No Dearth of Digging Ducklings

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Digging a mile worth of irrigation ditch is not what we usually do on a Saturday morning, but this Saturday was different.

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An Acequia, as I'm sure you all know by now, is an ancient irrigation method that dates back to the Spanish colonization of the southwest. They allowed the first towns and cities in New Mexico to be sustainable, and in many ways still shape the society today. Every year the ditches must be cleared, and everyone in the local rural community participates in one way or another. But enough of the history lesson, back to us. We rose from our respective beds at around 7:30, rubbed our eyes, dressed, rubbed our eyes again, and got into the car to drive the half hour to the La Cienega Acequia. The digging was already well underway, with about 30 to 40 locals already digging up and down the Acequia. It was a surprisingly brisk morning, almost in the 60s and yet still very dry. We were handed gloves and footed boots. We picked up our sharpened shovels and walked to the nearest undug section of the ditch. The dry earth was thick with the roots of grass, which other than the branches was the main thing being removed from the ditch-about three inches of soil needed to be dug out from the bottom. The walls of the ditch also needed to be made steeper, which in turn made it more difficult to climb out. The dry clay earth yielded effortlessly to the plunging blade of the shovel, resisting only slightly to being forced over and out the ditch.

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Then the water began. As the earth grew wet the once easy dirt septupled in weight, the ground gave under the back of the shovel eliminating all hope of leverage, and even the grassroots seemed deeper and hardier. The mud sucked at your boots, making it difficult to take even a single step, and the wet slope meant embarrassing moments of heaving a chunk of earth the size of a large sandwich but with the weight of half a bowling ball to the edge of the ditch, only to see it slide back down again instantly becoming one with the mud once more.

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The mud splashed and flecked on our clothes, not excessively, but noticeably. Mud caked on gloves from simply taking the larger chunks of dirt and heaving them out of the ditch by hand. It was a clean mud, a pure mud. Mud that felt good getting on yourself.

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The natives were quiet most of the time around us, but talked amongst themselves while digging, usually about digging. They talked about how some of the northern acequias had finer, drier soil and could shovel more easily, and some more mountainous acequias had pine trees running up and down their ditch, whose roots made the digging magnitudes more difficult.
There were mixed reactions to us, outsiders, helping them in this annual ritual. Some snorted at our efforts to clear the ditch, others simply looked past us, but a few were welcoming and empathetic towards our novice ability. In the end our action was treated with the gratitude of an unnecessary favor from a stranger. A "Gee, thanks..." feeling.

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Nevertheless, we managed to finish 45 minutes early, having dug all the way to the reservoir that fed the Acequia. There was no cheering or outward celebration, but more of just a nod, looking back at what we did, what we all helped do, and knowing it was finished. We all climbed in the back of several trucks and drove to the La Cienega Community Center, where a workers meal was prepared by the women. The potluck was delicious, added to by the fatigue of hours of digging. The Mayordomo made a short speech where thanked everyone for helping and complimented everyone on the state of the Acequia. He hoped to see them all next year with just as much effort. Then people finished eating and simply left. We followed suit. Grabbing our shoes, getting in the car, driving away, showering at home, and climbing back into bed. The act was wholesome and even a little therapeutic. We knew we had engaged in something difficult and necessary, and as we lay down we knew we had done well that day.