When I was a kid, I was pretty sure that if I dug deep enough in the backyard, I’d eventually pop out in China. Never mind that I lived in Kansas City, and the only tools at my disposal were a plastic shovel and a peanut butter sandwich for sustenance. Geography was optional; determination was mandatory.
Fast-forward a few decades, and
I’ve decided to revisit that dream, you know, for science. So, I
checked the coordinates of my address and learned that if I actually dug
straight through the Earth, I wouldn’t end up in China at all. Nope. I’d splash
into the middle of the Indian Ocean, southwest of Australia. The only
thing waiting for me there would be a mildly confused sea turtle.
The Great Missouri Excavation
Project starts in my yard on Columbia Avenue. I grab a shovel, channel my inner
seven-year-old, and begin. The first few inches are easy: a layer of grass, a
few rocks, and a buried Hot Wheels car from 1983. But by the time I’m a foot
deep, I’m wondering if I should’ve called 1-800-Dig-Rite first or at
least borrowed one of those machines they use to install fiber optic cables.
Still, I persist. After all,
if Jules Verne could imagine a trip to the center of the Earth
in 1864, surely, I can at least make it past the sprinkler line. The deeper I dig, the wilder my imagination
gets. In my mind, I’m not a middle-aged man with questionable knees — I’m an
explorer in a Victorian diving suit, lowering myself into a glowing cavern
filled with crystals, magma, and maybe a lost dinosaur or two. In reality, I’m sweating, covered in mud, and
my neighbor is staring over the fence like he’s debating whether to call
someone. Possibly a therapist.
Science says I’d hit temperatures
hotter than the surface of the sun long before I reached the core. But I choose
to believe I’d find one of those fancy caverns brimming with prehistoric
creatures, like those depicted in those Sci-Fi movies from the late 60s and
early 70s.
After thousands of miles of
digging and several timeouts for snacks, I finally break through to the other
side. I shoot out of the ground, cartoon-style, and land with a splash in
the southern Indian Ocean.
No pandas. No pagodas. Just waves,
a few seagulls, and me wondering where Nemo and those totally cool sea turtles
are? I float for a while, thinking about how childhood myths have a way of
sticking around, like peanut butter on the roof of your imagination. Turns out,
it doesn’t matter where the tunnel ends. The fun was always in the digging.
They say curiosity killed the cat,
but I think it just gave him a good story to tell. Whether you’re seven with a
sandbox shovel or sixty-three with a bad back and a metal detector, keep
digging, figuratively, anyway.
Because sometimes, the greatest
adventures aren’t the ones that take you around the world; they’re the ones
that remind you how to look at your own backyard and still think, “Yeah,
I bet China’s down there somewhere.”
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