Frigid Temps, A Couple of Filters, and a Feeling of Triumph

"Well, you are a real farmer," my friend David responded when I let him know I wouldn't need his help after all.  Despite the fact that legitimate farmers everywhere are cringing from the association, I appreciate the affirmation.  I am rather proud of myself as well.

This week -- the week of almost a foot and a half of snow; the week of the heaviest snow fall this year, and quite possibly the heaviest in several years -- my tractor decided to sleep in.  This would be the lawn tractor to which in winter is attached the 48" snow blower acquired for just such a week as this.  Usually it roars into life and snaps right to work, doing anything I ask it to do...within reason.  But Monday morning, having suited up in full snow prophylactic gear and waded through the drifted tundra to the barn, I raised the overhead door, backed the tractor out with a roar and got half way through the job when it began to sputter and shutter and cough and belch out black smoke.  Power plummeted, and after repeated attempts to power through the problem, I finally limped the equipment back inside.

I scratched my head. I consulted friends.  We speculated that the diesel had turned to gel in the cold.  I tried again the next day but was met with more of the same.  Coughing myself, now, from the diesel exhaust I called the service department and explained my plight.  "You and everybody else," the man chuckled.  "When did you buy your fuel," he asked.

I don't keep track of such things.

"Well, you might still be using summer blend."

Entirely possible.  Who knew I was supposed to be emptying my tanks with the seasons?

He said a lot of other things about gel, additives, waxy buildup, ice crystals, etc., but most of it went over my head.  I know a few things about the New Testament but very little about Kubotas beyond turning the key.  He advised that I replace the fuel filters -- both of them.  Yes, it turns out that there are two.  "The good news is that they are cheap."

I wasn't sure that was adequate consolation,  "How much is the technician who comes home with me to put them in?"

More chuckling.

I wasn't kidding.

"Seriously, you expect someone like me, with a total dearth of mechanical prowess, to accomplish this task?"

He asked for a translation.

"You think an idiot like me can do this?"

"Well, probably" he responded without a whole lot of confidence.

That's when I contacted David to see if he could help.  David knows about such things.  Charitably he agreed.

Yesterday, then, I circled by the dealership, picked up my two two cheap filters along with every kind of fuel treatment in the shop, returned home, took a deep breath and mustered up resolve to make an attempt.  Less than an hour later I emerged from the barn smelling like a refinery, a little contorted from having to stand on my head and pretzel my arms into spaces not designed for human access, but smiling and triumphant.  I had actually done it.

By myself.
Without breaking anything.
Without profanity.
OK, without much profanity.

Somehow, while simultaneously thumping my chest and patting myself on the back, I managed to pour some of the fuel treatment into the tank for good measure before returning to the house to trumpet my success to my long-suffering and ever-encouraging wife.  And to fire off an email letting David off the mechanical hook.

That's when he maligned the fraternity of farmers by including me among their numbers.  Never mind.  I'll accept the compliment even if it's only momentarily deserved.

Last night I stopped at a station and refilled the can with fresh diesel -- winter blend this time -- and today we'll see what happens.  It's only 8 below zero this morning.  What could possibly go wrong?