Digging the Digs

“To the quarry!” toasts Morgan cheerfully, raising his cup to connect with mine. I try not to let on that I’ve come to like him throughout the day or that his quirky smile makes my heart flutter as I join the toast.

We started out as strangers two days ago. Roughly twenty of us signed up and paid to accompany career paleontologists to work in the field. This particular group is participating in several digs throughout the states; tomorrow is our last day at this quarry before we move on to the Dakota Badlands.

“You often bring wine on digs?” I ask playfully before I take a sip. He asked me if it was my first earlier in the day, but the conversation had naturally steered elsewhere and I still don’t know if he too is a novice in the field.

“First dig, actually," he admits with a soft grin. “I’m not overly fond of being in constant contact with a group of strangers, so I thought a bottle wouldn’t be a bad idea to loosen up."

“I hear that,” I nod in agreement, briefly showing him my flask of whiskey tucked in my unzipped backpack next to me, “I hated getting stuck in groups in school. But I couldn’t resist paying all this money to come dig in the dirt!” I laugh, a little sour. I know I’m paying for much more than that, but that was how my family reacted when I initially told them I was thinking of signing up for this trip.

‘So you’re paying them x amount of money to play in the dirt?’

Silence creeps up on us with the encroaching night sky, and I can barely make out the word ‘Merlot’ in bold, dark letters on the bottle as I absently begin picking at the label. Most of the group is gathered around the campfire or in their tents, and it is only us sitting on a boulder above a dry creek, drinking wine and stargazing.

“So, what have you thought of the trip so far? We’re both new - what were your expectations coming into this?” he asks. I swirl the wine in my cup as I enjoy doing and take another sip, pondering; wine-drinking decorum be damned.

Group work sucks. No one knows what to do unless paired with one of the trained paleontologists, so thus far most of us have merely scraped uncertainly at what we think is something unusual in the rock. There also appears to be unresolved tensions between two or three of the career paleontologists running the quarry. The food is bland and in many cases unrecognizable to both eye and palate. Digging itself is miserable: dusty, hot, sweaty, and sticky. And insects. So many insects! I have no less than seven itchy bug bites only days into the trip, and several scrapes from tripping or kneeling on rocks. Not being an overly outdoorsy type, I’ve had nothing but trouble with my tent and was awoken early this morning by sand on a brisk wind slipping in against my face. The dust causes me to sneeze endlessly. And I have yet to find anything myself, while many in the group - Morgan included - have. He even has the audacity to flaunt his find, fidgeting with it as we chat. It is a small fossil shark tooth, though no one has identified the species offhand.

Despite all that, I have had a great time so far. I dislike groups and group work by default, but I enjoy the people on this trip so far. Many are also first-timers and just as clueless as me. The drama of the paleontologists is neither distressing nor boring and the food, while lacking in all presentation, is still edible. Barely, but it is edible, particularly after a full day spent hiking around with heavy gear, digging in the heat, and then packing up for the night. And excavating may be slow, tedious, and uncomfortable, but it is also calming and reflective, and bit by bit, layer by layer, what lies beneath is revealed. I find it is at once a beautiful and tragic thing to break away the rock that has weathered the elements for countless years, and to see preserved in detail a living thing no one has seen before. Honestly, pretty much everything about the trip so far is exactly how I imagined it would be.

Better, actually.

During the course of our conversation, Morgan sets his emptied cup on a flat part of the boulder and lays back to stargaze better. Following suit, I shyly lay with my head on his chest. There is the smell of dust mixed with his cologne, and I have to remind myself I barely know anything about him to stop myself from burying my face in his shirt to inhale it better. At the very least, I need to find out what cologne he is wearing, because I dig it. Instead, I focus on his questions again.

“Mostly as I expected," I respond with a slow smirk.

“Mostly?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, I didn’t foresee drinking wine and stargazing with anyone," I say. Morgan chuckles, and I feel it more than hear it.

“That’s fair. I didn’t either."

“What about you? Enjoying the trip?” I inquire, titling my head back to look at him as he responds. He too takes a moment to consider.

“Yeah, so far. Only real complaint is the food," I shudder against him as I recall our meals so far.

“Yeah, I don’t even know what it was we ate for dinner…”

“Don’t quote me, but I think it was supposed to be meatloaf."

“Really? That was meatloaf? It was more like a weird, greasy stew!” I exclaim, barely remembering to lower my voice. I neither want to disrupt others’ sleep or offend the cook.

“I know! Yeah, I don’t really know what that was, but I’m pretty sure I heard the cook say it was meatloaf when that older couple asked. Betty and Sam?” My mind scrambles to think of who he is speaking of.

“...Oh! The ones with the nice tent?”

“Yeah, them."

For a while we lay in silence, admiring the stars and the tipsy spin that comes from drinking. The occasional meteor streaks by, invoking a mutual wonderment. Sometimes we think in silence, other times we pose questions to one another. How many other lifeforms have gazed up at the night sky and seen such things before? How strange is it that we comprehend what they are, and how strange it must have been for other creatures? What prehistoric creatures fascinate us each the most?

As the night goes on and the wine bottle empties, it grows colder. Enjoying ourselves, Morgan pulls a small blanket from his backpack and throws it over us both, and we snuggle a little closer. The long, hot day combined with the wine and the warm comfort he provides lulls me close to sleep, and when I speak, it sounds slow.

“Thank you for asking me to join you tonight. I’ve enjoyed this immensely."

“Thank you for joining me. I was expecting I’d be drinking and stargazing alone. I’m glad I was wrong," he responds, speech equally sleep and drink-slurred.

We are startled awake in the early hours of the morning when one of the other participants, unfamiliar with the camp layout in the dark, stumbles into the table with the cleaned pans set atop. Nearly instantaneously, the entire camp bursts from their tents to see one of the guys scrambling to stack the pans back on the table quietly.

“Sorry!” exclaims the other novice apologetically. “Sorry, everybody!”

“Brad! Take that can with you and get some water - you’re on coffee duty after that!” hollers Zack, one of the career paleontologists who actively works this quarry. Brad sheepishly takes the can and sets about readying coffee for the camp amid their snickers.

Stiffly, Morgan and I get up. He had been kind enough to throw a thicker blanket on the boulder before we had gotten comfortable last night, so we weren’t completely stiff and cold after a night on it, but it only helped so much. As I stretch, my foot slips off the small ridge next to the boulder, and I tumble down into the small, dry creek below with a short, startled yell.

I land largely on my hip and side, a few meters down, and Morgan calls out to me before I can even register what just happened.

“You okay?!” I take a moment to study myself and determine what hurts. I see no cuts or wounds, and the worst I seem to suffer are a few more scrapes and bruises. I hurt in spots though, so I gasp as I stand and the newly injured muscles protest.

“Yeah, I think so. Nothing major," I laugh nervously. Of course I’d fall off something after a nice night. I squint up at him as I continue, “Honestly, I think my head hurts worse from working in the sun yesterday and then drinking all that wine."

“Yeah, I hear that. Come on up and let’s get ready for today," he replies gently, extending a hand to help me back up. I reach out to take his hand when I notice something different sticking out of the rise over this dried creek. Something hard, with a sharp edge that stands out against the soft, eroding dirt.

“Morgan, hand me the pick set out of my backpack, please! In the front zippered compartment!” I call. I hear him shuffling around on the ridge above me and some grumbles as he struggles to locate the requested items; I always pack so much into the bag when I travel, I feel a little embarrassed that I’ve asked him to rummage through it. Eventually he returns and tosses the case of picks to me.

“Let me tell the camp you’re all right, and then I’ll be right down," I nod without thought as I free the desired pick from its spot sardined in the still-new storage bag, focused on my target.

I free the object before Morgan even returns; most of it was already exposed. A few more washes from any significant rains would likely have swept it away.

It is clearly another shark tooth, but it is not in great condition: the tooth, which I estimate to have been 3 inches in length, is broken about halfway, and the remainder is full of nicks and cracks. I handle it delicately. I could have found a coprolite and been happy with that, so that my first find is a mangled tooth is more exciting than disappointing. What a story this tooth tells!

My family may not see the appeal of paying to dig in the dirt, but these other inquisitive folk do. Everyone is excited for me upon my return to the camp, my find carefully wrapped in one of my bandanas and cradled in my hands. Each examines the broken tooth with interest, exchanging theories on how it got to be in such a fractured state and asking me questions about the layer I found it in. We decide that I will lead them to the site to check it out after we eat breakfast, before we set out to dig today.

As I finish chatting with each intrigued novice and paleontologist alike, Morgan is kind and thoughtful enough to bring me back a cup of fresh coffee when he retrieves his own, and we sit together during breakfast. We are served, and for a moment the entire table stares at their plates. Finally, Sam leans in to ask:

“Okay, I’ll bite; what is this supposed to be?”

“Well… It’s supposed to be scrambled eggs and french toast," Zack says slowly.

“Okay… So then what is this?”

“I can’t even fathom a guess, Sam."

I lean in to whisper to Morgan, mortified, “We’re going to need a lot more wine."