Black Mesa and swallows

by Brad Nelson

The following column previously appeared in Progressive Hay Grower in July 2001.

The timing of the day had deteriorated to the point that it got dark just before we got loaded. We were loading in the Black Mesa area of Idaho, south of the Snake River, and somewhat southeast of Glenn's Ferry, Idaho. We were about two and a half hours from home and would still make it to bed before midnight. So we thought.

I first saw the Black Mesa from behind the steering wheel of a potato truck. In the late 1960s, the area had just been broken out of sagebrush, and was growing ,taters as big as small melons. Sagebrush, it seems, is related in someway to legumes in that it implants nitrogen in the soil. This makes for monster ,taters, with equally huge yields. The french fry industry loved it, and many an operator thought they had made it to an affluent retirement.

Water for the project was pumped up from the Snake River. Something well over a 200-foot lift. After the second or third year, the soil and yields changed to just plain, ordinary old spud ground with the accompanying problems that require the soil to be rotated out of potatoes for a couple of years. Alfalfa hay was one of the popular choices. This became a three-ring circus. There were a few custom operators who would harvest the hay, but very few who knew how to make it into quality hay.

Then the power rates went way up. And the potato price went way down. A few hardy souls hung on for a few more years, but the distance from water effectively killed the project. The last time I drove through the Black Mesa, there were remnants of potato storage sheds and rusting pieces of potato and hay equipment strung all around. And not just a few range cows, who seemed to be doing rather well.

Our party of hay trucks that night included myself, Norm Trimmell (one of my trucking buddies) and Tom Jensen (a fellow I grew up with and touch bases with occasionally), who was driving John Sherer's truck. (John is one of the best truck mechanics I've known.) After coming off of the hill and approaching Glenn's Ferry, there was a boggy area of the road that the county road people had been working on. The plan was to add gravel and raise the roadbed to make it more stable and forgiving for the increasing truck traffic. Norm had no difficulty, but when I rounded the last corner approaching this stretch of road, it seemed to be filled with boulders. Looking closer, I saw that it was part of Tom's load. The other part was downhill in the wet bog. The good news was that John's truck was still on the road, and on its wheels, as were both trailers. But one trailer was now empty. We couldn't find Tom until all present had promised not to kill him.

After a very short night, and very early rising, most of the next day was spent salvaging what we could of the spilled load. Did you know that a three-tie bale that weighs 135 pounds dry will weigh what seems like half a ton soaked?

At the time of this incident, my wife was helping out at a camp for young women and had arranged for a young lady just a few doors away to stay with our children for the four or five days she would be gone. When I got home the next morning, she asked what time I needed her the next day. When I said four in the morning, she almost freaked out. I told her to just bring her pillow and teddy bear, and go back to sleep on our sofa. The kids would wake her up when they needed something. Still in disbelief, she did show up at four and was pleasant. When her family moved, we all hated it. She was a once-in-a-lifetime babysitter.

Tom moved on to other things. Those other things including owning a rather nice, new truck of his own. Then when his situation changed so that he had to send it out with a hired driver, the first trip resulted in $38,000 in damages to the truck. (I wonder if Tom had trouble finding the driver?)

Norm's day job, before buying a hay truck, had been flying an F-4 fighter aircraft for the U.S. Air Force. He still moves a little “Hot Shot” freight from time to time, if it suits him. John has been both a diesel repair shop owner and trucker. He finds it the least hassle to fix his own truck and be the only one with a chance to break it, too.

And yours truly is given a nominal fee to remember all this stuff, and make it interesting reading, among other things.

A hay hauler called me from the Washington coast some time back from a truck repair facility. He spoke of having been given a quote of almost $5,000 to replace the camshaft in his truck. I told him to have them put in a new cam follower on the bad spot and drive home. Then to learn all about what had happened and what it would take to fix it. And in the meantime to drive the truck as needed to keep his customers in hay. Dan, my son, made a bunch of new friends, sourced out some used parts and bought a couple of new ones. He made a “specialty tool” out of a screwdriver with the use of a vise, an acetylene torch, a pair of pliers and a file. Then he changed the camshaft in his Cat 3406 by himself. He only called me twice to come and hold his hand.

During the repair, my other son Ryan was with me, talking to Dan on the cell phone. Ryan said that Dan wanted to know if I thought he knew what he was doing. I answered back that if I didn't think he could do the job, I wouldn't have talked him into doing the job himself. I believe it was a famous pro football coach who said that it didn't matter if the coach thought the player could do a job or not but that if the coach could make the player think he could do it, then there was no stopping him.

A family of swallows made their home in my storage shed. It's not problem. They eat mosquitoes, which I hate. One windy day, a pair of little swallows had made it out of the nest, but with a gale-force wind blowing, they lacked either the confidence or the ability to fly away. I did my best to herd them out of harm's way, with mommy and daddy swallow very upset with my very presence. Then with baby away from my hazards, I stepped back, and one of the parents flew down and landed beside the baby and gave three loud chirps. Then, son of a gun, baby flew away! Is there a parallel here?

Young men are not aware that old men who have found success generally did not find it with “Plan A” but sometimes with Plan “F,” “K,” “Q” or “W.” Life is like driving through mud – you're not stuck until you stop moving. And being outside using a shovel counts as moving.

I have no idea how much money was made or lost at Black Mesa, but I'm sure some of those involved came away more capable. We cannot control the weather, power prices or hay or potato prices, but we can control our reaction to these changes. Being broke is a temporary inconvenience. Being poor is a state of mind. PD