It was classic. Friends of mine were going high into the hills to help family prepare a forested lot for home building. There was work to do and they offered labor.

They suggested I come along, which I declined. I’m busy. I don’t have time. There is much to do.

But then they revealed that they had to be back home by mid afternoon. So I decided to help after all. The time penalty was within bounds.

I loaded the Land Rover and followed them out of town and far from civilization. The final miles to the homestead were via rutted gravel with expansive views of managed woodland.

Once there, I worked like I was 20. The task was simple, just throw newly cut sections of fir out of the build zone and into piles. Strangely, I didn’t suffer the usual physical punishments either while there or later. No shoulder pain, no any pain. Except for that one foot, and that is probably a shoe problem. And leg cramps on the way home. And nearly drowning.

The drowning incident involved apple juice going down the wrong pipe on the way home. I should clean the inside of the windscreen.

All in all, it was a worthy use of the time. I wish I’d bought a place like that when I was younger. That was the plan until I married a city girl from smoggy California.