These elemental: mist and fire. Next are my mountains.
Yesterday, that girl and I drove overtop the Continental Divide and then unwound in elevation until we reached the cabin. The forest surrounding the cabin stood perfectly still; the pine and fir trees layered like carvings of jade and ghosted through by mist.
As the sun drew the mist skyward, that girl and I gathered deadfall from along the roadway in and brought forth an open fire.
If the sky is my garden, tending a fire in the mountains is my feast. There are few things I enjoy more. That girl feels the same.
We spent most of the day at the fire, urging flames upright in the cool air, and then drove home by way of several gravel roads. We even stopped to look aground Marysville, the half-ghost town where my family first scratched into this Montana earth during the gold rush of the 1860s.