It's amazing what a slicked plow can do to a field; it's efficient and destructive

A Model A and a 3-16

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The steady beat of the tractor engine accompanies me through the day and into the evening.

As the light fades, I become aware of the somewhat alarming cherry red glow of the exhaust manifold. When I hit the patch of clay at the end of the field, the plow squats down and the throb of the exhaust deepens as the governor automatically opens the throttle to compensate for the extra load. The tractor strains while a tongue of blue flame climbs out of the stack, and the muffler begins to show red.

The right wheel starts to slip, and I touch the right brake to maintain traction. The end of the field comes up, and I hit the left brake hard, spin the wheel to the left and reach back to yank the lanyard that activates the mechanism that lifts the plow out of the ground. I slam the tractor around, straighten the wheel, yank the lanyard once more to trip the plow back into the ground and we're off again. It takes a long stretch to cover a quarter section with a Model M pulling a 3-16.

There is something amazing and, at the same time, awful about what a slicked plow can do to a field of stubble. Dull with last year's protective coat of paint, the mold boards soon become burnished and polished bright as a chrome bumper while the plow hisses through the ground. In an almost hypnotic motion, the cover of straw and green growth is rolled over into neat furrows. It is a sort of trickster's sleight of hand; now you see it, now you don't.

Farmers don't use plows around here as much anymore. They are impressively efficient but incredibly destructive. Contemporary practice emphasizes leaving residue on the surface to help control wind and water erosion. I finally used mine only to root out old alfalfa stands.

Round after round during the day, I settle into the routine, the monotony, the daydreaming. As the wind shifts, I can alternately smell the engine fumes, the straw dust, the damp earth. I hear a clank and look back to see a large flat rock slide off the plow and notice the deep gouges and scars on it that indicate that it has been repeatedly turned up and reburied by plows older than mine.

I'll pick it up when I come back over the field with my disk and add it to the other stones in a box on the disc that gives it extra weight. The sun bears down, and grit settles around my neck. I turn up my collar and button up my shirt. Trickles of sweat run down my back, and I tip my hat to better shade my eyes.

I begin to notice a gathering as the afternoon wears on. Several hawks circle looking for field mice running ahead of the tractor. A young rabbit jumps up and starts off across the furrowed field toward the fence row. It doesn't make it. The plow turns up a nest of turtle eggs and a scattering of squawking seagulls is on them. Killdeers hop along the clods looking for grubs.

The evening turns to dusk, and the wind becomes a cooler breeze. Clouds with a golden edge along their top build on the horizon turning the sunset into streaks of orange and red. Blue and gray shadows stretch across the sky and lengthen along the ground. It is my favorite time of the day. The hills and the tree lines soften and blend into a purple-hued impression.

I love being out here, and I continue around into the dark until I feel weariness start to settle upon me and know, for safety's sake, that I need to pull up and shut down.

As I walk back across the plowed ground, the moon edges over the eastern horizon and the first evening stars appear. I can see the shadowy outlines of deer over in the alfalfa field and hear the yips of coyotes in the distance. Through the grove of woods, the faint apparition of an owl glides past my shoulder. That farmyard light is just ahead.

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