Having a home in the woods is certainly a learning experience. One interesting fact about living all the way at the top of a mountain in a forest, is that your local government probably does not have the resources to provide you with the same sort of infrastructure as you might be accustomed to in a city or a town. In other words, it's easy to tie a bunch of electrical wires to a pole and string it up a winding road, but not so simple when it comes to gas lines or sewer systems. The expectation is that on these last two fronts, you fend for yourself. I suppose I should be grateful for running water - some of the neighborhoods around us are still using wells.
The adventure began roughly 3 days ago. Staci woke up to a bad smell in the house. Her immediate thought was that it was some sort of gas leak, and she called me for some advice. Well, I've read the warning labels on the outdoor propane tank by our house. If your house smells of propane, you exit the premises post haste. You don't flip a light switch to get a better look, you don't smoke a quick cigarette to calm your nerves, you just leave. However, the first thing Staci tells me is that the pilot light is still on for the wall heater in the living room. Odd, I thought, since the house certainly would have blown up in that case. I told her to check downstairs and see if the pilot light was on for the water heater too. She came back and said it was still on, and also that the source of the smell was definitely coming from down there. Even more odd, I thought, since propane is heavier than air, the downstairs would have to fill all the way up before we smelt it upstairs. Again... no explosive fiery death with pieces of house raining down into our neighbor's yard.
"Could it be the septic system?" I asked her. Staci grew up in a neighborhood with septic tanks, and she's experienced the rather unique smell of an overflow. "Oh no no no," she said, "I guarantee you it's not the septic." I could hear the shudder in her voice, and I prayed we never had a septic problem. "OK," I said, "open the downstairs door and leave it propped open so it'll air out down there. I'll see if I can figure out what's wrong when I get home." This was definitely the typical male response. My knowledge of gaslines and water heaters pretty much ends once I light the pilot. After that I can poke around with a flashlight and nod appreciatively. But that's it.
When I got home that night, I did just that. The pilot light was *not* lit as Staci had thought, so I decided that the whole terrible smell/gas/problem was coming from one tiny blown out pilot light. I patted myself on the back for a great bit of detective work, and carefully followed the instructions for re-lighting it. I later deduced that the pilot light *was* lit when I investigated, and that I actually turned it off myself whilst poking around with the flashlight. I tell you this now, so that you fully understand just how clueless I am about this sort of thing.
At about 2am that night, Staci awakened me from a dead sleep to tell me that the gas smell had returned, and it was worse than ever. I was really really pleased to discover that I could actually sleep through a smell that was warning me of my impending asphyxiation. Perhaps the smoke alarm would awaken me after the house had exploded? I threw on some clothes and coughed my way into the living room. Only to discover that the wall heater was on. ON! Enough blue flame to keep my back toasty warm while I suffocated to death in a room full of UNIGNITED PROPANE!!?! Luckily I was too sleepy to question the impossibility of this. I went downstairs to investigate the water heater. The pilot light was glowing happily underneath, just like it's supposed to. I turned it off and relit it - no change. I angrily and defiantly lit a match and waved it around on the floor. I uttered a string of curses that dared something to explode. Finally, the rather intense reality of me being severely underdressed for outside at 2AM on the top of a mountain began to seep into my extremities. I left the room open to the outside (to once again air out), rushed back upstairs, turned off the wall heater (just in case), and climbed back into the nice warm bed mumbling something to Staci about calling a technician in the morning since it didn't seem life threatening. Staci accepted my rationale, which she shouldn't have under the circumstances, but luckily I was right.
The next morning brought a fresh perspective. "When," I asked myself, "was the last time anyone filled our propane tank?" "2 months ago," I answered. "How long did it take to empty out before that," I asked myself. "3 months," I answered warily. "Part of that time was during summer, wasn't it?" I hinted to myself. "hmmmmm...." I thought back noncommittally. A quick trip out to the tank revealed that my suspicions were correct. The little dial was pinned on "E". We'd burned up all of our propane ahead of schedule, for the noble cause of keeping warm in the winter. It was simultaneously both a relief and a frustration. I went in and woke Staci with the good/bad news. "Honey, the house is out of gas, and I don't think I can push it to the nearest station."
A call to our propane supplier verified that we were never in any danger. It turns out that the odorant that they add to propane (propane is naturally odorless) is even heavier than the gas, so when you get to the dregs of the tank that odor gets very very concentrated. This means you can smell it even when the fuel is being consumed. So it was just the smell that was filling the house and not the propane at all. PHEW! Within 24 hours of my call, we had gas service restored.
I won't trouble you with the horrors of living for almost 2 days with no hot water. That's a story best left untold.
The picture on the left, is a shot taken shortly after we moved into the house... late August. Note the merry little creek that our street is named after. I've seen duckies in that little burbling brook! So cute!!
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