When we built the summer house/cabin/hovel in 1977, we needed to dig a well, and someone, probably the plumber, hired a dowser. I didn’t approve – I would have hired a credentialed hydraulic engineer. For me, dowsers belongs in the same crazy box as astrologers, phrenologists, flat-earthers, Shakespeare-author conspiracists, along with the lunatics who report on visits to the earth by ancient astronauts. Nevertheless, a dowser arrived, an elderly gentleman. Curiously, he dowsed with an old pair of rusted pliers rather than the traditional forked willow stick. He was an enthusiast for his trade and, ignoring my skepticism, showed my how to cut a willow and exactly how to hold it. After he left, I tried it out. A most odd experience, one of the oddest in my life, then took place. As I walked about, brandishing the rod, from time to time the tip of the willow would turn suddenly down. Not in a subtle way, but forcefully and dramatically – strongly enough to redden and even slightly cut the palms of my hands.
Even more strange -- if I handed the willow to another person and he or she walked about, nothing happened. Nothing, that is, until I held that person's wrist. Then the dowsing rod went all crazy and twisted downward out of the holder's hands.
It was a wondrous incredible experience and is vivid in my memory now these fifty years. But it was a one time only event.
Every once in a while, over the decades, just for fun, I would cut a piece of willow and walk about, but I’ve never been able to reproduce the phenomenon. The dowsing rod doesn’t dowse, doesn’t do anything at all; just behaves like an ordinary piece of wood.
I don't believe in dowsing. I don't believe that you can find underground water, or even underground electric wires as some think, by walking about with a piece of willow in your hands. On the other hand, I know that something peculiar and very real happened to me that one time. Was there water underground. I don't know, but I know that I wouldn't dig a hole on the basis of that fleeting evidence. I am a man of reason, or at least I like to think so.
Incidentally, the place that the 1977 dowser picked out for us to dig was a great success. We've enjoyed a bounteous supply of water for all these many years.
But now that I know more about wells than I did half a century ago, I can read the landscape well enough to recognize that the dowser picked an obvious place to dig a well -- with or without the help of his magical pliers.
