On the way down last night, I made Greta drive the narrow mountain road, which took another ten years off my life.
When I scan the trailhead parking lot, Russet is already standing at the edge of the group of volunteers.
When he sees me, his eyes narrow.
I cock my head and stare him down.
Conservation Officer Rowdy Whittaker breaks from the group and heads my way. He’s already tanned from the summer sun thanks to the many hours he spends outside, and though he’s in his mid-fifties, age has not slowed him down one lick. I hope I’m as spry when I reach his age.
“I was pleasantly surprised to see you on my list today,” he says as I gather my supplies at the back of my truck. “Something about a fight?”
“I broke up a scuffle, but he pressed charges,” I say, noddingto Russet, who’s keeping one eye on me and the other on the parking lot.
“And you ended up volunteering today?” He scratches his jaw. “I don’t get it.”
Meg’s sporty blue coupe creeps into the lot. “Put me wherever you need me.”
“Okay.” His tone is curious, like he hasn’t made up his mind about this situation.
Meg steps out of her coupe in a fitted t-shirt, dark gray hiking pants, and boots, her blonde hair in a high ponytail.
“Let me guess, she’s the other half of the scuffle?” Rowdy asks, glancing from me to Meg.
“Yeah. Meg.” I stuff my bigger first aid kit I use for overnights into the bottom of my pack then add my water bottle and a lightweight jacket. “Watch yourself. She’s got a right hook that’ll send you into next week.”
He laughs. “Uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Any chance you could put them in separate crews?” I ask in a low tone. Though I have no authority to demand this, it doesn’t hurt to try.
“Hmm. Good idea,” he replies.
I shut my tailgate and sneak a glance at Meg just as she looks my way. Her face freezes for an instant before she glances at the group gathering at the back of a US Forest Service pickup truck, where her ex is in plain sight.
Without a word, she and I both join the group. Though she puts space between us, every shift of her feet, every flick of her ponytail, registers like little earthquakes under my skin.
The Forest Service Ranger gives a speech about the project, and then we grab tools and head up the trail.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Russet asks me through gritted teeth.
“Nature fires me up,” I reply, grabbing a narrow shovel from the tailgate.
“You think a backwoods hick like you stands a chance with her?” he says.
I laugh. Backwoods hick?
Meg charges ahead, and I make sure to get in front of Russet.
After a half hour, the trail breaks out of the trees, revealing an open hillside ravaged by a wildfire that ripped through here several weeks ago—the season’s first. The wind is stronger here without the cover of the forest, cooling my neck.
“Wow,” the woman in front of me says, scanning the blackened landscape. Some trees survived, but the fire left its mark, turning parts of the trunks a charcoal black. Charred fallen logs crisscross the slope and the soil beneath has been turned to black powder.
Some of the volunteers have already peeled off to the area below the trail, where the Forest Service crew deposited at least a thousand white pine seedlings for planting. Meg is already moving up the slope, a brick of seedlings under one arm.
Rowdy calls the names of four people to continue further down the trail. Russet’s name is one of them. With a glance up at Meg’s back, he shoots me another glare then continues on.
Another warm gust floats down from the mountain, carrying the scent of charred wood and warmed stone, whistling through the maze of destroyed forest.
I grab two bricks of seedlings and start climbing. The blackened dirt is loose and granular and completely devoid of moisture. One good rain and this whole hillside could fail. Hence the rush to plant these baby trees, which will help anchor the slope and speed restoration.
