I needed dirt to fill the depressed areas of lawn around our silver maples, and I had two options: I could order a yard or two of topsoil, or I could dig up as much free black dirt as I needed from the bottom of my manure pile. Lovely stuff. Being cheap, I went with option two.
I scraped aside the weeds and loose wood shavings on top, then started digging. The first shovelful hit rock about three inches below the surface - not an unusual occurrence around here. I moved the shovel and tried again, looking for the edge of the rock so I could dig it out. And hit rock again. Moved the shovel again; still hit rock. Now, you'd have to be a total rock nerd like me to understand how my rock-senses started tingling. This was a big rock. A specimen rock of the type people set in pretty landscaped areas so other people can drive by and admire their big honkin' rock. I love those rocks. I began digging in earnest.
After moving four trailer loads of dirt, I hadn't uncovered even half of this rock. But it is MINE, and you may admire my rock in it's natural state:
Oh yeah, baby, that's what I call a rock! Here's a more seductive close-up:
I might never be able to move this sucker, but I'm not giving up. I want this rock! If my pickup truck can't move it, my neighbor has heavy equipment that can. I have awhile to figure it out - the rock has been there since the glaciers melted, and isn't going anywhere.