The next morning, Floyd unpacked a theodolite and a hardwood tripod—old-school gear that had once belonged to his father. The tripod had come first, followed by a level and staff when funds allowed. The theodolite was the final addition—expensive, but worth it.

  Floyd had helped his father with surveying jobs when he was a kid. Muddy construction sites, soggy boots, and his dad’s voice saying, “Hold the staff over there.” Later, he’d put those skills to serious use during his time with the Corps of Engineers.

  The tripod was solid, built of dense timber, not the lightweight alloy kind you saw these days.

  He set up and began surveying.

  The creek ran through a deep, wide gulley—ideal. A five-meter weir would hold back plenty of water without backing up all the way to the bridge. And, as a bonus, he could stock the pool with trout.

  Satisfied with his calculations, Floyd drove into town to price materials using Oddball’s phone.

  “Slightly cheaper than I expected,” he said, hanging up.

  He began placing orders.

  The reinforcing steel would arrive in two days. That gave him just enough time to divert the creek and get the base poured before the rains arrived.

  Two long days followed. Pickaxe, shovel, wheelbarrow—relentless manual labour. Floyd was fit, but this reminded him of military training: hard graft and aching muscles. Still, the channel was dug and the water diverted.

  The reinforcing bars arrived on schedule. He began shaping and binding them into place using stainless steel wire. The rebar grid grew, one section at a time.

  Next came the formwork. Floyd used old decking boards and roof timbers as shuttering, building it in levels—pour a section, let it set, strip the shuttering, build the next.

  Deliveries of cement, sand, and crushed stone began to arrive. Floyd started mixing and pouring concrete—just like when he was a kid helping his dad, only this time the scale was enormous.

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  Oddball came out one evening to check on progress.

  “Bloody hell, Floyd, you’ve got your work cut out here,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I should be finished before the rain starts,” Floyd replied, trying to sound optimistic.

  That night, Oddball rang Frank.

  The next morning, Frank returned—this time with another man, Jack, and a concrete mixer.

  “Oddball said you could use a hand,” Frank said. “The job we were on finished early. The mixer and the two of us are free for a few day—reasonable rates.”

  “Thanks, lads. What I saved on materials, you can have.”

  “Alright then,” said Jack, clapping his hands. “Let’s get stuck in.”

  They made great progress. For three days, they poured level after level. Only the final two feet remained when Frank and Jack had to head off.

  Floyd decided to give the weir a more natural look—he’d set large stones into the top level, embedded in the final concrete pour. The stones were locked in with rebar and wire before the last of the mix went in.

  Oddball had delivered the turbine last week.

  When he showed up, there was a large cardboard box sitting on top of the turbine crate. Symbols, codes, “This Way Up,” and an umbrella printed on the side. In bold text: “Complete Meal Ready to Eat.”

  “One turbine and a box of MREs,” Oddball said.

  “What do I want MREs for? I’ve got food.”

  Oddball grinned. “Are you forgetting your training, soldier? Be prepared. You never know how long the winter’ll last up here.”

  Floyd laughed. “You’re right. Can’t argue with local knowledge.”

  While the top layer of concrete cured, Floyd and Oddball positioned the turbine. It was awkward and heavy—definitely a two-man job.

  Once the turbine was in place, Floyd removed the top-level shuttering. The sluice gate and the turbine inlet valve remained closed.

  Then he filled in the diversion trench and let the creek resume its course. The water began to rise, slowly forming the weir pool.

  There was no noise now from the waterfall. It would take time for the water to reach the overflow height—but that was fine.

  With the weir pool rising, Floyd turned to the next task: firewood.

  He got out his 24-inch Stihl chainsaw. It roared to life with a familiar comfort.

  There were two fireplaces in the house—a large one and a smaller one—and a wood-burning stove in the kitchen with hotplates and a small oven. Plenty of windfall trees lay scattered around the property—seasoned, dry, and perfect for fuel.

  He cut, split, and stacked the wood on the front and rear verandas and inside the outbuildings. The piles grew. Winter would be no joke up here.

  The water behind the weir rose inch by inch.

  Floyd bought a couple of dozen fingerling trout and released them into the pool. Each evening, he’d toss in a few handfuls of feed and watch them dart and swirl in the water.

  In the house, he installed a back boiler behind the large fireplace to provide hot water for washing and heating. Then he moved through the floor, replacing the worst of the damaged boards, section by section.

  The place was starting to feel like home.