As I struggled to remain standing in wet, slippery mud while trying to dislodge a stubborn wad of heavy wet clay off the end of a shovel, I thought, Well there's another career path closed to me in case the whole teaching thing doesn't work out.
Two days later my entire upper body is still aching from the short time I spent with a group of volunteers digging shallow trenches to improve drainage on a newish trail near the Luke Chute pollinator habitat. Volunteers were urged to bring their own tools, so my husband brought along a shovel and mattock while I brought along my husband, who could dig a trench through the Hoover dam without breaking a sweat.
He swung that mattock to dislodge rocks and break up clumps of roots while I struggled to lift the heavy shovelfuls of clay soil and struggled even more to stay standing in the slippery mud on the edge of the trench. I'd never make it as a ditch-digger, but at least I was there, trying to make an impact on a place that matters to me.
I hadn't ventured up that particular trail before and wouldn't have found the way without a guide, but now I'm looking forward to walking up there in the spring when the trilliums starts blooming. There's a spot upstream where wild ginger grows, a treat I've not yet seen in the wild, and the whole trail holds the promise of unexplored territory.
In fact we encountered a set of hikers walking the trail from the opposite direction as we made our way up the steep hill to the part of the path that needed trenching. That spot was muddy on Saturday but is reportedly nearly impassable in the spring. The two trenches we dug should make a difference, and even though my ditch-digging skills are subpar, I can still give myself a pat on the back for being part of the process--and for bringing my husband, the hardest-working tool in the box.
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