Remember the Rain

I understand it is hot and sunny back in Prescott. I'll be there soon and can work on my tan. But for now I am under water. In Prescott we get around 20 inches of rain a year. We get that every day here. All right, not every day but definitely every week.

Rain is a factor - in everything. If you need to go out, my suggestion is to go. If you wait for it to stop raining, it won't. Face it. You are going to get wet. Kiwis are pretty pragmatic about rain. I see very few umbrellas and I get puzzled glances as I slosh by covered head to foot in my brown slicker. The baby carriages (prams) have removable plastic shields. I don't bother removing ours; I'll be tugging it in place sooner rather than later. You can always tell native Kiwis. They stroll bareheaded through the chilly rain. Perhaps they have on a jacket but you would starve if you were in the business of selling rain gear. I also see a lot of simple hairstyles - pulled back nape ponytails. That sort of thing.

While the rain is an inconvenience in the city, here in the country it is a factor to be reckoned with. First example: we have a septic system. After Dan bought the farm (no he is still alive) he found out that the septic tank hadn't been drained in years. We don't know how many but obviously enough to cause worry lines and make every flush an adventure into the unknown. We instituted the 'yellow mellow, brown down' system of conservation but the septic system is a constant, nagging doubt.

"Well, drain the thing" I hear you say. This is where the rain comes in. The septic system is in a field. Yes, I know you knew that but it has relevance. In order to get to the drain hole you have to drive over the field. It has rained every day for months. The field is saturated. I can bearly stand upright in that field and I weigh a whole lot less than a drainage truck (Yes, I do too!). The truck would never make it. It would be stuck probably for the rest of the winter. Since they charge by the day, the fees could mount up.

Second example: Our compost pile is across what was our lawn before the cows got to it and down a path. It is taking your life into your hands to try to squelch your way to the container. I do it every day or so because rotting garbage is not my favorite aroma. Last time I did it, my wellies were coated to the rim with mud and my pants had a 2 inch band of mud above the wellie line.

We forgot these cautionary tales when we decided that we had had enough of the cows. Yes, folks the cows were going back to their previous owners. All the farmers on our mountain have agreed that 'those cows are crazy'. We made some rookie mistakes. Dan had carefully selected his individual cows from one herd but received other cows that came from various herds. No herd identity. Wild does not begin to describe these cows. Dan accepted them believing them to be easily herded. See previous blogs! Second mistake: we didn't realize the damage they would do to the pastures. These were BIG cows and got bigger and bigger and the pastures are now gullied, rutted messes. Looks like a tank division has been through.

So the cows have eaten free for 2 1'2 months and are now back home. Stone Tree Farm was never home for them and I hope they are happier where they are now.

But we still had to get them there. Sunday was to be the big day. We herded them down the mountain to our pen near the main road. But we forgot to factor in the rain. Sunday dawns misty and rainy. We think nothing of it since it is always raining. But the pen is not ON the main road, it is near it. The truck would have to drive on the field to get to the pen, Just like the sewage truck, it ain't gonna happen,

Merv is the only farmer on the mountain who has holding pens on a road. We start the cows back up the mountain to Merv's place. The truck driver, very politely, declines to be involved in any way. He remembers those selfsame cows attacking him when he transported them here. Steve and Michelle come to help. And then up rides Dave on his quad bike. I definitely have to get myself one of those. Fantastic! Anyway, Dave has this stick thing and his bike and he whips around the herd to keep them from doubling back. They do anyway. Repeat. Repeat again. Hear Dave's language. Roll up the windows to the car so Alessia can't hear.

Dave has these wonderfully well behaved cows. When I walk past to the mailbox, they greet me with refined moos and come to the fence for a chat. I don't think Dave ever saw anything like Old Sour Puss and doesn't want to ever again. By the time the cows have gone bye bye, the whole mountain is exhausted and my tentative question about buying weaners is treated with the scorn it deserves.

Weaners are young (see small) cows who have been recently weaned from their mothers. We have a lot of hay. Some hay - the rest is drenched in polyeurethane (see blog). This hay could feed weaners for the winter. I make the proposal. Dan's "we'll talk about it later", seems pretty definite to me. So, we'll talk about it later.