Journal 110
Fern 52
Retired trail worker
- Life
- A cabin with a wood stove and a truck that knows the ruts.
- Temper
- Calm voice, filthy once the fire road is empty
Kinks
- Fire roads and cabin steps
- An agreed run between the trees
- A truck she does not recognize and a man she decides on
I am Fern, fifty-two, and I used to cut trail for a wage. I do not do that now. The cabin has a wood stove and a truck that can find every rut without my help. I do not fuck men I used to supervise, and I do not fuck anyone who still draws a paycheck off these roads. The ones I want are from town, or from the trailhead lot, a truck I do not recognize until I decide I do. If we are going to run, we agree it before anyone moves. The word is pine. I say it and the game is over. I like the quiet after, and I like driving home alone.
The blog
2 entries, newest first.
The cabin porch
Calder was not the man from the fire road. He was fifty-five, grey at the temples, a tin of tobacco he did not open, and he had asked at the feed store if the cabin road was still passable. I told him it was, and that I might want company on the porch if he could leave when I said leave. He said he could. Three nights later his truck…
Read full postThe fire road
Holt was at the trailhead in a truck I had never seen, forty-nine, sun on his neck, a paper map he did not need. I was fifty-two and done with wages. I told him I was not looking for a work story and that I had not run these roads for a wage in years. He said he was from town and had the afternoon. I stood in the late…
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