There’s Gotta Be a Ghost Here Somewhere, and It’s Probably Short

A few days ago, when we were finishing up the new irrigation system, I had to dig one last ditch. It was all going smoothly until the final two feet when I hit a batch of large squarish rocks. That’s rare. I dug ditches all last week and aside from a few very small rocks, all I had to dig through was dense clumps of earth. These rocks were conveniently stacked on top of each other, so I resorted to pulling them out by hand and throwing them out of the ditch above me. Danny happened to be passing by and asked me to stop for a minute. He inspected some of the rocks and told me I just discovered a new Anasazi ruin. I asked if he wanted to uncover more of it, but he just shook his head. “No,” he said, “that’s the 17th ruin found on my property so far.”

On our hikes around the canyon, we’ve explored an underground kiva, a solar calendar (not unlike Stone Henge), several food storage caves still covered in bricks and lots of cliffside homes. Broken pieces of pottery are all over the place here, and Danny picked up two complete arrowheads when we were climbing last weekend. They were just lying on top of the ground! Similarly, Hosey’s trailer is full of arrowheads, ancient toy marbles, broken axes and all sorts of other artifacts that he just happened to notice while walking around.


The Anasazi are something of a mystery. They seem to have just disappeared several hundred years ago. The ruins here are believed to be 1000 years old. The most recent theory is that their tribes were integrated with Pueblo tribes and moved to different territories in the Southwest.

My trailer lies at the bottom of the canyon wall, which is about 700 feet tall. About 300 feet up, there’s a small Anasazi cave. I explored it with the Brits my first week here, but that was in the daylight. Last night, at about midnight, I was walking to my trailer and I stopped to admire how bright the canyon looked. It was almost a full moon and the cliff was glowing with a bright pale blue color. That’s when I saw the cave and had what seemed like the most brilliant idea ever.
I threw my sleeping bag, sleeping pad and a lantern into a backpack and started climbing. The lower half of the canyon is the steep part, and after losing my grip and sliding down a few times, I started to question my brilliance—but not enough to stop. It took about half an hour, but I finally made it to the cave. The opening drops straight down the cliff of the canyon, so you have to approach it from the top and carefully lower yourself in. The interior of the cave is an oval area about seven feet wide and five feet deep. At the tallest point, the ceiling is less than four feet high. The entire floor slopes inward in a cone shape. It’s not exactly my cozy trailer, but I thought “Hell, if the Anasazi can sleep here then so can I!”

I had a horrible time finding a way to lie down that wouldn’t cause me to roll into the rocky center. Eventually, I was stable and started to drift off when I heard something loud rustling outside. That woke me up fast. Believe it or not, it wasn’t until that point that I remembered I saw a mountain lion down the road last week. They say mountain lions don’t care for humans much and all you have to do is make yourself look big to scare them away. Looking big in a four foot tall cave, however, can be a bit of a challenge.

I finally just told myself I was being paranoid and managed to fall asleep—curled up in a tiny ball. The ground didn’t feel hard under my sleeping pad and I ended up ditching the sleeping bag because it was too warm for it. I still woke up several times, usually with a strong, insatiable craving to stretch out, but I stuck with it through the night. I refused to admit that this cave was too cramped for me. Besides, it was hard not to enjoy the view from where I was laying; the whole canyon lit up in the moonlight.

Birds woke me up bright and early, chirping at the cave’s entrance. I stayed long enough to watch the sun rise over the vineyard—which alone was worth the late night trip—then climbed back down to my trailer and slept for a couple more hours. I did, after all, need some decent rest for the long work day ahead of me.

During breakfast, I told Danny what I did. He loved it, but pointed out that the Anasazi were only about five feet tall. I’m 6’3”. That explains a few things.

To the Batcave!

We have Sundays off, and this past Sunday was the Brits’ last full day here, so Danny wanted to make it a good one. He told us to load up on water and granola bars and put on our hiking boots. We obeyed like giddy children, then grabbed Hank the Wonder Dog and drove deep into the canyon.

Our first stop was an abandoned uranium mine, unused for about 50 years. Decades ago, a landslide blocked the road that led up to this mine so we had to hike the last mile. On the way up, Danny told us this canyon was where uranium was mined for the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima. Then he told us stories about how many of the mine workers died of radiation poisoning. We all slowed our ascent when he said that, but nobody wanted to be the coward that turned back so we kept going.

We came around a bend and saw the remains of an ore shack that loaded the uranium into trucks for transport. All of us had fun climbing up and around that before going into the mine itself. The entrance was covered with lots of spray painted warnings about explosives. On the ground lay an empty dynamite tube and an unused fuse. Danny tried to scare us with it, but we all knew he would never really pick up an old stick of dynamite (we’ve all seen Lost).


We only had to walk about 100 feet into the mine until it was pitch black. Nobody thought to bring a flashlight, but I had a tiny bike light in my backpack that led the way. The biggest danger was the chance of falling down a vertical shaft in the ground, so we kept the light on our feet the whole time. Danny only led us through the first few tunnels because it turned into a crazy maze after that. Aaron and I got separated from the others while Danny had the light and we had a heck of a time finding our way back. The two of us took a break to snap some pictures of each other by some of the tunnels. It was blind photography because we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces and we had no idea what was on the pictures until the flash went off. While Aaron was posing for one, he said he thought something flew past his face. I was about to tell him it was probably just a draft of wind when I felt something fast brush across my hair. Right then, we heard Danny shout “Watch out! We woke up the bats!”

Aaron and I could hear one rushing over our heads every few seconds. We crouched as we walked back up the tunnel until we got to a point with enough light that we could make out the dark bat shapes flashing by us. I was trying to catch one on my camera when Aaron asked if I heard a loud squeaking noise from a hole in the wall across from where we stood. The bats flying around us were squeaking, but not as intensely as this new noise. We both squinted our eyes to see the hole it was coming from, then let out a stream of expletives and hit the floor.

Dozens of bats rushed out that hole straight toward us! A whole flock of them (swarm? herd? gaggle?) was going berserk racing in circles above where we lay. I kept my hands over my head, but could still feel them brushing past my hair, and the high-pitched squeaking was nonstop. It was like a cliché cave scene out of a cheap action movie. I could hear Hank in the next tunnel barking like mad, and Danny shouting “No Hank! We do NOT hunt bats!”

The bats finally calmed down enough for us to make our escape. On the way out, Danny found an old empty bag of explosive powder with a kitschy label. He decided it would make a good decoration for the ranch. Later, I got really excited when I looked at my photos and saw that I caught a few bats in mid-flight.

After the mine, Danny drove us to the top of the canyon. We hiked to the far edge where the plateau turns into a peninsula and you can see for ages. This part of the canyon faces the southeast, so you can see mountains from Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. We had been to a different part of this peninsula before, but this time was special because a dark thunderstorm was brewing in the distance.

Danny said the mountains would direct the storm away from us, so this was a good and safe place to watch it. We all sat around on sandstone rocks with our feet dangling over the edge of the canyon wall as lightning flashed across the sky. We counted the seconds between the flashes and the thunder to see how far away it was, which held at a steady three miles. Even at that distance, the thunder made everything around us shake. It was spectacular! Although rain was plentiful in Oregon, thunder and lightning were incredibly scarce there. I haven’t seen a storm like this since I was a kid on the East coast.

Then the wind changed.

I first felt some light mist, then big pellets of rain speckled across my back. The Brits wanted to hike back to the truck, but Danny just laughed and told them not to worry, storms never come this way. I was glad he said that. I didn’t mind getting a little wet for this show, so I moved to take a seat on the tallest sandstone rock.

No sooner did I sit down that than a huge flash of light lit up the whole sky from behind me, and simultaneously, the loudest cracking noise I ever heard jolted my whole body. It felt like all my muscles contracted at once with a quick, sharp pain, and it took me a moment to collect myself. It wasn’t until I looked up and saw the other three guys running away at top speed that it occurred to me I should probably be running, too.It took me a while to catch up with them.

We all ran a good quarter mile before we stopped and talked about what just happened. I was facing the wrong way to see it, but the others told me a lightning bolt shot down into the canyon right behind me. Everyone felt a piercing shock, and Danny pointed out that the sandstone we were sitting on was an electrical conductor. Apparently, the jolt from the lighting traveled through it and buzzed all of us with a mild electric charge. Danny was shaken, but laughing. The Brits were freaking out. And in a matter of seconds, it was pouring.

Suffice it to say, we headed back to the truck then and drove home. I don’t have a sense of smell, but the others complained about a wretched odor and blamed Hank for rolling around in something on the hike. After we arrived at the house, I saw Danny smelling his boot. Then he asked to smell mine. After he did, he said he figured out what the funny smell was. I asked if I stepped in something, but he said no; the rubber soles on our boots were burnt.

The rest of the evening was pretty chill. We ate dinner, had some drinks and lounged around the ranch. That’s when I finally saw a black widow! There were several of them in a cave right behind Hosey’s trailer (the Brits and I have made a late night tradition of hanging out there).


We actually caught one in a glass jar to show Hosey, who has been bitten by black widows three times in his life. Said it hurt like hell every time. He checked out our specimen and said it was the biggest he’s ever seen. The Brits had some ideas of getting it stoned and pulling its legs off before killing it, but Hosey and I had other ideas. He convinced them to wait until morning so we could see what kind of web it would spin in the jar overnight. The next morning, he found me first and told me he let it go. Over the past couple weeks, I’ve learned that Hosey is more perceptive than people give him credit for. Even drunk, he could tell right away that I didn’t want them to hurt that spider.

Hell of a day.

Mormiquette (Mormon Etiquette)

When I told my parents I was going to quit my job to volunteer on a farm in Utah, the very first thing they said to me was “Is it a Mormon farm?”

They didn’t ask what I planned to do for money, they didn’t ask when I would leave or how long I would be gone and they didn’t ask why on earth I wanted to quit my job to work on a farm for food. They just wanted to know if I would be around Mormons.

In their defense, I come from a long line of German Lutherans. My parents met at a Lutheran seminary and my father, my maternal grandfather and two uncles (one on each side) are all Lutheran ministers. If I were to tell my parents that both of my arms and legs were severed by a tractor, they would be less worried than if I told them I converted to LDS. At least the tractor accident would leave my soul intact, right?

No, the family behind this WWOOF farm is not Mormon. If I knew more about Mormons, I would have realized that right away. We grow wine grapes here and Mormons are not fans of alcohol. I honestly wouldn’t mind if this was a Mormon farm. On the contrary, I think it would be exciting. I seriously doubt there is much of a chance of me becoming Mormon just because I live among them, and the cultural experience would be fascinating to me. I have to admit, I was a bit shocked by my parents’ stereotype that everyone in Utah is LDS. In reality, Mormons only make up about 99% of the population in this area.

So yeah, I live on the only non-Mormon farm in at least a 50-mile radius. It is more than a little unusual to see a vineyard in this part of Utah not only because of the dessert climate, but because of the near-prohibition attitude of the locals. Danny, the farm owner, gets along great with his LDS neighbors—even has a tradition of Sunday dinner with one of the Mormon families further down the canyon. Sometimes they ruffle his feathers, though. A few of them have dropped suggestions that he switch his fields to table grapes so that his life will be easier after he converts (it’ll be a cold day in Mormon hell before Danny gives up his liquor), and several neighbors were on edge when he got a group of four young female volunteers last spring. First they were appalled that the girls stayed here without a chaperone, then they were mortified when it came out that the girls would actually be working in the field instead of just cooking and cleaning for the men.

Danny’s mother is visiting for a week and she invited some of these Mormon neighbors over for dinner last night. I was excited to finally meet them after hearing so many stories. As a matter of fact, all I know about Mormons are gossipy stories about polygamists, petafiles and funny underwear, and they tend to sound too extreme to take without a grain of salt. My only personal experience was running into them on the streets in Oregon. I learned early to put my cell phone up to my ear and pretend I’m having a conversation when I see a guy in a white shirt and black tie make eye contact with me. Once, while at work, I was outside standing on a ladder and holding a power drill when two Mormon girls came up and started talking to me about my spirituality. That was annoying, but I was still polite and asked them to shove off as kindly as possible. I was good friends with a lesbian couple at that time. They both grew up as Mormons in Salt Lake City and met when they were assigned to be missionaries together. During their assignment, they both realized their true feelings for each other—along with their true gender preferences. They did finish their mission before leaving LDS to pursue their lives together. And that’s the extent of my Mormon exposure.

Before the guests arrived, Danny gave me a little debriefing. He recommended I avoid certain conversation topics, such as women’s rights, the futility of marriage, joys of alcohol and how pointless it is to bring more children into an already overpopulated planet. He didn’t mention it, but I assumed polygamy and petafiles was out, too.

I’m afraid I don’t have any juicy stories about the dinner. It was disappointingly normal. No funny hats, no cult chants, no bizarre conversations (the father did have an uncanny knowledge of peacocks, but the rest of the family seemed embarrassed by that so I don’t think I can blame it on his religion). Yep, just plain old neighbors… and they brought over a batch of homemade root beer, which gave them brownie points. Aside from skipping my after-dinner gin, it was like any other dinner. So much for my cultural experience. After they left, I really wished I could have at least found a polite way to ask about the underwear.

Later that night, the Brits and I went to visit Hosey at his trailer for a few beers. We told him about the dinner and that’s when I learned that these neighbors gave both Josh and Aaron copies of the Book of Mormon last time they all got together (before I arrived here). Hosey spoke up and said he loves Mormons.

“Really?” I asked, a bit surprised.

“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Back when I was in the slammer, we got real excited when they’d come visit. They’d always give us copies of that book, and those pages were perfect for rolling weed.”

Yep, Hosey smoked the Book of Mormon.

Do Not Throw Peanuts at the Humans

Okay, here’s a list of animals I’ve seen in this canyon:

• Prairie Dog
• Coyote
• Lizard
• Deer
• Nighthawk
• Big Fuzzy Ant
• Stink Bug
• Barn Owl
• Mountain Lion
• Ginormous Caterpillar
• Fox
• Englishman
• Potato Bug
• Some Random Snake
• Golden Eagle
• Border Collie
• Mormon
• Hummingbird
• Warty Toad
• Cows… lots and lots of cows

The Brits and I get very excited whenever we get a chance to see something new. Aaron spotted a snake one day, then spent a good bit of time pulling logs apart to try to find another one (he put in a lot more effort moving those logs than he did digging the ditch we were working on—just saying). Josh and Danny told me they spotted a black widow crawling out of a hole under the house’s front porch and I stood by it with my camera until the sun set, but no luck. The coyote was a treat, but not too uncommon. Aaron and I were the only ones to see the mountain lion and that made everyone else jealous. It ran across the canyon road right in front of us as we drove back from town late one night. Black bear sightings have been frequent in this area lately, so we’re all keeping our eyes out. For what it's worth, we did find some bear droppings

Cows never seemed very special to me until the neighbors down the canyon moved their herd of cattle. It was a relatively small herd, only about 300, but the Brits and I found ourselves glued to the action all morning. We could hear the braying an hour before they arrived… and about two days after. I learned that cows can only be moved about 10 minutes at a time before they become disoriented and freak out when they can’t find their calves. There’s only one narrow road in and out of this canyon, and driving down it that weekend became something of an obstacle course.


Because of their cow-herding skills, blue heelers are very common around here. We have one on the vineyard named Hank. I call him Hank the Wonder Dog because no matter how steep of a wall I climb, I always find him waiting for me at the top. I haven’t caught him doing it yet, but I have a secret suspicion he can fly. Anyway, Hank was all alone until a neighbor dropped off two brand-spanking-new blue heeler puppies for some of Danny’s family friends. We get to dog sit until they’re picked up in a couple weeks. I couldn’t stand calling them Runt 1 and Runt 2, so I temporarily named the grey one Frank and the black one Beans. Seemed fitting.


They really took a liking to my hat. And my gloves. And my sandals. And anything else their little incisors could rip apart. If they weren’t so damn adorable I’m sure I’d have strangled them by now. Instead, I just melt at their big round eyes and laugh and look for more of my belongings to feed them. Stupid super cute mongrels.


As barren as the dessert looks here, it’s a lot like a zoo, except we’re the ones in the cage. No lie—the entire vineyard is surrounded by a 10-foot fence. It’s intended to keep deer out because they wiped out the first grape field built here in two days. Really, it keeps us in as specimens for the other animals to look at and laugh from the canyon’s walls. I’m sure the mountain lions have a riot every time they see the auger get stuck in the ground then spin around and hit me.

Oh yeah, and although I didn’t see it, I seemed to have run over a skunk the last time I drove down the canyon. Everyone else here has verified that for me.

A Martini Feast

There were plenty of pesky mosquitos in Oregon. I’ve dealt with my share of bloodsuckers on camping trips and river floats and I’ve learned to expect itchy arms and legs for a day or so before the bites heal and comfort resumes. The outdoor adventures are usually worth the inconvenience of some mild itching, so I never thought much about it and never bothered with repellents. Bug spray always seemed like one more thing to worry about that I didn’t really need in the first place. I did wonder if mosquitos would be more of an issue if I worked outside on a farm all day, but I also assumed that Utah's dry climate wouldn't be appealing to the little vampires, so I didn’t concern myself with it.

My first hint should have been when I saw the other volunteers each grab a new can of Off repellent before heading to the fields on my first day here, then throw the empty cans away at the end of the day. Being a natural foodist, I’m not a big fan of insect repellents that contain deet. Deet is a registered pesticide linked to a multitude of health problems, and I’m convinced it can lead to everything from brain damage and cancer to infertility and toenails falling off. I figured I’d just keep my arms and legs covered and deal with it. That worked fine for the first few days when all I did was cut and glue PVC pipes in the shade (with glue that probably also causes infertility). At the beginning of my second week, however, I worked in the fields and had a very different experience.

When I started digging irrigation ditches, I could hear buzzing around my ears and feel the occasional itch of a bite. It wasn’t pleasant, but easy to ignore and I was very proud that I could handle the bugs better than my fellow volunteers—they wore mosquito-net hats, sprayed themselves with Off every half hour and still whined and complained about the pests like frustrated kindergarteners. The bites became more frequent over the next couple days of digging, but were still tolerable. The real shock came when I started weeding.

My first day of yanking dandelions out of the ground almost pushed me to the edge. The grape vines are well-irrigated, and these bugs love water. The buzzing in my ears became incessant and little dark spots constantly fluttered around my face. My ears, neck and wrists—basically anything exposed—began to itch like nothing I ever felt before. I’m not talking about a wussy Oregon mosquito itch here, I’m talking about an itch that made me want to scrape all my skin off with a vegetable peeler if it would just go away. After a very restless night of sleep, I decided to take some precautions.

I still resisted the deadly deet, but wore a mosquito-net hat that covered my entire head and neck with a fine mesh lining. Thinking this netting was impenetrable, I developed a bit of a cocky attitude toward my new invincibility and marched out to the Riesling vines ready to pick a fight with a fleet of vampires. You know that scene in Terminator when he just walks through the police station unfazed while everybody is shooting at him? Yep… that was me.

I actually felt pretty good throughout the day. I could still hear the buzzing around me, but was sure they couldn’t get in and just kept working. I did have one bad experience when I pulled up a mound of grassy weeds that unearthed a large fire ant hill. I didn’t notice them swarming on the ground and just kept weeding until I felt something crawling up my arm. When I looked down, there were dozens of them scurrying into my gloves and up my arms. I never undressed so fast.

At the end of the day, I thought I had the bugs beat (aside from the ground troops) until I took off my mesh hat. That’s when I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw dozens—possibly hundreds—of tiny red dots across my forehead. They followed lines below my hairline, across my eyebrows and down the sides of my face. Twisting around a bit, I could see that the back of my neck was dotted with them as well.

This concerned me. The Brits didn’t have this problem, and they wore the mesh hats, too. I thought it must be a rash from the netting until I talked to Hosey about it. That’s when I learned that I wasn’t dealing with just mosquitos. “We have skeetos,” he said, “but it’s the flies and the no-see-ums that really get ya.” I knew we had horse flies and deer flies and other biting flies here, but they’re big and noticeable and not very popular. No-see-ums, however, were something I had never heard about. According to Hosey, they’re so small that they’re barely visible and can fly through a screen door—or a mesh mosquito hat. Once inside, they’re relatively protected by the same mesh I thought was protecting me and they can feast to their heart’s content. You can’t even feel their bites until they develop long afterward. It turns out the Brits douse their mesh hats with deet.

The next morning, I couldn't open my eyes all the way. Every one of those tiny dots on my face and neck had swelled to the size of a pea. I don't know if this was a normal reaction or if I have some kind of crazy allergy to invisible bugs, but it was intense. Yeah, I was a freak… and here’s a gross picture to prove it:

And here’s a picture of the fire ant bites:

Every single bite itched like hell. I’ve never done heroin, but I imagine that scratching these bites was similar; I knew it would only make the craving worse, but it felt SO good. Sleep didn’t happen for the next couple days.

Fortunately, I went to visit my sister in Santa Fe right after I was stricken. That’s good because Santa Fe has loads of health stores and I was able to stock up on some different varieties natural insect repellent (I may have caved on the repellent, but I’m still proud to be avoiding deet). I also surfed the net to seek out other natural solutions.

Here’s the new plan: wear light-colored clothing, stay covered as much as possible, avoid foods high in potassium such as bananas and peanut butter (give you an odor savory to bloodsuckers), apply a biodegradable liquid every two hours so that I smell like citrus, lemongrass and peppermint, and NO MESH HATS! Learned that vinegar and baking soda do wonders to help the bites heal quickly.

I also have a plan to kill a few bugs and impale their heads on toothpicks as a warning to others.

Just finished my first day back in the field and so far, so good. My face is also starting to look human again. Sleeping soundly, too. And I’m still taking a lot of pride in knowing that I can handle the bugs better than my British cohorts. None of them have had anything nearly as bad as what I had, but they still whine and freak out with far fewer, far smaller bites—with heavy deet usage. It may not be the noblest thing to be proud of, but I’m determined to show-up England and beat the bugs with all my toenails intact.

There's Something Therapeutic About Digging a Hole

After my first week here, I felt like a complete slacker. The workdays were too short, the work was too easy and there were too many breaks. I came out here to live the farm life and I expected long days and backbreaking labor to be part of that. Instead, I’m getting a disappointingly laid-back vacation with lots of free entertainment. I’m trying to build character, damnit!

Keep in mind that I come from a long line of German Lutherans (100%... both sides of the fam) and we’re ingrained with a strong protestant work ethic. You’re not happy? Just work harder. You are happy? Great, work harder. We don’t talk about our problems, we work until they go away.

I really tried to tell myself to just enjoy this place for what it was for the few weeks I’ll be here, but I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was wasting time when I could be somewhere else doing something more productive. Most of the work we did my first week involved cutting and gluing PVC pipes in a shaded wooden shack with a radio blasting, and I swear that the other volunteers managed to stretch out one day’s worth of work over most of the week. We had to work together and it almost drove me crazy to wait impatiently for the next cut while they found every excuse to slack off. Make a cut, get a drink, eat some food, talk about movies, chase a lizard, complain about the heat, have a pipe-throwing contest, make another cut, etc.

That was week one. Week two, everything changed.

I have a feeling Danny noticed the other volunteers weren’t doing much other than playing video games, eating his food and drinking all his beer. Whatever the reason, he surprised us all Monday morning by handing everyone a shovel and assigning us to dig holes to uncover irrigation pipes. When Danny explained the task, I could feel the awkward silence as the others realized what we were expected to do.

I got to work solo, and I can’t remember the last time I dug such a big hole. Maybe I never did. The ground was hard and it was tough work. The heat was in the high 90’s and bugs were biting. I’m not a sweaty guy—I frequently ran a four mile loop in Oregon under a hot sun with nothing more than a misty brow—but my shirt got properly soaked from that digging. My arms and legs were sore and my back felt like it was about to snap, and that was only by lunchtime. I had to keep digging another hour before I found the pipe, and then dig the rest of the day to make enough space to tap into it. Not only that, but our workday went on quite a bit longer before Danny told us to come in. Then we had to do the same thing the next day. It reminded me of that movie about holes where all the kids dig holes all day and there were holes everywhere and they couldn’t go to bed until they were done digging their holes. What was that called?

After the second day, I woke up in a lot of pain. My arms and legs felt like noodles and it hurt to put on my shoes. My stiff muscles resisted every time I moved, even if I turned my neck. It was a good kind of hurt, and it felt great! For the first time since I arrived here, I felt like I put in a good day’s worth of work and could see the fruits of my labor in the big cavity in the ground. I was so proud of my hole. You can bet I was ecstatic when I finally found that pipe.

If you’ve never spent a whole afternoon digging a hole, then I strongly recommend it. You’re stuck there alone with your thoughts—no distractions—and you have some physical exertion to help purge anything unpleasant out of your mind. You also start seeing the faces of people you hate in the hard ground and get a lot of satisfaction ripping them apart with a shovel (that’s also a great way to get a burst of energy when you start feeling tired). In the end, you feel very centered and clear-headed.

We spent the rest of the week digging more ditches, then went on to pull weeds out of the grape fields. That was also tough, but even more rewarding since I was finally getting my hands in the dirt. I really started enjoying this place this week, although my fellow volunteers bring me down a bit. They now complain constantly about how rough life here has suddenly become… and they still find ways to slack off most of the day. Sorry to brag, but my hole was way more impressive than the one the two Brits dug together.

Dad always told me I’d end up digging ditches if I got a degree in film and philosophy. Guess he was right, but I’m sure he never imagined how much I'd enjoy it.

“The pile is the enemy of the hole.”
–Bart Simpson

If You Kids Don't Behave I'll Turn This ATV Around!

Danny, the farm owner/manager, is hardworking, responsible and very hard not to like. He’s a young guy, 23 or 24, but I have no problem considering him my boss (I’m a ripe 32). I don’t know how he learned it, but he definitely knows his stuff—not only farming, but Anasazi history, identifying animal tracks, sustainable electrical engineering… you name it. No matter where we go, he routinely wears work boots, jeans, a t-shirt and a cowboy hat and has a great attitude about everything. He treats every person he meets with respect and does his best make everyone happy. At the same time, he knows when to put his foot down, crack the whip (i.e., cut the power to the Xbox) and tell people to get to work. I can’t imagine him losing his cool, and I’ve seen him put up with a lot of bullshit in the short time I’ve been here.

The French volunteers left this past weekend, so now it’s just me and the Brits. Josh and Aaron, both 20 years old, are loads of fun. They share my desire to try new things, so we have a lot of adventures together. These range from climbing the canyon walls and exploring caves to seeing how steep a hill we can drive up in the Mule without it tipping over and killing us all. They definitely add some excitement to the farm life here, but they’re also a handful. They’d blend in nicely with a class of third graders.

On our most recent trip to explore Anasazi ruins, they raced to see who could find the first arrowhead. When we had a few late-night drinks and decided to climb on top of the house, they argued over which of them could climb the highest. Yesterday, they had a hammer-throwing contest.

Our brief lunch breaks are usually stretched out over an hour because they get so wrapped up in Facebook, and they would probably go on for two hours if Danny didn’t threaten to turn off the internet for a few days unless they got back to the field. I often have to nag them to get back to work because they get so distracted trying to catch lizards. Whenever Danny drives us to town for supplies, they yell and fight over who gets to ride shotgun. That one got so ugly that Danny had to lay down some rules (you have to see the vehicle before shouting “shotgun,” no saving shotgun, as soon as you step out of the passenger’s seat it’s up for grabs, etc.).

Car trips seem to bring out the worst in them, or the most entertaining, depending on how you look at it. This is when they pester Danny the most, usually for things they see out the window. Here are a few requests I heard this weekend as we drove to Cortez. I’m not making up any of this:

“Danny, can we go to Taco Bell?”
“Danny, can we go to the rodeo?
“Danny, can we go to Vegas?”
“Danny, can we get a boat and go to the lake?”
“Danny, can we fire your guns when we get home?”
“Danny, can we go to Denver?”
“Danny, you said we could go to Taco Bell!”
“Danny, can I shoot a rabbit?”
“Danny, can you buy us some Mountain Dew?”
“Danny, can I sell an Anasazi skeleton if I find one?”
“Danny, can we get Modern Warfare 2?”
“Danny, can we go to the Grand Canyon?”
“Danny, can we go to the sheriff’s office and see if I can ride in a police car?”
“I don’t want Taco Bell anymore, I want KFC!”

For the record, my dad used to pull the car over and make me walk the last few blocks home whenever I tried to pull that stuff. I was eight then.

Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy the Brits’ company and we do have a lot of good times and good conversations. I don’t mean to bash them because they’re both smart guys and good friends. It just never ceases to amaze me how much they end up looking like Danny’s spoiled children, and it usually makes me laugh. Danny totally takes on the dad role, keeping them in line and usually answering their questions with “possibly” or “we’ll see.” And he does a great job granting as many of their requests as he can, within reason.

No, he won’t let them shoot rabbits or dig for Anasazi skeletons.

Yes, he’s going to talk to the sheriff about letting Josh ride in a police car.