Fall Comes to the Cabin

It's fall at the cabin.



I'd been away for almost a month and in that time, the leaves began to turn and fall.



I drove up the lane, holding my breath, looking out at the stream alongside the gravel road and praying the rain had kept things going.





The trees are just beginning to turn. In another 2 weeks it should be truly beautiful.



I reached the cabin first, before Mertis came up to join me. I stepped inside and raced for the potty. I mean, it's an hour and 45 minutes up there...
But the toilet didn't quite flush.

I turned on the tap. Hmmm. Water pressure's down.

I tell myself it's always like this. Okay. Maybe a little slow but things are fine. Really. I unpack, happy to be back in my little utopia.

Then Mertis arrives.

"You know you're out of water?" she asks.

"What?" I look at her like she's nuts. I pretend I don't understand what she's talking about. "No. It's just a little slow."

She walks to the kitchen sink, turns on the tap and as we watch...the water dribbles away to nothing.

"You should turn off the circuit breaker to the pump and the hot water heater." Mertis says this after we stick one of Joe's tepee poles down into the spring box and find only a miserly foot of water left.

I feel as if I'm on a scene in Grey's Anatomy or ER and Dr. Mertis has just turned to me, her face grave and said "Call the time of death, doctor."

It is 6 o'clock on Friday evening, October 19th.

Of course, I have sought second opinions.

I look up spring boxes on the internet. What I read doesn't make me feel better.

A neighbor stopped by and allowed as how this happened one time before. The fire department "loaned" a former owner some water to tide him over until it rained. The neighbor also said that's when the former owner drilled the now-capped well but it was dry or clogged up or something. However, the action of drilling gave the spring box the boost it needed and it revived.

Until now.

"Aww, it's just one of those nasty things," my neighbor says, trying to console me. "It won't break the bank, but it'll take a $5000 chunk out of it."

I think he has a bigger bank than I do.

I walk across the dry crunchy ground and kneel beside the spring box before I leave. I pry the lid away and peer back inside one more time, just in case. But there has been no miracle. The box remains pitifully low. The pump will stay silent.

Global warming has come to the cabin.