My hands dig into the dirt, pulling up weeds in the garden. Rosanna tells us the story of the harvest. The tomatoes are beginning to turn bright red, the raspberries grow in thick bunches that we eat on our break and the corn is as tall as the single sunflower in the middle of the crop. We get lost in our work and conversation as we dig. Clouds roll across the sky dimming the sun. We work on despite the threat of rain, lost in the stories of the earth and each other, moments streaming like wind currents.

Waters rush, white-capping over rocks and flowing into the pool downstream. Alone among the trees I bask in warmth, tasting the crisp stream water, iodine purified in my nalgene. The sun reflects off of the glassy surface and chipmunks play on the opposite bank, their chatter breaking the silence. The life around me tells a story hundreds, thousands of years old. I find myself drowned in the sound of the river and the breeze in the trees that I hadn’t noticed before. I try to make sense of the silent history of the land and the animals that live from it, feeling the sun’s rays, the gentle touch of the air, the earth’s vibration, and the beat of my heart.

My heart pounds unsynchronized with the rain pelting the tarp above me. I wrap my sleeping bag tighter around my body, sheltering myself from the cold while I watch the drops connect, following the tiny rivers off of the edge with my flashlight. The river downhill rages in the storm. Here, in the unknown, fear takes over me. Thunder rolls through the sky sending chills up my spine despite the warmth of my thermal cocoon. Lightning illuminates the outline of my tent breaking the darkness and the wind blows the strings holding my tent, gently rocking me back and forth. I sink deeper into my hammock and turn off my flashlight, surrendering to the darkness just as the loudest thunder of the night claps.

The tree begins to crack. I remove my saw, escaping as the top comes crashing down. The hinge is perfectly formed, angled where the axe has left its impression, smooth where the saw worked to release it from its roots, and jagged where it broke from the force of the crown’s weight, the direction of the fall perfectly calculated. I trek through the snow and begin removing branches with the swing of my axe until I am left with timber thick enough for firewood. As I run my saw across the surface of the first bough, the blade jumps out of the notch landing on my thumb three times. Deep red warmth flows from my numb hand that I thought could manipulate the land. I bandage my wound, feeling no pain from the incident, before returning to finish processing my tree like it had never happened.

Digging. Rainwater condenses on my face and mud cakes into my hair and under my nails. The dirt becomes increasingly rocky as I begin my search through the depths of soil for the story beyond the cultivation, beyond the memory of any life. The gray clouds thunder overhead, and again I see lightning, my only source of light in the darkness. Instinct instills my fear. Even when perfectly calculated, life is unexpected; just a collection of stories to tell as we weed through the garden, digging, searching, time revealing legend.