Numbers.
Erin visited the farm in mid-May.
She walked the proposed field.
Checked elevations.
Reviewed the well test.
The well produced approximately 430 gallons per minute under current conditions.
Less than Caleb hoped.
Still usable.
The biggest limitation was not flow alone.
It was that the pump and existing system had been configured for different operating conditions.
A licensed irrigation contractor would need to ensure whatever connection Caleb used was safe and would not damage the pump.
Erin refused to let him improvise around pressure control.
“Water under pressure does not care that you're creative.”
Caleb nodded.
“You use rated fittings.”
“Proper valves.”
“Backflow protection where required.”
“Someone qualified checks the connection.”
“Yes.”
“No homemade explosion machine.”
“Yes.”
Luke laughed.
“I like her.”
Caleb did not.
At least for ten seconds.
A local contractor named Mason Webb inspected the setup.
He had installed irrigation systems for twenty-seven years.
When Caleb explained the plan, Mason scratched his gray beard.
“You could do it.”
Caleb smiled.
Mason held up one hand.
“I didn't say you should.”
“Why not?”
“Labor.”
“Leakage.”
“Field isn't laser leveled.”
“You'll have variable advance time.”
“Also, these gates are junk.”
Caleb looked offended.
“They're used.”
“They’re junk.”
Mason kicked one lightly.
“This one doesn't close.”
“I can replace the gate.”
“Yes.”
“Do that about eighty times.”
Caleb looked at Luke.
Luke smiled.
“Still love experts?”
“No.”
Mason laughed.
Then became serious.
“Boy, here's the thing.”
“You're not competing against a new pivot.”
“You don't have a new pivot.”
“You're competing against dryland production or buying feed.”
Caleb nodded.
“That’s why this might make sense.”
Mason agreed to help design a proper connection from the existing well discharge to the low-pressure distribution setup.
He charged for materials.
Donated most of his labor after Luke tried to refuse charity.
Mason corrected him.
“This isn't charity.”
“I want to see whether the kid floods your place.”
The system they built was ugly.
There was no better word.
Salvaged aluminum gated pipe ran along the head of three separate zones.
Different manufacturers.
Different shades.
Some nearly white.
Some dull gray.
Some carrying faded farm names written in marker from decades earlier.
New gaskets stood out black against old couplers.
Sections too damaged to use became spare material.
Each irrigation zone fed shorter furrows rather than the long runs Caleb first imagined.
Erin recommended this because infiltration and slope made the longer runs harder to manage efficiently.
They also installed basic flow measurement.
Nothing sophisticated.
Enough to estimate how much water each section received.
Caleb marked gates.
Numbered sets.
Created a notebook.
Date.
Zone.
Start time.
End time.
Flow.
Advance time.
Runoff observations.
Soil moisture before.
Soil moisture after.
Luke looked at the notebook.
“Farming used to involve plants.”
“Plants still involved.”
“I haven't seen one yet.”
The field was seeded in late May.
Forage sorghum-sudangrass hybrid.
Caleb wanted corn initially because he imagined tall green rows proving everyone wrong.
Erin vetoed that thinking.
“You're choosing a crop for Instagram.”
“I don't use Instagram.”
“Whatever teenagers destroy their confidence with now.”
“Forage sorghum fits the objective better.”
Luke agreed.
They planted twelve acres.
Not fourteen.
Two acres stayed outside the system as comparison and because water capacity was limited.