borrowing his sod-cutting plough.
That meant Erik could finally do what he’d wanted to do ever since Gunnar Haugen had mentioned the valley of the trees.
He placed his rod and pail under a bush and walked south. He followed the river for a while, then moved further up the bank. The brush soon gave way to trees – real trees that towered over his head.
The ground felt spongy under his feet from years of fallen leaves. Erik’s heart beat faster. It was just like the forests in Norway!
He grabbed a branch and pulled himself up into one of the trees. Stretching for the next branch, and the one after that, he climbed till the branches were too small to hold his weight.
The tree swayed as he gazed about. Through the leaves, he caught glimpses of the river to the west, but just the face of a cliff to the east.
After several minutes he half-slid, half-climbed down the tree, dropping the last couple of metres. He lost his footing and tumbled, unhurt, to the ground. Right beside his face was a miniature tree, twenty centimetres tall, its leaves huge on its stem-like trunk. Erik dug through the decayed leaves with his hands, freeing the tree’s roots. He found another close by and slipped both inside his shirt.
After wandering through the trees for a few minutes, Erik found himself among shrubs and grass again. He walked around the perimeter of the trees, amazed that a forest, even a small one, could exist next to so much flat prairie.
With an eye on the sun, Erik went back to his fishing rod. He cast, then leaned against a rock, watching the birds on the water.
A sharp pull on the line almost caused Erik to drop his rod. Clutching it tightly, he hung on as the fish jerked and pulled. He dug his heels into the ground, determined not to let go. Suddenly, the line went slack and Erik fell to the ground.
Close to the shore, a huge pike jumped high above the water, the sun glistening on its scales.
Erik tied a new hook to his line but just caught two small fish before climbing back up to the prairie.
The grass where he usually walked had been flattened. Further on, Erik could see that while he was in the valley, animals had cut across a field of grain, breaking the stalks.
Cattle? Erik wondered, or maybe one last herd of buffalo. Squatting down, he looked closely at the tracks.
Horseshoes! But who would ride through a field of grain?
They’d been travelling north, Erik saw. One day he’d follow their trail to see if they went to the corral.
At home he planted the trees in front of the sod house while Inga fried the fish.
“This is so good,” Elsa said, taking a second piece.
“Our meals have improved,” agreed Inga. “I’m glad we have a hunter and fisherman in the family.” Erik glanced at Rolf, hoping he would say something, but he ate without comment.
The next morning the wind was blowing when Erik crawled out of the tent. He fetched the milk pail from the house, then slipped into the shed to milk Tess.
She surprised Erik by standing quietly – until the calf bawled outside the door. Her head jerked and her ropelike tail switched, hitting him right in the face with a dirty, stinging slap.
Erik looked at the pail clutched between his knees, half full of the foamy milk. He wanted to quit right then. Let Tess out. The calf could have the rest.
But if he did that, the cow would win.
Clenching his teeth, Erik reached for the udder and squeezed the way his grandfather had taught him long ago in Norway. A stream of milk shot into the pail.
“I can do this,” he muttered, squeezing again. “I can do this.”
His mother was making breakfast when Erik brought the milk into the house. She smiled as she handed him a clean cloth to lay over the pail.
“You’re such a good helper, Erik,” she said smiling. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
Erik dropped onto the bench by the table, surprised to hear her mention his father. She hardly ever did, especially since marrying Rolf.
He picked up a
That meant Erik could finally do what he’d wanted to do ever since Gunnar Haugen had mentioned the valley of the trees.
He placed his rod and pail under a bush and walked south. He followed the river for a while, then moved further up the bank. The brush soon gave way to trees – real trees that towered over his head.
The ground felt spongy under his feet from years of fallen leaves. Erik’s heart beat faster. It was just like the forests in Norway!
He grabbed a branch and pulled himself up into one of the trees. Stretching for the next branch, and the one after that, he climbed till the branches were too small to hold his weight.
The tree swayed as he gazed about. Through the leaves, he caught glimpses of the river to the west, but just the face of a cliff to the east.
After several minutes he half-slid, half-climbed down the tree, dropping the last couple of metres. He lost his footing and tumbled, unhurt, to the ground. Right beside his face was a miniature tree, twenty centimetres tall, its leaves huge on its stem-like trunk. Erik dug through the decayed leaves with his hands, freeing the tree’s roots. He found another close by and slipped both inside his shirt.
After wandering through the trees for a few minutes, Erik found himself among shrubs and grass again. He walked around the perimeter of the trees, amazed that a forest, even a small one, could exist next to so much flat prairie.
With an eye on the sun, Erik went back to his fishing rod. He cast, then leaned against a rock, watching the birds on the water.
A sharp pull on the line almost caused Erik to drop his rod. Clutching it tightly, he hung on as the fish jerked and pulled. He dug his heels into the ground, determined not to let go. Suddenly, the line went slack and Erik fell to the ground.
Close to the shore, a huge pike jumped high above the water, the sun glistening on its scales.
Erik tied a new hook to his line but just caught two small fish before climbing back up to the prairie.
The grass where he usually walked had been flattened. Further on, Erik could see that while he was in the valley, animals had cut across a field of grain, breaking the stalks.
Cattle? Erik wondered, or maybe one last herd of buffalo. Squatting down, he looked closely at the tracks.
Horseshoes! But who would ride through a field of grain?
They’d been travelling north, Erik saw. One day he’d follow their trail to see if they went to the corral.
At home he planted the trees in front of the sod house while Inga fried the fish.
“This is so good,” Elsa said, taking a second piece.
“Our meals have improved,” agreed Inga. “I’m glad we have a hunter and fisherman in the family.” Erik glanced at Rolf, hoping he would say something, but he ate without comment.
The next morning the wind was blowing when Erik crawled out of the tent. He fetched the milk pail from the house, then slipped into the shed to milk Tess.
She surprised Erik by standing quietly – until the calf bawled outside the door. Her head jerked and her ropelike tail switched, hitting him right in the face with a dirty, stinging slap.
Erik looked at the pail clutched between his knees, half full of the foamy milk. He wanted to quit right then. Let Tess out. The calf could have the rest.
But if he did that, the cow would win.
Clenching his teeth, Erik reached for the udder and squeezed the way his grandfather had taught him long ago in Norway. A stream of milk shot into the pail.
“I can do this,” he muttered, squeezing again. “I can do this.”
His mother was making breakfast when Erik brought the milk into the house. She smiled as she handed him a clean cloth to lay over the pail.
“You’re such a good helper, Erik,” she said smiling. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
Erik dropped onto the bench by the table, surprised to hear her mention his father. She hardly ever did, especially since marrying Rolf.
He picked up a
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