Tag Archives: water

Water Leaks

 

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It’s difficult to find a ranch without a water leak somewhere, usually around a trough. In the instance above, our 5,000-gallon tank has settled since we last repaired and changed the PVC fittings a number of years ago while the tank was empty. Anticipating settling when full, 40,000 pounds, we installed a compression fitting or dayton on our water line to allow the PVC pipe ends to slide closer together. Additionally, our conduit for the wire between the solar control panel and the float in the tank was in the same trench as our water fill and discharge line. The settling cracked the conduit and subsequently carried water from the leaky tank plumbing to the base of our solar panels creating another nasty bog.

This summer, our little rafter of turkeys have included the two leaks in their daily travels, drinking and finding bugs and grubs that wouldn’t otherwise be available. Because of the leaks, I’ve had to augment the solar pump with a generator and submersible pump to fill the tank once a day.

I’ve long rationalized that little leaks are not a waste of water, creating some green grass and making puddles for birds, rabbits and other small wildlife that often end up drowned and floating in our water troughs. Fishing the carcasses out can be an unpleasant chore.

Unable to responsibly procrastinate any longer, we set out early Tuesday morning knowing we had some muddy shovel work ahead. After several hours, we uncovered and loosened the dayton, fixed the conduit, repairing what was no little leak. If we’ve done our job well, the turkeys will have to drink elsewhere without the appetizers.

 

Clean Water

 

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A dry year, ‘1947’ is etched in the concrete next to my father’s name—one of two round water troughs, hand-mixed and poured into forms that were borrowed from Jim Pogue’s Rocky Hill cattle operation. Dry Creek quit running on June 3rd this year and won’t begin again until the rains come. With about fifty troughs on this ranch, most spring fed, every living thing, wild or domestic, knows where at least one of them is located.

 

AUGUST DOE

 

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She does not know
we plugged the leak
for cattle, does not care

we watch her drink
when the tank is full
and the generator’s purr

has quit to draw her
clean water at noon—
a tune she can dance to.

 

FISH ROCK

 

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Sweet water rises here
from forgotten depths—
Sierra snowmelt streaming
granite cracks under pressure,

underground waterways
clogged with huge trout.
A near escape as the earth
cooled to mark the place.

Words leak out, collect
on paper, fill a trough
open to native myths
locked in rock.

                                  for Sylvia

AT THE WINDMILL SPRING

 

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Out of earth and rock
imagination surfaces,
wants to talk in myths
science will dismiss.

We cannot deny
all senses of the eye,
how it dresses and addresses
what rises before us.

Good water, bedrock mortars—
fish flickering by firelight,
generations of good sense
secured in granite.

                        ~

Weather Update

 

Robbin’s Pool

 

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With the invaluable help of Joe Hertz, stonemason and fiddle player for Cowboy Celtic, down from the cold of Alberta, we have completed Robbin’s pool. For a number of years, we’ve been discussing the work with Joe, but due to the demands of our long drought, our plans were postponed.

After the completion of the hydroelectric facility at Terminus Dam, the inside cap of the tunnel feeding the turbines was removed and given to me for a water trough. Thirteen feet in diameter and 1/2″ thick, the steel cap weighed between 3 and 4 tons. I began work ten or so years ago to recreate the feel of swimming in the river with smooth river rock to sit on, but had reached beyond the limits of my abilities.

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We utilized the pool during the summer, but with the sharp, cutting torch edges and unlevel state, it needed drastic help.

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Joe needed a footing for his rock work, so Terri and formed it up using hog wire for rebar.

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We rented a portable mixer and a bought a yard of concrete to wheelbarrow into place to finish.

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Joe arrived on the 21st and has been laying rock ever since.

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Yesterday morning we cleaned the rock and concrete with muriatic acid, rinsed and added water to see how it would look.

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Thank you, Joe.

 

FEED, WEEDS & WATER

 

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In the dry and dusty years,
we did not ask much
from our night dreams

of brittle details to get by
day by day—no pastoral
pipe dreams, no comedy.

But we indulge the gods
because we must endure
their sense of humor.

 

MY FATHER FARMING

 

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We had water enough for play in furrows
with scraps of wood, leaves for sails,
regattas on rivers pumped from underground.

All the magic that children take for granted
swirled to the hum of electricity, twenty-horse
pumps like Buddhas squat in orchard rows

my father farmed for wagonloads of fruit
ripe for the rail, packed by women’s hands
for the road on diesel trucks to distant places.

His silhouette crosses deep within vineyard rows,
early morning, late afternoon, hoe in hand—
his pirate’s cutlass, swashbuckling open-topped

overshoes—checking water, irrigating grapes
at seventy, or so I think at sixty-eight, knowing
now what drew him to the earth he farmed.

 

THE GOOD SIGNS

 

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Sunday evening, pickup loads of snow
file down the road to town: snowmen
for Visalia, Exeter, Farmersville front yards

to melt and soak into drought-brown lawns
no one’s mowed in years—a hurried
shortcut from mountains to Valley

upon a crumbling blacktop channel—
water that these oaks and sycamores
see only as lumps of white passing at fifty.

The west and south slopes fill-in
with green, purple patches of frost-bitten
filaree that looked like bare dirt,

softly embrace us now as if we were cattle.
Too wet for work that waits outside,
we slowly release winters of urgency

camped at the door and ease into the
vaguely familiar—reacquaint ourselves
with mud and rain, with one another.

 

MONUMENTS

 

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The storms line up
like diesel trucks
in the slow lane,

hills green
and scattered cattle
graze ridgetops.

I had forgotten how
heaven looked,
learning to live

with dust and smoke,
all shades of brown—
years without water.

We cannot reduce
all the ghoulish skeletons
to cordwood, clear

these monuments of oak
from mind or eye.
They will remind us

of who we came to be
to survive
what they could not.