TITLE: Rigors of Fascination
DATE OPENED: Mon Jul 21 07:30:39 MDT 2003



ENTRY:

Here I am in Paradise.  My home, the place of running water, refrigeration, and a pool filled with cool, clear water.  Funny how we never see what's our "normal" as wonderful.

Over a week in the gnat pit and I'm living in the lap of luxury here.  Record heat with a gamut of pests made for a grueling trip to the dino quarry.  Ah but the crew of people and the distinctive opportunity turns the drudgery to a dream.  The place is the land of legend.  Children's books recount
the tales of discovery of the first findings of dinosaurs familiar to us all. And there we were, walking in their footsteps, picking up shards left as scrap. Knarled trees, bent and twisted, could give firsthand witness to the blasts that scattered our tiny treasures.  There's a sort of reverence for the place, awe for its historical significance.  But I think the sense of wonder and excitement of discovery has not  changed over the long century that separates those happy diggers from me or my companions. Fascination drives us.  We get caught up in the mission of the day and trudge on.


A DAY - HOW IT GOES

The morning brings the inevitable aches as I rise to the sun.  The camp tent beckons with breakfast and conversation.  Another day.  I'm lost to the week, the routine.  How quickly my other everyday has been replaced.  The sight of a large, fresh mountain lion track on the trail to the quarry is the only evidence of its ghostly presence.  A coiled rattler at the barbed wire gate seems to tell us, "Welcome to the Old West".  But we go much deeper than that.  We step into the raging, flooded rivers of the Jurassic.  Where the remains of huge creatures are swept through the course and heaped here and there.  A single tail bone lies with another odd bone.  Torrents gathered the debris and concentrated it here.  These were the dinosaurs to the dinosaurs. Go back to the days of T-Rex, then go back that timespan again to reach this epoch.  Boggles the mind.

"Fire in the Hole" is our call to start the raucus generator that powers our jackhammers.  Soon we're complaining of hitting another pocket of black stone, another bit of bone we'll need to work around.  We chisel and sweep.  We contemplate what it is that's before us and how to release it as intact as possible.  Numerous centers of activity bustle.  Two or three groups are working under a sunshade.  To the left, three of us marvel at the precision of our new, quieter jackhammer.  To the right, two museum interns each work their own small discoveries.

When we all need a break, we attempt to huddle under the small area of shade provided by the BLM's contribution to this dig.  We suck down hot, plastic tasting wetness.  There's some relief when the generator is shut down, that awful noise silenced.  We dab the sweat from our eyes and neck when a wind, like a canyon spirit, whips through.  Moments later, it returns from the direction it blew.  "Hello?  Just come by to check on us?", I think.  The breeze brings "ahs" from the crew.

We've all got our own work to do.  But we're ready to pitch in to help with anything.  The hours tick by.  The sun hits us hard after a light lunch. By quitting time we're fried and drained.  The walk up and out is almost too much.  I watch my shadow with the sun directly at my back.  I wait for the hilltop breeze and then stretch out my arms.  Carefully we close the barbed wire gate, levering the stick into that nasty loop.  My bicycle seat is too hot to touch so I wipe it with my sweaty hand.   The short ride to my truck is downhill bringing with it a pleasant breeze.  Washing up using a small wash basin set on my sandstone vanity, I finally clear the dust from my eyes and the layers of dirt from my skin.  The best part is soaking my feet and putting on fresh socks.

At the camp tent I down a liter of Gater Ade, then a can of root beer, then a can of Sprite, finally the water begins to fill me.  I'm sloshing as I walk and still thirsty.  Our meal is always superb, just a little difficult to ingest without swallowing the added protein of the gnats.  I have my own little Le Brea Tar Pits on my plate.  The pepper is alive, moving.

When the sun is doused on the horizon, the infernal buzzing ceases and the work for the day is done, we come to welcomed rest.  The evening meal and full quenching of the day's constant thirst marks the transition.  On to the quiet and coolness of the evening.  We laugh until we wonder if we'll be able to make it to bed.  The stars confound us at times.  We hope for a shooting star and finally are astounded by a screamer - applause.