East-facing shoulders of distant ridges basked in morning light that wouldn’t shine on the west slope of The Mountain for another hour. Smudge and I had been up awhile already after a peaceful night.
Optimistic, I told myself that the log I put on the fire around 8am yesterday would be the last ’til the sun dipped behind the tall cedars late in the afternoon. We were looking at a high of 48°F under partly cloudy (which also is partly sunny) skies, and I crossed my fingers that I could conserve a little firewood and shut off a pair of space heaters.
On December 2nd, 2021, the land I now call home was completely wooded, most of it covered by mature trees wrapped in a near-impenetrable tangle of seedlings, briars and brushy understory. The following day — four years ago yesterday — a backhoe arrived on the property.
Dirt moved. Trees I’d marked with flagging tape came down.
That was only the beginning of what would become a project fraught with false starts and dead stops, poor decisions and course corrections, but (from where I stand today) not a single regret.
Sweat, though. Lots of it.
The very next day, I poured some of that sweat into removing debris — trees, brush, rocks — so that the backhoe had room to continue. Jeff contributed his tractor and his labor, and we made decent progress.
Sitting on an oak stump afterward, sipping bottled water and munching on a CLIF Bar, I spied a perfectly straight cedar sapling and hatched an idea. I asked Jeff if I could borrow his chainsaw.
I cut it down, stripped off the branches with my machete and set the trunk aside to dry. A couple of years later I carved it into the walking stick I’d envisioned.
Yesterday morning, I leaned on that walking stick as Smudge and I meandered through the December woods.
The lively softwood staff felt light and right, both in my hands and in my soul. Smudge and I mounted the rocky incline behind the cabin and picked up the walking trail I built last year.
She was off-leash and responded well to my commands. Better than ever, in fact.
(Except, that is, when she discovered whitetail scat. And rolled in it. She’s a dog.)
Naturally, vistas from the high ground are clearer these days. I got an unobstructed view of Clark Hill, which I talked about here the other day — remarkably distinct for being 15 miles away, north of Pyatt.
It was a refreshing walk and, in a way, a necessary one. Marking the anniversary of the day that a home began to emerge here bordered on cathartis.
I wore the same blaze-orange Carhartt stocking hat, the same pair of Cabela’s boots. I trod the same ground, albeit with greater ease than I had four years before.
And walking alongside me was a companion that knows only fidelity and faithfulness. She loves as only a dog can love. We navigated back down the slope together, both of us smiling, and returned to the relative warmth of the cabin.
I’ll remember this day.
The Big Eighteen conference championship football game will be played this Saturday. Ohio State vs. Indiana. (Not a typo.) CFP #1 vs. CFP #2. 12-0 vs. 12-0.
Yesterday morning, in a fit of curiosity born of momentary boredom, I asked Google a question:
“How many college football teams are still undefeated this season?”
This (pictured) was the artificially intelligent response:
That takes the old “Sports Illustrated Cover Curse” to a whole ‘nother level, doesn’t it? Prime bulletin-board material for the Hoosiers, I’d say.
Related question — Why do you still swallow what you see on the wwWeb?
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable