At least, that was the idea.
The engineer from the conservation office had reviewed Clara’s drawing.
“You understand this might not work.”
“Yes.”
“Your wall could breach somewhere else first.”
“I know.”
“The spillway could clog.”
“I know.”
“Sediment might change the hydraulic load.”
“I know.”
“You'll need to be watching it during the first big storm.”
Clara had laughed.
“I plan on standing there.”
The engineer did not laugh.
“Don't.”
Clara remembered that.
Standing there during a failure was stupid.
Clara knew.
But knowing something is stupid does not guarantee a farmer will avoid it.
At 2:11 the following afternoon, the National Weather Service issued a severe thunderstorm watch.
Clara heard it on the kitchen radio.
By three, western clouds were black.
By four, wind began.
Not strong.
Cold.
That scared her more.
All day the temperature had been near one hundred.
Then suddenly the breeze felt almost cool.
Clara stepped outside.
The cattle noticed too.
Heads lifted.
Birds disappeared.
The sky over the western plateau turned dark blue-black.
A wall of rain was visible perhaps twenty miles away.
Clara walked to the barn.
Grabbed shovel.
Raincoat.
Rope.
Flashlight.
Then stopped.
Raincoat useless.
She threw it down.
Better to move freely.
She drove the pickup to the upper meadow.
At the fence, she found four trucks already parked.
Clara stared.
Harvey Boone stood with Earl, Tom, and Silas.
Harvey lifted his hand.
“Afternoon.”
Clara climbed out.
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching history.”
She slammed the door.
“Go home.”
Earl smiled.
“Wouldn't miss it.”
Tom pointed toward the clouds.
“Looks like you're getting your test.”
Clara took the shovel from the truck bed.
“You're standing on high ground?”
Harvey looked around.
“Last I checked.”
“Stay behind the fence.”
His smile faded.
“Why?”
“Because if this fails, that meadow turns into moving mud.”
The men looked downhill.
For the first time, the basins seemed less funny.
Harvey recovered.
“Thought you said your calculations work.”
“I said stay behind the fence.”
Clara walked toward Basin One.
A raindrop struck the dust.
Dark circle.
Another.
Then five.
Then fifty.
Wind hit.
The men pulled hats lower.
Thunder rolled.
Not sharp.
Deep.
Long.
Clara climbed onto the ridge above Basin One.
Rain intensified within seconds.
Dry ground turned spotted brown.
Then uniformly dark.
The smell hit first.
Wet dust.
Hot grass.
Clay.
The smell of rain after months of drought could make a person believe in miracles.
Clara had no time.
Water started moving.
At first in tiny threads.
Then ribbons.
The upper slope had become hydrophobic after months of baking.
Instead of absorbing rain, it shed it.
Exactly as Clara feared.
Exactly as she had designed for.
She watched Basin One.
Runoff entered from three small channels.
Brown water swirled.
The depression filled faster than expected.
Clara checked her watch.
Three minutes.
Too fast.