Field Trip!

We huddle in the cold around an elderly man who explains the mechanics of landfills while students stand with fists stuffed in stubby pockets gazing up at a mountain of accumulated debris.  Gulls scavenge and reel above our heads. A hungry yellow dozer jerks up and down the trash heap carrying with it an American flag.   The guide shares his intimate knowledge of this place and we gaze in astonishment at the mountain and  all of the s%$# -- the razor scooter, the pea green couch, the squeaky kid toys – that intelligent people throw instead of give away.

I watch the students closely and wonder if they think I’m ramming the anti-consumer lesson down their throats.  But then I remember that I don’t want to be their friend.

A student leans in and whispers to me: “Can we get closer to the mountain?”

“No, sorry, we can’t. We’ve been advised against it. It's a policy designed to keep us safe.”

She grins when I say this. I like her. In fact, I like all of them for showing up here today.

Another student asks the same question. They share the same desire to dig in and peel back of layers of human history and get their hands dirty.  They see the perfectly fixable garden hoses and slightly dented space heaters and scraped up German pint glasses.

We learn from our guide that we’ll be treated to a special visit: the landfill’s toxic and hazardous materials section. Here we’re shown bins of mercury and Agent Orange, ammonia, and enough solvents to fill a suburban bathtub. 

We walk back toward the trash heap and hear about a project in the works to harness the landfill’s methane.  But it is the mountain itself that obsesses these students. Most of them were born and raised climbing Colorado’s 14-ers or racing down slopes on multi-colored boards. They know mountains.

“I could use that tiny blue plastic table”, say a girl majoring in elementary education.

“Did you see that retro refrigerator?” says another.

“This is unbelievable”, says a third.

And then another student cries. 

I put my arm around her shoulder and ask if she’s all right. All she can say is: “It’s just too much”.  Other students nod their heads. They puff cold morning air into tiny discrete clouds and avert their eyes toward the sky. Sobering. The place is like a Target store after an earthquake.

And it is too much. The recent layer of usable ephemera heaped upon that rickety pile. The brazen American flag atop the dozer covering one county’s shame.  The reeling gulls.  What is it about those damn gulls? Each of them scanning the loot while lofting above, anxious and willing to turn our trash into treasure.