Crew Pic

Left to Right: Brian (foreman), Greg Thurman, Ali Thurman (Greg's daughter), Ann-Mari (Brian's fiancee/cook/crew Mum #2), Christian (Denmark), Me, 'Prydey' (Andrew - Aus), 'Sniffa' (Dan - Aus), 'Scuba' (Steve - UK), 'Turkey' (Steve - Aus), Pauly (Ohio), Ron (NZ), Lars (Sweden), Timmy (Aus), Cheryl Thurman (behind the camera - cook/crew Mum #1)

Ron and I did some proper trucking the other day, driving 1,200km from Faulkton South Dakota up to Hallock Minnesota and back again. Ron took us up there, traveling east out of Faulkton, following the Minnesotan state-line north through North Dakota before crossing into Minnesota 20 miles short of the Canadian border and into the town of Hallock. I brought us home with nothing in tow.

Our cargo looked a bit pathetic. We needed to deliver a grain cart trailer belonging to another harvest crew but we were also hauling a four-wheel buggy that Greg had sold to a guy up north. The upshot was that we used a huge trailer to move a tiny vehicle and it looked a bit dicky. We got a few sideways looks.

Load aside, it was great for me to get away from the back-roads and onto the bigger highways and interstates. In one respect, the novelty of driving a truck has worn off; it is how I have earned a living for the last six months. However, every now and then, as I’m easing the 18-wheeler out onto the blacktop, snapping through gears or cruising at 65mph, I have a flashback to this time last year when all I was driving was a mouse and a keyboard.

These moments often occur when another truck driver waves at me. Part of me feels underqualified to wave back. For a start, it took me a while to personalise my truckie’s wave. The formula involves a little bit of wave and a little bit of point (toward the direction you're traveling). My wave is a sideways hand flick that starts with five fingers but ends with a pistol point. It's good because it doesn't require too much distance from the steering wheel and, given that it's a small gesture, I don't feel too bad if the other party doesn't reciprocate. Some drivers will slowly raise their whole arm, kind of like they're dismissing a batsman in a game of cricket.

Anyway, technique aside, the wave acknowledges that we have something in common - we drive trucks - and there exists a mutual respect. However I do sometimes feel that my cab misrepresents me, most of all the fact that I am very much a rookie driver.

Yet herein lies something that I love about truck driving: each cab tells a different story. Coming over here, to me truck drivers were dudes that you’d flinch at a little bit when crossing paths at the fuel bowser; hard men in little shorts and blue singlets with tats on their forearms. In the US, they could not be a more diverse bunch of people. For a start, I can correct my gender specific sentences; you come across a lot of women driving trucks. Trev from Dobbins’ crew told me of a woman he saw leaning against her rig who, he thought, would have been in her 80s. I’ve seen huge drivers, tiny drivers, tough guys, geeky looking drivers, mullets, clean-cut drivers, black, white, Latino drivers, drivers with poodles; the spectrum is broad. For many, their truck is all that they own; they live in it, often with a partner and an animal or two, and travel wherever their cargo takes them.

Every now and then I like to have a bit of fun the little detour in my career path. Passing through Aberdeen on our way back to Faulkton I wanted to express that feeling of two-worlds-colliding, so I took the truck to do some shopping at the mall. I insisted on parking amongst the cars, as close as I could get to shops, and stopped for a photo out the front of WalMart on the way out.

My Durangos

Pauly

Physically, Pauly is a pretty big dude…he’s the first to admit this. He’s also an unashamed redneck. He gets around with a fishing hook clipped to his hat – it’s some kind of redneck accessory. I haven’t quite worked it out and Pauly didn’t give me a very good explanation…I’m told that many rednecks share a love for the outdoors and so I guess if you're a redneck you’re the kind of guy who might like to throw a line in at any given moment and, if you do, you don’t want to be caught without a hook (!?!?) Clutching at straws here…it’s a weird accessory!

Further to the outdoorsman persona, Pauly owns a lot of camouflage gear, including a set of camo bed sheets. It was also Pauly’s .22 rifle that scared the shit out of me when I saw it pointing out from under his bed sheets just after I’d settled into the camper (strange to think that I wouldn’t look twice if I saw the same thing today).

All of this said, I think there’s a lot more to Pauly than the redneck. Going on my description above, you’d think he was some kind of hard-edged urban militant. If you hang around him a bit – we’ve had five months to do so - you actually find that he’s very sharp and, I think, a bit of a softy at heart.

Hailing from Ohio, Pauly is the only American on the crew (apart from Greg). The fact that, in this regard, he is a foreigner in his own country is bizarre and I think frustrating for him at times. By default he is the target whenever one of the boys wants to sound off about America and, for this, he gets his fair share of shit. The fact that he takes this all in good humour and turns the other cheek when he needs to indicates to me that he is incredibly strong willed.

This is Pauly’s second year in a row working for Greg. I’ve realised that it takes a certain type of person to make a career out of custom harvesting (even if it is a short one). Most of the boys, including myself, have indicated that they would not back up for a second year in a row, simply because of the full-on nature of the lifestyle. Similarly, the fact that Pauly is back again this year, also indicates strength of character. The same can be said for Lars who is serving his seventh year!

back to the big smoke Pt II

The last time I returned to the Big Smoke I had a bit of an identity crisis. We visited Denver back in July and I found myself freaked out by the spectrum of life that is so rawly displayed in a city i.e. the good stuff about life but also the ugly stuff. By the end of the trip, I was surprised and a little bit disconcerted to be craving the simplicity (and inherent safety) of the country life that I've been introduced to on harvest. A couple of weekends ago I had the opportunity to return to the Big Smoke, this time to Minnesota's Twin Cities, Minneapolis-St Paul, and my experience was quite different.

Generally I'm a pretty categorical thinker; I like things to be black and white; I like to be able to rule something as good or bad; and I like to be able to clearly define my position in the world (as I write this I can't help but feel rebuked by the fact that I uprooted a career in film production and the city life to come and try farming...anyway, just run with me for a second).

My first few weeks on harvest I would frequently step back in awe observing the people that I was meeting and the experiences that I was having. I think the thing I liked most - and still do - is the craziness of people; the happy-go-lucky attitude by which so many live life and yet the ever present safety net of routine and uniformity that exists in the country. In many ways I wanted to be like the boys in this respect and going back to the city gave me a small crisis of choice I guess.

However, as the season has rolled on I have realised that there are things about the city and things about the person I am in that context that I do not want to change. There are also things about the country life and the boys that I do not want to adopt - not necessarily things that are bad, but things that are different - and this is OK. What I have learned is that I don't need to be hard and fast a city boy or hard and fast a country boy, I can be a collage of both, and this is the philosophy that I put into practice during my most recent visit to the city.

On the one hand I was walking around with my ipod in and an espresso in my hand, yet I was also pounding the pavement with my cowboy boots (which, incidentally, are one of the best things about the country life). Sensible James made sure I bought a ticket every time I rode the light rail around town, yet that same guy hitched a ride with some friendly firefighters to a night club later in the evening (Timmy was proud).

It helped that I found Minneapolis to be a fantastic city. It's a US place name that is familiar but not one that you'd consider one of the big tourist destinations. Discovering such places is one of the things that I've enjoyed most about harvest. Such pleasant surprises are also one of the things that I enjoy most about travel and, I'm finding, that they will most often occur when you're off the tourist trail.

The Twin Cities are separated by the Mississippi River, Minneapolis on the west bank and St Paul on the east. The diversity that freaked me out in Denver was even more prevalent in Minneapolis, yet this time I embraced it. At one stage it was the world's flour milling capital and also had a large lumber industry. Like so many industrial capitals, a lot if the industry has been shifted to other locations, however many of the buildings remain, giving parts of the city a gritty feel - the 'Warehouse District' is especially cool.

I'm not sure why, but the city has an incredibly vibrant arts scene, apparently second only to New York in terms of live theatre per capita. Walking around the CBD you'd see huge RVs with blacked-out windows parked out the front of clubs and music venues, belonging to various artists on the tour circuit. Bars and clubs were also full of creative types. It was fantastic to come across the odd filmy.

Another interesting little fact is that Minnesota excludes clothing from its sale tax. To cater for a huge throng of out of state shoppers, it is home to the largest mall in the US, The Mall of America. America doesn't do such attractions in halves and, needless to say it is a pretty amazing, slightly scary, place: its a $650 million complex, contributing $1.8 billion to Minnesota's economy, there are about 520 stores spread across four levels and 23 hectares of retail space (for those back home that's nearly twice the size of Hyde Park).

Steeple Bar, Orient SD

If I ever open a bar it will be modeled on The Steeple in Orient South Dakota. Set in a deconsecrated church, its founders would turn in their grave if they saw its current condition, yet this tiny town (with a population of no more than 200) is home to a bar that would rival any establishment that I've come across in Sydney in terms of its character.

My first night there I was attacked by a crazy looking Golden Retriever at the door. Turns out that this was Junior, one of the proprietors. He was a lot more friendly once I got inside and bumped into him sitting at the bar enjoying a beer out of his bowl. Junior belongs to Kevin, the guy who runs the bar. Kevin is a bit creepy looking, but I think you need to be a little bit different if you run a bar like The Steeple.

My run in with Junior set a precedent for each of my visits to The Steeple where by a potentially shit night has been salvaged by the unique vibe of this place.

It still looks like a church from the outside. It's most distinguishing feature is graffiti; every square-foot of the interior, except the bar top, is covered with "was heres", poems, love messages, phone numbers, caricatures, photos, all contributed by patrons. Inscriptions extend to the rafters and the ceiling (the only space left available), accessed by a couple creaky-under-foot loft's.

The other aspect I love about Steeple is the fact that there is no basin in the men's toilet - incredibly unhygienic, probably illegal but kind of exhilarating in its statement of rebellion.

Never has the bar been packed when I've been there. All you need for a great night is good company, some money for the Jukebox and a couple of felt tip pens.

The Hutterites (click here for pics)

One of things I love most about America is that it is a place of incredible diversity, both geographically and culturally. To many, the Mid-West is a region largely characterised by religious and political conservatism, yet, at the same time, traveling around, visiting bars and living life as a harvester, I've found there to be no shortage of zaniness.

This aside, everything closes on a Sunday for church in the morning which is usually followed by a buffet lunch with the family at one of the local eateries. It seems, for many people, regardless of how crazy you act during the week, you show up for church on Sunday.

I had a really interesting experience the other day, visiting a local Hutterite colony just outside of Faulkton. This particular colony has about 150 people and is one of about 120 in the US and about 500 throughout the world. Similar to the Amish and Mennonites they're of European origin. This Christian sect was started by a guy called Jakob Hutter in Austria during the 16th century. They hang onto a lot of this heritage, speaking high and low German.

In my ignorance, seeing them around town, I lumped them into a 'sort of Amish' category. Certainly they resist the excesses of the modernism, however, at the same time, they are not anti technology, as long as it helps them to further their self-sustaining lifestyle e.g. they had a huge mould to create cement walls for their buildings as well tractors for harvest etc.

They will do as much as possible themselves, making them incredibly practical. For instance one of the tractors we saw they built themselves rather than buying one new. We're not talking a little dicky machine either, the one we saw could have rolled off the John Deere production line this year. They school their own inside the colony - 8 till 5 six days a week until the age of 15 when they are taught a trade in order to contribute to the community. No one earns a wage. The money they earn through crops is spent on those essential items needed by the community.

Life for them is about serving God and others rather than furthering the individual self (based on a passage in Acts 2). They lead a humble lifestyle, best expressed through their clothing, which they make, the men generally getting around in long sleeves shirts, black slacks and suspenders and the women in long dresses which cover their ankles and bonnets. Fellowship is a major focus of their lives and therefore you won't find TVs ipods etc.

It's amazing to find a community like this in a country so well know for its excesses. Leading such a lifestyle would require an incredible amount of discipline and such a community has a lot of positive attributes (especially with regard to the service of others). However, this said, I think that problems can arise when people try to be so counter-cultural. I've heard that a few of the younger members secretly trade items with people outside the colony for things like ipods (one hopes they are happy within the community). I've heard that many ex-Hutterites tend to swing to the other extremes of life when the leave. There's also the obvious question about in-breeding.

It's raining today, hence the cultural lesson brought to you by Wheat & Chaff...I found my visit pretty interesting.

Pics by Scuba

It seems some idle time in Kansas brought out Scuba Steve's creative side. Scuba was sent down by himself in September to plant Greg's wheat crop for next year. In addition to his beetle shot, he took some great pics. 1. Dan harvesting corn around Isabel Kansas 2. Greg's oil well at sunrise - Kansas 3. Bottle-top pyramid 4. Scuba self portrait

Canada

I've been meaning to write a post-Canada wrap up for a while. It was an interesting little leg of the journey; a painfully uneventful month punctuated by moments of excitement.

Trying to get into the country I may as well have been Osama Bin Laden applying for an American Green Card (I wrote about this experience back in August). Consequently, I felt like a hero when we finally reached our destination, only to be cut down to size by Mother Nature. Many say that where Greg Thurman goes, the rain will follow. True to the superstition, we got about three days and 400 acres into the 5000 acre job and then sat through ten days of bad weather.

Marean Lake Resort, our idyllic lakeside campground, rapidly morphed into a prison with water views. Looking back, I feel a bit guilty about my attitude toward the place because it was an amazing location...a single gravel road led down to the lake which was surrounded by woods and log cabins, there was a golf course, a beach and fire-pits scattered around the campsite. I think the issue was that it is a holiday location and we weren't equipped or in the right frame of mind for a holiday; it's the kind of place that you come to with a few books to read, some boardgames, a fishing rod and a boat. We also arrived just as many were packing up their cabins for the Winter.

If I write about the cabin fever that I've been feeling here in Faulkton, we had it ten times worse in Canada. In hindsight, I think we were a little depressed. We went through all of the comedies on the DVD shelf and started watching full-on war epics like The Thin Red Line. One of our idle days, Brian spent a whole morning whittling a little sword out of a stick.

And then one day, like someone had flicked a switch, the weather turned good and we hit the 'go fast' button. It became apparent that most of our time sitting in the camper was spent considering how much we did not want to be stuck in Canada and, as a result, our efficiency in the field peaked. Many nights, Brian would have to drag us away from the crop. We cut for nearly two weeks straight, finishing the job in one big hit.

Eric, the farmer that we worked for was a great guy. In his mid-30s, he is the youngest farmer that we've worked for and had one of the biggest and most impressive crops (clearly a pretty sharp operator). Surprisingly, he's also the only farmer that has bought us a case of beer at the end of the job...back home, the case of beer is considered a currency in its own right.

My Dad came to visit! It's still bizarre looking back - a whirlwind visit. He was in the US for a wedding in San Francisco but managed to squeeze in a fairly major detour to visit me in the middle of nowhere. He arrived in Saskatoon about lunch time, hired a car, and made the three hour drive in time for supper in the field. We drove around together in my truck for most of the evening, trying to catch up as much as possible, pausing every now and then while I unloaded. He met all of the guys, got a ride in one of the tractors, and then came back to the camper to see where I've been living before heading back to Saskatoon late in the evening.

Dad's visit was too short to have a significant effect on me, but it certainly represented the intersection of two different worlds: the lawyer and the truck driver. We arranged to meet at a cross roads between two highways. I was hoping to make a dramatic entrance in the big rig, perhaps creating cloud of dust as I pulled onto the shoulder of the road. This scenario didn't quite play out (one of the Thurman Harvesting pick-ups had to suffice), but nonetheless it was strange seeing Dad in this context (probably stranger from his perspective).

Seeing Dad made me realise what I have left back home and also highlighted just how far I have wandered from the routine of my life in Sydney Town. However, at the same time, catching up with Dad and seeing the effort that he made to visit me showed me how supportive he is of my venture, even if he doesn't completely understand what it is that I am doing (hell, nor do I sometimes!).

In what was a pleasant coincidence, our Canadian adventure came to a close on my 26th birthday. It was a very low key birthday yet one like no other that I've experienced. Most of it was spent by myself driving a 90 foot long oversized truck across Northern America, half of it in Canada and half in the United States. Eric's wife Shona very kindly made me some cupcakes to share with the crew on the road and the boys arranged for some candles to be stuck in my sausage at the truck stop where we had breakfast.

Fence Posts

Wheat & Chaff Unplugged

I’ve had trouble finding the motivation to post lately. It has to do with the fact that I feel stuck in Faulkton. I just can’t be bothered doing much when I want to be somewhere else. I’ve got Pollyanna’s voice in my head telling me to appreciate where I am and what I’m doing, but there are aspects of my former lifestyle that I’m craving more and more as I see the tips of those New York City skyscrapers on the horizon.

At the risk of sounding like a wanker, espresso is at the top of the list. I drove an hour to Aberdeen last night to get a Starbucks coffee, which isn’t too bad, but it’s eons away from the quality of the brew at Bertoni in Balmain. I found my best American coffee in a place that I would have least suspected, a little town in North-West Nebraska called Gordon, population 1,800 (back in July!). The café was called ‘His Place’ and was run by lady called Pam who had moved from Seattle with her husband Phil who was in the ministry. The staff worked for free and the profits went toward the church’s ministry. And did I provide them with some profit. We had a few rainy days in town. I’d sit there banging away at the keys of my laptop, knocking back lattes, cappuccinos and moccas from mid-morning until close, by which time I’d be pinging off the walls with all of the caffeine in my system. Good times…

Incidentally, this post is the first of a couple that I’m going to call ‘Wheat & Chaff Unplugged’…I’m feeling the need to shake loose the shackles of semi-polished writing…I need to prattle on a bit...more chaff than wheat. It’s therapeutic and hopefully gives a bit of an insight into my frame of mind at the moment.

I thought the above picture was a good one to accompany the post. Scuba Steve went through a similar period of restlessness when he was back in home-town Kiowa planting next year’s wheat crop for Greg. He started photographing beetles that he saw walking across the gravel in Greg’s yard.

Cabin Fever

Nearing the end of the season, there's a complicated vibe within camp. On the one hand it was great to see the guys who have been working in Minnesota and Kansas while we were in Canada (it's been over a month, so there's been plenty of catching up). However we've squeezed everyone into the 8-bed camper, making our living situation quite claustrophobic. At the start of the season, this was a novelty but after five months on the road I think everyone is a bit over it.

It makes me appreciate the unique lifestyle that I've been living (and herein lies the essence of custom harvesting: it is a lifestyle not an occupation). Ten guys from varying backgrounds, of varying personalities and nationalities, have worked together, lived together and socialised together for five months. Often the isolation of the places that we are working makes it difficult to find personal space, something that I am craving more and more as we approach the finish line.

To try and paint a picture of my mental state, yesterday I started reading some Tolstoy and swatted flies on the roof of the camper as I lay on the top bunk...they're everywhere at the moment. I'm also finding that the coin-op laundry provides a strange oasis - if you chose, it gives you an excuse to sit in a place and do nothing for an hour. The sound of the machines pulsating is also quite comforting.

All of us are starting to think about what we'll be doing next: some are returning home, others have further travel plans. Christian left today with his parents who have come over from Denmark for a family holiday. Scuba and Timmy will also be leaving early. For the rest of us, our departure date is unknown. It all depends on when the corn gets ready in Faulkton (the final crop that we will cut). We will probably wrap up in mid-November, but not having a more specific schedule is frustrating me.

Once we finish I'm planning on joining a Contiki Tour in New York, traveling to Los Angeles via the South over three weeks. I've never considered myself a Contiki traveler but one of the other guys on the crew can't speak highly enough of his experience. Plus you never know unless you try.

I'm really hoping that I'll have some time to get lost in New York before the tour starts; just me, my ipod, a lot of people that I can observe but don't need to speak to, bookstores, music stores, bars, sidewalks, subways, and maybe a hot dog or two.

Lying in bed last night I recalled an incident that I feel is indicative of the country-boy ethos. There was a bit of tension in the camper between a few of the guys. After a few beers things escalated and resulted in a punch being thrown, a window broken, and one of the guys being thrown through a door. The following morning both bodies and egos were a little bit bruised but scores had been settled and the air was clear. Tension was replaced with collegiality as the boys focused on repairing the damage to the camper.

Cheryl Thurman was cooking lunch on the BBQ in the campground as one of the boys walked by with the broken door under his arm. I’m told he smiled, waved politely with his free hand and wished her a good morning.

Back in the big smoke and put in a similar situation I would probably have gone on a long walk and drawn up a mind map to work out the best way forward for all involved. I can see merit in both approaches. I really appreciate the (sometimes big) differences between me and some of the guys.