I plod through the Diamond Parking lot on Fourth and Jefferson in downtown Olympia, hoping the sunny afternoon will draw some interesting locals to the artesian well. Armed with a digital camera, I expect to be shooting pictures left and right, but the only person I see is a Thurston Public Utilities Division employee. Sitting in her work truck, she snaps her gum and sighs, unenthusiastic about her vigil over the lonely well. I approach her and ask in my contrived, uber-friendly voice, “What are ya’ll doin’ out here?”



“Paint’s wet,” she replies, nodding at the fresh coat of yellow dripping down the four concrete blocks surrounding the well.



“Why don’t they just put up a sign?” I ask. (Even in my friendly voice, I can’t hide that by “they” I mean “you.”)



“My boss is on her way with the signs.”



Uh-huh. Part of me is baffled by the inefficiency of an arrangement that has a public employee performing the duties of a “Wet Paint” sign. But considering it’s taken the public sector more than 15 years to hop on the artesian well wagon in Oly, this situation makes perfect sense.



As I muse over this bureaucratic slip, a couple in a Subaru pulls up to fill their gallon jugs with well water. They look much friendlier than Wet Paint, so I ask them for their thoughts on the well. Both Olympia residents, Clayann Lankford and Colin Peeples agree that well water tastes better than tap, and they’re able to reduce consumption by refilling their bottles there. When I ask who should be responsible for the well, there’s a long pause. After a few sideways glances, Lankford offers, “That’s a tricky question.”



And she’s right. The water flowing from the well on Fourth and Jefferson is public. The lot the well is on is private. So it’s a bit of an anomaly, this sacred space: a dirty-looking brown pipe jutting out of the concrete, nestled by a few weeds and cement blocks. From an underground aquifer, water — clear, clean and ready for drinking — is pushed up through the pipe for anyone and everyone to enjoy. It doesn’t look like much, but its simplicity is part of the appeal — it represents an essential, universal need and, like a desert oasis, draws together drinkers that might otherwise remain separate.   



For over a decade, a citizens’ group called Friends of the Artesian Well has paid for the monthly testing of the local treasure, but after years of grappling with bureaucracies — Diamond Parking, and the City and Port of Olympia — they disbanded, signing off with a publicly posted letter to the City Council.



Penned by former Friends coordinator Jim Ingersoll, the letter entreats the city to take action on behalf of the well. It also indicts “the shifting sand of City [sic] decision-making” as a major obstacle to a permanent solution. “At times,” he writes, “we’ve felt caught in an endless loop of planning with no real support ... (and) received mixed messages about the City’s [sic] willingness to own the well ... even though we have responded to repeated requests to provide information about other cities that own and manage similar public wells.”



Promising to pay for water testing through February ’09 — a requirement for keeping the well open — Friends gave the public and the city a few months to get their civic shit together or lose the well. And it worked. A new group, H2Oly: Artesian Well Advocates, formed in the Friends’ wake, gleaning crucial support from a surprising source: the Olympia City Council.



Councilmembers Joan Machlis and Craig Ottavelli liaisoned with Thurston PUD officials to forge an agreement between these public entities and Diamond Parking. The agreement stipulates that the city will reimburse TPUD for water testing, “with Thurston PUD serving as the certified well operator.”



Thanks to the sway of TPUD and the city, Diamond is allowing continued access to the well, but as H2Oly media coordinator Karen Patrick points out, “The agreement is no slam dunk. Diamond can back out at any moment.”



That means H2Oly has their work cut out. After forming as an emergency response to the well’s imminent demise, they’re focusing their energy on the future.  “We’re in the first steps of becoming a nonprofit,” Patrick affirms, “which will give us more legitimacy. In the future, I see the work getting more exciting — like designing an artesian fountain or something — but that’s a long ways off.”



A long ways off, and a whole lotta work. Even Machlis and Ottavelli, who helped spearhead the temporary fix for the well, believe that its longevity lies primarily with citizens, not the city. Council members come and go, they point out, and you don’t want any project too reliant on a council champion.



Patrick’s vision for the well is imbued with the ineffable, local significance of artesian water. “‘It’s the Water’ is sometimes a forgotten legacy,” she says, referring to the well-known mantra.



“It’s water,” she cries. “Nobody hates the water!”