Fortune Hunter

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After cleaning up indoors, I stepped outside for a look at the evening. I’d only moved here a few days ago. Before, I’d been down in the woods. Now I was above timberline, and there’d just been time to make my body at home—reassemble the cabin and its furnishings, explore the area, deploy the pickups, let lungs acquire a taste for thinner air. My soul was still busy settling in.

I missed sun-flecks spattered like gold on soft shadow-brown duff, male ruggedness and woman-sweet odor of pines and their green that speared into heaven, a brook that glittered and sang, bird calls, a splendidly antlered wapiti who’d become my friend and took food from my hand. (He was especially fond of cucumber peels. I dubbed him Charlie.) You don’t live six months in a place, from the blaze of autumn through the iron and white of winter, being reborn with the land when spring breathes over it—you don’t do this and not keep some of that place ever afterward inside your bones.

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