Free Dirt Work by Christine Byl Page A

their worries and insecurities, didn’t guess about the eating disorder, fights with a new husband, the joints wearing out, wanting to fall in love for real. Later, I’d see their faults—short-tempered, quick to blame—and also the fullness that comes from vulnerability. But first, I saw toughness, that assurance and vigor. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
    Few people in this century know the language of mules. It’s an almost-lost dialect, like the words of second-generation immigrants or children growing out of their make-believe tongues. Packers speak this language fluently—what you say to talk about loading and riding and caring for stock, and what you say to the animals themselves. To talk about packing mules, you say:
    String: n— A group of mules linked by ropes joining the bridle of one mule to a saddle ring on the one behind it. Use: “I’ll have a string of five today.” A packer leads a string on horseback, though in steep terrain, may dismount and lead the string by hand.
    Load: n —A pair of evenly weighted parcels that ride one to a side of a packsaddle. A load is made up of bear-proofed ammo boxes (for food and supplies), or toolboxes (open crates with a leather strap to lash down contents), or soft bags (for clothes, tents, sleeping bags) called “duffel.” A load is made up of two parcels, but is counted as one, corresponding with how many mules it will take to carry it. If asked, “How many loads you got?” you’d answer, “Three.” Six parcels for three loads for three head of stock. Don’t get this wrong and answer, “Six loads,” or the packer will ready twice as many mules as he needs, and when he finds out your mistake, he’ll tear you a new one.
    Manta: n/v —Pronounced “manny,” a large square of off-white duck cloth (tan after one season) for wrapping equipment into loads that can be tied easily onto a packsaddle with manta ropes. The verb form is the act of preparing such loads. As in, “We gotta be at the barn to manny up before eight” or “Do you need a hand mannying?”
    To talk to mules, you say, Hey there girl, easy now, tchk-tchk, hush, hey, pshht, get on back, slow up, shhh. You talk softly to calm, or loudly to command, but never so loud as to startle. (Only a salty packer can cuss at the top of his lungs without eliciting mayhem.) You make what noises seem right, ones that flow out of your mouth easy, a song or a curse, depending on the moment. When you know the animals, it’s instinct.
    Learn mule-speak as any language: immersion is best. Hang around the barn mouth shut, ears open. Say nothing for a long time, just listen to the packers talk, and when you are ready to try the words you think you’ve learned, you’ll sound funny at first, to you and to them. It’s better if you’re humble.
    Most of the Sperry district is above tree line, in alpine terrain. The patron saint of alpine crews is Archimedes, who stated, “Give me the place to stand and I shall move the Earth”; his lever is our most reached-for tool. I met the rock bar on a steep switchback halfway up the Sperry Trail, where my crew was to build a series of check steps. Reba pointed to the rocks she had in mind and explained the process. We’d bury them perpendicular to the trail, half stair tread, half barrier for fill, to prevent erosion. The rocks she chose were twenty-five yards off-trail, grown over with alpine plants. But big. Clearly big. Reba told me the number one rule of rockwork: if you can move it by yourself, it’s not big enough. I couldn’t move much by myself, but even so, the point was clear. Mass meant stability and stability meant resilience. Rockwork has to withstand traffic, erosion, and time.
    We walked uphill to the rocks, Reba carrying the bar over her shoulder like Paul Bunyan’s take on Huck Finn’s hobo stick. I kicked at the base of