Good thing I’m a weak and twiggy old bald fart with barely enough strength to lift a glass of red wine and not a mighty young-country tree-chopper and oxen-handler or I might have done some real damage.
Still I need the exercise, and the challenge was unmistakable: Man vs. Plant.
My dream of destroying a 100-year old Zinfandel vine out of sheer cussedness in search of gold was also (thankfully) dashed by the evidence uncovered.
My idea of fun does not usually involve raising a drenching sweat before 8:00AM, but then in far-off Cubicle-land the temperature is always the same, an even 78-degrees, not affected by the early scorching hot sun of the lower Western Slope.
So I got the new shovel and dug the flush-cut stumps of something vaguely vine-like with gnarly roots, perhaps a grape?
Fortunately I did not dig far enough or with heavy-equipment to cause serious damage, but now I need one of those caution signs for the yard: “Warning, Do Not Dig” – one is white and the other is yellow.