Because Alvin had been rotating wheat with building organic matter, keeping the soil healthy, his ground hadn’t been stressed by irrigation and then abandoned. It had been steady all along, and his well, that 42-t hole he dug by hand while everyone laughed, was still pumping. Let me tell you about the morning. Everything changed. August of 1987, the hottest summer in 15 years. No rain since June. The dry land crops were hurting. Alvin’s included. But at least they were alive.
The irrigated crops that still had water were surviving. The ones that didn’t were dead. At 6:00 in the morning, Alvin was at his well filling a stock tank for his cattle when he saw a pickup truck coming up his drive, then another one behind it, then a third. The first truck was Gene Willard, the man whose pivot had gone dry 3 years earlier. He drilled deeper twice, and the second hole had come up empty in June. The second truck was Dale Heinen.
His well had been producing 300 gall a minute in 75. It was producing 40 in 87. The third truck was Lyall Gunderson, the JD dealer, the man who’d called Alvin a museum piece in 1974. Lyall had closed the dealership in ‘ 86. No one was buying equipment when the water was running out. He’d gone back to farming his own ground, put in a center pivot on his quarter section, and watched it go dry in two years. All three trucks had the same thing in the back.
Empty water containers. Alvin stood by his well with a tin cup in his hand and watched the three men get out of their trucks and walk toward him. Nobody said anything for a long time. Finally, Jean Willard spoke. Alvin, we need water for livestock. Our wells are dry. Alvin looked at the three men. He looked at the empty containers. He looked at his well, still producing, still steady, still pumping the same 8 gall a minute had pumped since 1972.
How many head between you? Alvin asked. About 160 total. That’s a lot of water. We know. We’ll pay whatever you want. Alvin shook his head. I don’t want your money. He looked at Lyall Gunderson. I seem to remember you saying I’d be bankrupt in 5 years and you’d be selling my land. Lyall looked at the ground. His face was red. And it wasn’t from the sun. That was a stupid thing to say. Lyall said quietly. I’m sorry.
Alvin let the silence sit for a moment. Then he nodded. Bring your tanks. I’ll fill what I can, but you’re going to have to take turns. This well gives 8 gall a minute, not 800. Patience is part of the deal. He filled their tanks that morning. He filled them the next day and the day after that. For the rest of that summer, Alvin Ducker’s 42 ft handdug well kept 160 head of cattle alive on three farms that had spent 15 years laughing at the man who dug it.
Now, let me tell you about the year that followed. because the water wasn’t the only thing Alvin shared. In the fall of 87, after the heat broke and a few inches of rain finally came, the county extension agent, a young man named Paul Haske, drove out to Alvin’s farm. He’d heard the stories. He wanted to see the well. Alvin showed him, showed him the fieldstone lining, the shallow aquifer, the windmill pump, the 8 gall a minute that had never fluctuated.
Mr. Ducker Paul said, “Do you realize you’re the only operational private water source in the northwest quarter of the county? Every Ogalala well within 6 mi of here is either dry or declining.” I know your well taps a completely different water source. A perched table fed by surface infiltration. It’s sustainable because it recharges annually. I know that, too. Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you share this with the extension service or the water district? Or I tried, Alvin said.
In 72, I left the geological survey report at the co-op. Nobody read it. In 78, I told Gene Willard his well was pulling too much. He told me to mind my own business. In ‘ 82, I went to the water district meeting and asked them to look at the decline numbers. They said the aquafer would last another 50 years. He paused. You can’t help people who think they don’t have a problem. You can only be ready when they figure it out.
Well, Paul Hask sat in Alvin’s kitchen that afternoon and listened to a 66-year-old dryland farmer explain the hydrogeeology of western Kansas in terms that no university professor had ever used. Alvin explained it like this. The Ogalala is like a savings account your greatgrandfather left you. It took 10,000 years to fill. You can spend it fast or slow, but once it’s gone, it’s gone. Nobody alive today will see it refill. A shallow well is like a paycheck. It’s smaller, but it comes back every year.
