RAISING THE (HIGH TUNNEL) ROOF
- Amanda Foster
- Jan 24
- 4 min read
Updated: Mar 20
Comedy, Chaos & the First Glimpse of a Farm
If moving onto the land in December felt like the beginning of something, then building the high tunnel was the moment that “something” finally took shape.
Not because it was easy. Not because it was glamorous. But because it was the first real structure we built with our own hands — sweat, stubbornness, and a whole lot of laughter holding it together.
Most people build high tunnels for warmth in winter. We’re building ours for survival in summer. The East Texas sun doesn’t just shine — it struts — and the flowers I’m growing need protection from the kind of heat that can scorch a petal before you’ve finished your morning coffee. So this tunnel isn’t about trapping heat… it’s about offering shade. Safety. Mercy.
We chose a 70% aluminum shade cloth that will cast a quiet, protective glow over the rows — a place where seedlings can grow without fainting in July. But before any of that mattered, we had to start with the land itself.
Clearing the Ground
The spot we picked for the tunnel started out looking more like a wild tangle than a future growing space — grass up to our shoulders, saplings leaning in every direction, dips and bumps hidden like traps. Our neighbors told us this was once pristine pastureland, but after nearly two decades untouched, it had returned to something closer to wilderness.
So we did what we’ve done every day since arriving here: We cleared. And cleared. And cleared some more.
By the time we finished, we could finally see the outline of a space that could hold a tunnel. It felt like discovering a room in a house we didn’t know we had.
The Tunnel Arrives (and So Does the Chaos)
One crisp morning, a semi-truck lumbered down our little road with the high tunnel “kit.” I use the word “kit” loosely. What it really was: a mountain of pipes, brackets, bolts, straps, and mystery parts that looked like the aftermath of a hardware store explosion.
The driver gave us a look that said, "Y’all are the unloading crew? "Yes. Yes, we were.
Getting that pallet off the truck with just the two of us was… character‑building. There was pushing, pulling, sliding, and at least one moment where I’m pretty sure the pallet moved out of sheer pity. Once it finally hit the ground, we dragged out the tractor and hauled each piece to the back of the property. Laying everything out in the grass, hundreds of parts scattered across the field, it was both hilarious and horrifying.
Building Day and Night
We worked from sunup to sundown and often long after. Arch by arch, the frame went up. Each one was heavier than it looked, taller than it seemed, and slightly more complicated than the directions suggested.
We brought Bear up from Austin to help with the heavy lifting and the ladder gymnastics. He earned every meal that weekend.
There were moments when the tunnel looked like it might actually turn into something. And moments when it looked like a modern‑art installation gone horribly wrong.
But we kept going.
The Wind War
Nothing prepared us for the battle with the wind.
Trying to pull plastic over a steel frame in ten‑plus‑mile‑an‑hour gusts is a special kind of comedy.
At one point, the plastic turned into a giant sail and nearly lifted us off the ground. Rob was shouting something I couldn’t hear over the gusts, I was clinging to the plastic like a rodeo rider, and both dogs watched from a safe distance, deeply unimpressed.
But piece by piece, tug by tug, and with language that would’ve made a sailor take notes, we finally got it secured.
Finished Just in Time
We tightened the last bolt - just in the nick of time - and stepped back just as the temperature dropped and the sky turned a heavy, unfamiliar gray. Our neighbors said, “That’s snow coming." Snow. In East Texas. And me — a person who’s seen exactly one flurry in my entire life — believed them. And they were right.
Snowflakes drifted down across the tunnel we’d built with our own hands, landing soft on steel that had tried so hard to buck us off. And there it was again — that feeling I had the day we rolled the rig onto this land: We’re exactly where we’re meant to be.
The First Step Toward Blooms
This high tunnel isn’t just a structure. It’s a promise. A place where seedlings will stretch, where June heat will break into a soft glow, where the first real rows of Southern Charm will take root. It's the beginning of the growing season. The beginning of the farm. The beginning of everything that comes next.
Roots before roses — literally and figuratively. And this was one of the first roots we put down.
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