Taking out the Trash

It was our first Saturday in Hamilton together since my return from Alaska, and we had intended on walking down to the Farmer’s Market with hopes of finding some fresh eggs to replace the ones now sizzling in the frying pan. While I set about burning breakfast, Brandi busied herself pulling played out pea plants from her garden and throwing them in the compost bin. She was only half done when I called her to come eat, so after Little Steve had his fill of pancakes we headed back outside to complete the task.

Our yard was in desperate need of some attention. It hadn’t seen much in the way of maintenance over the summer and had grown dry and dusty from constant dog frolics and indiscriminate watering schedules. Large quantities of husky down lay accumulated in every crack and crevice. As I could see it might be awhile before we’d be ready to leave, I grabbed a rake and began combing the ground.

I was still scratching at the hard pack and dead grass when Brandi finished her garden project, and her expression told me that a leisurely stroll through the Farmer’s Market had just been eclipsed by the more pressing needs of our own little plot. What better time to put in some work, we concluded, than Labor Day weekend?

Brandi had collected a large mound of pine needles and other debris when the snows had retreated last spring. It was slated for removal by our landlords, but months later remained heaped in a corner. After borrowing a wheelbarrow from one of Brandi’s co-workers, I scraped the ponderosa’s latest castings into several more piles, and we filled the pickup to capacity with woody detritus. Then we were off to the dump.

Admittedly, I had already given serious consideration to the roguish impulse that urged me to simply chuck the entire mess over a steep bank along one of the surrounding forest roads. It was all organic; with time, it would decompose. Bob had informed us that there would be a charge to dispose of it at the dump when he loaned us the wheelbarrow. I hated the idea of throwing away perfectly good money, but at least this way the worthless mess in our yard would one day be someone else’s pay dirt. Or so I thought.

We haven’t lived in the valley for long, barely a year, so it might just be a case of ignorance on my part. There may well be someplace here that processes organic material I have yet to discover. Still, I think the situation in the Bitterroot indicative of the general attitude toward refuse that prevails in this country. Our yard waste, I soon came to learn, would never realize its full potential as fertilizer. It wasn’t destined to become humus; it was nothing more than plain old rubbish.

I wasn’t aware at the time, but there is no landfill in Ravalli County. All waste generated in the Bitterroot Valley is taken to the transfer station in Victor for transport somewhere else. No effort is made to separate or categorically process the waste. My heart sunk as we were directed into a large steel building and told to empty the truckload of tree litter onto a concrete floor strewn with garbage.

A truck was parked on either side of us. One was filled with old broken furniture, the other household waste. The owners were busy dumping their loads upon the stained pad alongside ours. A small excavator stood ready to shovel the entire mess into a large compactor that oozed Styrofoam, broken glass, and kitchen litter. It smelled as if the entire building was rotting. We finished cleaning out the bed of the pickup, paid our fee, and drove away with the same thought bouncing around inside each of our heads.

“Would have been better off just dumping it in the woods.”

Although I sometimes postulate that a certain amount of organic detritus is in fact a necessary addition to a landfill if there is to be any hope for decomposition, I don’t see this tactic as being an effective waste stream management strategy. Gone are the days of perfunctorily plowing our waste out of sight, out of mind. Ravalli County in no way lacks open space; that it has no landfill only serves to underscore the gravity of the situation. Waste production has reached such a magnitude that nothing less than a comprehensive, systematic approach can possibly manage it.

Our breakfast nook is filled with recyclables. Paper, cardboard, glass, metal, plastic, are all arranged in neatly ordered stacks. There is little opportunity for the proper disposal of recyclables in Hamilton, so we haul them with us whenever we visit Washington. We have begun washing plastic baggies for reuse, and Brandi almost has me trained not to forget the fabric grocery bags when we leave for the store. Now that we have a compost bin, trips to the dumpster in the alley have decreased significantly. Even so, we need to do more.

Truth is our expectations, as a culture, are in need of a complete overhaul. Our entire attitude must evolve. We can no longer afford to pitch refuse haphazardly into landfills. We must resist our craving for disposability and lower our tolerance for garbage in America. Most importantly, we must come to grips with the fact that, since there truly are differences between pine needles and trash, there must be different ways with which to handle them.