RAISING THE (HIGH TUNNEL) ROOF

A Comedy, a Workout, and a Small Miracle

If moving onto the land in December felt like the beginning of something, then building the high tunnel felt like the moment that “something” officially took shape. Not because it was easy. Not because it was glamorous. But because it was the first structure we built with our own hands—sweat, stubbornness, and a whole lot of laughter holding it together.

Most people build high tunnels for winter warmth. We’re building ours for summer survival. East Texas sun is no joke, and the flowers I’m growing need protection from the kind of heat that can scorch a petal before lunchtime. So this tunnel isn’t about keeping cold out—it’s about keeping the sun at bay. The 70% aluminum shade cloth we chose will cast a soft, protective glow over the rows, giving the blooms a fighting chance when July rolls in with its usual attitude.

But before we could even think about shade cloth, we had to start with the land.

Clearing the Ground

The tunnel site began as a wild tangle—grass up to our shoulders, saplings leaning every which way, and the kind of uneven ground that makes you question your life choices. Our neighbors told us this was once pristine pastureland, but two decades of neglect had turned it into something closer to a jungle.

We cleared and cleared and cleared. Then cleared some more.

By the time we finished, we could finally see the shape of the space where the tunnel would go. It felt like uncovering a room in a house we didn’t know we had.

Clear for Take-Off (Or Landing?)

The Tunnel Arrives (and So Does the Chaos)

One crisp morning, a semi-truck rumbled down our little country road carrying the high tunnel kit—if you can call a mountain of steel pipes, bolts, brackets, and mystery parts a “kit.”

The driver looked at us, looked at the pallet, and looked back at us like, "You two are the unloading crew?” Yes. Yes, we were.

Getting that enormous pallet off the truck with just the two of us was… well… let’s call it a team‑building exercise. There was pushing, pulling, sliding, praying, and one moment where I’m pretty sure the pallet moved out of sheer pity.

Once it was on the ground, we used the tractor to haul the pieces toward the back of the property. You can see for yourself - all the parts laid out in the grass —hundreds of them—looking like the aftermath of a hardware store explosion. It’s both hilarious and horrifying.

Seriously? This is a "Kit"?

Building Day and Night

We worked on that tunnel from sunup to sundown and sometimes long after. The frame went up slowly, one arch at a time, each one heavier than it looked. We brought Bear up from Austin for a day 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 come together. And moments when it looked like modern art gone wrong. But we kept going.

The Wind War

Nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared us for the battle with the wind.

Trying to pull plastic over a steel frame in 10‑plus‑MPH 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 wind, I was clinging to the plastic like a rodeo rider, and the dogs watched from a safe distance, deeply unimpressed.

But eventually, through sheer stubbornness and language that would make a sailor blush, we got it secured.

Finished Just in Time

We tightened the last bolt and stepped back to look at the finished tunnel just as the temperature dropped and the sky turned that strange, heavy gray that I'm told only means one thing: snow. How would I know? I've never seen more than a flurry.

Now That's a High Tunnel!

The First Step Toward Blooms

This high tunnel isn’t just a structure. It’s a promise. A place where seedlings will stretch, where summer heat will soften, 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.

And as I stood there in the cold, watching snow fall on the tunnel we built with our own hands, I felt it again—that same feeling I had the day we rolled the rig onto the land.

We’re exactly where we’re meant to be.