Free Lab Girl by Hope Jahren Page B

other practical land-management jobs. The grand finale of such soil-documentation exercises is the determination of “best use practice,” for which one deems most suitable the construction of a “residential structure,” a “commercial structure,” or “infrastructure,” after which one is goaded to “specify.” By the fourth week, a septic tank seems far too posh an ornament for whatever hole your head is in, and so you resort to paving the mental landscape into one unending parking lot, which is how I suppose some portions of the United States got to be the way they are.
    It took me about a week to notice that one of our undergraduate students—the one who looked like a young Johnny Cash and was perennially clad in jeans and a leather jacket even in 105-degree heat—always somehow ended up several meters away from the edge of the group, digging his own private hole. The main professor of the course was also my thesis advisor, and as his assistant, my role was largely behind-the-scenes. I floated from hole to hole, checking on the students’ progress and answering any questions. I looked at the course roster and determined by process of elimination that the loner’s name was Bill. I went over and interrupted his solitary work. “How are you doing? Do you have any questions or anything?”
    Without looking up, Bill refused my help, saying, “Nah. I’m good.” I stood there for a minute and then walked away and checked on another group, evaluated their progress, and answered some questions.
    About thirty minutes later, I noticed that Bill was now digging a second hole, his first one having been carefully refilled and smoothed over at its top. I picked up his clipboard and saw that his soil evaluation had been completed meticulously and that he had also included his second-best answers in a separate column down the right side of the page. At the very top of his report, suitability for “infrastructure” was checked, and a specification of “juvenile detention center” had been added in careful handwriting.
    I stood next to his hole. “Looking for gold?” I joked, trying to strike up a conversation.
    “No. I just like to dig,” he explained without stopping. “I used to live in a hole.”
    His matter-of-fact relation of this personal detail made me understand that he had meant it literally. “I also don’t like for people to see the back of my head,” he added.
    Not taking the hint, I stood there and watched him dig for a while, and began to notice the uncommonly large amount of earth that he was moving with each shovelful and the implied strength that must have accompanied his wiry frame. I also noticed that he was digging with something that looked like an old harpoon flattened at one end—a sword beaten into a real plowshare. “Where did you get that shovel?” I asked, figuring it was from the pile of junk I had hauled out of the department’s equipment locker, which had been located in the basement next to an old coal hull.
    “It’s mine,” he said. “Don’t judge it until you’ve dug a mile in its shoes.”
    “You mean you brought your own shovel from home?” I laughed in friendly surprise and delight.
    “Hell yes,” he affirmed. “I wasn’t going to leave this thing unattended for six weeks.”
    “I like your thinking,” I replied, seeing that I was clearly not needed. “Just let me know if you get stuck or have any questions.” I started to leave, but hesitated when Bill looked up at last.
    He sighed. “Actually, I do have a question. Why aren’t those morons over there done already? This is like the hundredth hole we’ve looked at. How long does it take someone to learn to spot a fucking earthworm?”
    I shook my head in corroboration and shrugged. “I guess their eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.”
    Bill looked at me for ten seconds. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    I shrugged again. “How should I know? It’s from the Bible. You’re not supposed to