Invasion Of The Booger Plants.

    I can appreciate a flower, even though I'd have a hard time identifying one by its proper name, but they need to know their place. A few posts ago I wrote about the full-time job mowing lawns around here during the Spring growing season. I neglected to mention that at one point, to my relief, the grass growth slows down to a tolerable level, then the booger plants appear, seemingly growing to your knees overnight. I suppose theres a fancy name for this vegetation, some might even call it a flower. To me, and anything else that pops up on the lawn falls into the same category, Booger plant. Not to be confused with Jigger bushes, that I have an on-going battle with that try to take over the far end of the clearing, thats another story.

 

Booger plants (dandylinus paininthe assus)

Don't let their mild demeanor fool you, they are out to take over the world.

I suppose the effect is not entirely un-appealing.
Booger plants come in several colors. Theres the common yellow booger, and the not so aggressive white booger, that has more sense and tends to grow in areas I don't mow. I suppose theres another name for the white boogers too, I'm tempted to say...Daisy. (daisyus paininthe assus)

  Well, you are probably thinking to yourself, what the hells so bad about flowers/boogers popping up in your yard. I have to admit they are a bit entertaining, they close up at night and open bright yellow when the sun comes over the mountain, and follow as it crosses the sky then close up again. The problem is when they close up, it just looks like you have a scraggly yard. People tend to drive in when its in this state, often remarking,"Whats the matter, your lawnmower broke?"

Then after they leave it breaks out in color like an alpine scene from The Sound Of Music.

It gets difficult to walk around, especially if you are wearing open toed shoes. If you ride your motorbike down the airstrip you come back with your foot-pegs all loaded up. And eventually, the boogers have done their seasonal thing, and just become nasty looking weeds. 

  I usually put up with them for a week or so, then one late afternoon, when they are closed up so they can't look at me, I fire up the ride mower. That takes the boogers down to lawn level for another week before they come back with a vengeance. Eventually, they will cease to be a concern, just like in past years. Then the grass will begin to grow again.

An old softy, I mowed around and left one. I can appreciate a flower.

A Thoughtful Spot, No Tools Required.

 The water level out front has dropped, earlier this year than it usually does. 

During these hot afternoons it is rather pleasant to hang out close to the water, and as hard as it is for you to believe, I do on occasion take time out of my busy non-schedule for a reflective moment here and there. I found down the bank out front here works pretty good if the need ever arises, but I got tired of standing around during periods of extended reflecting.

I sat down the other night to design a bench for down there next to the water. 

I decided to spare no expense, and figured a custom made low bench with arm-rests would be just what I needed for my periodic mental wellness. 

I went shopping for supplies at the junk wood-pile over by the big fire-pit.

I found pretty close to what I needed in stock and piled it on the wagon. ChYk helped, then escorted me over and supervised while I hucked it all over the bank to the construction site below, and began to install it as per the instructions.

My 'low bench with arm rests' didn't turn out quite as I had expected.

I discovered it worked better if I installed the arm rests on the bottom.
You should see me trying to assemble Ikea furniture.

Location is everything. The water was several feet deep there a week ago, amazing how fast it can drop.The fact this area floods several times a year probably explains what happened to the last 'thoughtful spot' bench

Yes, I think this may work just fine for the occasional break from my non-schedule, if the need ever arises. There looks to be just one thing missing though...

A Pain In The Grass.

   I don't know who's bright idea it was to have a lawn around here.
It was certainly never considered in the plan. It just kind of happened on it's own actually.
I had grown up around an extensive lawn, and seems quite a pile of my childhood memories revolve around push-mowers and best case scenario, a ride-on. I did my best in later life to avoid all of the above as best I could, and would often chuckle when I saw some poor slave to his yard out there sweating and pushing a mower around in his spare time.

   In the Fall of 1994, after the clearing had been done and the area cleaned up here at the hot spring property, some smarty-pants told me it would be wise to spread a reclamation mix around. So I foolishly brought home 400 lbs. of reclamation seed mix, which is what they  use on road right of ways and under hydro-lines I was told. I had a careful study of the list of ingredients on the bags, making sure 'lawn' wasn't listed anywhere on there. I figured I'd spread all this around and a forest and wildflowers were going to pop up. I had one of those seed spreaders you turn the crank and cast the seed as you walk along. It was quite a job I recall walking and cranking the entire length of the clearing, then turn around, move over a little and walk all the way back only to repeat the process. By my calculation, I put on more than 10 miles walking back and forth cranking and stumbling over roots and I was glad when it was completed, then waited for the new forest and wildflowers to appear. A couple hundred pounds of clover seed was procured and spread down the air-strip and around the cabin as well. Someone said that would be a good idea too.

   The next year the forest and wildflowers had a good start.
By 1996, my 'forest' had grown up quite high around the cabin which made it hard to wander around.  I came home from town one day with a weed-eater to beat it back a bit.
I don't know what I was thinking, but the next year I came back from town with a goddamn lawnmower of all things to beat the bush back just a little further. I knew this was a mistake right from the start and should have known better. And in a weak moment, I think I may have spread around a few bags of grass seed to fill in some of the bare patches in my budding forest.
Then I made the mistake of bringing home lengths of garden hose to operate a sprinkler...or two.
Things began to go seriously to hell from there on.
I must have had too much time on my hands as well, because on occasion I would log another clear-cut with the weed-wacker, and make an extra pass or two around the perimeter with the goddamn push-mower to extend the area,  like it needed it.
   It wasn't too much longer I began to eye-ball the landing strip, which had grown back in clover about knee high. After considerable looking I came back with a scythe. A scythe is a pole with two handles that you swing a long sharp curved blade with, commonly used by peasants and pioneers that didn't know any better, and it didn't take me long to figure out why those peasants and pioneers died so young. I managed to thrash down a tent-size patch of air-strip and realized despite the fact it scored really low on the old fun-meter, and was considerably more exercise than I thought I needed, it was going to take me all summer to do. The scythe received a coat of oil, and was hung up for display on the side of the guest cabin, where it has sat unmolested for 19 years.

I stewed over the situation for a few weeks, then against my better judgement manged to track down a ride-on lawnmower that had seen better days, hauled it out here into the wilderness and tackled the landing strip. It was grown high with clover and that first mow took me about 3 days, and thought I was going to burn up my new old mower.

   That poor old mower received 17 more years of abuse before finally calving a few years ago and I pushed it out in the bone yard back of the shop, then began to price out a new replacement.
Well that scared me and I drug the heap out and resurrected it once more, getting another awkward season out of it. This poor mower lived quite the life, and should go into a mower museum, I'm sure theres one someplace.  I came across it in front of the equipment dealer in town, a recent trade-in. Before I got my hands on it, the previous tormentor had caught it on fire, as evident by the paint bubbled off the hood and engine compartment, fueling while it is running being the usual cause. After it survived that first air-strip ordeal, I painted the hood, cleaned it up and it looked like new.  When the time finally came to paint the hood again I took it off with all good intentions, but I never did get around to painting it, or putting it back on for that matter, anyways, it looked kind of hot-rod without it. Over the years I wore out several sets of tires, countless blades, and about every moving part on it, twice. Something with the wiring went haywire one day and I spent 16 years jump starting it off my pickup to get it running. I had to by-pass all the factory safety features and re-wire to my own specifications so it didn't turn off on me every time I got out of the seat. Somewhere along the line it developed a problem with jumping into gear too if you didn't get it all the way into neutral which turned out to be problematic at times. Like that hot day I was mowing the yard and landing strip and I decided to pull over to the cabin for a cold drink. The muffler was rusted out, so I needed to wear hearing protection, which I never bothered to take off. I pulled up to the front deck and jumped off, leaving it running there while I ran in for a drink, which turned into a drink and a banana, and probably a trip to the little room. Refreshed in several ways, I wandered back out on the front deck to my waiting ride-mower, only to find it not there any longer. I took a horrified look down the bank and into the river expecting to see bubbles. I pulled my ear-muff deals off to go down and poke around the water with a pole when I hear the mower popping away on the other side of the yard in reverse, and about to head into the bush backwards. By the time I got there it had run itself in there aways before butting up against a stump and sat there digging a hole with one wheel.
Another life used up, good thing it slipped into reverse and not forward.
   Eventually the machine got just used up, and I was satisfied I got my money out of it. It cut grass all wonky and I had to pump the tires up before I jump started it to get it going, and half the time I got off it, I had to go looking for it. The steering was so loose it was a challenge to go in a straight line.

 Finally, running low on oil one day last year it ground to a halt, and was pushed to the bone-yard for the final time. I'll hang onto the wreck to resurrect it in the form of a wagon or something one day.

   As I was fearing all along was going to happen, I was in the market for another machine. I found my new victim, a new one, in front of the same equipment dealer up in town. This dealer and I, well, lets just say we have some history, and not much of it good. But it saves me driving another two hours to deal locally. The money was coming right out of savings, which was upsetting enough, but for a frigging lawnmower.  You can imagine my delight about a week later when I received a message that (in his haste to complete the transaction and get me out of the store) he had failed to punch the proper amount into the debit machine. Sure as hell, I had a closer look at the bill of sale and indeed my new hydrostatic drive ride-on mower had cost me $20.85! After a suitable period of savoring the situation, I informed him I would take care of it next time I was in town. Sometimes I don't go in very often, and can drag it out for a considerable time if required. I went in once, but figured he was probably busy. I went in another time, but decided I hadn't quite enjoyed the whole thing enough yet. I did finally sashay in there one day at my leisure, casually writing his book-keeper a cheque for the remaining couple of grand.

I call this my orange mid-life Corvette. Its about as close as I'm going to get.
This new sport model I picked up last summer has made the job considerably easier, the hydro-static drive lets you get in around in places in the orchard I couldn't with the old one and I should have traded it off long ago before I buggered it completely. All the rough work was done by the previous one, and I'm not interested in pioneering more area, so I can take better care of this one. If I could get it down on the terrace by the river I'd hardly need a push-mower. As an added bonus, it starts on its own, and the tires stay inflated. It does have an annoying habit of shutting down every time I get off it though.

As if a king-size front yard with a landing strip and orchard is not bad enough, there is a long section of the gold-rush heritage trail that runs through here I maintain. When this trail was surveyed by Lt. Palmer of the Royal Engineers in 1859, he had no idea that one day, some character would driving up and down it on his ride-mower, listening to his mp3 player.
   I usually manage to put off mowing until sometime the beginning of May, but this year was unusual in that the first mow was April 1. So its going to be along season this year, and right now its all I can do to keep up.

For a guy that swore off lawns years ago I seem to have created a monster out here.
But I suppose its worth it.

 August 1966, no matter how much things change, they appear to remain the same.

New Planter Box, Bear Inspection.

   I was persuaded recently into putting some thought into building a planter box. I thought about it right up until planting season then went out and dug around in the lumber pile to see what I could come up with. Foremost on my mind was to do it without costing me any money of course. There was a pile of 2x8 around I had been keeping to build an outdoor stage from some day, but hauled a wagon-load of them over and proceeded to dream up a planter box. It had to be somewhere that the bears don't have easy access, right up front of the deck seemed to be the right choice.

I notched all the joints to save on nails.

And it all stacked up and interlocked as planned.

It was still a bit wobbly so I tacked on some end braces.

I put some discarded old decking from the hot spring on the bottom and tacked on some of the old garden fence I still have around.

 An application of linseed oil and a couple wheelbarrow loads of leaves and I was ready for dirt.

Apparently you can't use any old dirt, and if there is one thing this country is short of, is good dirt, so I headed for town in search of store bought super-dirt.

"Say what?!" I remarked when the young fella at the topsoil place told me the going rate for dirt these days.

"That's for one cubic yard" he tells me.
I asked him if he could get that cubic yard into the back of my truck without scratching his machine.
"I'll be careful." he assured me.

By the time I arrived back here the high priced pay-dirt had settled down to about a half load, and I was wondering if I should have brought home more. It took every last crumb swept out of the back of the truck to fill, and I wish I could take credit for factoring all that in there, but I really didn't know how it was all going to work out in the end. 

 While I was shoveling I looked up and noticed the first bear of the season, grazing away down the field.

 

One vegetable planter box, ready for the planting crew.

                                                                **********

So I go out this morning with a tea and the cats standing around admiring the planter when I noticed some strange marks on one brace that were not there the night before. Well bugger if that bear didn't come back later, when no-one was watching and checked out the new planter. Attracted by the scent of linseed oil wafting down the airstrip I assume, he (her) had a good look at my engineering, then bit down hard on one brace, leaving four tooth marks in the wood.  

I hope he (her) has satisfied their curiosity.

Robin's Little Shack Of Horrors.

   

  

    I lay awake last night thinking about it, and when I awoke, I lay there and worried about it some more, not entirely sure if I was going to be able to pull this one off or not. The dreaded day had arrived, and I felt like a death row prisoner about to meet the noose. I had worried lots about this particular little job for many years now. But it was a job that needed to be done, the plant was down and it was a perfect time, and couldn't be put off any longer, no matter how many excuses I came up with, and there were plenty, believe me. I was going to have to put my phobias at bay, keep a cool, clear mind under duress, and work quickly under adverse conditions. Today was the day I was going to venture into the pelton-wheel tail-race.

 The tail-race is what us independent power guys call the pipe where the water comes out after it goes through the wheel that generates electricity. This particular tail-race is a galvanised culvert that is plugged into side of a poly box below floor level the pelton-wheel dumps into.  

 With the inspection plate off, the wheel, the holding box, the dreaded culvert/tail race end.
I built this dump box and stuck the culvert into side of it back in 2000, filling over and around it, pouring a concrete floor on top and putting up a structure over the pelton workings. I had sealed the pipe first with some oakum or something that I had around and had second thoughts about it afterwards. Before the water was turned on for the first time I decided to wriggle up the tail-race pipe and slop some tar around from the inside. It was a tight squeeze and I had a little flashlight and I would get in a little ways, get freaked out and wriggle back out, saying no way. Going inside at some point had never occurred to me when I brought home the tail-race culvert, and I'm thankfull I didn't bring back the next size down. This particular death-trap is 18" (that's 46 cm for you young folks here in Canada) which may sound like a lot, but theres not much room in there, for me anyways, I don't know about you. The confined space, the fact normally 250 gallons of water pour through there and dead-ends in the dump box just creeped me right out. But I persevered onwards, had a look around in there at what I needed then started wriggling my way back out. I had a light jacket on, it began to ride up and bunch up on my shoulders as I worked my way down jamming me in the pipe, and all rearward motion stopped. I squiggled forward a little to work my jacket back down and started out again. The jacket rode up once more and I was stuck again, only now I was stuck even further from the entrance. My blood-pressure went into triple digits. Well I did with time manage to keep a cool head and work my way out, rolling the jacket up over my head and trailing off my outstretched arms and that sunlight sure looked good when I got out of that hell-hole. Of course there was no-one around for miles, and it would have taken a week or more before anyone would begin to miss me. I crawled in there once more to do the sealing, but I remember when I scrambled out of there I said that was the last time I would ever do that again. Famous last words.
Several years ago water began to trickle alongside the culvert, and the ground in front of the steps was saturated, and I knew it wouldn't be too long before I was going to have to talk some poor bugger into crawling in there and initiating a repair. 

You must be this small for this ride.
If you have been reading me for any length of time you will recall most often when 'poor bugger' comes up in the job description, for some reason, I am the one most highly qualified.
I had saved the disc I cut out to fit the culvert years ago, I thought it may be of some use down the road. It never did, but it did come in handy today cutting my rope gasket to size, and convincing myself this was a good idea. I stood there studying it for about 10 minutes, working my courage up, and willing myself smaller.

 

For real, just in case, and as I often do when I'm out and about and up to no good, I left a note on the kitchen table directing people to the mishap. I don't know what the hell 'COME QUICK!' is going to do for me, it would be 10 days or 2 weeks before anyone missed me, but at least they would know where to retrieve the body. I probably should have explained what the tail-race was though.
   The tanks running low on propane, but I figured the back-up generator would run for about 3 days continuous before my trouble-light down there went out. What a way to go, getting jammed in my pelton-wheel tail-race, that would be like Willie Wonka falling into his chocolate vat.

Through the inspection hole above, I dropped a trouble light into the abyss, and lowered a grocery bag down that held tools and cans of sealant. A last thought, I added the two way radio to call for help when the time came. It would come in handy for giving interviews to Fox News during the televised rescue attempt when they were drilling me out of there too. then took the long walk outside to the open end of the offending culvert.

Goodbye cruel world.
Before I lay down to crawl to my demise, I stopped for one last picture. A rainy, dreary day, what better time to meet your maker. A bat flew from the spider webbed opening, and my last thought before getting in there was..."I can't believe I'm going to do this".

Dead man squiggling.
I lay right down in the puddle at the entrance, may as well get the getting wet part over right at the start. Once I got in there to the dump box, I could roll over on my back and the water would seep through to the other side of my crotch, and I could be wet on both sides, what the hell. But for the grace of God, in I went a-squiggling, accompanied by much grunting, cursing, and multiple remarks of, "This sucks!".

Sucks big time indeed.
I held my camera out ahead of me, documenting the event for the up-coming coroner's investigation. There is just enough room to fit, rubbing on all four sides and moving yourself along with your arms out ahead of you pushing with your toes and nipples, a few inches at a time. Its hard work, and if you try to take a big breath, you jam in there. The spiral corrugation is none too comfortable to lay on, and theres a puddle in every goddamn one, but it does give you a toe-hold up the slight incline. At the half-way point there was a welcoming trouble-light dangling at the end of the tunnel.

I got in there with the top half of my old self hanging out of the culvert end and rolled over to take a shot looking up at the pelton-wheel and deflector, and immediately my hat fell into the water, I chucked it out the inspection hole above, then took a couple selfies in there, but decided not to use one here, as they looked like I was scared half to death for some reason.

I dropped the camera into the pre-lowered grocery bag and dug out the can of foam filler to start with to clog up the gaps, then I would wrap a marine grade dock rope around and spray it down with an aerosol roof repair product to saturate the rope and goo it to the side of the box. If you have a better idea, you are free to come show me how its done. I'll watch through the inspection hole.

   If you have ever used a can of foam crack filler, you will know that once you press the button, it is difficult to get them to stop. So I'd spray-foam fill a section then struggle to roll over so I could carry on, meanwhile, foam-can still slowly spews it's contents and I soon remembered not to hold it above my face and by the time I got a handle on things it was smeared all over my jacket in several places. You can't wipe it off either, I recalled after the fact. Pretty soon its all over my rubber gloves and I can't let go of the can. I pull it off my right and it sticks to my left. There was still some water in the bottom of the dump-box (I know because I was continually sticking an elbow or shoulder into it, and if I tried to lay my head back to rest my aching neck, it would jerk right up again, sopping wet on back) and as I would change position I just tried to hold it out over the water, forming a large floating foam replica of a dog turd I would suppose, if a dog were to stand very still say. This brought me a moments amusement, but I'm pretty sure a floating turd would wear pretty thin after 3 days stuck in there waiting for the generator to run out of fuel. I finished with the foam fiasco and tried to chuck the can up and out the inspection hole. It stuck to my rubber glove of course, and sling-shot it's self backwards into the water, making an ice cold splash that got me square in the face. After several attempts, and another splash in the face I finally managed to chuck the can, with two attached rubber gloves out the opening above. I pulled down the length of marine rope I had dangled in there and set it in place, then dug in the bag for the next part of the project.

   If you have ever used a can of aerosol roof patch, you will know that not all of it goes where you intend it. Holding the spray nozzle in the proper direction is a good start. By the time the tar-can was near empty, there was a black cloud in there that was dimming the trouble-light's glow, my glasses are speckled on, and from breathing the fine asphalt mist I was getting light-headed from the fumes, and not in an entirely unpleasant way either. By the time the large can was about empty, the rope and I both were equally saturated.

   Well it looked like I was done. And it was really awkward work. I pushed myself back into the pipe a bit to rest, laying my head back to ease my aching neck.
By now I knew how far back I could go before touching the water...

But I didn't factor in that goddamn floating foam turd being there. I jerked my head up and it was considerably heavier with all the mass attached. I remember saying something, I don't know what it was, but it was probably not good. I get an arm free and manage to liberate the back of my head from the object that sticks to my hand and as I was trying to shake it off I got a start when I noticed the floating dead mouse was stuck on there too. I guess I never mentioned the floating dead mouse did I.

   Well  guess I have to mention it now, the day before I had been trying to lower the level of water in the dump box using a drill powered pump, which are about half useless to begin with. I had a length of hose going down into the sump, and another small hose running out the shack door, and I had been doing my share of sucking on the hose to draw the water up to prime the drill-pump, getting various snoot fulls in the process. I never did get it working despite swallowing and wearing a considerable amount. I ended up making a little bailing can that I lowered down there on a wire, and it was during this procedure that I noticed the floating dead mouse. Yuk.

   I threaded my way back down the culvert and out to freedom. I went above and peered down the inspection hole with the trouble-light into where I had just been admiring my repair job. I was a bit damp, all over, I had hold of the cord and I knelt down on my wet knee to get a better look, completing the circuit. One hundred and twenty volts of startling electricity jumped from the cord into the palm of my hand, and I squealed like a little girl, dropping the works and falling over backwards. Scared me more than anything, normal household power usually not going to kill you, but it certainly gets your attention, and encourages you to put down whatever it is you have hold of. 

So my last big adventure up the tail-race was a great success.
Lets see..., I drank dead-mouse broth, got soaking wet, bruised up, cut up on the sharp edge of the culvert, blackened my glasses and splattered my face, got foam filler and a dead mouse stuck in whats left of my hair, and in the end I got nearly electrocuted by the backup generator. But I got out!
Turns out the squeezing into the culvert was the least of it. But I'm not going back in there again for a long time. Just to make sure, I'm going to crawl back in tomorrow with a half gallon of gummy roof fixing stuff I found around to smear around in there a little more. 

I better save that note.

Had To Start With The Big Valve.

   After yet another trip to the Big City, I have returned with the new generator end that arrived from the factory in Texas, along with a few more odds and ends. There had been a list in my head of things over the years concerning the pelton-wheel that I planned to do if it was ever down for any period of time. Little improvements, and maintenance issues here and there, that just needed some time with the water turned off to accomplish. 

The past several weeks broken down like I've been has been a perfect opportunity. Only thing was, I couldn't shut the water off completely. There has been an issue with the main valve leaking, which has been getting progressively worse over the past few seasons, and really makes it difficult to work on. So I ordered a replacement, which I picked up the other day with the generator.

 

First thing yesterday I tore up the mountain on the Honda, hiked down into the intake pond and dropped the gate valve in the pond, it doesn't seal completely, so I disconnected the penstock a few feet below to keep the dribble of water running down the line and pouring out on my feet while I'm trying to change out the main high-pressure valve located down at the pelton-wheel. The 580 meter (1900 ft) penstock drained out in about a half hour, and I got out the heavy duty socket and ratchet, supporting the pipe on a couple jacks.

 

 Here be the offending, 6" high-pressure valve. Its a gear actuated butterfly that no matter how fast you crank on the wheel, it closes very slowly so you don't blow something up. 

But as it is, no matter how hard you close it, it doesn't stop the water.

 I got the old valve off, which weighs about 65 lbs., and drug it outside in the light and the problem became obvious. The leading edge of the butterfly was damaged from rocks and gravel coming down the penstock during those bad storms when something washes out above. I recall problems with the valve started after a bad storm about 4 years ago. I thought there was a small stick wedged in there, and it got worse after a few more storms, Then after the Winter storm last December when the road washed out up the mountain I got some more junk down the line which beat up the sealing edge even more. You have to be able to turn off 'all' the water in order to service the machine, and it was a real pain in the ass with this leaky old valve.

The replacement one is not so extravagant, and was about a $1000 cheaper. I didn't figure I needed the gear drive job and went for a simpler lever type, I just have to remember not to turn it off too fast. I went up top and connected the penstock line and pulled up the gate valve in the pond to fill the pipe and came down to check for leaks. 

There is 200 psi of water behind that butterfly valve, you wouldn't want to crack it open to peek in there, it would blow you right out the doorway. That remaining section of pipe needs to be lifted up and held there while the bolts get started, a two man job normally. This particular section has never been off all these years, other than once, about a month ago during the last monsoon washout. Pierre and Cody were camped out enjoying the hot spring and made the mistake of asking if there was anything they could 'help' me with. That was a mistake. I decided that would be a good time to drain the penstock, pull off that heavy bloody section of inlet pipe and dive in there and see if we could fix that leaky main valve. 

The poor buggers kneeled in the water and un-did and did-up bolts and fought with the mis-aligned flanges while I stood around telling stories and handing them tools all day, and I made them work right through lunch break until about 3 or 4 in the afternoon before they finally quit en-mass, and departed for their hot spring holiday once more. Turned out the valve was just had 'er, and I started the search for a replacement. I sure did appreciate their help though.

I should have invited them back. One particular old guy just had to manage by himself today of course, and spent the rest of the day layed out on the couch moaning.

The flanges didn't line up, and it was a heavy, awkward job. Worst part was despite wrecking myself in the process, I never did get the damn thing lined up right.

 So first thing today I gimp over there with my sore back 24 hours smarter with a much better idea, and rigged up an overhead attachment for a come-a-long to support it while I figured out what the problem was. Anyways, without getting too technical, the section between the valve and the pelton-wheel is actually two sections mated together with a clamping high pressure sleeve.  I recalled when I installed all this years ago I didn't leave much gap between the two pipes and I suspected some contact there that made it difficult to line up the flanges.

That turned out to be the problem alright, so I hoisted the short stub up on my shoulder and over to the shop and bucked off 3/4 of an inch with the cutting torch and ground it all down nice like. Being a little smarter than I was a half hour before, I loaded the now shortened flange onto my little wagon, and hauled it back to the pelton-wheel shack on that.

I had to tap out an new gasket for the lower flange, a discarded old drum-head carton works just fine.

It fell into place almost and all 16 big bolts lined up nicely, and that come-a-long was a hell of an improvement. I can't turn the valve on and test for leaks quite yet, theres some more work I need to do on the pelton-wheel.  

Without getting too technical again, this part is called the 'stream deflector'. If all is is not well with the water supply or the electrical system, a solenoid releases a weighted arm that turns the deflector into the stream of high pressure water that runs the pelton-wheel, stopping its propulsion.  It rides on a couple of nylon bearings I installed a season or two ago, but they leaked water like hell all over the floor in there. I got that problem fixed (I hope) with my secret process I'm not ready to divulge here yet. In my fartings around with the stainless steel deflector assembly, I dropped it down into the lower sump with a splash, and spent a good hour with my head and a flashlight stuck in there trying to fish it out with a long hooked rod. 

Well, I think I got all my little down time fixes done I need to. The new generator sits in the back of my pickup, and you are probably wondering why I'm in no big panic to get it installed. Turns out the factory improved that model generator with a larger input shaft than the old one, and the original coupler no fit no more. A new drive coupler flange between the pelton-wheel and the generator was ordered and flown out from Edmonton and put on the Greyhound for Pemberton. I'll pick it up when I go in for a dentist appointment Saturday. (I hope)

So in the meantime, I've had the leisure time to do some much needed repairs and improvements. 

Maybe I'll get around to loosely install the generator later tomorrow. 

But there is one more nasty, awkward, and creepy job to do that I left until last. 

I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow, ...if I'm still here.