Dirt Work Read Online Free PDF

wood pinched the blade of the axe tight. The last swings to chop it free were the most difficult and awkward of the half-an-hour’s production, and taught me a critical thing: even a simple task relied on precision, and was easier if you planned ahead. The six-foot section finally dropped free of the trunk. Reba and I rolled it off to the side of the trail, then tipped it onto its angled butt and toppled it forward in a move I’d soon learn to call an “end-o.” Its bulk surprised me. So recently alive, the log was full of sap and water. It would take a year on the ground before it dried out enough to mimic the lighter-than-expected heft of well-seasoned firewood.
    I couldn’t linger over my success. Reba had already shouldered her pack and moved up trail. The second tree was smaller and I chopped the whole thing myself, planning the cuts, their width, how far apart. It took me twice as long as the larger tree had taken her to chop, so it was almost quitting time when we left the site. But I’d done it. Every step. Reba gave me a jubilant high five and we slammed a quart of water each and jogged to the truck, stomachs sloshing. On the ride back to headquarters, my shoulders were hunched high and already sore to the touch. I stretched my wrists, holding the fingers bent back from the palm the way I’d seen Reba do. We pulled in to the shop at 6:30 p.m., long after the other crews had left for the day. That night, getting ready for bed, I could hardly lift my toothbrush.
    Hitch: n —An extended stint in which a trail crew lives and works in the backcountry, typically eight or ten days long. Most of the summer is spent “on hitch.” Also called “the woods,” as in “when did you get out of the woods?”
    Hitched out: adj —The state of participating in a hitch. Usage: “How long were you hitched out at Quartz?”
    Spike camp: n —Our home while on hitch—a cabin, or a cluster of tents around a kitchen tarp. Also called a “gypsy camp.”
    Note: It’s important to get these phrases right. You don’t say “camping out” if you mean “hitched out.” Camping out is fun. Hitched out is work. And you wouldn’t say “backcountry camp”: too many syllables. You’d call it spike. Language isn’t all it takes, but getting words right is how you start to belong.
    Who belongs more than the critters? In the North Fork, as in all of the Northern Rockies, there are animals everywhere. Wolf, mountain goat, bighorn sheep, black bear and grizzly, coyote, moose—the superstars. And smaller creatures, too: snowshoe hare half-turned white, marten on a tree branch, dippers nesting beneath a bridge, pika lifting the lid of my Tupperware lunch box, star-nosed mole burrowing in the duff. Animals stay far clear of the chainsaw’s roar, but when we lived and worked ten days in the same place, we’d see the fawn sleeping in the stamped-down bear grass, hear the swoop of an owl’s wings over the tent in the night.
    There are humans out there, too, us working, and hikers, kids with their parents and their pockets full of stones, college students on a long-planned backpack trip, newlyweds from a big city with brand-new gear. They’re eager to chat, full of questions, often thankful for our work. But when people grow quiet, or crowds scatter, animals appear. One early morning at the job site, a wolverine ran off a switchback in front of us and we watched it scramble up three tiers of waterfall pouring over sloped rock. Hiking out of a hitch, fast, heading for the truck six miles downhill, we saw a quick snake cross the trail and my crewmate jumped, pack and all, into my arms.
    When animals appear, clichés sidle up close. Watch out. Soon there will be “electricity” between a bear and me, “dignity” in a lone wolf’s eyes. Trite as it is, such telescoping from the experience of an animal to a