One Friday in April I checked my weather app, it was projected to rain the whole week. I planned to check on the state of a new sand filter the Monday after the rain ended– it had just been installed the past fall, and this rain plus the snowmelt would put it through a pretty good test.

You'd think, as a stormwater guy, I would have noticed something odd earlier, but in my defense I clock out from my job on weekends. On Monday and Tuesday, I was in the basement working on getting some rain gauges to work– the cursed things, they kept working in the lab. We'd already deployed them three times this year, and they kept failing in a new way. I failed to replicate any of the failures in the lab.

On Wednesday, I go out into the field to install the rain gauges, still unsure how they had failed the first three times, but this time it was raining. I installed the rain gauge, hooked it up to a transmitter, and then went on to the next site. While I was driving to the next site, the rain intensified, sheets of rain pounding my dashboard. I pulled to the side of the road, and checked the level in the rain gauge. It told me there was nothing. Once the rain calmed a bit, I turned around to try to troubleshoot the rain gauge. On the way, I realized I was close to the new sand filter, so I took a detour to check it out.

I put on my raincoat, got out of my truck and walked down the park trail to the pond with the filter. At least with the rain I didn't need to look out for any stray frisbee golf disks.

To my surprise, as I approached the sand filter, it was just sitting there. It was designed so that the pond next to it would overflow onto the sand, and that would filter the water before it went into the broader stormwater system before emptying into the river. This rain should be enough to make the pond overflow. I get a sinking feeling in my gut, as I look over to the pond to investigate.

The pond is empty. Cattail grows straight out of the pond muck on one side, I can see clearly a fallen tree on the sand lining the pond's bottom. Try as I might, I can find no reason for the pond to be empty– it's in the low lying part of the park, as always, hasn't had any drains installed directly into the pond, still has relatively steep banks.

I must have stared at that pond for an hour. There's no explanation for it to be empty, in April, during the fifth straight day of rain. It's supposed to only empty in a drought. It's not a drought— and we had an excess of snowmelt lately anyway.

I drive back to the lab, eventually, the rain gauges forgotten. It took me a week before I even realized I had left all but the one I had installed in the truck, never mind how long before I took down the one I had put up.

I went down to the lab to write an email to the watershed director for that area. Jill does often try out new methods– that's why she installed the enhanced sand filter anyways. When I opened my inbox, I found emails from not only Jill, but the other watershed directors, as well as the other stormwater researchers.

The emails had subject lines such as: "No-one has any answers," "Meeting to Discuss the Situation," "Do you have any idea what's going on?" "All The Ponds Are Empty," "where is the water, anyway," "Uhhhh," and "Pond JC–21 is Empty."

I read through them all, it seems my experience today was not unique. The meeting was scheduled for that time, so I went upstairs.

"Calder. It's nice of you to finally join us," Alex says.

I grunt, and sit down. It's not that I dislike working with others, it's just easier not to.

I listen to the discussion.

"If the water's not in the drains, ponds, rain gardens– where is it?" Aditya says. "The river and lake levels aren't rising either."

"At least the lakes didn't drain as well," Hazel adds.

The conversation turns to next steps. I don't know. It sounds no one else does either. I walk out of the meeting and get into my car and drive home.

I get out and run to the pond in my backyard– I don't bother pushing the vegatation out of the way, just let the wet branches hit and splash me.

It's empty. It was full a week ago, I remember pulling buckthorn out around the bank and watching a duck family on it.

I stand in the middle of the pond, and stare up at the sky. The raindrops splash on my face, definitely liquid. I look down at the pond bed. The water hits the ground, and soaks in. But it shouldn't. I know there's clay less than a foot below that foul–smelling muck. This is too much water to infiltrate.

I went to bed early that night. When I woke up, I ran out to the pond barefoot, my feet getting muddy, just to prove to myself that it was a nightmare, that maybe I just need to get a good hobby so my job isn't the one thing that defines me.

The pond is still empty. After some more staring into the rain, my pajamas start to get soaked so I head inside to clean up and eat breakfast. I go to work.

It's been over a month now. The rain hasn't stopped, but we haven't found out where it's going.

It's just our area, that's what's weird. One small part of the world suddenly has inexplicable hydrology.

I've been interviewed in a national newspaper. I had nothing to add, I can't explain what's happening.

A few stormwater researchers have moved to the area. One of them, Panbela, I've started working with. She's got some neat ideas we're trying. And she's fine if I don't respond to an email for a few days.