Tractor Travails Out At Three-Geese Farm

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I set off into the woods astride Little Red, our tractor, a few weeks ago. Nearly two months of no rain made it possible to bushhog around the fence lines at the back of Three Geese Farm without fear of getting stuck in the mud. It is largely bottomland acreage there, a chunk of it in a 100-year flood plain.

The weeds were above my head, making mowing rather exciting. I had no idea what I was about to run over and often hopped off the tractor to visually check before forging ahead. I have a healthy fear of getting stuck out in the Back 40 and having to sell a kidney to pay someone to tow Little Red out. I mowed for about three hours, decided it was time for a lunch break and diesel refill. After devouring a wrap and filling Little Red back up with diesel, I hopped on and turned the key.

Nothing. Zip. Nada. The dash and gauge lights came on, but the starter would not turn over. Thus began the odyssey that preceded Halloween and temporarily threatened to leach into Thanksgiving. My primary tractor advisers are little brother Gregg and my brother-in-law, Jim. Both know far more about tractors than I do. Actually, Pancho the Donkey likely knows more than me. At age 25 he has been around tractors longer than me. But Pancho was not any help. He just brayed.

Since my early 20s, I have steadfastly avoided anything to do with internal combustion engine, better known in the case of tractors as infernal confusion engines. This wisdom comes from bitter experience. While in graduate school at UT-Austin, I changed the oil in our Toyota Corolla before we made a trip back Behind the Pine Curtain. I noticed after doing so, that the oil reservoir filled up to overflowing. Oh, well, I thought. Maybe I put in a bit too much. It will blow out the tailpipe. That was not the most climate-conscious thought that has crossed my mind.

The transmission broke apart in Taylor, about 45 miles northeast. I had accidentally drained the transmission, not the engine crankcase. That was an expensive lesson for a broke graduate student to learn. Since then I rely on mechanics and oil-change places.

I can’t do that with the tractor. It is way too expensive to haul the tractor to a repair place. Gregg was a diesel mechanic in the Marines. He was my first Facetime call.

Trying to fix an electrical problem on a tractor via Facetime can be daunting. I flipped the camera phone around and tried to point it where Gregg directed. Invariably, he was looking at a blurry image of the bottom of the tractor hood. “Turn the phone sideways,” he would order. I think he enjoys ordering his big brother around. I enjoy having someone who knows about tractors ordering me around.

To that point, I had replaced the battery terminals (with Jim’s help); several fuses and relays; pulled the ignition switch to inspect with a newly purchased multimeter; and bought a new battery. None of this had any effect on anything save my bank account.

On Sunday afternoon, I decided to conduct a “Hold my beer” moment. My first vehicle was a 1954 Dodge, a tank of a car inherited from my dad, who got it from his dad, who bought it brand-new. The car was a year older than me, with a hydrostatic transmission (like Little Red), and could comfortably seat eight teenagers. The starter of that tank quit working, and I had not saved enough money to have it replaced. Somebody taught me to jump-start it by placing a screwdriver across the starter terminals. Sparks would alarmingly fly about, raising the possibility of a fuel explosion, but I was 16 and fearless. And clueless.

I decided, a half-century later, to try the same with Little Red in hopes of being able to get the bushhog unattached from the PTO and the tractor parked in the shop. I decided it was best not to include my Beautiful Mystery Companion in these plans, to alleviate worries. I turned on the ignition, pushed down on the brake pedal (which has a safety switch) and, while wearing thick rubber gloves, put the screwdriver across the terminals. Sparks indeed did fly about, but this being a diesel engine, the danger was less. (I really was not drinking beer at the time.)

On the third heart-stopping attempt, Little Red’s engine started up. There are few sounds sweeter to a beleaguered hobby farmer than a tractor’s engine catching on, that low rumble of the diesel engine. I quickly pulled off the bushhog and got the tractor in the shop, then threw a Hail Mary pass and called a fellow who has a small garage in Upshur County. He had done a fantastic job with our since-sold 1965 Ford F-100. He also works on tractors.

The fellow planned to be in Longview Monday afternoon and stopped by to check on Little Red. He pulled out a probe, yanked the dashboard cover, hooked the probe’s leads here and there and figured out in 30 minutes or so that debris was blocking the hot ignition wire from reaching the starter. (That is what he said. Of course, I was clueless.) Sure enough, Little Red started right up. He put everything back together and declined payment, though I insisted on giving him some cash. That mechanic saved me a bunch of time and money, since I was about to order a nonrefundable starter and solenoid.

Next time, Little Red quits running, I know who I am going to call if brother Gregg and I can’t fix it over FaceTime.

Now I can get back to bushhogging.

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