Take a look at your typical stocktank and tell me what you see. 

Chances are, if you are looking at one similar to what I am looking at, you’ll see a squat round tank with sides about 2 feet tall.  Likely it will be in the 10-12 foot diameter range. 

Looks rather benign doesn’t it.

But let me tell you, these things can turn diabolical in a split second. 

You would never think it, though, just looking on.

I’ve seen these tanks reduce a grown man to tears when he tries to step across the slippery, snot covered rim to the pen just across, and the foot on the rim flies east, into the water, scrapping his shin all the way down as his body and other leg go tumbling off towards the west in a very unmanly way. 

I’ve seen ‘em take the same grown men and hew them down to a huddled mess with raw, chaffed, and freezing hands gripped between their legs, trying to get a little feeling back in some sort of fashion or another, after chunking heavy pieces of ice out. 

I’ve seen men angrily wipe themselves down after some of the black sludge that is so common to the bottom of these things got splattered all up and down their clean corral clothes.

I’ve had one of these tanks giving me the run around for the past two weeks now.  Seems it knew it was farthest from the place, out where the cold wind blows free, and took advantage of that fact.  It froze itself up, which is common enough, but it went one more and froze the waterline feeding it.  I was stuck with only one option: string out several hundred feet of garden hose to fill it in the meantime.  But it must have had a confederacy going with the garden hose, because even though I had carefully drained it in early fall, now it was frozen solid, forcing me to carry said hose into the house, through the house, and to my wife’s bathtub where I could submerge it in hot water.  It came out clean and thawed, the bathtub, not so much.

These tanks have good points, though.  I’ve ran, halfway gagging towards one to wash off some yellowish/green muck that was as foul smelling as anything I had smelled from lancing an infected area on a calf. 

Or, they serve as impromptu swimming pools for little kids and dogs alike. 

I’ve dipped my hat in them on a hot summer day and scooped a bit of that cool water up on my overheated head, bringing instant relief.

I’ll have to take you down to south Texas, though, when it comes to one of my all-time favorite stock tank stories.

My friend Stanlee has lots of these stock tanks on his yard.  He has to, for as many head as he generally runs.

The part of south Texas he lives in doesn’t get cold like some of the rest of the country does, so getting a waterline to your stock tank is sort of an afterthought.  They don’t worry about getting it down below frost line at all.  Their lines are so shallow, they practically lay on top of the ground in some places.

You don’t see huddled messes of men trying to warm their hands up down there very often.

But, that cold spell we had in the spring of ’21 eventually made its way on down south, although it had moderated a lot by the time it got to Stanlee’s ranch.

It had enough cold left to it, though, that it did a bit of sleuthing around and found a few water lines close enough to the surface to wreck its havoc on.  By the time it was all said and done, a number of those lines had fallen prey to its clutches.

Initially it stopped water flow to critical areas where hundreds, if not thousands, of thirsty cattle were accustomed to drink. 

So, all the hands got busy at keeping those calves watered up.

In a couple days, though, once it started warming back up, a new problem presented itself.  Water started flowing again, just not at all where it used to flow, such as down a pipe.  Now it flowed out at random places all throughout the acreage and the hands had a new challenge: Chase down and ferret out these leaks which were causing such a low-pressure situation back at the main tank.

After several days of fighting this war, it looked like the enemy had been pushed back and they were almost to call it a win.

Except for one last tank that still wasn’t getting water to it.

As Stanlee and his hired hand, Tyler, approached it, they noticed it was drunk down to 2, maybe 3 inches of that yucky black scum that is so common to the bottom of these tanks.

Tyler suggested to Stanlee that now would be a good time to tip that tank up and flop it over to get that junk out, and Stanlee agreed.

Now I know exactly what those men were up against, having been there myself.  You get a heave up going, and you think you’ve about got it ready to flop over when the water that drained away from you smacks the other side and come rushing back at you just like the tide going out and coming back in.

I’ve seen men stand there, bug-eyed and puffed-cheeked, doing their level best just to stay steady until the storm dies down and they can finish what they had in mind to begin with.

Bear in mind that it had been cold down there in Texas, and it just might have been that Stanlee happened to have one foot on a frozen, slippery clod.

Clods, in my mind, have the personality of, say, clods.  But they have the patience of Job and the humor of your worst enemy.  This was your ordinary clod that Stanlee was standing on, and it knew it’s day had come. 

As that water smacked the other side and came back with a vengeance, both men set their feet and got ready to ride it out. 

But the clod just laughed, and at the exact moment, let a bit of itself go, just as Stanlee was giving maximum lift.

Both men had the tank at belt level when the clod did its thing.

What happened next was a simple routine of physics set in motion by the clod. 

Stanlee’s feet slid out from under and ran out behind him since he was straining mightily up and forward against the tank. 

That rim of the tank that has made fools out of way too many of us pulled out it’s ace of spades and played it at the exact moment.

Gouging itself into Stanlee’s midsection, it made itself into a pivot point for what was left of the inertia started earlier when both men had begun their lift.

Since Stanlee’s feet and legs were now quite relieved of their previous weight, they took a quick vacation and looked on while stomach, chest, arms, and all upper body went into an Olympic quality spin/dive, head-first into the tank.

There was such a nice amount of momentum going, that nary a whisker of Stanlee touched the tank as he did his routine, ending with a perfect land, flat on his back, slam down in the middle of the tank and black scum. 

His eyes, bulging with surprise now, rather than strain, stared up directly into the eyes of a very amazed Tyler whose face was not more than 18 inches away, and perfectly aligned with Stanlee’s down below since his hands still gripped the bottom of the tank and it now rested on the ground.

For a few pregnant moments, the thing was too far out to comprehend.  But then, as the irony hit home, it seemed the best recourse was to laugh themselves silly, which they did immediately.

You gotta watch out for those tanks, boys.