawn and stepped outside into a world that had turned silver overnight. The sky was clear, but the air was sharp, the cold that cut through layers. I could hear the frozen earth crunch beneath my boots as I approached the coop.

The birds were awake but quiet, their breath barely visible in the dim morning light. Most had puffed up their feathers, huddling together on the roosts. But as I scanned the flock, I saw what I had feared.

A Rhode Island Red perched near the window had frostbite. The tips of her comb had paled, stiffened from the cold. It wasn’t bad—yet. But if I didn’t make changes, it could get worse.

Most people assume chickens can’t handle the cold. But they can—if they’re prepared. A well-adapted flock can survive well below freezing, even down to zero. The real enemy isn’t the cold. It’s moisture.

And that’s where I had messed up.

I thought I was helping, so I had sealed up the coop too tightly, trying to keep warmth inside. But in doing so, I had trapped the moisture from their breath. That damp air clung to combs and wattles, and when the temperature dropped, it turned to ice.

I moved fast. Opened the vents just enough to let fresh air circulate without creating a draft. Checked the bedding, ensuring it was dry and deep enough to trap warmth. Ran my hands over the Buff Orpingtons—thick feathering, goodinsulation, but they still needed wind protection.

That night, I scattered extra scratch grain before they roosted, giving them something to digest overnight to generate warmth from the inside out.

The temperature had dropped even further by morning, but the coop felt right. The air was cold, but it was dry. The birds were active, clucking and moving, their feathers fluffed against the chill. The Rhode Island Red’s comb was still scarred, but she was fine—lesson learned.

And just in time.

The Real Danger Isn’t Heat or Cold—It’s the Change

The thing about life on the High Prairie is that the weather doesn’t care if you’re ready. One day, it’s blazing hot. The next, the temperature plummets, and the wind howls through the grass like it’s trying to rip the land apart.

Chickens can handle a lot. But sudden swings? That’s what kills them. That’s when heat stroke sets in, or frostbite takes hold before they’ve built up their natural resistance.

It’s not enough to react. You have to anticipate.

That’s why I start preparing long before the seasons change. When the last frost of spring melts away, I think about shade structures, extra water stations, and frozen treats. When the first leaves start to turn, I make sure the ventilation is right, the bedding is deep, and the windbreaks are set.

Because if I’ve learned anything from this land, it’s this: waiting for the weather to tell you what to do is a fool’s game.

And the same goes for food.

For too long, we’ve been told that feeding chickens is as simple as buying feed. That sprouting, foraging, and regenerative systems aren’t enough. That the only way to raise birds is to stay dependent on the system.

But what if that was never true?

What if the answer to feeding chickens and ourselves was never supposed to come from a store?

That’s exactly why I wrote Thinking Outside the Soil.

It’s not just about raising chickens. It’s about rethinking the way we farm—using regenerative methods, smarter food systems, and sustainable practices that put control back in your hands.

If you're ready to stop reacting and start farming with intention, this book is for you.

👉Get your copy of Thinking Outside the Soil today. and be part of the food sovereignty movement that’s just beginning.