LAKE CLARK -- Just before the equinox, when the sun first starts to relinquish its introverted winter ways, the robins that will pull up grasses and collect twigs along the lakeshore are still tweeting at each other on some distant patch of greenery. They haven't even filed flight plans yet. But the first hint of heat from that bright ball in the sky is transformative. Even when part of my morning ritual still includes melting frost from the foam outhouse seat, I think of spring -- and running water.
It's not that refilling the cistern under the cabin and the hot water tank in the loft are awful chores, but I long for an unlimited supply of fresh water. I can hardly wait to climb the creek, scoop out pebbles and debris, and form a pool deep enough to submerge my makeshift intake funnel. It's not a fancy setup -- usually just a syrup container or a small plastic vitamin bottle, with the bottom cut out and screened over. The funnel is attached to an irrigation hose that runs 300 feet down the hill to the cabin. It's a basic but functional system, known as gravity-feed, based on the deceptively complex principle once issued from the lips of a hydrologist I heard give a talk: Water tends to flow downhill.
The only pull of nostalgia I get from leaving the winter water system behind is mothballing our old-fashioned pitcher-pump until the next fall. Over the years, the pump has been patched by welds, repainted and has seen more replacement gaskets than the old 1967 Rambler station wagon that was my first car.
Creaking and squeaking
The pump was ancient 25 years ago when a family friend, John, passed it on to me. John is gone now, but the creaking and squeaking of the pump through the winter months reminds me of how that man could dance -- cutting a rug like nobody's business well into his golden years.
In spring, our bathhouse will be in full flow, too. I sometimes call that building The Chapel. My wife, Anne, and I framed it one summer almost 23 years ago -- and weeks after we smacked the last nail and unhitched our tool belts, we were married in it, just as the sockeyes were showing up in our bay.
Now a stove in The Chapel supplies hot water to a shower and laundry sink. That stove was the inspiration of our neighbor, Chuck Hornberger. His creation consists of two steel containers, one sleeved over the other with the two welded together. The space between the tanks serves as the water reservoir. The brilliance of Chuck's design is that virtually all the BTUs generated inside the firebox go to heating the water.
It's far more efficient than copper coils or even a water jacket. In less than an hour, 30 gallons of water are warm enough for showers. According to Chuck, the tanks for the stove came from a farm in Wasilla and were hauled to the north shore of Lake Clark by Bush plane. "Somebody's junk -- just lying around," he quipped. In this case, turning junk into treasure is an Alaska heritage I am proud to be part of.
Of course, I know the luxury of running water for sinks and the shower will be short-lived.
Formidable chunk
Normally, a mid-October freeze-up dictates that I drain the line for winter. Then, every two to three weeks until spring, I snake hoses from the creek uphill to our cabin, then sashay down to the babbling brook with my small gas pump. In less than half an hour, the reservoirs are topped off and I drain and store the equipment until next time.
Unless there is ice in the creek. Then I chop and hack the frozen surface away, slip a steel pipe in as a spout, and aim the spout's nose at a tub or bucket to keep the water clean of gravel.
Unless the creek is glaciated. Every once in a frozen moon, during an enduring cold spell, water flows on top of the ice and freezes in a big way. A glacier is formed -- never quite worthy of an application to Geologic Place Names, but still, a formidable chunk that I'm not interested in tackling. Rather than look for a crevasse with a river that runs through it, I just lug the pump and hoses up the creek and start anew.
Operating on the basic principles of gravity and convection, our water system's simplicity is something Anne and I appreciate almost as much as water itself. In summer, the mountain creek also flows in a gurgling rush around coolers brimming with food.
A dependable and easy-to-access water supply is, for us, the key to comfortable Bush living. Other amenities like electricity, television and an indoor toilet -- well, not so much. But in a world where a billionaire can buy up aquifers and fracking can turn tap water into flames, pristine water flowing through our property and through our lives is an unfathomable gift.
Steve Kahn lives on the north shore of Lake Clark. He is the author of "The Hard Way Home: Alaska Stories of Adventure, Friendship and the Hunt."