To the farm on Friday last to meet with Jones Drilling, out of Lebanon. (But only after one of our Larry-and-Jane comedy routines involving a pedicure, a trip to Home Depot, and a couple of clueless “estheticians.”) Seems that Joe, former well guy, has abandoned us. “Can’t do it,” he’ll say. “Too muddy. Bye.”

Fine. Ken, road guy, recommended Jones Drilling, and as they were on the first list acquired from the realtor at the sale, Larry called, and Jones himself would meet us on the property to have a look. Brett, actually. Nice guy, but they’re all nice guys until proven otherwise. As some of them certainly are. Proven otherwise.

Now. There’s a perfectly adequate rest stop a dozen miles or so past Salem, and it has been a good idea to make a precautionary stop most days. Still, it’s cold in there, often crowded. You know, our fellow Americans at their best. And so we have created a rest stop of our own in the barn/shed by the expedient of placing a roll of toilet paper in a plastic bag behind a protective half wall. Straw on the floor. Private.

And the driveway looks amazing! As if it’s been paved, but it’s just rolled. Smooth and sleek, I don’t even want to walk on it with my muddy boots. And all around for some yards, the earth has been dozed, so there’s plenty of mud!

“What’s that smell?” Larry asks. He’s afraid it’s some lingering effect of the disturbed former drain field.

Ken looks with disbelief. “Cow poop,” he says. Who doesn’t recognize that smell? If further proof was needed of our deprived, urban background. “Don’t worry, a few days of weather and the smell will be gone.” It’s just cow poop, for crying out loud.

But he brings to our attention exactly how attractive this shiny new road will appear to passers-by. Perfect place to have that party! Bust out the six-packs. Out of sight, we could even dig some cookies? Better than driving on the beach! Smoke a little dope? Shoot up? Awesome, dude.

So ends the idyll. We’re in the real world. What to do?

We have to have a gate. I want to locate it at the edge of the ravine so than no one can just drive around the fenceless gate, hop back onto the road and cross the gully. Which certainly can’t otherwise be driven across, or even really hiked across. But Ken vetoes that idea. The gate needs to be at the top of the rise where anyone on Llewellyn can see if some miscreant tries to use a bolt cutter. Anyone trying to drive around will simply sink into the mud. His view prevails, and he will put up the gate with a couple of those farm gates lying about the property. We simply need to find a hardware store to pick up some heavy-duty chain and padlock.

But first, Brett has arrived. He appears very competent, business-like. He’ll drive us up to the drill site in his rig, across the older path we’ve used all summer. If he can. He drives very carefully, head out the window, and we manage. He spreads out the charts prepared by the sounder, Tim, (remember him) on the hood of his truck. Says he’s worked behind Tim before, but the system isn’t fool-proof. Still, someone needs to pick a spot for the second attempt, and he’s happy to go with Tim’s pick. The question will be whether he can get the drill rig up to the site.

He decides he will try on the following Monday, as the weather report looks slightly promising at that point. If he can’t get the rig out, though, would Ken’s crew leave a dozer behind to pull him out if necessary. So we ask for a bid, exchange bona fides, and he leaves. Drill site below:

Larry and I find the farm store, get the chain and padlock, return it to Ken and leave for home.

The next days are busy with Portland stuff, and we can’t get back down to have a look at the gate. Which is not really a sufficient reason to go, anyway, so we attend to business here. You know, the Dreamer Gala/Auction, the French friends dinner, the gig. On the way to the gig, Larry told me that it was premature, no guarantee, but he’d gotten a phone call from Brett. Looks like 20 gallons from the new well! But it was dark, and Brett couldn’t tell for sure until the next morning. Which is now. The wind is howling, cold, we’re expecting an ice storm this evening, but Brett hopes he can get the rig out safely this afternoon, and will call us with the actual numbers. Fingers crossed!