The Weight of Winter
I keep a wool mitten in the back of my cedar chest, the thumb worn thin from years of gripping a sled rope that has long since rotted away. It is a heavy, stiff thing, smelling faintly of mothballs and the sharp, metallic scent of a season…
The Weight of Stone
We build to outlast the winter. We stack stone upon stone, believing that if we make the walls high enough, the wind will eventually lose interest. There is a vanity in this, a quiet arrogance that assumes the earth will remain still long enough…
The Edge of the Wild
We often treat the wilderness as a static backdrop, a grand stage set for our own fleeting performances of endurance. We carve paths into the mountainside, measuring our worth by the steepness of the incline and the speed of our descent. Yet,…