Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 5

Photo: A new dawn, a new day can bring new hope, new faith - if you choose to look for it.

Click image for larger view

As you might imagine, that Saturday night was a quiet one. Mark was intensely mulling over the Ram's likely new differential problem and I was content to stare out the window in a deep funk, occasionally drooling down the front of my shirt. Don't ever let anyone tell you that your emotional state cannot effect your physical well-being. The effects of the antibiotics seemed to vanish and the malady returned with greater vigor than ever. So here we were suddenly retro'd back to primitive camping in the Rat and I was not the classic happy camper.

I never imagined that I would be into a Part Five of this tale so I will cut to the chase with a day by day accounting of it:

Thursday: The Honda generator dies. Some triage performed, no cigar. Sun is dropping behind the mesa. Sit in relative misery until bedtime - which comes early with no light, no computers alive and well.

Friday: Fiddle-fart around for most of the day with possible fixes. Call Red for more ideas. Fiddle-fart around some more, still no cigar. Generator dealer administers Last Rites to generator by phone.
Evening drill: Sweat profusely. Assume glum faces, retire at dusk. Sweat profusely. Wake up at 3:00AM because you are not used to this much sleep (but the cats, being nocturnal kind of guys, think this is just great!). Sit around staring at walls and sweating by kerosene light until sunlight returns. This would become a standard routine henceforth.

Saturday: 'Nuff said already on the wrecking and raising of the Hesperus.

Sunday: Mark spends day largely avoiding 'management'. No power, all Rat projects come to a halt. Long reading aloud sessions develop and become daily entertainment - I certainly can't complain.

Monday: Generator dealer closed - we sure love prolonging this agony. Mark does get hold of Dick, top mechanic in town who has seen everything which could happen to a vehicle out here in the oil patch. His observation: DO NOT drive it to town like that. Gives Mark some pointers on next wise step to take.

Tuesday: Profuse sweating still de riguer. Since the evap. cooler is now on a separate wire and plug, I get bright idea to power the cooler with the mil-surplus Kawasaki (no, it cannot be used to power the Rat's main electric panel for a number of reasons but only an electro geek could possibly explain why clearly). We fire it up and plug in the cooler. YES! YES! Relief from the swelter! Dance around and do cartwheels. Repeat for 1.5 hours until ... the big Kawa dies. Emit wails of lament loudly, assume the standard evening routine previously noted.

Wednesday: Mark follows Dick's advice and finds contacts willing to bring out replacement fluids for differential from town. Dick sends fluids out without requiring payment up front (and this stuff is PRICEY). Faith in humanity escalates.

Thursday: The guy who maintains the wells one section over from us is able to deliver the fluids (now one of several new brownie points accumulating for humanity). Don't forget to insert the routine daily and evening misery here though.

Friday: Mark takes my Dakota down to the creek, wades across, masters the technique of loosening diff cover, drains out sludge and adds new fluid. All dressed up now and no place to go since appointment for complete diff cleaning is not until Monday. While he is scrubbing around in sand under the Ram, pipeline hand drives up to creek and admits that HE was the one who created the humongous sink-hole in the channel, the one which Mark's Ram slid off to the left into before he could climb the far bank. Nothing like a big dually to excavate mud. Mark offers sarcastic gratitude and the kid offers a big poop-eating grin before dropping into the channel again, pausing long enough to dig out some more mud.

Saturday and Sunday: Complete write-off on progress but misery still not optional. We do sun dances to ward off another creek run. Slim becomes concerned that any attempt on our part at rain cessation will brown out his reviving grazing grass. We futilely fart around with the dead Kaw although we now know that we need a smaller main jet which may or may not be available any more - Kawa dealer offers minus enthusiasm and support to that end.

Monday: I run Mark down to the creek at 0:dark-early. Dick makes the world right again with the Ram. But .... Honda dealer is closed. Mark gets to stay overnight in town at motel with real, unlimited hot water, real porcelain flushing toilet, air-conditioning and dine-out food. I am out here grinding teeth in the relentless swelter, thinking that this mini-vacation is a curious reward for his initial short-sightedness. Mind you, he does get to do a LOT more errands than time normally permits.

Tuesday: Mark picks up the perishable groceries, stuffs them in the cooler with plenty of ice. Then he picks up the dead Honda generator at Dick's, drops it off at the dealer and loads the new one waiting to come home. Even though these things are gut-busting heavy, you don't want to leave one in the back of a pick-up in a motel parking lot or any where else for long so he had to very carefully choreograph the order of his stops. He returns absolutely beat in the late afternoon. Just enough time before dusk for me to replace the cooler motor with the new one he also brought home. Resume sullen evening routine in darkness.

Wednesday: We unload the new generator and hook it up. It works! Electricity, night time lighting! Best of all, computers again! Life was again worth living! I now stand outside on the porch again and let each brilliant new dawn and the shooting stars at night fill me with renewed energy and joy and I begin the process of healing once more. We were finally back to our original Nirvana.

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News of the Week:

Red, This BUF's For You!

There is a double entendre in the header above considering the news story but this is really meant for our old friend, Red, not the Rooskies.

Rich Russian tries to buy U.S. bomber at airshow

I came across this story last week but Buck over at Exile in Portales beat me to it. It's about some newly rich Russian, surrounded by his personal Guido guards, wanting to buy a B-52 at an air show there. The U.S. personnel seemed taken aback and possibly a little affronted.

Out here at the Rat where we have plenty of time to think and behave like bad kids, we have come up with our own ideas on the matter:

You know, given that we are supposed to be the grand poobah nation of evil capitalism, maybe we shouldn't have farted off this big buck Russian so quickly. Hey, the BUF (a loving, familiar name for the venerable old craft, standing for 'Big Ugly ... uhm ... Fella) has been around for a awhile, probably written off long ago in the books so why did we pass up this willing $500 million bite? We got to brainstorming a little and considered some parallel marketing ploys by the U.S. auto makers. Hey ... how about something like those popular schmancy Eddie Bauer Limited Edition models? The Pentagon is missing a big opp here, I mean B-I-G! They could produce a very limited Slim Pickens Edition, personally endorsed by his estate (God love and rest him). I think them Rooskies do have a great sense of humor and would love it. I bet even pectoral Putin would have to chuckle.

Next post: I need to sincerely thank some blogger friends who have enjoyed and supported our journal entries beyond the call.

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 4

This posting's photo: just another mesa-top view, totally unrelated to this story.


I could see Mark standing on the far shore in his new and very nice 'go to town' shoes. "WHERE - ARE - YOUR - BOOTS?" I shouted over the noisy mirth of the creek. "IN - THE - TRUCK - BED!" he yelled back so I stopped and hunched over the bed to grab his boots as I completed the first vertigo-inducing creek crossing, regretting that I hadn't taken a motion-sickness pill to quell that strange feeling I get every time I plod perpendicularly through this rapid swill. "Shovels, tow rope, cell phone?" "One shovel." Sigh, valuable time was a-wasting. We would spend the next hour taking turns with the one shovel or hauling loaf-sized rocks to spit into the whirling slurry around the truck. Its appetite proved bottomless. After fifteen minutes, I was panting and staggering around blindly, ready to give up the ghost. I suddenly remembered back to a doctor's visit just before we made the move down here. He was less concerned about the 2" sliver of oak that disappeared completely into my forearm than having me check into the cardiac ward directly from his office. I became defiantly inspired; "Okay, so if there is some unseen malevolent force intent on tormenting me, you are not going to let me have 'the big one' and end your fun so abruptly, are you? Are you? Eh-heh-heh-heh!" and I returned to the task with a renewed vigor.

At the end of that hour, we had made some progress but clearly not enough. At one point, I lingered around the right front wheel too long and the mud sucked my boots downwards at an odd angle. There was nothing to do but follow physics and fall over backwards. I came to rest sitting rib cage-deep in the rushing brown gumbo and wondered what new micro-organisms I had just added to my existing bacteria load. Mark was able to reach out and pull me upright again but it was becoming obvious that we needed to call in help from that side of the creek. We headed back across to my truck. I took the dog blanket from the rear seat and made my muddy-bottomed self at home in the passenger's seat - - "Y-o-u drive."

Once we returned home to the one remaining viable cell phone, Virgil came to the rescue as usual. He was able to hook us up with the weekend gas field crew and Mark would rendezvous with a rescuer within a couple of hours. "Do you want to come with?" I passed on the invitation to new misadventure this time. I was quite happy to sit this one out after getting this new mud out of my life ... and my drawers, thank you. I needed some time alone to calm down and ponder the "Just what were you thinking?" aspect of this morning's events.

The rendezvous went exceedingly well since the weekend guy had been sent out with a helper. Between the three of them, an incredible amount of shoveling and hand scooping of dirt and rocks finally freed up the front undercarriage of the Ram and the tow out tug worked on the first real try. Mark was then able to pull the Ram up and out of the way onto the pipeline access road. On the way back to the creek, he noticed a large, unsavory puddle of black slime where the rear differential had been sitting in the interim. It was a good thing he noticed, too. Upon his return, he and Virgil discussed the ramifications of the mysterious puddle and the next wise steps necessary. He was sitting out on the porch in the cooler air but, in my sweating lethargy from inside the Rat, I could still hear him wrap up the conference with "Virgil, I think I am in DEEP s--t with management this time." Just where were those stunningly acute powers of observation a mere six hours ago?

To be continued this weekend

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Humor of the Day (from me beloved cuz Colin)

WARNING! I am still feeling neither well nor P.C. ... be forewarned

THREAT LEVELS

The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent terrorist threats and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved."

Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out.

Terrorists themselves have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Also, the French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Surrender" and "Collaborate." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France's white flag factory, effectively paralysing the country's military capability.

It's not only the English and French that are on a heightened level of alert. Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans also increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual, and the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels.

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so that the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 3

Remember, this is a journal entry. You have to read the first two entries to make any sense of today's continuation. I suggest you also read this archived story The Deadly Nature of the Creek Rising to appreciate the implications before reading this new installment. Today's photo is another view of that earlier incident.
Click on image to enlarge

So .... Saturday morning, we both get up at dawn to make our exploratory trip down to the crossing. Mark heads out in the big Ram and I follow in my Dakota. The Virgil Catcher wash was pleasantly passable for a change but the Roller Coaster (a series of five or six small rolling hills in succession) now had a deep keyway etched into the bottom of each conjunction. I like to drop into these at a diagonal to keep from banging the Dakota's plastic chin head on but I still cringe in the process. The rest of the road had definitely seen more erosive abuse from the last few downpours and the run-off crevices were showing off the thirty foot drop to the creek even more boldly now as we squeaked by, tight up against the solid rock wall beside us. Over my right shoulder, I could already see far more running water in the creek than I would be comfortable crossing. We were both able to skirt around a two foot tall boulder which had washed down from the canyon wall before we headed into the traditionally boggy patches before the long sandy run down to the creek.

Remembering that the road was never wide enough to turn around down by the creek and wanting to avoid the neck and spine pain of driving in reverse as much as possible, I decided to park at the top of the sand run. That would leave only about a quarter of a mile to navigate the twisties in reverse. Mark obviously didn't mind backing up the extra eighth of a mile since he had already dropped down and disappeared around the corner. As I got out of the truck, I heard the rush of the creek. Then I heard a roar of a big Diesel ... once ... then one more time ... and then silence. Nooooo, he didn't. No, please say he didn't.

My rubber boots beat their way through the deep and damp sand. I rounded the corner and then my knees screamed at the over-the-lock agony as I scrubbed off inertia in a sudden broken gait of despair. I dropped to my knees and let my open palms slam into the grit, too discouraged to even make fists as I looked across the creek. I lowered my head to join my hands as my heart pounded furiously and unevenly. For only a moment, I wanted to scoop out the sand and bury my head completely as though it would banish not just this but all the previous disasters of the past week.

The remembrance of an old off color joke suddenly had me realize that having my buttocks sticking out of the ground unguarded was not a solution. I am not sure if being able to remember thousands of punch lines is generally a blessing but it did help spur me into constructive action now.

I stood up and surveyed the scene with resignation. There was the Ram, sitting at a diagonal to the far shore. The left front wheel had made it up onto solid ground and the poor beast looked like a ship wreck victim with one hand desperately latched on to a life boat. The right front wheel was mired in the mud half way up the bank and the rear wheels were immersed in the raging liquid sand and the muddy waters were coursing over the rear bumper. How long before the undermining waters dragged even the solidly placed wheel off the bank and consumed the truck? How long did we have to plan and execute a rescue?

To be continued in a day or two

Chaos, Rains Supreme - Part 2

We prepared to spend the night of August 2nd without electricity. I gathered our kerosene lamps to the porch and Mark topped them off. It just occurred to me that this latest joy hit us on a Thursday, just like our last run of disasters. I think I might develop an attitude towards Thursdays and a greater appreciation of TGIF from now on. Since the lanterns did not deliver much light, even after I put the one mirror in the house behind them, we didn't have enough light to read. That made for one very LONG night for both of us and we finally went to bed earlier than normal.

It was Friday when the dealer gave Mark the glum prognosis on the generator. This would mean bringing it in to the shop and waiting God knows how long for parts and a running unit again. More than anything, I was stricken with the thought of losing my one big link with the outside world; my computer. I stared at Mark intently and said "NEW generator time?" and he agreed without any debate. We had both already thought about how eventually having two identical units would allow us to gang them together for twice the amp output. Now the time element was the big issue; it was going to be Saturday or not until the following Tuesday and many more heavy rains could arrive by then. The creek was still running but just how fully now? Could Mark even cross on Saturday morning? I could have sworn that Mark said "Okay then, tomorrow, follow me down to the crossing and WE will decide if it is crossable." Communication and, more importantly, how two parties approach the same problem, is a vital consideration in such a challenging environment. Remember that. RE-MEM-BER THAT.

To be continued

I know, this is not my usual long-winded writing session. I am utterly drained and fatigued with this invincible malady but I didn't want you worrying again due to our lack of blog updates. It feels like someone removed my drain plug and hit the starter anyway. I will try to post the next installment by late Tuesday night.

Chaos, Rains Supreme

"If anything can go wrong, it will." ~ Murphy's Law ~

Keep this Law in mind as you read my account of our latest misadventures over the next few installments. Better still, I came across this following variation of Murphy's Law which is even more suitable, as you will eventually come to see:

"If there are two or more ways to do something, and one of those ways can result in a catastrophe, then someone will do it."

My sincerest apologies for suddenly disappearing without a trace. I truly, truly mean that. If you are reading about our off-the-grid adventures to get some idea of what you may face when you can finally forge your own similar dreams into reality, then I suppose this is a necessary thing for you to consider. I am no Pollyanna and could not, in good conscience, lead you into thinking that our peaceable kingdom is not without its severe trials. Is it still worth trying? Even after this period of abject misery, I cannot fathom any other place I would rather be. And, believe me, I have had much opportunity of late to give it serious thought.

I can document the beginning of this latest round of disasters precisely on August 2nd because I had just viewed the last blog comments to be vetted, got to the second one from my Atavist, let it through and was in the middle of a reply. Suddenly my computer crashed and the single light in the room started to scale up and down as though some toddler had gotten hold of the rheostat. Mark was in the same situation and we both baled out of the Rat like firemen on call to check on the generator. Not good. It sat there idling so low and jaggedly that it was rocking the entire metal shack like a master Sumo wrestler throwing a heavy 'march/stomp on the spot' tantrum. If you have been following our previous exploits, you already know the drill; kill Mr. Honda's brat, fall back and think (and oh so dread) a little. Then dust off your feelings of futility and despair and start with the logical things. Funny how logic and experience can evade you at some point in extremely high frustration so, being no fool, I always call Red. I am sure he is getting tired of lately only hearing from me when I am at my end of patience and sanity but he always comes through for me. Red is the kind of guy who remains cool under fire, even when his B-52 has just crashed in a rice paddy in very hostile territory. That's just the way he is - a blessing. My father swore by keeping a nanny goat in the stable with his thoroughbreds in case of fire. The nanny goat keeps its sensible head and leads the high-strung horses out of the flames to safety. I never forgot that as an analogy in relation to my own life. So the conversation goes like this; "Hello?" "R...e..d, ... it's L..i..n ..." "Uh-oh ... how's things goin'?" He already knows by the intro and the tone of my voice betraying a severe spike in blood pressure and so now I fill in the details. "You already know the procedures." "Yeah, I know but I am so frigging upset that I figure I will miss something so stunningly obvious ..." "Yeah, I know how that goes, so did ya check this, did you check that yet? And this?" "Check, check ... hmmm ... good point, we'll try that next, what else?" When you are a Type A hothead, there is no better blessing than to A) realize it and B) have a friend like Red to grab you by the back of your collar and settle you back down into some rational thinking.

Suddenly realizing that the gas nozzles of our fuel storage tanks had been sitting throat up in the monsoons like the fabled idiot turkeys looking up with mouths agape in deluges and drowning, we carefully siphoned all the potentially water-contaminated gas out of the generator. I dropped and emptied the carb float bowl next - still no improvement. While in the process of emptying the tank, I noticed a surprising amount of large particles in the tank, those which had mysteriously slipped passed the big nylon filter at the tank neck. By the time we were done looking for water and particle obstructions, I had completely dissected the carb and even blown it out by mouth (our cheesy little latter day 12V compressor was hardly worth engaging and someone had rolled away my decent amp grabber as a freebie before we moved). Still nothing. What I did notice, which confounded a Luddite like myself, was that the throttle was governed by some sort of electronic nubbins at the top of the carb. Now I was well out of my league. AFTER all that first line finagling, Mark called the Honda dealer. His response was both comforting and disturbing; "Nope, this sounds familiar, don't bother trying anything else - it sounds like the main electronic control unit has died." So ... it came down to the dreaded Black Box Death that puts shade cactus mechanics like me to sudden death with no reprieve. How futile, how helpless a feeling.

To be continued

And now I must apologize again to all of our blog friends:

Now that we have connectivity again, I have let all the comments through but I have not addressed each of them individually as I usually do, despite my mother teaching me that all correspondence should be promptly replied to. I don't follow that edict out of any social guilt but because I really enjoy showing my appreciation of other people who care enough to share in our travails. I didn't do it this time around and I think this is my very uncomfortable and reluctant confession that I am not feeling so very well at all so please forgive me this time. You likely have no idea how much your comments completely make our day when the sun chooses not to shine out here. Thank you so for taking this trip with us and urging us ever onwards.

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Humor of the Day: (observations that I currently find more accurate than humorous)

- If anything just cannot go wrong, it will anyway.

- If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.

- Matter will be damaged in direct proportion to its value.

- Research supports a specific theory depending on the amount of funds dedicated to it.

- It is impossible to make anything foolproof because fools are so ingenious.

- Rule of Accuracy: When working toward the solution of a problem, it always helps if you know the answer. Provided, of course, that you know there is a problem.

- A falling object will always land where it can do the most damage.

- A shatterproof object will always fall on the only surface hard enough to crack or break it.

- A valuable dropped item will always fall into an inaccessible place (down the drain, for example) - or into the garbage disposal while it is running.

- If you use a pole saw to saw a limb while standing on an aluminum ladder borrowed from your neighbor, the limb will fall in such a way as to bend the ladder before it knocks you to the ground.

- The greater the value of the rug, the greater the probability that the cat will throw up on it.

- Your best golf shots always occur when playing alone.

- The worst golf shots always occur when playing with someone you are trying to impress.

- The light at the end of the tunnel is probably an oncoming train.

- You will always find something in the last place you look.

- It is never in the last place you look. It is in the first place you look, but never discovered on the first attempt.

- After you bought a replacement for something you've lost and searched for everywhere, you'll find the original.

- No matter how long you shop for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.

- The other line always moves faster.

- When a broken appliance is demonstrated for the repairman, it will work perfectly.

- Never argue with a fool, people might not know the difference.

- Whatever hits the fan will not be evenly distributed.

- No good deed goes unpunished.

- Anything dropped in the bathroom will fall in the toilet.

- Regardless of your frame of reference, things will go wrong anyway.

- Any time you put an item in a "safe place", it will never be seen again.

Just Another Monsoon Day In Eden

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Two days in a row now; eight tenths of an inch of rain. I remember our very first big rain and Virgil describing it as either a 'gully washer' or a 'turd floater'. The latter nomenclature seemed most fitting when that rain hit because, sure enough, all the collected cow turds that Mark had so carefully scraped out of the old barn and herded into a sinkhole came floating up and past like a sail-by at the Royal Yacht Club. Virgil looked like he was about to execute a back flip amidst his laughter when Mark recounted the event and erroneously used the term 'turd washer'. And so the term 'turd washer' stuck, so to speak.

The first image shows a classic 'turd floater'. Any ground that is very light in color is really a sheet of muddy, flowing water. You can see the rain drops bombarding the surface. Meanwhile, I was out back with my shovel in the lightning, trying to divert the torrents which had crested over our old, sanded-in ditches and were threatening the foundations of the new addition and the rat trailer itself. This is my Zen time.

We were waiting inside for the sun to dry things out a little when we heard an unusually loud shooshing noise. Our first concern was that our propane tank had let loose but it sat there well-behaved and the noise was simply rebounding off the mesa wall behind us. We tracked it down to the second nearest gas well from us where impressive amounts of gas were venting under serious pressure. It's amazing how you can know nothing about the strange plant around you but eventually come to know when something is just not right. In this case, we were both glad that we are not habitual stogie chompers. We called the producer and a recalibration occurred in reasonably short order.

Later on (WELL after the escaping gas dispersed), Mark fired up Robin's homemade barbeque grill. At 88 cents a pound, Mark had recently brought home a rack of pork ribs so big that it looked like the keyboard off someone's Steinway. It was time to cook them up since the freezer was not about to hold them. I made up a good and gooey soy sauce-based sweet and sour glaze for the event and would occasionally go out and massage a bit more of it into the ribs.

During one of my looks out the window to make sure the grill hadn't blown up yet, Ming the Merciless caught my peripheral vision. Right dead ahead of him, I saw what looked like a short length of variegated garden hose disappear into the big chico bush. Ming was in HOT pursuit. A sudden flash back to a comment made by an Indian gas field tech: "The heavy rain brings the rattlers down from the mesa tops." Two and two came together. "Mark, grab some iron, come QUICK!!!" I threw open the window to yell "MING ... NO-O-O-O-O!!!!!!!!!" Ming's prey had disappeared into the bush completely by then but I was able to do a running scoop on Ming like he was a fumbled ball. I dashed him back into the rat before he could get a bad attitude about his ruined hunting trip. Brou, the ever good dog, also came in when I called.

Meanwhile, Mark saw the snake exit at the far end of the big bush and yelled "All clear, no rattles!" What a relief! Mark suggested I get the camera out and he promised to do a little snake herding to keep it around. By then, this six foot long snake was heading into that open area that you can see just beyond the semi. This fella was no water moccasin and you can see in the second image how cleverly it is bridging itself across the puddles to avoid getting wet. Much to its frustration, I ran around to the other side of the puddles and was able to get a head-on photo before he swerved off into the brush again. Sigh, I still have not mastered the close up shot in focus with this digital camera.
Click on image for larger view
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Why Thursday Sucked - Part 4

I was hoping to post this continuation much sooner, my apologies.

After Thursday night's peculiar electrical happenings, we set about first thing Friday morning to find answers. After we both did that psychological cringe at the very thought, Mark fired up the generator. So far, so good. I manned the electrical panel in the hallway, ready to do the click/clack test through the breakers while Mark switched on and stood watch over the bathroom and various other light circuits. We left the evap. cooler off and the bathroom lights came on without any show. Again, so far, so good.

Click, "nope", clack. Click, "kitchen light", clack. And so on down the two rows of breakers. Click, "Nope, keep going", clack. "Uhm, Mark, I just ran out of Clicks here to try." We caught each other's incredulous, somewhat horrified looks of speculation. "Surely not ... hit the main breaker." Click ... the bathroom lights STILL shone. "I'll hit the red emergency switch in the hall then." Nothing.

Since the evap. cooler was more critical in this 100 degree weather than the bathroom lights and much easier to address in terms of access and running new wires, we decided to run new wiring from it directly to the generator panel. Mark turned off the generator and removed the appropriate new siding panel (the recent rat re-siding project) while I tackled the cooler control switch inside. I drew all the connections in rough schematic form and disconnected everything involving a new power feed. As with all such projects, it took considerably longer than we had hoped since we had to find the proper wire and even longer to find a proper heavy duty plug to match the outlet on the generator. I reconnected the switch wires and eventually got them all back into the box which is a little like forcing a full pot of barely cooked linguine into a tea cup. Once the new wire was in place, Mark reinstalled the wall panel and fired up the generator. So far, so good! Later that night, Mark hit the bathroom switch out of habit and ... guess what? Not so good. Nothing had changed. Now we're getting discouraged - that bathroom wiring is going to be a bear to replace, and upsetting now that we have all that nice new drywall finished. This is going to be one of those much avoided projects, I already know that. In the interim, tape over the bathroom switch. Okay, so far so good.

Earlier this week, I switch on the evap. cooler and the motor starts up and then grinds back down in RPM noisily, accompanied by the disturbingly familiar sound and smell of frying wire. I was able to immediately hit the switch. Sniff, sniff, sniff. So far so good. Sniff, sniff, sniff ... still okay. I sleep lightly that night, just in case.

The next morning, I climb up to the roof, glad that the sun has not turned the steel roof into a griddle yet. I figure that I will pull apart the junction box within the cooler itself and check the motor while I am at it. Before I get that far, I discover a foot long section of exposed wire with a very nice burn through about an inch long. That would certainly explain the crispy critter smell from the night before. Still, I find it puzzling that the burn spot is not at any point of possible chafing or touching anything at all. Perhaps it was some annoying Valkyrie perched up there like a gargoyle, picking away at the exposed wire with a claw or two for vile amusement. Given that a lot of Indians refuse to come up our road at night, I suppose it is a vague possibility. Whatever, it was obvious that we would have to replace this wire as well and I would be fighting with that ghastly control switch wiring AGAIN. Oh joy of joys, especially if Mark had to remove that panel again or we had to disturb the cooler in the process.

I was able to free up the wire in the box and connect a new run of wire to its ends. With Mark up on the ladder outside, the new wire pulled through without any hang-ups. So far, so good. Why do I bother to say that any more? I got back up on the now much hotter roof and realized that we were one wire short in the sheath. We had to back feed the works again and refeed it with an additional wire taped on (just like the original had been done - DOH!). What a classic cluster. In the meantime, Mark cut a few lengths of plastic pipe which I could feed over the new wire to protect it. Needless to say, I was not happy burning my buttocks on the now really hot roof while reconnecting wires and reinstalling the junction box. So far so good though! Just don't touch that bathroom light switch, we don't want to deal with THAT mess yet.

Okay, any insights on all of this foolishness yet? The bathroom light circuit was the only one which was responding in this strange manner. Any theories would be much appreciated. Questions? Just fire away. Also, apologies for any typos, etc. but my proof reader has long since gone to bed, completely exhausted.

Why Thursday Sucked - Part 3

With the generator running well, it looked as though Thursday would come to a better close than it had started out. The rains had kindly held themselves in check until all necessary things had been accomplished; even the unloading of the many, many supplies from the truck. A very satisfying meal sprang from the new provisions, everyone within the peaceable kingdom was settled in without complaint or unfulfilled wishes. Such moments are rare and much worshipped while quietly touching wood.

What happened next to dispel the placid lull was neither expected or understood. The rains finally came, those splatting heavy sort of rains which put all things to a test of water-tightness. Then the lightning and thunder piled on and we shut down and unplugged the computers. A very close lightning hit occurred just as I had gone into the bathroom. Certain things suddenly sounded 'not right' although I would be hard-pressed to document them accurately. Mark called out "Did you just do something or did that last lightning strike hit us?" I was at a loss for some time to properly assess and respond to that question although my gut feel was that we had not been struck. Then it hit me that my clicking the bathroom switch had corresponded with the curious change of attitude in the evap. cooler motor and lighting. !!!??? Why? Why now? What conditions had changed suddenly? The swift gut reaction, of course, was to shut down the evap. cooler. The next reaction would be to avoid the bathroom light switch until the problem was understood and resolved. A change had occurred that was horribly wrong and potentially very dangerous.

After the storm passed and the evap. cooler had been long silent, Mark went into the bathroom and hit the light switch out of habit, just as I have done many times since, until I recently taped it over. The swamp cooler motor fired up (insert electrical X-files theme here)!!!!

We shut down the generator at that point and discussed the possibilities by kerosene lamp. Remember, as I am quick to shout out the door to Mark "I am NOT an electrician! DO-NOT-ASK-ME!" Neither of us have a clue when it comes to any deeper electrical mysteries. So we retired earlier that night than normal, still sniffing for signs of burning wires within the walls but no signs had manifested themselves before we fell asleep. I packed this new conundrum off to bed with me to tumble around in the company of the usual dreams.

We'd really appreciate your thoughts on this but don't say anything yet - there's more strangeness to follow. I am stopping here simply because I am just so tired after today's new 'cat on a hot tin roof' exercise which was part of this ongoing madness. Yes, this problem is still current (pun actually not intended) .

No related photo this time since it's difficult to photograph that which is remains a complete mystery.

To be continued.

Why Thursday Sucked ...cont'd

I remained up on my ledge look-out for another hour, until the razor-edged spikes of sunlight through the old pinon provoked streams of sweat from my already tormented brow. I called out one last time for my beloved Dave and received the same thundering silence as before. This little cat, you see, was the embodiment for me of all that was still good and virtuous remaining in this world. Had he been in human form, I would have been even more honored by his friendship and love. Could this little orphan who imposed himself upon our household now be gone forever, his blessed nature and influence suddenly vanished with his untimely and unexpected departure?

I finally resigned myself to this ultimate sorrow and made my way down through the shifting shale of the mesa face. As I rounded the corner to the Rat's front door, who was lying there in the shade of the moving trailer but my most beloved Dave. He did not speak or move and I wasted no time in scooping him up again on my flight to the Rat. I swung the door closed with my back and placed him down on the tiles to recover with Ming. I cannot adequately express the gratitude which I felt at that moment nor the release and weightlessness of my soul.

In the interim, the heart of the Rat had become a building inferno without the generator to power the evaporative cooler against the sun's heat. I decided upon extreme inactivity and a good book to weather the baking atmosphere. The siesta was indeed a practical invention against the heat of these desert days and I soon released myself into the ever welcomed amnesia of a deep and fairly pain-free sleep.

It didn't seem long before my mortal release was curtailed by the sound of Mark's truck and the excited welcome-home barks of Brou and Daisy. We hauled the Honda 3000EU back to its post as Mark filled me in on the shop's prognosis. The compression test results were within specs but the valves were well out of adjustment and the spark arrestor was full of oily carbon as I had suspected. They had their own suspicions that the confines of the metal doghouse had allowed the unit to draw in its own hot exhaust and thin its oil in the extra operating heat. Mark unpacked the mechanic dolly-like affair which he had ordered from Northern, leveled the Honda and rolled it with its exhaust outlet facing the open doorway of the doghouse. It fired up readily and ran well. Mark also brought home a one-size-smaller main jet to have on hand just in case. The shop readily acknowledged that we are their first off-the-grid test bed for the Honda, that the remainder of their generator customers are REALLY old fart RV types who may run their units 3 to 6 times a year.

One would think that this should have been ample events for one day in the middle of nowhere. Not! To be continued.

Why Thursday Sucked Ever So Badly

There are few things like the persistent dirge of a chronic, resistant infection to draw down your usual tenacity and taint your world view, I suppose. I will finally admit it. In my case, I am approaching the anniversary of what I call my 'Curse of the Pueblitos'. It occurred about a year ago while exploring an ancient pueblito ruin with Virgil's wife. I nearly poked out my eye on a surviving wooden roof pole (these folks believed in LOW architecture) and I developed a rather tenacious case of staphylococcus as a result. When I mentioned this to the neighboring ranch matron, she replied in her raspy voice "Yeah, I know what you mean, it's almost like someone didn't want you there. It always happened to me, too." This curse has gone from topical to systemic, back and forth several times by now with the help of marginally effective antibiotics, but nothing eradicated the problem completely and so I still await an appointment with an ENT who will hopefully drive this malevolent beast from its likely stronghold within my sinuses. Yes, I admit it, I am a little worn, and discouraged by now with the chronic fevers and acute pains lighting up half a dozen teeth like abscesses, an imaginary ice pick up my nose and a feeling like someone is prying out my eyeball while sitting on the previously broken part of my skull. It often puts me off any desire to write updates. But on with Thursday's events:

Mark left for town just after dawn with the Honda 3000EU generator. The dealer would do a valve adjustment, compression test, etc. and hopefully it would come home with him that night if all looked reasonable. These various 'by appointment' necessities have totally skewed our plan to only go to town twice a month. Oh ... and Mark's cell phone decided to no longer take a recharge so he would have to spend additional hours in line at the cell phone store to explore any remedial options there. What equipment failure or unplanned misery next, I wondered. What new boil to be inflicted upon Job today?

With no new Mark-driven projects at hand (my own drive has succumbed to this infection), I decided to take the pack for a walk. The kitty boys had been giving me 'the look' for several days but the chiggers had been keeping me out of the high grass lately. I donned the tall rubber boots and we headed up the mesa face, a party of five (obviously the two dogs weren't going to miss a hike to parts unknown). The sun was already warming the air and the two cats darted from the shade of one tree or rock to the next as I plodded along, intently surveying the latest blooms of the plants and being careful not to step on any. With this focus, I tend to cover a lot of ground before I know it. Our progress was interrupted by the necessary but unsuccessful chases of small striped lizards every so often by dogs, cats and tour leader or my coming across a new plant. At one point, Ming the black cat stopped to survey some creature's mark against a small bush. His ears went sideways, he stuck out his tongue and embarked on a series of quick, sharp pants. Then he took off at a determined trot, back to where we had come from. I presumed that he had found the marking of a bobcat and wanted nothing further to do with it. I quickly gathered up the other three beasts and headed out and eventually Ming changed his mind, followed and caught up. Shortly ahead of us lay a much less treacherous path back down to the canyon and we were soon all descended and crashing through the sage and grasses towards the road.

I had not previously noticed the heat but, out here in the open now, my companions were panting wildly with tongues hanging well out of their mouths so I sped up the pace down the parched road. Beautiful Dave the cat worried me the most. With his epicurean belly, he was now complaining vocally like the chubby kid on a Boy Scout trek. I stooped down and picked him up into my arms as the rest followed closely. The Rat seemed a hundred miles off in the distance still when Ming veered off the road and disappeared, his plaintive calls dropping further and further behind us. I decided to get Dave and the dogs to shelter and run back for Ming. Dave began to squirm in my arms as we approached the barn so I let him back down to the ground and he made a dash under the old cattle loading chute. I presumed he would collapse to rest, given his condition. Right at that moment, Ming had decided to catch up so I hurried on to the rat where he could collapse on the cool tile floors inside.

When I arrived back at the old chute, Dave was no where to be found. My heart sank, knowing that cats in dire conditions like to run off and hide to die. No response to my various best kitty calls. I looked in the tall grass, I looked in the barn full of piled junk. I would repeat this process of scouring the entire homestead several more times in the next hour, a sense of desperation and loss escalating with each new failed attempt.

Although the heat was now getting to me, I decided to scale back up the mesa for a bird's eye view of the homestead. I breathlessly sat down in the shade at the rim with the two dogs flanking me. From up here, perhaps I might catch any movement below. And I called and I called but only silence answered. And it was here, from my lofty ledge, that I could bury my face in my hands and wail uncontrollably at the prospects of losing my favorite little friend and blame myself for leading them so far from home in this oven of a place.

This is already a considerable amount of writing for the events of just one day so I will leave off here now and hopefully resume the tale tomorrow. I am depleted for the moment.

Not to worry about Dave, it eventually worked out.

Dark Side of the Canyonlands

A group of seven natives (five adults, a young child and baby) were going about their daily routines in the canyon when they were surprised and set upon by unknown assailants and brutally massacred. Investigators are not ruling out an ethnically motivated crime.

This could well be a plot from the pens of New Mexico mystery writers Tony Hillerman or Michael McGarrity. The difference is that the victims and the investigators are separated in time by over 900 years, more than a challenge for the best of today's cold case detectives.

Read the rest of this intriguing story at:

Ancient Massacre Discovered in New Mexico -- Was It Genocide?

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2007/07/070712-chaco-massacre.html

The 'Monsoons' Have Arrived!

I took this photo right a sunset. It occurred to me that if I had painted this landscape on canvas, viewers might presume that I had exaggerated the cloud formation. The height of the clouds extended beyond the range of the lens but what can be seen is still ample fodder for imagining various fanciful figures within them. What do YOU see?

The arrival of the 'monsoon' season (a relative term in the desert) is now bringing heavily overcast skies in the afternoon and evening with some possibility of rain. Even if the clouds bring no rain with them, their shade from the piercing sun offers a welcome drop in temperatures and perhaps a cool breeze. We sat out in the mostly finished addition yesterday and enjoyed the coolness of the moment which entered through door openings yet to be addressed. Accordingly, there is little incentive to rush into enclosing this retreat from the heat. Bring on the rain!

A Huntin' You May Go ... sigh, or not

My blog friend David over at The Author Blog (see his link in the left hand column) has just inspired me with his new post on partner blog interest and participation. It does seem to take haltering and leading to the blog well at times. In my case, I was fortunate that Mark responded exceedingly well to threats of starvation and/or torture. While he is too stoic to be a cheerleader, he is generally an excellent proofreader when he is in the right mood. And I will grant him that my impetuous demands for immediate editing normally correspond with his time of nodding off while reading the same page of the Wall Street Journal for over an hour or more.

But with his conscripted servitude come certain blog privileges. In this case, he requested that I address our ranch's hunting income for this year. Since we are in between outfitters at the moment, he has decided to play the field a little. Normally, we have been selling our private land owner elk tags to outfitters who market a package with a healthy guide fee tacked on. If you are a competent, self-reliant outdoorsman and hunter, we can help you set up a world class big game hunting vacation in New Mexico for a third to one half of an outfitted hunt. Our 2NN (second nearest neighbor) offers very good meal and lodging accommodations to hunters. I happen to think that their rates are outrageously reasonable given that they are the only game in the canyon. She has several good photos of enormous bulls that have been taken in our area. ...

Z-z-z-h-r-r-r-r-r-r-i-i-p-p-p-p!!!!!

The above line represents the sound of a tone arm ripping across your newly recorded piece of blog vinyl. Sigh.

We had just completed another round of coerced blog proofreading when the phone rang so Mark nipped off to his office to answer the call. Ten minutes later, I hear an announcement "Never mind about that blog thing. It was an outfitter, I think we have a deal."

I was still staring at the recently completed entry. I now became aware that my teeth were grinding painfully together, I could feel the outer edges of my lips expanding into a maniacal grin, my eyelids and pupils were dilating into a glazed off-focus stare. I knew I was slipping into a blog writer's Jack Nicholson Shining moment. I stared at the screen. The recently accomplished words began to dissolve and were now running down into a distinct black puddle of ink at the bottom of that screen. "Oh ... really, dear?" All that creative angst and fighting for cooperation for nothing then? Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh. Bloggus interruptus.

My nostrils flared to accommodate the adrenalin rush as I advanced ever so silently into the office. "So ... tell me more ... d-e-a-r." I felt my fingers involuntarily curl into deadly arches as I surveyed the long and graceful lines of his Lladro-esque neck from behind. He turned unexpectedly and I withdrew those menacing hands just as quickly and assumed a Stepford wife glowing demeanor (or as best as I am capable of, at least). "I think we have a deal." he said. "Oh, really? And you will be happy with that, I mean TRULY happy with that? What I mean to say is that I will never hear any further griping about this then, never have to recreate this last blog? Ever? Really?" "Yes, that is correct." "By really, I mean r-e-a-l-l-y ..." I took the legal pad down from his book shelf and placed it in front of him. "... then you won't mind writing and signing a statement to that effect?" "I will NOT!" Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh. "Then you may ask me to do this again later for some other reason, your most royal sweetness?" And so we discussed a broad range of vaguely interweaving matters. It became clear that he reserved the right to rain on my parade down the road - that's how I took it at least. I eventually acquiesced, only regretting that I know so little about operating the skid steer and all its lovely digging abilities. J-u-s-t kidding, sort of. Remember, unless you are confined to an environment the size of a large shoebox with the love of your life 24/7, you cannot begin to understand the dynamics at play out here. Eh-heh-heh-heh-heh.

As usual, Mark was pressed into proofreading even this rework. This torturous blog exercise is surprisingly therapeutic for both of us. Oh, and the photo is of moose hunters, not elk hunters ... just had to throw that one in to get Alphonse the Moose's attention.

Independence Day and Beyond

There was just no way I was going to be able to honor Independence Day as beautifully and as informatively as Fat Hairy (click on his link in the lower left column) so I decided to sit this one out quietly. Besides, I was feeling a bit ill and we were both feeling a little out of sorts after more equipment malfunctions in the last couple of days. In fact, I was at a loss on what to write about until I downloaded my latest round of snapshots from the camera. I came to this one shown and started to chuckle.

Brou barked to signal incoming military aircraft so I ran out, with camera in hand this time, only to find that they were unusually high up. At least there were two B1s so I thought it wouldn't hurt to waste a frame or two trying to capture them in flight. By the time the camera set itself up, I could not even see them through the view-finder but took a shot anyway. Then I promptly forgot that I had even bothered until just now. The two planes occupy the top and bottom of the photo on the left hand side but what caused me to laugh was the indistinct blob on the right side of the photo. It reminded me of so many UFO photos I had seen back in the 60s ... fascinating indistinct blobs just like this one!

Click on image for larger view (not like it will help however)

Then it occurred to me that New Mexico's most famous UFO incident took place exactly 60 years ago. Come to think of it, it's probably New Mexico's most famous anything to the world beyond the land of enchantment. Wait, better still; their annual UFO conference is going on right now! So this is my official Roswell post.

I swear Mark wasn't tossing pie pans around at the time and I checked the lens for crawly critters. I have my suspicions which involve my usual antenna sitter but you just never know sometimes, do ya?

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Humor of the Day (from my old buddy Jim)

Simple Instructions

"WHEN THE PIN IS PULLED, MR. GRENADE IS NOT OUR FRIEND." -US Marine Corps

"AIM TOWARDS THE ENEMY." -Instruction printed on US Rocket Launcher

"CLUSTER BOMBING FROM B-52s IS VERY, VERY ACCURATE. THE BOMBS ARE
GUARANTEED TO ALWAYS HIT THE GROUND." -U.S.A.F. Ammo Troop.

"IF THE ENEMY IS IN RANGE, SO ARE YOU." -Infantry Journal

"A SLIPPING GEAR COULD LET YOUR M203 GRENADE LAUNCHER FIRE WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. THAT WOULD MAKE YOU QUITE UNPOPULAR IN WHAT'S LEFT OF YOUR UNIT." -Army's magazine of preventative maintenance

"IT IS GENERALLY INADVISABLE TO EJECT DIRECTLY OVER THE AREA YOU JUST BOMBED." -US. Air Force manual

"TRY TO LOOK UNIMPORTANT; THE ENEMY MAY BE LOW ON AMMO."-Infantry Journal

"TRACERS WORK BOTH WAYS." -U.S. Army Ordnance

"FIVE-SECOND FUSES ONLY LAST THREE SECONDS ! "-Infantry Journal

"BRAVERY IS BEING THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS YOU'RE AFRAID."-David Hackworth

"IF YOUR ATTACK IS GOING TOO WELL, YOU'RE WALKING INTO AMBUSH."-Infantry Journal

"NO COMBAT-READY UNIT HAS EVER PASSED INSPECTION." -Joe Gay

"NEVER TELL THE PLATOON SERGEANT YOU HAVE NOTHING TO DO."-Unknown Marine Recruit

"DON'T DRAW FIRE; IT IRRITATES THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU." -Infantry Journal

"IF YOU SEE A BOMB TECHNICIAN RUNNING, TRY TO KEEP UP WITH HIM."-U.S.A.F. Ammo Troop

"ANY SHIP CAN BE A MINESWEEPER. . .ONCE." -Anon

Talkin' 'bout Our Generation

If there is one bit of advice on homesteading which will run consistently through these journals, it is: "Do it as soon as you can, while you still have energy and ambition. AND patience. I no longer possess the patience which was needed to restore intricate, delicate antiques or vehicles. It is simply gone. I don't know if it is solely the erosive effect of time itself or if it is a complex weave of experiences which drove it away. Perhaps having to start over again from nearly nothing so many times has exhausted a finite supply of patience. But, take my word for it, it is a necessary attribute for a life in the middle of nowhere. It helps you tackle a problem and keep on going without draining essential energy.

The other valuable asset you will need is a familiarity with every system which affects your quality of life there. We are marginally suited in that respect but probably better than most folks. Unless you find a property with an existing, fairly maintenance free home, you will be ever strained and challenged. The greater distance to town or the more miles off pavement, the less likely you will be able to call in professional help. When you are 2 or more hours in from pavement, you realize that you cannot throw up your arms in surrender and call a repairman, not unless you have unlimited financial resources.

So ... on Saturday night, I was on the computer after Mark went to bed when I heard an uneven woowoppaty of the generator and saw the corresponding light show. I grabbed the lantern and dashed outside to kill the engine but I knew that I had just broken one of my most stringent rules - Do Not run engines out of fuel! From my own experiences, doing so will allow water, rust and crud to flow out of the tank and clog things you don't want to deal with. I went to bed with that thought on my mind.

On Sunday morning, I awoke to the raucous rattle and exhaust call of the bigger generator, the one we only run to power my table saw. It took a moment to shake off the night's last groggy hold before I realized that this confirmed my last thoughts of the evening before - Mark could not start the Honda 3000EU generator. Here comes that vital element of patience into play. I laid there a few moments longer, going over the likely components to address and I dreaded the prospects deeply. A long time ago, I used to tear down my motorcycle every winter ... just because. Now I resent having to so much as change oil. Jade. An oil-soaked jade.

We held a quick conference, consulted the owner's manual, and decided that Mark would continue working on the addition and that I would see if I could do anything to resurrect the generator. It sits in the snug metal 'doghouse' at the end of the addition project and I was soon sitting in a sideways knot on the dusty floor. Gack ... that's right ... metric! Not like either of us have a vast selection of metric tools around but, several times throughout the morning, we managed to come up with the right sizes after considerable scrounging. Then I realized that everything had been efficiently jammed into this housing and that my hands are about a size and a half too big to be anything but clumsy. I removed the air filter and removed the sludge trap hidden behind it. I found some light residue but nothing I considered a problem with fuel flow. Put everything back ... still no fire up. Sigh ... surely NOT the carb? No, I'd rather check the plug than deal with that. Still nothing. No, not the carb, please ... let's throw in a little starter fluid down the hole. Nothing.

No, not the carb PLEASE. I retreated back into the Rat and took a coffee break, trying to work up the heart to attack the carb. Okay, let's do it. Once I got myself twisted back down into position, Mark was marvelous about finding any new items needed, like a tin can of gas to clean off the main and needle jets which I dropped into the dirt no less that a half dozen times before my hands and screwdriver jammed through the access hatch could reinstall them. Patience, not! Right about then, my right hip let me know that it had taken quite enough abuse and I hurled myself out of the doghouse to roll around on the ground looking for any escape from the pain. I eventually crawled back in and finished up. NOTHING! Patience, that elusive virtue. It is a vital antidote to despair and I had little by then.

By now, the sun had roasted both of us to near exhaustion so we called it a day. Normally we retreat inside and fire up the evap cooler. Ohhh ... that's right, the gen-er-a-tor is-NOT-working. So we sit there sweating, looking over the trouble-shooting section, following the yes or no arrows right down to the last box "You are an idiot - take it to your dealer". This would mean an unplanned run to town and at least two days without electricity, possibly a week or more plus an extra retrieval trip. No lights, no cooling, no computer, no e-mails, no blog. Glum, glum, glum rained down over Mudville. We filled up the new lanterns with equal parts kerosene and despair in preparation for nightfall and fell back to the living room.

Complete resignation seeped in around the edges of the gloom and drained what was left of us so we both sat silently for a time, our thoughts only vaguely connecting with reality.

"Wait!" I startled Mark with that exclamation and he sat forward. I had calmed down enough to remember my next rule of mechanics, one which I had learned from observation plus the hard way. 'Problems may coincidentally develop which have absolutely nothing to do with the first and obvious culprit.' "Mark!!! Tell me ... does that oil warming light normally flicker when you crank it over?" I have had many eccentric vehicles over the years that have lights which flicker benignly during start-up but, HEY, I am grasping desperately for straws by now. "Gee ... I never noticed one way or the other." "Okay, let's get desperate here then ... would you please top up the oil and check the housing for level?" Off he went with hesitant hope while I raced to prep supper before dark. "VROOM!" Yes, yes, yes - we both nearly danced around the Rat, another problem vanquished in the waning daylight. But don't dare dance with too much abandon for there will likely be new problems tomorrow.

Ol' Potty Pen Goin' for the Big 'R' Rating

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Today's photo? Just another back yard view. Know what's even better? For as far as you can see in that photo, there's not another house or person to be found. How cool is that?

..........................................Click image to enlarge

Okay, so maybe I am just barely old school enough that I just can't quite put some things down in text without thinking "What would Mum say?!". I've read through a lot of blogs that I stumble upon and wonder if they are orphans without family or any fetter of dignity. This is not a piety claim here. I have worked in more non-traditional non-female-friendly jobs than not; phone plant construction, carpentry, mechanics, motor trade - whatever it took to survive ever so marginally. I can make a roughneck blush, I will admit that. But, somehow, I just can't bring myself to put in text that which I reserve for moments like slamming my thumb in a brain-dead stray hammer whack moment.

So ... it was quite amusing to have my blog assessed by movie standards at:
http://mingle2.com/blog-rating

I plugged mine in: I'm PG-13 (Parents Strongly Cautioned, Some material may be inappropriate for children under 13). Moi? Guilty as sentenced according to the movie ratings however. My transgressions were as follows: the words ('Hell' appears 5 times) and ('Zombie' appears once). Whooo ... am I trashy-mouthed or what? I guess I don't consider Hell a naughty word - for me, it's just a place where, hopefully, complete jerks go when they fall off the perch for the last time. At least I like to think so. I even think we should promote the possibility of some eternal fork-poking Karma a little more. It doesn't appear that we have much to lose in that respect. Now, as to 'Zombie' - you've got me there ... completely. I kinda liked those '60s zombie movies that we endured at the drive-in as an excuse to not stay home on a Friday or Saturday night. Again, what do I know? - I'm out of the loop and out here in the boonies. Maybe that's a good thing.

After the events of today, however, I might just go for that big rating upgrade. I guess I really am becoming a crotchety and impatient old fart. Don't wander too far away since I will be posting that rant/tale in the next couple of days. Did anyone say homesteading wasn't a challenge? If so, please send me their URLs, okay?
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Mountains Out of Ant Hills

This is a tread-water offering while Mark and I fine tune the last elements of the Rat Water Works. 'Fine tune', in this case, is a euphemism for banging our heads against the wall and screeching as we solve one problem, only to have another appear, then another and another - like playing Whack-a-Mole. We'll have to take a few more whacks before showing you the final lay-out. It's starting to look good though!

Click on image for larger view

This photo shows one of our neighborhood red ant hills last Fall. I placed a gallon milk jug beside the mound to show how industrious these little fellows can be. They place a shingle-like layer of larger gravel and chico needles on top to slow down erosion and it's enjoyable to catch the glint of old colored glass fragments in the mix. I've heard that they occasionally dredge up lost Indian trade beads as well. These mounds and their forage trails are everywhere and I soon learned to pay attention as to where I was standing before stopping to sightsee during a hike. Willy the Well Driller noted that the 'old timers' used to observe the height of the mounds to forecast how much snow the coming winter would bring. Then, being in his 8Os, he stopped to laugh at himself for calling anyone an 'old timer'. But the ants and the old timers were right - we had a much needed higher level of precipitation last winter.

The ants showed up and introduced themselves like the Welcome Wagon as soon as we arrived. While they are not as aggressive and rude as fire ants, I still didn't like having them keep me company and crawl up my pants legs while I was working under the Rat. That crawling sensation caused me to hit my head on the undercarriage more than once. To their credit, however, they were more pleasant to deal with than the rotting rat that I stuck my hand in while trying to move around under there. Thankfully, I did not run into scorpions, rattlers, black widows or tarantulas that are also likely to move in if you don't have the space sealed up well. I have met all of them in other settings since arriving so it's probably just a matter of time before they show up under the Rat. Funny thing but I have since developed a dislike of having to work under there. Therefore, I will be ever grateful that Virgil bit the bullet and dove under to deal with the latest necessary plumbing reworks. I know for a fact that he is not particularly fond of creepy crawlies either so my only solace was that he was far more agile and likely to come shooting out of there at light speed if he ran into anything untoward. Without him, I guarantee you that this water project would have been on hold 'til slightly before Hell freezes over if it had required my participation.