up to the top of this hill. That guy called it a mountain, but he was being kind of generous, I think. The elevation gain is only five hundred feet. And then it goes back and around behind the visitors’ center. Anyway, it’s much shorter on the way down,” Bev said, basically to herself.
“Cool, that sounds great.”
And they set off, with Bev in front.
* * *
AT FIRST AMY tried to make conversation, but then—a little belatedly—she sensed that Bev wasn’t super interested in talking and might want to be alone with her thoughts and/or nature, so she shut up.
Bev’s shoulders were strong and white in her tank top, and she walked quickly, with dutiful purpose, hitting the ground hard with every step. This was how she always walked. In a small shared living space it tended to seem like stomping, but on a hike it was appropriate. She seemed as if she knew where she was going, always, regardless of whether she did.
Twenty minutes later they were at the top of the hill. They peered out over miles of wooded landscape; the leaves were at the height of their greenness, some just starting to dry out or turn red at the edges. Down below was a river, and in the middle of the river there was some sort of wooden structure that had been overwhelmed by the water, maybe carried downstream. Butterflies flew all around them as they stood there resting before starting back down the hill. Amy supposed this was fun. Bev, at least, seemed to be having fun, in her determined way.
As they walked downhill, careful with every step not to slip on the rocks and twist their ankles, Amy’s thoughts finally drifted into a contented, daydreamy rhythm. For the first time in a long time she did not think about sex or a grudge or try to tease out a solution to a problem. They passed a tree that had been sliced in half by a thunderbolt. The brown leaves of the charred dead half were curling on the ground.
“Probably that thunderstorm on Friday,” Bev said.
“No way. Look how brown the leaves are. It’s definitely been down for longer than that,” Amy said. “Um. Obviously I know this due to being a forensic … botanist.”
Bev laughed, sincerely, and Amy loved her for it.
As they walked on in silence, Amy thought about trees. All this slow-motion life was happening constantly inside their trunks. A miraculous confluence of circumstances had led to these trees—of all the tiny seedlings that took root in the forest every year—growing up to be the ones that didn’t get eaten or trampled or killed by disease or lack of sunlight or uprooted to make way for a new path or crushed by an adult tree that had been hit by lightning. Tree infant mortality had to be something staggeringly close to one hundred percent, and then teenage trees probably faced a whole new set of problems.
How powerless the trees were! They got to make only one decision, and then they had to reap its consequences for their entire lives. On the plus side, though, they were relieved of the burden of having to make any further decisions. There was that to be said for being a tree.
When they got back to the house, it was already the low-blood-sugar shank of the day. Bev went out to do all the garden tasks while Amy sluggishly started washing and chopping vegetables for their dinner. She sang along to radio pop from Bev’s iTunes as she tore up lettuce. Bev came in from the yard, they consulted about the meal, and then she went back outside to light the grill. Amy took a cup of tea out to the living room and sat there with a book, unengrossed, looking up every few minutes and noticing something new about the room each time.
Beneath the cow-skin rug, there were dark and light types of wood inlaid in a geometric pattern in the floor. The chair opposite her was made of birch twigs but still looked comfortable. The curtains were made of a clean, worn-thin type of white cloth that looked like an apron someone might be wearing in a black-and-white photograph. Amy
“Cool, that sounds great.”
And they set off, with Bev in front.
* * *
AT FIRST AMY tried to make conversation, but then—a little belatedly—she sensed that Bev wasn’t super interested in talking and might want to be alone with her thoughts and/or nature, so she shut up.
Bev’s shoulders were strong and white in her tank top, and she walked quickly, with dutiful purpose, hitting the ground hard with every step. This was how she always walked. In a small shared living space it tended to seem like stomping, but on a hike it was appropriate. She seemed as if she knew where she was going, always, regardless of whether she did.
Twenty minutes later they were at the top of the hill. They peered out over miles of wooded landscape; the leaves were at the height of their greenness, some just starting to dry out or turn red at the edges. Down below was a river, and in the middle of the river there was some sort of wooden structure that had been overwhelmed by the water, maybe carried downstream. Butterflies flew all around them as they stood there resting before starting back down the hill. Amy supposed this was fun. Bev, at least, seemed to be having fun, in her determined way.
As they walked downhill, careful with every step not to slip on the rocks and twist their ankles, Amy’s thoughts finally drifted into a contented, daydreamy rhythm. For the first time in a long time she did not think about sex or a grudge or try to tease out a solution to a problem. They passed a tree that had been sliced in half by a thunderbolt. The brown leaves of the charred dead half were curling on the ground.
“Probably that thunderstorm on Friday,” Bev said.
“No way. Look how brown the leaves are. It’s definitely been down for longer than that,” Amy said. “Um. Obviously I know this due to being a forensic … botanist.”
Bev laughed, sincerely, and Amy loved her for it.
As they walked on in silence, Amy thought about trees. All this slow-motion life was happening constantly inside their trunks. A miraculous confluence of circumstances had led to these trees—of all the tiny seedlings that took root in the forest every year—growing up to be the ones that didn’t get eaten or trampled or killed by disease or lack of sunlight or uprooted to make way for a new path or crushed by an adult tree that had been hit by lightning. Tree infant mortality had to be something staggeringly close to one hundred percent, and then teenage trees probably faced a whole new set of problems.
How powerless the trees were! They got to make only one decision, and then they had to reap its consequences for their entire lives. On the plus side, though, they were relieved of the burden of having to make any further decisions. There was that to be said for being a tree.
When they got back to the house, it was already the low-blood-sugar shank of the day. Bev went out to do all the garden tasks while Amy sluggishly started washing and chopping vegetables for their dinner. She sang along to radio pop from Bev’s iTunes as she tore up lettuce. Bev came in from the yard, they consulted about the meal, and then she went back outside to light the grill. Amy took a cup of tea out to the living room and sat there with a book, unengrossed, looking up every few minutes and noticing something new about the room each time.
Beneath the cow-skin rug, there were dark and light types of wood inlaid in a geometric pattern in the floor. The chair opposite her was made of birch twigs but still looked comfortable. The curtains were made of a clean, worn-thin type of white cloth that looked like an apron someone might be wearing in a black-and-white photograph. Amy
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