I hate working with electricity. I shook my arm, attempting to rid my nerves of the evil sensation. No surprise I felt a jolt; my gloves were soaked, and my rubber boots squished in the mud. This was not going to be a good day.
It always comes to this. Despite months of planning, patience, and rock-solid determination, I always seem to metaphorically or literally find myself ankle-deep in mud and desperately short of time. How could this get any better?
My wife and I were scheduled to fly to San Diego, Calif. for an extended family Christmas in two days. This was Christmas Eve. In about an hour, my immediate family was due to show up, for a family Christmas at my house. Here I was, undergoing shock therapy and leaving squished astronaut prints in terra firma.
This fiasco all began about three months prior. While talking to my brother Dave on the phone I heard him exclaim, "Hey, it would sure be cool if the whole family could fly out here to San Diego for Christmas."
That simple expletive set in motion a chain of events. I pondered, perhaps I could get a week away from the farm in December. I called one of my relief milkers, who answered that he was "99 percent sure" he'd be able to do it. I checked airfare, rental car, and accommodation - this could actually be affordable. I checked the maternity chart for my herd of cows. No one was due to calve at the end of December. I talked it over with my wife. What the heck - let's go.
They say getting there is half the fun. This trip would be slightly different than the previous excursions I've written about. For one, I rarely take time off during the winter; dairy farms are notoriously volatile during cold and unpredictable weather. Second, my entire family would be gone - my parents too, meaning no one to provide immediate backup support in case of an emergency.
This time, absolutely every detail had to be perfectly ironed out. What if it is 40 degrees and sunny? What if we get freezing rain? What if there is a blizzard? What if a cold front moves through, with negative 30-degree windchill? Each of those scenarios was entirely possible, and each required a totally different management approach. With all that needed to be done, getting there may be half the fun - to a masochist.
All in all, preparing for our week-long trip went freakishly well. Ashley and I were booked on a nonstop flight out of Chicago on Monday, Dec. 26 - the day after Christmas. For good measure, I bought cancellation insurance. As much as I'd love to be in southern California while Wisconsin got slammed with a power-line fracturing ice storm, it didn't seem practical.
One week remaining. There was no snow in the long-range forecast. I'd be gone during a stretch of mild, clear and pleasant weather. The cows were milking well, with no sickness or special needs to speak of. I held my breath.
Four days prior to departure, and two days before Christmas, it hit the fan. Not one, but two of our mechanical silo unloaders broke down. I called Zweifel Construction, and a two-man crew was out by 7:30 the next morning. One unloader was fairly straightforward, and up and running within an hour.
The second presented a problem, which led to another problem, which led to a third problem. Five hours later we emerged, reeking of fermented silage but grateful in the knowledge that the breakdown was actually a bit of an omen. Had the problems not presented themselves when they did, they certainly would have sooner, rather than later. Most likely, I would have gotten a phone call while trying to relax with a Mai Tai on the beach at Coronado. So a heartfelt thank you to Zweifel Construction.
Two days remaining. It was now Christmas Eve. I had boldly offered to host our immediate family's celebration. What could go wrong? The cows, the machinery, and the equipment were all performing with utmost efficiency. My relief milker was trained, fiscal deposit made, and everything set. I actually felt prepared.
Leave it to the horses to throw a wrench into the works. During the night, the luminous thought occurred to them: why not rip the top off our waterer and destroy the float valve assembly within? Brilliant. And that is how I found myself squishing in the mud on Christmas Eve, two days before flying out and minutes from guests arriving.
I hate working with electricity; next time I'll take the time to trip the breaker. As I gathered my tools, Nukie came over to investigate. His eyes shined with the classic, "I didn't do it" pretext. I looked at him, seething in the knowledge that people won't pay as much to eat a horse as they do cows.
It could've gone a lot worse. Despite getting no sleep the night before, it was a pleasant drive to Chicago on Monday morning. Ashley and I watched the sunrise, which is truly a remarkable thing. Of course, I didn't remember every detail, so just prior to boarding our flight I grabbed a phone and had this conversation at the departure gate with Mike, my relief milker:
"Hey man, I almost forgot - the hay silo at the dairy farm is finicky. If it quits after about 400 pounds, don't climb it. Raise the unloader 40 turns, count to 10, and then lower it slowly. You'll get feed after about 25 turns. Make sense?"
Good thing I remembered that. I was asleep before the wheels even left the ground.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
It always comes to this. Despite months of planning, patience, and rock-solid determination, I always seem to metaphorically or literally find myself ankle-deep in mud and desperately short of time. How could this get any better?
My wife and I were scheduled to fly to San Diego, Calif. for an extended family Christmas in two days. This was Christmas Eve. In about an hour, my immediate family was due to show up, for a family Christmas at my house. Here I was, undergoing shock therapy and leaving squished astronaut prints in terra firma.
This fiasco all began about three months prior. While talking to my brother Dave on the phone I heard him exclaim, "Hey, it would sure be cool if the whole family could fly out here to San Diego for Christmas."
That simple expletive set in motion a chain of events. I pondered, perhaps I could get a week away from the farm in December. I called one of my relief milkers, who answered that he was "99 percent sure" he'd be able to do it. I checked airfare, rental car, and accommodation - this could actually be affordable. I checked the maternity chart for my herd of cows. No one was due to calve at the end of December. I talked it over with my wife. What the heck - let's go.
They say getting there is half the fun. This trip would be slightly different than the previous excursions I've written about. For one, I rarely take time off during the winter; dairy farms are notoriously volatile during cold and unpredictable weather. Second, my entire family would be gone - my parents too, meaning no one to provide immediate backup support in case of an emergency.
This time, absolutely every detail had to be perfectly ironed out. What if it is 40 degrees and sunny? What if we get freezing rain? What if there is a blizzard? What if a cold front moves through, with negative 30-degree windchill? Each of those scenarios was entirely possible, and each required a totally different management approach. With all that needed to be done, getting there may be half the fun - to a masochist.
All in all, preparing for our week-long trip went freakishly well. Ashley and I were booked on a nonstop flight out of Chicago on Monday, Dec. 26 - the day after Christmas. For good measure, I bought cancellation insurance. As much as I'd love to be in southern California while Wisconsin got slammed with a power-line fracturing ice storm, it didn't seem practical.
One week remaining. There was no snow in the long-range forecast. I'd be gone during a stretch of mild, clear and pleasant weather. The cows were milking well, with no sickness or special needs to speak of. I held my breath.
Four days prior to departure, and two days before Christmas, it hit the fan. Not one, but two of our mechanical silo unloaders broke down. I called Zweifel Construction, and a two-man crew was out by 7:30 the next morning. One unloader was fairly straightforward, and up and running within an hour.
The second presented a problem, which led to another problem, which led to a third problem. Five hours later we emerged, reeking of fermented silage but grateful in the knowledge that the breakdown was actually a bit of an omen. Had the problems not presented themselves when they did, they certainly would have sooner, rather than later. Most likely, I would have gotten a phone call while trying to relax with a Mai Tai on the beach at Coronado. So a heartfelt thank you to Zweifel Construction.
Two days remaining. It was now Christmas Eve. I had boldly offered to host our immediate family's celebration. What could go wrong? The cows, the machinery, and the equipment were all performing with utmost efficiency. My relief milker was trained, fiscal deposit made, and everything set. I actually felt prepared.
Leave it to the horses to throw a wrench into the works. During the night, the luminous thought occurred to them: why not rip the top off our waterer and destroy the float valve assembly within? Brilliant. And that is how I found myself squishing in the mud on Christmas Eve, two days before flying out and minutes from guests arriving.
I hate working with electricity; next time I'll take the time to trip the breaker. As I gathered my tools, Nukie came over to investigate. His eyes shined with the classic, "I didn't do it" pretext. I looked at him, seething in the knowledge that people won't pay as much to eat a horse as they do cows.
It could've gone a lot worse. Despite getting no sleep the night before, it was a pleasant drive to Chicago on Monday morning. Ashley and I watched the sunrise, which is truly a remarkable thing. Of course, I didn't remember every detail, so just prior to boarding our flight I grabbed a phone and had this conversation at the departure gate with Mike, my relief milker:
"Hey man, I almost forgot - the hay silo at the dairy farm is finicky. If it quits after about 400 pounds, don't climb it. Raise the unloader 40 turns, count to 10, and then lower it slowly. You'll get feed after about 25 turns. Make sense?"
Good thing I remembered that. I was asleep before the wheels even left the ground.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
