The coughing woke me up, probably due to the 40 buckets of dust I’d ingested the day before, but it was the urge to pee that kept me awake.Heeding the call would mean I’d have to climb out of my cocoon of sleeping bags and blankets to stumble through a nighttime obstacle course of fire pits, picnic tables and tent stakes. I wasn’t sure which level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs would win out.
The travel alarm’s bleak news that I had at least four more hours until sun-up was the deciding factor.
Bears and Booze Occupy One's Mind
Thoughts about the coming day occupied my mind as I gingerly picked my way to the facilities, ever watchful for lions, tigers and bears (oh, my).
Today would probably be much like yesterday: Hours of meticulous digging, one trowel at a time, one bucket at a time, one screen at a time -- searching for the tiniest of evidence that this was the archaeological site of a 160-year-old liquor store set up along one of California’s emigrant trails.
Sorry to Disappoint, But . . .
Listen, if you expect me to be out on a dig for the Holy Grail, I’ll need a little help here. Do you have any idea what it would cost to finance such an adventure?
Meanwhile, Back Along the Emigrant Trail
An establishment set up for the sole purpose of selling booze and tobacco to weary travelers in California’s high Sierra doesn’t sound very romantic, but it’s all about perspective, my friend. When you love history, when you thrill at the sight of a rusty ox shoe, when you believe that the next shovelful of dirt will uncover the corroded box containing the bar-keeps diary, well, that’s romance at its best.
It’s all about possibility.
Romance, Schmomance. How’d I Get Here?
This was my third year as a volunteer archaeologist, specially trained in the fine art of shovel-n-bucket operation. About 25 other volunteers and I were here to help with archaeological research being conducted by the U.S. Forest Service. I’d wager to say that most of us have our own personal motives for a week of hard labor. Mine is to feed my need (remember Maslow?) to be a part of something bigger than my own small, everyday world.
Lynette, Girl Archaeologist, connects me to the string of time. Wow. Cosmic, man.
Anyway, Back At the Saloon
In the three years of uncovering the dig site, we’d found evidence of a “grog shop,” a temporary, crude structure set up to take advantage of fulfilling emigrant’s comfort needs (remember Maslow?). Bottle fragments, tobacco pipe pieces, coins, wagon bits n pieces, nails. It was all there, like puzzle pieces. They fit together to tell this story of daring, danger and the desire of humans who will endure all kinds of hardship in search of something better.
Some Things Never Change
Part of the story is that some things never change. One thousand years ago, 160 years ago, last week—humans have had a need for whiskey and smokes. Once the wagons are circled, the horses watered, the apples fried up, and the kids prayers done with, Maslow whispers in your ear: It’s time for whiskey and smokes.
These are the some of the constants that comfort us, found along the string of time.
