Waterworks Headwater

Great grief, intense, although short lived fright, and lots of fiddling certainly was the case that last night on the old water line. I had returned home late, about 8:30 pm as I recall, from a long, wet day working as a National Park Ranger. I clearly remember wanting only a hot shower, a little supper and a good night sleep, but that was not to be my luck.

I turned on the faucets in the shower, looking forward to a few minutes respite, before deciding on dinner, only to be disappointed by no hot water, in fact, no water at all. There was nothing to do other than get dressed again, dry clothes this time, and head down to the basement for rain gear, and the now infamous patch kit. If I wanted a shower that night there was no other alternative. I would have to find the problem and fix it myself.

By this time I was the only one living on the property and you simply had to do things on your own. I know I am not alone when I say that many times it would have been better and certainly easier to have help, but without any forthcoming you would proceed with the task at hand, alone. This night certainly was no exception, had I known what was to come I would have waited, at least until daylight, but I was determined to have that shower.

Armed with the patch kit, lantern and a dubious old flash light, I in my armor of rain gear and hard hat (fondly known to us as a tin hat) headed out into the rainy, dark night. It was about one hundred yards down the driveway where I passed through the gate, latching it after myself. Looking at the warm glow of the living room lights I reluctantly turned and followed the dim flashlight beam down the road. No matter how many times I would go out like this there would always be an eerie feeling in the back of my mind that left me a little edgy, this night was no different. Some, uninitiated in such travels, might say, ‘no gun,’ but if you were to see someone dressed as I was, bobbing through the dimly lit woods, you would realize no fool animal would want to approach, hungry or not. Besides, I couldn’t have carried a rifle and I would have never been able to reach a pistol under the twenty pounds of rain gear. No fancy fabrics back then, just the old fashion logging or fishing type of gear would do, anyway the new stuff would not hold up against salmon berry bushes, or devils club.

To describe the surroundings as woods, with any romantic notions, would be fully inaccurate, at least on such a night. Trees, yes there were trees, lots of them, big ones… the kind that have shadows creeping out from their dark back drop. There were trees, masses of vine maple weighted down and broken by snows past. For most folks they will never see vine maple like these. Growing in the shadow of a rain forest these were the proud, ancient variety, reminiscent of forests out of the ‘Hobbit,’ large, 6-8 inches in diameter, often larger, 30 to 40 feet tall. As you would clamber and slither your way through a mass you might very well, suddenly, be slapped by the sharp thorns of a salmon berry or the dangerous barbs of a devils club. The later were most disliked by us night crawlers, the barbs were hooked, so they traveled deeper once in place, and they were venomous little buggers that were hard to see, so you would have to wait until you returned to a well lighted world before digging them out, one by one, and there would always be many.
This night would hold all of that in store for me and then the unexpected. Working my way along where the old steel piping lay was difficult enough, but to compound the experience was the fact that it had laid there for decades. Patch upon patch needed to be checked for failure, or a new fallen tree had to be found, all the while you were searching you were doing so after the years of debris, rotting logs, moss and mud tried to hide the very pipe you sought to inspect. During daylight it was hard to follow, but on a rainy, windy night the difficulty just seemed to compound itself. To say you had gone a quarter mile or half mile wouldn’t matter, or to say you had climbed 100, 200, or 300 feet in elevation would not matter much either, because it was simply slow, tedious and difficult.

After some time I had worked my way up to the highway, finding nothing, I crossed and worked my way farther up the hill to the catchment basin, which really was nothing more than the end of a 2” pipe, covered with screening, a large metal bucket, punched full of holes, placed over the pipe end. This was an effective method for siphoning water from a small pond we would build behind rocks in the middle of the stream. As simple a system as this was, working on it was extremely dangerous, especially during a rain storm, in the dark, dressed as I was. Poch Creek would be considered a small river by many and it tumbled between large, wet, mossy boulders down extremely steep terrain. To reach the catchment basin you had to scramble over and down the side at least 20 to 30 ft. One slip could prove fatal for many reasons. After cleaning the inlet I had hoped that maybe I had gotten water flowing back at the house. I had checked the lines carefully and had found no leaks, so maybe the inlet had been clogged. It didn’t seem reasonable, but I clung to that thought on my way back. After working my way down to the highway I walked the short distance home.
Coming past the last grove of alder trees, the lights from the house shined brightly, as if to welcome me back. My efforts had taken about an hour and one-half. I was exhausted, hungry and quite wet, even with the raingear on. I no longer cared about a shower, hot or not. Going though the basement door I set my bag down and with anticipation turned the faucet on. There was no response, at least no water. I am sure I responded in some manner. It is at moments like this when quitting becomes a real consideration, but was I to have quit, I would still have no water in the morning.

Back down the driveway, past the garage and through the gate. This time I didn’t look back. I trudged forward wanting to find what I had obviously missed. It would seem hard to not find a leak, having done this over the years, even I thought so, but I had no idea where it might be. The ground was wet already from the rain and the pipe ran through an area of side hill swamp, so it would not necessarily be easy to see. Sometimes you wouldn’t be able to see a leak at all. It would be on the bottom side of the pipe. If you were lucky, you would be able to hear it over the hiss of your lantern. Other times you would be lying two or three feet above the pipe in some of the vine maple described earlier, feeling along the pipe for the cold spray.
In fits and jerks I worked my way along the pipe, back up to the catchment basin. I even cleaned the inlet again to make sure I couldn’t have missed anything. I had found no leaks this trip either. Not knowing what the problem could be, or where, I worked my way back down to the highway. Standing there, seriously considering giving up for the day, it struck me. The one place I had not looked was where the pipe passed under me, under the road. Strangely, I was excited. I was sure I had solved the riddle. Quickly working my way over the road edge, over the rocks, through the devils club to the mouth of an old culvert from where the pipe could be seen, like a dark, angry snake, glad to be rid of its’ confines.

This culvert needs some description, in that it is much older than the highway passing over it. It was an original from the days when there was no more than a logging road. Culverts were often made from planks split out of the big western cedar common to this area. They would be assembled like an open ended box. Being no larger than about two feet in width and height it looked like an old sluice box from the gold rush days, just with a lid on it. The appearance left me with a feeling of trepidation, but my answer was sure to lie within, water was flowing between my feet. Pointing the beam of my flashlight into the darkness within did little to improve my opinion of this place. Cedar lasts a long, long time, but this was a very old culvert. The wood appeared to have rotted. I could not tell how much, or how weak it was. Never the less, although I could not see it, I heard the distinctive sound from the spray of a high pressure leak. I climbed back up the bank, crossing the road to see if I could see it from the other side, only to find where the culvert opening should have been was completely filled with mud. After building the new highway, using new culverts, this old one was not maintained. This simply was a place that we had never looked before.

Once again, scrambling over the downhill side to it’s’ mouth, I threw my bag of tools and supplies in. Then, in went the lantern. I followed and slowly inched my way forward, first throwing my bag and then sliding the lantern ahead. After a few feet there was enough light to spot this elusive leak. It looked to be at least halfway across the road, an uncomfortable distance for sure, but more disturbing was the fact that it was nearly buried in mud which had oozed in from the uphill side. There looked to be only six to eight inches clearance from where the pipe lay to the ceiling of the culvert.

I worked my way forward and as the clearance lessened I was reduced to laying flat on my stomach, with my arms stretch in front of me. I moved my bag with my left hand and pulled myself with my right. The lantern was against my right shoulder and slid forward as I did. It was hot next to my face and hissing in my ear. A cold stream of water began running through my rain gear with spray from the leak hitting my face. The lantern was being sprayed also, which concerned me. If the glass lens were to break I would be in darkness. My flashlight was out of my reach in my coat pocket.

Years later, as I write this, I remember the details from within the culvert clearly, with the exception of time. Its’ passage throughout that night was then, as it now still is, indeterminable.

When fully stretched out I could just barely reach the break in the pipe. Using a piece of old tire inner tube, I had begun to wrap the pipe. We would wrap a break and with big breaks, such as this one, we would then form a piece of tin over the tube before securing both with several wire ties. As I began wrapping, it began, faint at first, but slowly growing in volume. It was a sound that should not have been there. My overriding instinct was to get out, out as quickly as I could. As the sound grew, forcing myself backwards, I found myself to be like a porcupine trying to back out of a fox hole. In the rush, my rain gear had caught on the sides and ceiling of the culvert. I was stuck! Twelve miles from the highest mountain in North America, twelve miles from an active volcano and twelve miles from a mountain listed as one of the ten most dangerous mountains in the world. I suddenly felt very cold, wet and lonely.

As the noise around me increased the ground began to vibrate. Both were growing in intensity, quickly. This was becoming a terrifying event. I knew that where I was now laying was less than a mile away from a fault line that had recently shifted, causing a large mud slide, splitting the highway as well. Every sense in me screamed that I was now trapped in an earthquake!

At the peak of the sound, it roared. Dirt fell around me through the cracks in the old cedar boards. My mind raced around the thought, ‘who would find me if I couldn’t get out.’ Of course people would miss me at work, but there were only two who would find me, my sister and my dad. Both lived hours away, neither would know I was missing for awhile, but they eventually would come. I drew comfort from that thought. They would come. They would find no water; see that a set of rain gear and the patch kit was missing, and like I had done would begin searching for the leak.

That thought was beginning to provide some comfort when the vibrations began to fade, as did the sound. With great relief I lay there in the cold water, listening to the hiss of the lantern. Quickly, I realized that the fading sound seemed familiar to me. Listening closely, I heard the pattern of a large truck’s compression brakes as it made a late night run toward the city. It most likely was a fully loaded logging truck, whose driver flipped the jake brake, as we called them, on at the top of the grade, about half a mile from where I was. As I figure it, with one end blocked the sound was amplified, and as unstable as the old cedar culvert was, it easily vibrated under the weight of the loaded truck.

With some more effort the patch was finished. The spray was quieted; no water ran through my raingear. Slowly I wormed my way backwards into the fresh air. I am sure I had a smile on my face; after all, there would be a shower that night. Just another close call at CRR.