See, I’m winning. Her posture screamed. What are you going to do about it, Mr. Mloud. What I was doing was spending my days in my greatgrandfather’s study and my nights in the pump house at the base of the dam. The study was a treasure trove. Angus Mloud was a meticulous recordkeeper. I found his original engineering blueprints for the dam, his handpinned calculations on flow rates, spillway capacity, and structural integrity.
But the most important discovery was his journal. Tucked into a passage from 1,928. I found what I was looking for. He wrote, “The lake reaches its fullest extent at an elevation of 1845 ft above sea level. This is the natural high water mark dictated by the topography of the valley. For safety and recreational use, I have engineered the primary slle gates to maintain the water level at a constant one 838 ft.
However, the integrity of the structure and the spillway is designed to easily withstand the full one 845 ft level in the event of a generational flood. 7 ft. That was the magic number. Seven vertical feet of elevation difference between the lakes’s current artificially maintained level and its true natural shoreline.
7 ft that Angus had engineered as a safety buffer. 7 ft of pure liquid justice. I pulled out my topographical maps and my survey data and started plotting. My own land, including my lodge, was well above the 1850 ft contour line. But the 50 acres Brenda had stolen, the land where her 139 cabins were being hastily erected, it was a gentle, beautiful slope.
The lowest cabin foundations were sitting at 1839 ft. The highest were just shy of 1844 ft. They were all nestled comfortably within my 7- ft buffer. They were all technically in the lake bed. My next step was the dam itself. I had maintained it my whole life as my father had before me. The mechanics were beautifully simple, a testament to 1,920s engineering.
The primary controls for the two main SLLE gates were a pair of massive 36in cast iron wheel valves located in the dry gallery. A concrete tunnel running through the heart of the dam. They were manually operated. Turning those wheels was a workout. It took hundreds of rotations to fully open or close the gates. A deliberate design to prevent accidental or sudden changes in water level.
It was slow, ponderous, and unstoppable. I spent a week down there, inspecting every gear, greasing every fitting, checking the seals. Everything was in perfect working order. A silent, powerful machine waiting for a command. While the HOA was busy pouring concrete, I was preparing my case. I wasn’t just relying on my inherited power. I documented everything.
I set up time-lapse cameras overlooking the construction site. I flew a drone over the area weekly, taking highresolution aerial photographs that clearly showed the cabins being built well below the 1 845- ft contour line, which I had marked on the images. I contacted the state’s Department of Environmental Quality, sending them a report with photos showing the lack of silt fences, the clear cutting of the riparian buffer zone, and the potential for septic runoff from 139 new cabins built without proper permits. They sent Brenda a
notice of violation, which she promptly ignored. She felt invincible. Her lawyers were fighting my injunction in court, burying my attorney in paperwork, delaying and obfuscating. She believed the system would protect her. She failed to understand that I had access to a system far older and more powerful than the county court.
The final piece of the puzzle was legal. I needed to be absolutely certain that my actions would be defensible. My lawyer, a shrewd old country attorney named Sam, was initially a gasast at my plan. You want to do what? he asked, peering at me over his spectacles. But then I laid it all out. The deeds, the riparian rights documents establishing my ownership of the lake bed up to the natural high water mark, Angus’ journal, the topographical survey data.
