Millet Sample

     I thought I planned ahead.  I did a Mapquest and a Google map Sunday evening.  Hind sight being twenty-twenty, I could see where I went wrong.

      I painstakingly followed the instructions, “Turn left here, go X number of miles, turn right here for X number of miles, etc.”  The peanut butter jar on the seat beside me contained millet.

     On Sunday, it warmed up enough to trek out to the grain bin with probe and jar in hand.  The sun was shining, but the southeast wind bit wherever it found bare or barely covered skin.
    Gathering a sample took some time.  The old probe has only two holes in the business end, and the ramrod holds about a tablespoon worth of grain.  It took several jabs through the “window” behind the bin door to fill the four-pound peanut butter jar.  It was too cold and icy to even think about trying to get a sample from the lids on top of the grain bin.

      So here I was, Monday, out in the middle of nowhere, some fifteen miles north of Highway 14 a dozen or so miles west of Sterling.  “Turn right, your destination is 1.5 miles on Road 13.”  Road 13 was a cow trail with some snow filling the two wheel tracks.

     For an instant, I thought the GPS would laugh and say “April Fools.”  Complicating matters, the gas gauge was challenging the quarter mark.  Experience told me it goes from a fourth to empty a lot faster than it goes from full to three quarters.   

     Stopped in the middle of the road, I recalculated.  No way was I going down road 13 in my little light-in-the–rear pickup.  Besides, a grain-handling facility should be visible for miles in this flat land, with tall bins and elevator shafts extending above them.  I had been looking for the last five or six miles.  Nothing to see.

      In pilot training, when you are lost, you contact someone on the radio and “confess”.  You outright admit you don’t know where you are or how to get where you are going.  That’s pretty hard for a pilot, that icon of self-confidence and independence, to admit.

     I called Garren.  “I’m trying to find your facility, but I think I’m on a wild-goose chase.”

     “Where are you?”

     “Road 56 and 13, north of Highway 14.”

     “Oh, did you use GPS?”

     “Yes.”

     “Yeah, that happens.  You’re not the first one to be misled.  Somehow, they take you way out of the way.”

      That was comforting.  Misery loves company.  The grain facility was less than a half mile north of Highway 14.  I was at least 15 miles north of 14.  That quiet little voice of memory (getting quieter every year) seemed to say that Rob, former owner of the place, told me he was “just off Highway 14.”  Had I checked the website, I would have got a lot better directions than from Google or Mapquest.

      “Call me again when you get back to 14,” Garren said.  I did.  About six miles further east on 14 brought me to the River.  “Turn north on Road 15 right after you cross the bridge.”

     I did.  I was there in ten minutes from where I made the first wrong turn off of 14.  Garren took my sample and tested it.  It was dry, 9% moisture.  It weighed ok.  The biggest drawback was the wild buckwheat seed in it.  Hard to get out, he said.  Still, he was quite interested.

     He couldn’t take it until summer.  “May, June at the latest?” I asked.  “I need the bin for wheat harvest, if there is one.”  He thought that might be possible.  He’ll get back to me. 

     That’s never good news.  I’ve waited decades for some folks to get back to me. 

     Speaking of bad news, I decided to get to the now-first priority, having delivered the grain sample.  “How far do I have to go to find a gas station?”

      “Sterling is about 12 miles.  It’s the closest.”

     “How far going west?  How far is Fort Collins?”

       “About 80 miles.”  Can’t make that.  “Briggsdale has a fuel place.”  I might be able to make that. 

     Out I set, deciding to head west rather than go another 25 miles out of my way to fuel up.  At Briggsdale, I saw a truck-fueling place, but it didn’t look like it had gasoline.  The yard wasn’t paved.  It was on the brink of freezing, but it was still pretty muddy.

    I checked the gas gauge.  It was still between one-fourth and empty.  The sign said 17 miles to Ault.  On I went.  It was beginning to snow.  I still had three hours of daylight left if I had to walk.

      I stopped in Ault.  I paid $2.59 per gallon for enough regular gas to get me home.  Mission accomplished, sort of.  I made the trip.  I saw a lot of country new to me.  I did not have to take a walk carrying a gas can.

      Maybe I have a market for my millet.