home improvements

To Dig a Ditch

By Dana Green, 5-15-06

I spent the last two days digging a ditch in my front yard. It was a beautiful spring weekend, perfect for a river float or a long bike ride. But I was up to my eyeballs in rocky soil, sweating like a galley slave, digging a six-foot-deep trench for a basement egress window.

What I found out, when I volunteered to dig a man-size ditch by myself, is that your friends will think you are insane, or a full-fledged masochist, or probably both. If you want to be truly un-American, forget about acts of terrorism. Just volunteer to dig a ditch by hand instead of bringing in a huge machine to do it for you.

At first, I just wanted to save a few hundred bucks by skipping the backhoe. An egress window adds up quickly – before you know it, when the concrete cutters have come and gone, and the framers have finished their work, you’re down a few thousand dollars. My eyes lit up – I could save enough for a new mountain bike, and all I would have to do is dig dirt? The penny-pinching cheapskate in me was delighted.

Not to mention that bringing in a backhoe means the rest of the summer is spent trying to coax your lawn back from extinction and mourning over each flattened, expired shrub. After the machine has done its work, the yard looks like it has been cluster bombed.

But when I mentioned I planned to dig the ditch, the reactions varied from mere raised eyebrows to total outrage. Missoula is infamous for its rocky soil – try scooping a shovel full of dirt, and you will most likely hear the ear-shattering ring of shovel meeting rock. I was told there was no way a woman could dig a ditch in this town on my own.

Well, that sounded like a challenge. I like those.

I got started early on Saturday morning, before the sun was too high. After two hours, my shoulders were on fire. My back was hunched over like a decrepit sailor. I quickly discovered that all my time lifting cute little weights in step class was almost entirely useless when it came to real manual labor.

But I kept going. Three feet, four. A dirt-and-rock skyscraper started to rise above the ditch. Progress was being made, and Advil and other drugs would get me through, I was sure. With each shovel, I extricated at least 20 pounds of stone from the clay soil.

On Sunday morning, I was saved by a friend. When I staggered outside at 7 a.m., stiff as a cadaver, I found her in my ditch, happily digging. I climbed down into the hole and joined her.

Passing cars slowed down, drivers gawking at two women digging a hole in the ground. Neighbors stopped to ask what we were doing. Strangers walking by stopped to watch. We were like a circus sideshow – digging, who does that anymore? Isn’t there a machine that does that?

By the afternoon, the pain was gone, and my body accepting its unhappy fate. I felt good – better than I ever had in the gym. Back-breaking, monotonous labor, I found, was pretty good for the body and soul.

When we got to six feet, we put down our shovels and climbed out of the ditch. Beers were opened, and for a good half-hour we admired our handiwork.

Digging a ditch is not fun, but it’s honorable work. And if you want to amaze and astonish your friends and strangers, just pick up a shovel.

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