When the pain in my back became too severe I'd lie down on a straw bale, or on the pickup seat, and rest a while. I un-wired the 4'x4' panels and carried them out of the lambing shed one at a time.

Concerned that my "bad back" would be found out, and that I might be found inadequate for the job, I tried to do everything to perfection. I enlisted help from Sherry and the kids when I could. With their help, and by putting in long hours, I was able to make good progress on the projects at hand. I learned to do things in small bites to accommodate my back.

In the first weeks, with no boss and no co-workers present, it was hard to gauge my progress relative to what was "expected." I was still amazed that I even had this job. And I wanted to keep it!

Everywhere I went, Checker was underfoot. He was a great companion, always engaged in life, always living on the lighter side. If a dog can have a sense of humor -- he had great one!

With a small chain, and Sherry's help, I pulled out all the steel posts in the shed, using the loader on the skid-steer. When I started cleaning out the manure, I was pleasantly surprised that the back-and-forth motion of the Bobcat relaxed my back. As the days went by, my back strengthened. I began to find moderate relief from the back pain.

The gravel was delivered, as expected, and I spread it in the empty lambing shed. It made a nice, level floor. I laid out the aisles and rows and began putting the steel fence posts and the jugs back into the shed.

As lambing time drew nearer, two of the Mexicans started coming to help with the fencing. They worked at the ranch's cattle feedlot a few miles away, and had time in the middle of the day to work on the sheep project.

It was my job to tell them where and how to build the fences for all the outdoor pens. They were seasoned ranch hands, who no doubt had built many miles of fence. I felt totally unqualified to be telling them what to do. They didn't speak English and I didn't speak Spanish, so I'd show them the posts, stake out the corners, and work beside them to learn how to build a fence.

The ground was very rocky and hard. Each steel post was a challenge to get into the ground. Pounding the posts made us into human jack-hammers. We'd each pound until we were out of breath, and then we'd switch off with each other, until finally, we'd have one more post in the ground.

Digging holes for the corner braces was a major undertaking as well. It was one chip at a time -- with an iron bar. Some spots were just too solid rock to penetrate, so the Mexicans showed me how to build fence jacks -- a wooden platform attached to a wooden fencepost with angle braces. We'd stack rocks on these platforms to hold the posts in place. No digging was needed.

The post hammering was about doing me in. I was spending my nights sleeping in a chair to help relieve the severe aching in my arms. Apparently my nerves were being pinched, or otherwise aggravated, somewhere in my shoulders, and my blood was not circulating very well. I'd wake up and have to walk around shaking my arms to make the pain go away. As soon as I fell asleep and was still for a while, the pain would come back.

Since my over-exposure to chemicals, at my orthotic-prosthetic job, I had become hypersensitive to chemicals in general. Chemicals and foods that had never bothered me before, now had unusual effects. Hoping to get a little relief one night, I took an aspirin.

Almost immediately I broke out in welts all over my body. My eyes swelled nearly shut and my lips and one cheek puffed up. I had a welt in my throat which restricted my breathing. We became keenly aware that we were 80 miles from a hospital or clinic, the first 14 miles of which was the boulder strewn, mudhole filled track across the desert to the highway.

The next day my face was grotesque. That happened to be a day the manager's son came by. I had to explain to him that I really hadn't been in a fight with my wife!

When he learned what the problem was, he insisted that from now on I tell the Mexicans where to put the posts and let them do the pounding and the digging.

I had this idealistic notion that just because they were Mexicans they shouldn't have to do the hardest, dirtiest work. In my youth, a number of years before, I'd worked on a sod farm for eight summers, side-by-side with Native Americans. There had been no distinction related to race.

Here on the ranch it was different; the Mexicans were treated differently. Our family lived in a nice, three bedroom trailer, while my two Mexican co-workers lived in tiny, primitive accommodations.

"I can't just stand and watch them work!" I said. "They're more experienced, older, and have been here a lot longer than I have."

"You don't understand Mexicans!" he snapped.

"No," I retorted, "it's you and your dad I don't understand!"

As soon as the incriminating words came out of my mouth, I knew I'd bitten the hand that signed my paycheck. This served only to heighten my anxiety over being accepted by my employers. Now I'm not only a greenhorn, I thought, I'm a physical wreck -- with a bad attitude!

At the time, I was blind to some legitimate reasons why the managers made distinctions between us and the Mexicans. The language barrier was one. It was difficult to communicate with the Mexicans about what the manager wanted them to do, even when talking to them in person. Giving instructions over the two-way radio was nearly impossible; other reasons were that their families lived in Mexico, so they were batching; they were temporary workers, not citizens; and they were hired as ranch "laborers."

After our little tiff, the manager's son suggested we set up the "bhagwan" while he was there. We walked up the hill together to where the pieces were piled. I still hadn't figured out what the bhagwan was, let alone how to put it together.