“See those tracks?” Chad said. Chad being one of the “guys” (her words) Shirley had called on for help this morning when the probe she was using to test our well failed. “Bull elk.”

“How do you know it was a bull?” Larry asked.

“Size,” Chad answered, with a laugh. Still not sure if these city people even know what an elk may be, other than something they might have seen on some NPR wildlife special.

Yes, that Shirley. We got the call this morning, and though we hadn’t planned on a trip south, when we heard that she would be testing the “new” well, we packed a lunch. Luckily, nothing going Mondays, so we were free to go. The news from the old well, as per the nitrates, had been bad. Like, five thousand dollars bad, if we still want to use that source for our water.

Let’s back up. On Sunday, we’d gone to an event, invited by Randy Gragg, a Portland architect/editor/conservationist to whom we’d been introduced by a friend who knew of our interest in the above. The Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge, seventy-five acres directly across from Multnomah Falls, which could hardly be more iconic, splendid in the late afternoon sunlight (okay, a little too hot, but we won’t quibble). We’d gone in the hope of picking any of the assembled conservationist brains on the subject of, for example, Astoria bent grass — invasive — and any other challenges we face down near Corvallis.

Struck gold. Seriously. Not about the bent grass, but we did meet Norm and Neil. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you much about them, just two very nice men, who took great interest in the oak wood that we have in crazy abundance all over our property. I don’t know too much about them, because we didn’t give them much of a chance. “Oh, you’re architects? How nice. Now, let’s talk about us.”

So we did. We should consider getting a portable plane saw, turn that oak wood into lumber, use it to build our house. Us? Oh, you mean hiring someone to bring a plane saw onto the land and mill the wood. Norm was so enthusiastic that he walked back to the parking space with us, as we left, to show us a piece of cherry wood that they had milled, just the day before. OMG. He told us he was going to change our lives, and I’ll be damned. I think he did. (Thank you, Norm!)

So, on the property this morning, we looked around with different eyes. Sure, much of the wood on the ground would only be good for the fireplace, who knows how long it’s been lying there, but look at this:

Yeah, the color is weird, and you can’t really get the scale. Larry’s phone, and I don’t really know how to manage it. But you do see one straight shot of newly downed oak — got to be some house beams in there somewhere?

Alas, the news from the new well is bad, too. Crap number of gallons per minute of water that looks like it came straight out of muddy creek. Now what? Shirley’s husband, Larry, says that there’s plenty of water available. The well across the road pumping 200 gallons a minute. What? So, a new another well attempt for us? Of course, my Larry is depressed. You can’t just go digging wells here and there about the property in the hope of striking, well, water.

There is a guy, called a “sounder,” who uses sonar to detect underground water. Got home, called him. And so it goes.

Tomorrow, we return, to meet with our architect to stake out the home site. To see if Shirley and Larry have any more suggestions for us.

This should be our last trip before we leave for France. I’m cultivating a better attitude about the plane trip, because it’s Paris. The Dordogne. Good friends. Going to be fun! Either the rains will come or they won’t and whatever. The Hundred Acre Wood won’t go away.