The moment when the rope breaks

Everything was going so well. We had repaired, actually rebuilt the alternator for the car. We had reinstalled it, and it worked.

Together the four of us had become so capable it amazed me. The cry could go out, the sheep have escaped, and we would calmly put them back where they were to be. "Fire in the meadow", would be met with assignments for who is to take the rake, and who should run buckets. I was so puffed up, I was so proud of all of us.

Then one day, just three or four days ago, Rebecca or maybe one of the boys walked in and mentioned the clothes line broke. It was one of the boys. I remember now because I remember Rebecca just began to look for some rope.

The clothes line broke. Such a simple thing, they had already replaced it, or made do or something. Yet for the rest of the day, I could not shake this terrible sense of dread. I tried to understand why I was so anxious but I could not, until several hours after nightfall. Then, in the darkness, I understood why I was upset that the clothes line broke. After a while, the sense of dread had turned to stark terror.


Eleven months ago, we had put up the clothes line. It was made of polypropelene rope. At very nearly the same time the four of us had lowered a submersible pump down our well. As we lowered the pump that was fastened with a rope, some of us would solvent weld 20 foot sections of inch and a half pvc pipe on the the last section. It had gone amazingly well. I had gotten the impression that Rebecca, perhaps all of us, had worked on oil drilling rigs in a previous life.

But I had been warned that the rope available here was a poor choice for the job. It rots due to ultraviolet light exposure. The sun hits hard here. At the time, I made a mental note. I noticed the newly installed clothes line. I reasoned that the clothesline was made of the same material as the pump rope, though much thiner. I figured that as long as the clothes line was sound, the pump rope must also be sound. I fastened, deep in my mind, the idea that the breaking of the clothes line was an early warning for something terrible that must be avoided.

As the puzzle unraveled itself to me, there in the dark, that something terrible became more and more clear. The pipe string to the pump was made of pipes that have a flange. The next pipe fits into the flange and is solvent welded into place. But for us to balance a twenty foot pipe straight up in the air and fit it into the flange that was several inches long before the solvent set was a difficult job. In fact, it was a job that had not really been done right at several sections. Essentially, the pipe could break, if it was required to hold the weight.

If the pipe broke, and the rope, which was now well rotted were to break, the pump, and all the pipe below the break would fall to the bottom of the well. It would not be possible to simply buy a new pump and install that, as the old pipe would block up part of the well.

It would not be possible to fish out the pump with a hook or any such thing. The well casing has slots in it to allow the water to get in. A hook could easily catch in one of those slots instead of the pump, and then there would be a hook stuck in the well in addition to a pump.

None of these problems had materialzied yet, except in my now paniced mind, in the dark, lying in bed. But they were becoming so clear, I could not breath.

There was a chance though. Just six inchs down into the well, the rope was still sound. If we could lift the pipe string, grab the good rope, fasten it or hold it fast, we could use the rope to haul up the pipe and pump. It could go smooth. It was just that one single problem in this would be disasterous. Nothing we do seems without at least one small problem.

I realized there is a foot valve at the bottom of the pump. As I tried to calculate the weight of a 50 foot coloum of water an inch and a half in diameter, I fell asleep.

The next day we asked Mr. Ruben to come help. He is physicaly very strong, and I can trust him with a job that must not go wrong. If it were to go wrong despite his efforts, I would know he had done everything I could have done and more to prevent disaster.

The five of us talked about the job ahead of us. Rebecca had been to town to buy a spare hack saw and blades. We would not have time to load blades on a saw if the blade broke.

Mr. Ruben and Johnny hauled up the pipestem. After just a moment that lasted just short of forever, I reached out and wrapped the rope around my waist and around both wrists. I soon had good sound rope around each wrist and I now helped to pull using the rope. Rebecca and Christopher both held the pipes while Mr. Ruben or Johnny sawed off the pipe that they had lifted fifteen or so feet into the air. Then they commenced to pull up more pipe.

Suddenly, the pump was out of the well. I latched onto it as if it was a child and set it on the ground. Then we placed a bucket over the well hole. It was done, it had gone smoothly. The pump and all the pipe was out of the well. The disaster had been avoided.

Of course, there was a reason the pump had been put into the well in the first place. The water tower had been filled the day before. But once it ran out, we would have no water. The tower holds about two days worth of water. Maybe four if we really conserve.

While I figured out how to put the pump back properly, life went on here. I often walk as I think, and all around me were just little hints that it would be good if I figured something out fast. It needed to be a good solution though, else we might end up again where we were that terrible night.

The electric fence charger does not work. We will figure something out. For now, the sheep move through the paddock system, apparently unaware or unconcerned that there is no actual electricity in the electric fence.

Here we move the sheep past the chicken coop to a paddock.





I mentioned we got a bike. We managed, I should say Rebecca and the boys managed to repair it and get it road worthy.





We built another cage for broody hens. We have two such cages now and two broody hens sitting on a clutch of eggs. We are working on a third cage.





The car developed a problem with starting. Sometimes we turn the key and nothing happens. The battery is fine and other times the car starts fine. A mechanic in Patchakan showed me that my car for some reason has two solinoids, and the wires to one of them are corroded. He disconnected and reconnected the wire, and said that should fix it for a while. When it fails to start again, I am to put the key in accessory position and take a wrench or a piece of wire and connect the positive terminal of the battery to a particular post on the solenoid. He showed me how to hot wire the car.

So these things are all going on while I need to figure out how to put the pump back the right way this time.

Out in the meadow, while watching the sheep, I hear a voice. Now, I have a rich and powerful imagination. But this voice, clearly originating in my imagination is one I have not previously "imagined". The voice, a distinctly kerosene flavored voice, solemnly assured me that I should not saddle a dead horse. I smiled and thought to myself, "no, I wouldn't dream of it, and besides, these are sheep not horses." I could almost imagine the sound of someone spitting a mixture of tobacco juice and kerosene in disgust.

This did not bother me much. Weird things happen all the time here. It did begin to bother me slightly when it happened again. "Don't saddle a dead horse!" This time I was watching the chickens.











A nasty voice, like the voice of bad guy from a John Wayne movie. This time I said aloud, perhaps to the surprise of the chickens, "Wouldn't dream of it". "No, you wouldn't, and that's your problem" was the spooky reply.

I can't be having with such things. They say a man can get a little nutty living out in the bush like we do. I decided to use the last of my gasoline for the generator and Google what sort of imaginary voice instructs people to avoid saddling dead horses.

What I find is very interesting and useful. People occupied as Riggers use the expression "Never saddle a dead horse". It has to do with the position of something called a crosby clamp which is used to secure wire rope.



from http://www.osha.gov/SLTC/etools/shipyard/standard/material_handling/ropes.html

We have some kerosene. We were using it to free stuck bolts on the bike. I took a deep whiff of kerosene and thought very hard to myself "er ah, thanks stranger"

The next day I went to the hardware store and got 75 feet of wire rope that has a clear plastic coating to protect it from corrosion. I also got five Crosby clamps, five pipe unions and something called Teflon tape. Somehow I now know about all of these things and know how to use them.

Today, the four of us lowered the pump back into the well. We trimmed the pipes to have flat ends, solvent welded unions onto them yesterday. Today the joins should have set to full strength. We used an anchor bend around the loop in the pump, put four clamps on to secure the bottom. No, we did not saddle the dead horse, we have the load wire against the saddle. We used one clamp to secure the cable around a post at the top. We put teflon tape on all threaded sections. It went smooth.

In six months, on Johnny's birthday, we will pull the pump from the well to check how the materials are holding up. If it looks good, we will pull the pump at yearly intervals.

I have no pictures of us working with the well. It was "all hands" so to speak.