Death Valley Dreams
When Rain Becomes Religion
We’re Due For a Wet Cycle
There. I said it. Please don’t beat me up. I have the same muddy flashbacks from 2012 and 2019 as you. I was there, man. We’ve all seen things we can’t unsee.
In November 2012, my Uncle Dupee and I dug, scraped, kicked, and cried in the saturated gumbo pert near until the Thanksgiving turkey was carved and resting on the table.
Dig a hundred feet. Stop and clean for twenty minutes. Rinse and repeat for a month. I don’t know if my body will ever release the traumas of 2012.
I’m not quite ready to look back into the eyes of 2019. I doubt I’m alone when I say the wounds are too fresh. We can leave that band-aid on and talk about it when you’re ready, son.
This summer, there are probably a few areas that have had short periods of being too wet. Usually, a few scattered places get a relief shower or two, but this year they look to be few and far between.
As one of my favorite local personalities often says, she’s damn dry out there. Has been for a while now. Since that hellish fall of 2019, it’s mostly leaned toward the dry side, climaxing (hopefully) with the driest I’ve ever seen in 2023.
The older generation, my upperclassmen, often point out that 1980 was far drier, and let’s not forget the legend of 1988 when the grasshoppers were larger than the heads of wheat. Since I was only four years old and not much taller than the hoppers in 88, I tend to omit the drouthy years of the 80s from my library of comparisons.
I’m not that old, but four decades is a long time. To say I’ve never seen it this dry is a bold statement, especially when it’s not the hyperbole one typically hears from a farmer. In most cases, nobody’s more guilty of amplifying the negative than myself.
It’s never going to rain again! It’s hopeless! We’re screwed!
I lose sight of the big picture and say shit like that all the time. There’s a possibility that this extremism laid the foundation for my second divorce. This year, however, it’s legit. I doubt I’m going to get a lot of arguments from the gallery.
It. Is. Fucking. Dry.
And somehow, our crops are hanging on, considering we’re halfway through our short growing season and sitting at a frustrating 43% of average rainfall, counting this week’s big soaker.
Though some areas still have potential, the bulk of the spring wheat isn’t looking too promising, especially the early planted stuff that cooked in the May heat.
In my experience, few statements have held more valid than “rain makes grain,” especially regarding a wheat crop. The best spring wheat crops I’ve grown have come in years when we spend May and June in hip waders draining water from fields, and it doesn’t hit eighty degrees for the first time until the Fourth of July.
An old farmer I used to work with always told me the only way to a big crop is with a few drowned-out spots.
I’d love more than anybody to be wrong about this, but four inches of rain and enough heat to push us 200 growing-degree days ahead of average doesn’t cut the mustard, especially with cool-season crops like wheat. Aside from a few outlier fields, the wheat bushels aren’t there this year.
What potential remains lies now with the row crops, but that is fading faster than a father at his kid’s piano recital. With ninety-plus degrees forecasted for the next few days, crops will get pushed to the max. Without a drink, there’ll be curtain calls for many fields.
The last thing I want to do is get too down and mopey on you. I’m trying this new thing called positivity on for size, so here goes:
They say it’s always darkest before dawn. I'm not yet declaring a depression-style dust bowl for the Red River Valley. Things can change. We can go from desert to swamp in hardly any time at all.
August rains can turn soybean disasters into bin busters. Sugar beets can rack up tons quickly with moisture, dog-day August heat, and a decent September.
To wrap things up, there is still a lot of growing season left. A lot of things can change. My favorite weather forecaster, Eric Snodgrass with Nutrien Ag, tells us the pattern is trying to change. Time will tell whether or not he’s right about the valley catching some rain in the next ten days.
Regardless, I’m strapped in and going down with this ship, but gosh darn it, Martha, we need it now.
Here’s to hoping we all get a drink soon. Cheers.