I spent my childhood in the quaint little town of Beaver, Pennsylvania. Overlooking the magnificent Ohio River, the Borough of Beaver was incorporated in 1801 and is twenty-three miles North by Northwest of downtown Pittsburgh – once the steel capital of the world.
In 1962, I was eleven years old when the dump caught fire. (The word ‘landfill’ had yet to be coined.) It was located outside of town up a steep road alongside a deep ravine where people simply tossed their smelly trash into the abyss. I have no idea how long this once untouched, picturesque spot was used as a garbage dump, but one hot day it exploded into flames. Of course my dad took us out to watch.
That sort of thing was sport to him.
Several fire departments rushed to the scene and pumped thousands of gallons of water onto the burning rubbish and finally extinguished the flames – so they thought. But the smoke persisted for months… and months… and months. It was an overwhelming, putrid stink that saturated the already polluted air. The funny thing was that most folks didn’t seem to care: “You’ns smell somethin’? Smells normal to me.”
Back then, there was little concern for the environment, especially in Western Pennsylvania. At one point in the Fifties, the Beaver River was completely covered with a three foot coating of filthy laundry detergent suds. It stretched for miles. The once diarrhetic Beaver River gushed into the Ohio where “boats aren’t the only things that float.”
In 1963, my dear old Dad moved us to Dallas, Texas, where we finally got that annoying smell out of our noses.
Dallas had the beginnings of a real landfill. It was huge, always crowded, and the excessive heat and humidity turned the place into a realm right out of Dante’s Inferno. Best to go there as early as possible. Unfortunately, hundreds of other trash hauling citizens and mobsters had the same idea. 4am wasn’t early enough! It would seem like the city that produced a five-time Super Bowl championship team could somehow produce a safe, carefree landfill/underworld burial ground.
“Y’all don’t like this? Go somewhere else!”
So we did…
In 1982, Jayebird, our son and I moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Now, there was a landfill! High above the City Different resided “the Dump with a View.” Definitely one of the most scenic dumps I’ve ever had the pleasure of depositing my fresh garbage.
Look beneath your lid some morning
See the things you didn’t quite consume
The world’s a can for your
Fresh garbage!
Indeed.
The Santa Fe Scenic Dump was the first award-winning trash depository that I took my Dad to visit. It was never too hot and there was always an air freshening breeze to make our trash hauling day enjoyable.
Dad was impressed and was glad he brought his camera — and refreshments of course.
Back in Dallas he would invite all his friends out to the house for a grand slideshow presentation avec Champagne cocktails and strawberries. Several of his more peculiar friends booked flights to Santa Fe specifically to visit our magnificent trash heap. We were all sorry that the city had never offered whimsical postcards to commemorate what was called, ‘New Mexico’s answer to the Grand Canyon’.
Sadly, the Santa Fe landfill was finally filled in. Where there was once trash, there are now beautiful homes. A brass plaque reads: Once Upon a Time, There was Magic Here!
1990 was the year Jayebird and I moved to heavenly Hawaii. Maui Nō Ka ‘Oi! The land of swaying palms, verdant volcanoes, crashing waves, romantic beaches, amazing sunsets and . . . the world’s most breathtaking landfills!
Jayebird and I settled in Up Country, high above the charming town of Makawao. We lived on an estate with three houses. We occupied the oldest, which was on stilts. The great house was occupied by the land owners, a wonderful little family whose sister-in-law (and aunt) is Sigourney Weaver. In the third house lived a couple of school teachers and their young son. We all became fast friends enjoying each others company.
It was a marvelous time for the two of us. It was like living in a tropical dreamworld. We awoke every morning yawning, suddenly realizing that we lived in paradise. We were 3,000 feet up 10,000 foot Haleakala, a supposedly dormant volcano. We would sit on our lanai and enjoy the view of the deep, blue ocean far below. It was nothing but surreal.
One fine day I gathered up all the trash and made my first dump run. A day that will live indelibly in my memory forever. I followed the directions and took off to the Up Country Landfill. After passing through a eucalyptus forest and around the bend, the view opened up to a fantastic panorama. The road took me through a huge field of pineapple.
And there, smack-dab in the middle, was a sight that took my breath away. Like a sensuous woman beckoning me with her many charms, lying in wait . . . was the dump!
The next day I called dear old Dad and informed him of the most exquisite landfill in God’s creation. He was notably excited. He announced that he and Mom were coming out to visit us, that he missed us. But I instantly recognized his ulterior motive – he had to see the Aloha Dump! And the sooner the better.
We finally arrived in Pagosa Country in the early nineties. There was only one traffic light and stopping seemed to be optional. Back then, we lived up Piedra Road and I was making regular trips to the Archuleta Landfill. But back then, our landfill was a real dump. And it was miles and miles away. I’d pack a lunch and let people know where I was going, so they knew where to look if I failed to return in a day or two.
Back then, it was cool to see bears and buzzards picking through the fresh garbage, searching for snacks. And the long trip was a beautiful ride. I hauled a covered trailer dedicated for trash; I guess you could call us trailer trash!
At the old landfill, paper, Styrofoam, cardboard and the occasional hat blew over the perimeter fences out into the real world. The environmentalists warned us that the nearby San Juan river was being contaminated by garbage juices. (Yikes!)
When the rain or snow fell the smelly dump became a dangerous quagmire. You’d slip and slide all over the place while the huge earth movers shuffled the mounds of trash down into the pits that someday would be filled over. One frightening afternoon my tail gate was run over by a front loader… and, over the years, I’ve had more than a few close calls.
But in the last five or six years the dump had become extremely dangerous to visit. Years before, Dad had become leery of our dump. (Had the place caught on fire, he would’ve begged to go.)
I hadn’t ventured down Trujillo Road to the landfill in almost two years. But recently I had accumulated a big trailer full of junk, including an old mattress secured on top. I dreaded going to the dump and the mental preparation was similar to gearing up for a colonoscopy ‒ I knew I had to do it . . . but, yuck.
Brother Ross and I took off early in the morning. The day before I had trekked all the way from Aspen Springs down to “Dante’s Dung Pile” to find a sign that read: Closed on Tuesdays. I guess I never got the memo. (Dammit!) But the morning sun lighting up scampering clouds was gorgeous while meandering down Trujillo through bucolic meadows and rolling hills, the “purple mountains majesty” revealing itself around every turn.
We drove into the entrance and soon positioned the truck and trailer onto the scales. A stern looking woman came out and informed us we owed her 23 bucks for the mattress. I wasn’t about to argue with her; I had no idea what she was capable of.
In the old days they charged by the cubic yard and it was mostly guess work. Now they charge by the pound. It’s fair and fast. In fact, the new operation is much more efficient all around. The guys driving the big machines no longer have to stop and get out to take your money within the hustle and bustle of several other trash customers.
We had been instructed to drive up the big hill to the mattress pile. They also have scrap metal and old appliances piled up. Supposedly everything would be eventually hauled away for recycling. Or more likely, dumped up on Aspen Springs Unit 6. (Just kidding.)
We went back over the scales and were weighed once more. I was asked to go into the new “office” which was nice and tidy. The price, even with the extra 23 bucks for the mattress, was much less that I had anticipated. The attendant turned out to be very sweet and chatted it up quite nicely. I wrote her a check and that was that. All in all, we were in and out of there in record time, easy as pie . . . and no colonoscopy!
The bottom line is that the Archuleta Landfill is doing a good job these days. I guess we all have to pay a little more to dispose of electronics, TVs, mattresses etc. A small price to pay to Save the Planet.
By the way… after well over one hundred years of pollution, the waters of the Beaver and Ohio Rivers are clean. All of the indigenous species of fish are once again thriving, and swimming in the rivers is safe. My late father would be quite happy.
For more information go to:
Archuletacounty.org (They even have a video)
Main Landfill
970-264-5605
Transfer Station
970-264-3311
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.