Although he's standing near a sprinkler-valve cover, Storozuk dismisses that coincidence with a smirk.
"Locating sprinkler heads is not my specialty," he says. "How can you prove I'm right? Drill. Other than that, I can't explain it. It's a matter of experience. It's a matter of knowing. You just plain know."
John Johnston
John Johnston
Water, water, everywhere: Greg Storozuk pores over
his maps.
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Storozuk heads toward a picnic table. He sits in the shade, removes his hat, sheathes his rods and taps a cigarette from his pack.
"Skeptics will say luck, luck, luck," he says. "And you know what? I don't care what they say. It used to bother me, but I don't even let it anymore. They can follow me around and scream right at me. Hell, I'll even agree with them. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. But what are you basing your opinion on? Have you tried it? Have you read anything? I've seen their tests. They don't mean a thing to me. If you're going to do a test, okay, let's do a test. Take a dowser and a geologist. Take them to a flat desert. Have the geologist pick five spots. Have the dowser pick five spots. Drill ten holes. See who wins."
Storozuk takes a long drag. There was a time when he did try to convince people, he says. He attended water-board meeting after water-board meeting, presented talks, prepared papers and offered suggestions. He even spoke at the Colorado Water Engineering and Management Conference in 1991 and the South Platte Basin Forum in 1994. He didn't say officials should accept dowsing outright; he didn't say he should be hired for the job. He simply suggested a pilot project to "augment modern search techniques for pure water sources" in hard-hit areas of Colorado. His suggestion was met with nothing but silence.
"They all listened," Storozuk recalls. "They all treated me with respect. But their training kept them from casting any faith in what I do. Here were all these people who went to college to learn geology and hydrology, and I can go out with a fork stick or a pair of L-rods and do the same thing? I didn't expect a response. I didn't have the letters after my name."
But after one speech, he says, a half-dozen geologists came up to him in the restroom and said, "I've tried that, and it works." When Storozuk asked why they hadn't spoken up in public, they told him: "Are you kidding? That would be professional suicide."
"There's a stigma attached to dowsers," Storozuk says. "You're always being laughed at. Even the people who hire you look at you as if you're a little on the weird side."
But that's okay. He prefers to work "in a very clandestine way," he says. He just wants to do his job, "let people enjoy the fruits of it" and move on. He's happy with his life. He has no credit cards, no debts and no financial commitments.
"I have everything I want," he says. "I have everything I need. I'm comfortable."
Deep down, though, Storozuk would like to work with government officials, especially in this time of drought. He admits he'd like to see officials drill on the sites he suggests. He'd love "not to have to fight anymore."
"I really believe dowsers can help," he says. "We can find fresh water in places geologists and hydrologists would not normally look. Does it really matter where the water comes from or who finds it? Does it really matter if it comes from a lettered geologist or a dowser? We need water, period."
Storozuk sits back and listens to the sprinklers. If officials call him, that's fine. If they don't call, that's fine, too. He can only help people who want his help.
He'll continue to travel the state in his faded brown camper. He'll continue to do what dowsers have done for centuries.
He knows where the water is. No matter what anyone else says, he believes.
