The plow's first foray, during the storm at the beginning of December.
They even turned on the flashing orange light.
Hard to see, but Primo is riding shotgun and grinning like mad.
My husband moved it late yesterday afternoon, only to find that the plow wasn't working properly. Sure enough, another problem: dry rot in the only hydraulic line that hadn't been replaced by the previous owner.
This is what we have learned about snow plows so far: they require a lot of care and handling. We have also learned to be very, very grateful for mechanically-inclined friends.
Deceptive little buggers.
I was dispatched this morning to get a new hydraulic line. In case you ever find yourself in this situation and have as little knowledge as we do about hydraulic lines: it turns out that you can march into your neighborhood automotive store, give them the busted line, and they will make a new one exactly like the old one for you, while you wait. I had no idea such a thing was even possible, but it astonished the heck out of me. American retail has evolved into such a DIY enterprise that I am constantly at the mercy of my own knowledge, or lack thereof. To have someone take the problem in hand and solve it for me was vastly comforting.
Except he didn't exactly solve it. His best guess on one of the fittings was slightly off, and I had to drive back to the store so he could replace it with the correct size. But we're all good now.
Snow plow locked, loaded, and ready for action.
My husband and I both came to the same stark, shocking, sobering realization this morning: this sort of thing is very nearly at an end. I start a new job next Monday. As of that moment, my days from Monday through Thursday are at the mercy of someone else besides the gods of entropy that inhabit this farm. Problems are definitely going to loom that much larger as a result.