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 bush hog 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. 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.
Since my early 20s, I have steadfastly avoided anything to do with internal combustion 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 to East Texas. 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 I have had.
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.
To that point, I had replaced the battery terminals; 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, whose starter quit working. I hadn’t saved enough money to have it replaced. Somebody taught me to jump-start it by placing a screwdriver across the starter terminals. Sparks would 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 tractor parked in the shop. 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.
On the third attempt, Little Red’s engine started up. I quickly got the tractor in the shop, then called a fellow who has a small garage in Upshur County. and 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. 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. 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.