Muckin' about

I admit to a certain degree of lethargy. At least it appears that I'm lazy, lacking discipline in the 'shoulds' while readily seeking distraction (which makes me question my child-raising skills in as much as I used to say "75% of discipline is distraction," thereby avoiding the rod but twice, once for each, in their more formative years). But I digress.

This December had promised to be a record dry month. Having received a mere .10" of rain through the equinox when we should have closer to a full 8", I was not alone in the fret. The last two days have fixed that problem to the tune of at least 7 more inches and a few lingering showers until tomorrow morning. The bulk of it came last night and today, and as one might suspect, caused a couple issues, meaning that I would have to put aside my surfing and such.

The seasonal pond is over its bank on one side, spilling into the yard and drowning moles. The mounds are percolating and underground tunnels are now earthen hoses. Of course, the sub-surface rivulets are subject to erosion and are becoming little ditches, one of which is making its way across the driveway to the barns and mules pasturing. We'll get some 3/4 gravel tomorrow and fix it.

What pasture there is left, especially around the trough, feeding area and shelter, is badly puddled. Between the mud, ponding and trickles, there was need to dig some small trenches to facilitate drainage, which is what the mule owners and I did this afternoon.

But first, we needed to eyeball-survey the grade to plan out our course. To do that, one needs to get a little distance from the site, which was my self-appointed duty, so I stepped out of the paddock to a somewhat overgrown area between the fence and the barn and onto a board with a nail pointed north.

No worry, as it seems that I still have a little spring in my step, and even though my boots are no longer waterproof, I received only a small bruise. The digging proceeded unabated.

The effected area of the paddock is draining nicely. Tuesday, we'll dump and spread seven yards of hog fuel.

Oh, and the brand of those boots? Muck, of course. (Pictured are my new ones.)