Every day 14 year-old Dave watched the men from Reliance walk the road past his family’s cabin to the stand of trees just below Booker’s peak.
They carried double-bitted axes, wedges, mauls, and sledges, tiredly scratching a bit of scruff with the end of a handle or the tip of a blade. Each man wore an outfit made for high-country. A button out of place here. A cap tipped there.
Some sang, some sulked, and they all moved forward.
Dave noticed the way they walked, shoulders slumped or shoulders tall, long strides to make it up the muddy slope, their splinter-scarred faces always looking up to the next ridge.
When they had passed, he would walk to the bottom of the hill with a tossed-aside axe handle and saunter up the hill taking imaginary sips of coffee from a cracked thermos. He thought about the trees he would flail, the peaks he would scale, and the whiskey he would drink at the end of the day.
He would sing ‘Woe My Lady’ or ‘River Run, Run’ and he wished the girl with the yellow dress he’d seen in town could hear him now. She should see her tree-choppin’ man.
Then his mother would call, he’d lace his school shoes together and throw them around his neck, set for a day of arithmetic and daydreaming.
He’d set off down the hill waiting for the day he’d walk up with a double-bitted axe slung over his shoulder.
One day, to his surprise, Dave came around a bend to find a middle aged man still making his way up the hill. He’d never seen a man fall so far behind, and he immediately became nervous at the prospect of passing the man on the road.
He wanted to turn off into the trees, act like he had to take a moment to notice the trees, maybe he would appreciate that? Give him a smirk of approval.
But the man would see through it, and Dave couldn’t take the thought of one of his heroes thinking of him that way. His father would look down and feel sorry for his son.
He pushed his shoulder back past comfortable and kept his eyes ahead. At the last moment he would nod he thought, that was the thing.
As the man neared Dave saw he was wearing town clothes, a suit in fact, and Dave thought his worrying was all for naught. This was a townie, one of the company men coming up to see the labor. He’d heard the men call them ‘hand-shakers and shit-talkers’ though he wasn’t able to tell anybody.
His mother didn’t take to cursing.
Now they were close and the townie was looking at Dave. Right at him, like he was trying to figure him out. He had a soft face and nice shoes compared to Dave’s hand-me-down shirt, slacks, and boots fit for a man, each a few sizes too large.
It was so out of place, the man and his shoes in the back country, and before he could stop himself Dave called out.
“What are you doing?”
Dave didn’t mean to make it sound like a challenge, and to an adult man nonetheless, but he was angry the townie made him uncomfortable. This was hill, his mountain, his trees.
His mother’s manners be damned, he stared straight ahead and waited for an answer.
The man’s face didn’t change, he didn’t frown or break into a smile. In fact, he was happy for the pause. He wasn’t used to walking at this elevation.
He stopped and he stared at the tall, poor boy wearing what could only be his father’s clothes and thought back to when he was just a boy, and he could tell the kid was scared.
So he smiled and said, “Going to work.”
The boy thought about this for a moment and said, “Are you a company man?”
“A company man?”
“Yeah. One of the owners from the town. Good at talking and making money. You pay the men up the hill.”
“No, I’m not one of the owners. I’m going up the hill to cut the hill with the men.”
“Your clothes are wrong.”
The man looked down at his suit and his shoes and he thought how ridiculous he must look. He hadn’t given it much thought the past few days being what they were, but he had a little youth left yet and he was willing.
They were standing awkwardly now and the man was ready to get going but he could tell it was going to bother the boy and he thought maybe he could explain. It hadn’t worked yet, his wife and his two daughters thought he’d lost his mind, but maybe the poor boy in his daddy’s clothes would understand.
“My father was a lumberjack. He worked all over these mountains and he provided for me and my brothers and our mother for years. When we were kids he would tell us stories about working in these hills but he always wanted to something different for us. My brothers hated this place and were all to happy to move on and fulfill our father’s dreams for college and money and houses.
I moved on too but I always remembered. I always thought about the cold moutain air and the tall trees and the long walk up the hill.”
The man shifted his feet and swallowed the lump in his throat.
“When you get older you will understand, but the pretty things aren’t everything and as time goes on you start to wonder about the men who came before you and the work they did and how they got on. How they worked all day with nothing but the birds and the trees and how they walked home layered in sweat to a house with a family proud to have them home for another night.
You start to wonder after your life and then all of a sudden you’d give anything to make something with your hands. To be able to stand back and look at a day’s work and think this is what my father saw and the men before him.”
“You just want to do that thing and think about it, forget about it, and walk home in a layer of sweat.”
He watched the boy’s face to see if he was getting it. Maybe he was too youn-
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
The boy said it as if he was a long way away, and then he knew where the clothes had come from. He understood why they were poor and he knew he was talking to another boy made a man by the loss of a father.
He wanted to say something to make the kid feel better but it was obvious the boy didn’t need much from anyone so he stayed quiet.
Dave looked again at the man’s clothes. Now he understood why he was walking up the hill, what he meant by ‘working’, but he wasn’t ready and Dave’s dad used to have a saying about being ready.
So he sat down in the mud and he started pulling off his boots. He unbuttoned his tough flannel shirt and he held them out to the man, who’s face was now broken, alomst crying.
“I’ll trade ya.”
