Skinny arms meet Big Rock

Rock work. Frustrating. Slow. Hot. I stand around and feel inept most of the time, wander around slowly, stare at a rock, look at the rock bar in my hands, and stand caught in the feeling that I am doing this all wrong. Suggestions swirl in my head. Back straight. Butt down. Pull don't push. Watch your hands. Watch your wrists. Watch your feet.

I position myself, my middle finger grasping the rock through the hole in my glove. I look forward, push up with my legs, push out with my arms. Sometimes, the rock moves. Sometimes, it doesn't budge. Damn it all to hell. I feel like such a girl.

Between the four of us, we have pushed and rolled and slid a collection of smallish-medium to mediumish-medium rocks to the spot above the gully we are working in. The larger boulders stay where they are. We stare at the rocks, at their sides and bottoms. We slide them into place. We roll them back out. We bash them with single jacks and double jacks and watch them chip or fissure or just break.

Rocks are such slow, zen-like creatures. They follow gravity more than anything. Other forces push and nag them- wind, water, human hands, but in the end, it is gravity that they rest in. They are content not to move, to sit in meditation as the rain falls and the sun beats down and the flowers take root in and around them. Eventually, they may crumble into sand and be one. Granite Nirvana.

And here we are, breaking their peaceful concentration, forcing the silent, solitary, heavy monks into close military formation like the terra cotta soldiers of China. Criticizing their imperfections, their unsmooth sides, their lack of symmetry, their rockness. Stoically, they wait out our game, wait to be placed and chipped and forced together and finally left alone. At least, until the water comes again.

There must be an art to this, a way to befriend and appreciate the rock, to see it in the way a Taoist butcher sees a leg joint, to not waste so much effort, to get the rock on our side so that it cooperates willingly and rests close to its new siblings with contentment.

So now the question arises- how do you make a rock happy?

Marla Stress Cries

So, Tuesday night was hell. I woke to the wind at 3:30 and spent the next two hours listening to the snapping, tearing sounds of the wind ripping through my borrowed tent. In the morning, it was halfway collapsed and the poles were bent, and the wind was nowhere near being over.

Trying to stay calm, I ask my crew leader, Agnes, for help. I get the "Yeah, we'll fix it" answer that means, "I want to help you, but I have no time."

I head back to the tent to put bigger rocks in the corners, and watch as as stronger gust of wind knocks it flat and starts blowing it away. I yell "Help!" a couple of times, and Scottie and John and Luis come over and do their best with rocks and stakes to make the damn thing wind-worthy. Meanwhile, I stand back and think to myself, "This isn't going to work. This tent is toast."

As I walk toward the campfire, I realize I'm halfway crying, mostly out of frustration and simple lack of sleep. I walk past the fire and find a solitary rock behind a tree to sit on.

However, 'alone' does not exist here. I have been on my solitary rock for less than a minute before Luis comes up behind me and asks what's wrong. Ah, Luis. A sweetheart and a good soul. He puts his arm on my shoulders and tells me it will be okay and offers to let me sleep in his tent and in general tries to get a smile from me- but, I'm still at the point where human contact just makes the tears fall faster.

Agnes comes over and consoles me as well. I try to explain myself- "This is just what I do when I'm frustrated." She tells me she uses that rock for the same purpose.

Later, I will return from work to find my tent flattened again, and ten feet away from where I left it. Frostt will help me disassemble it and put it away. Hannah will give me a spot in her tent, and we will lay our sleeping bags side by side. And I will sleep. Finally.

Life Here

Today was the second day of the second week of real, actual trail work. I feel I am getting into the swing of things, falling into the routine, and liking it more than I even thought I would. The days are intensely scheduled. Wake at 5:30. Eat breakfast around a campfire. Morning chores. Physical training, including ten different kinds of crunches. Hike to work. Work. Break for lunch. Work. Hike home.

It probably sounds worse than it is. Truthfully, it feels more like I am playing. All the hiking is great, and makes me feel great, and clears my head. And the work itself is fun- swinging picks through thick roots, breaking down dead branches with my hands, chopping foliage that blocks the trail.

But the best part of the day is the evening. I always get my second wind on the hike home, and book it the whole way. Getting back to camp, sweaty and dusty, the creek is the only thing on my mind. We have a great girls-only bathing spot, complete with a huge rock to sit on and water slightly warmed from the nearby hot springs.

After a bath and a change of clothes, I return to camp each evening for some of the best dinners of my life. Tonight, for example, in honor of Cinco de Mayo, we had tacos with shredded chicken, Spanish rice, and sopapillas with honey. We also swung at a pinata made out of branches and duct tape, filled with candy bars.

The rest of the evening is mine, to read, and write, and sit around the campfire and talk. That, in a nutshell, is my life here. I live my life outside, I look at mountains and wildlife everyday, I bathe in a creek and sleep in a tent and do laundry by hand in a plastic bucket. And I love it.