Brandon
Tijeras, New Mexico. The East Mountains. February/ Winter.
Never in my life did I think I would ever agree with those Eastern monks. You know, the ones who say that if you’re looking for a spiritual practice — your place in the world — it can happen when you’re chopping wood and carrying water?
Doing the simple things can be very meaningful. The small things. The important, needful things.
Like what I’m doing right here, right now. Chopping firewood right outside my cabin. It serves an important purpose. The warmth and comfort are the tangible results of its final product – a fire – but the act of chopping the wood to make it also serves as my time to think. My time to reflect on who I am, what I’ve done, and what I’d like to do and be in the future.
You see, I wasn’t always a mountain man, like most people would probably see me as now. If I ever wandered into the heart of Albuquerque from my little mountain sanctuary, they’d think me one of those wild types. Secluded, real down-to-earth and all that, but I used to be the exact opposite.
When I served in the Navy, served my country as a SEAL, I was all over the place. I was where all the action was, whether it was already popped off, or ready to go. I was there, giving my all. Sacrificing not just my time — but also potentially my body and my life — so that other people could remain free. So that other men and women didn’t have to be consumed in fire and flame.
But now I don’t need to be an action hero. I’d be happy just being a hometown hero type. Nice and quiet. Laid-back, but meaningful.
Just like the construction job I’m going to start in a week, I think, bringing down the axe another small piece of wood, splitting it fairly evenly. As evenly as I can manage, mostly using my stronger arm. The arm that hasn’t had the muscles fried in it from running up on the bad side of an explosive.
Not hard labor, but supervising. Guiding. Making sure the guys (or gals) give it their best with each job. Under these thoughts, I’ve cleared the pieces of wood I’ve split. Moved them into my “cut” pile. I take another good-sized log and line it up under the blade. I steady it the best I can with my non-chopping arm, before taking aim.
“And to make sure they don’t fuck it up,” I mutter, bringing the ax up and down on this new piece of wood. Unlike the last one, it doesn’t go clean through. The blade gets stuck halfway down, forcing me to wheedle it through. I jam it, with a little help from my number, less-functional hand and arm.
Not the most fun thing to do — too much jiggling and jarring on this side, and I feel like I have a small firestorm in my veins — but it’s gotta be done. This may be New Mexico, and therefore, a little warmer than most places in early February, but it still gets cold at night. Which is falling fast.
Out here for no more than an hour and a half or two, the light has already dimmed from late afternoon into dusk. The evening has arrived. Which means I only have probably another half hour of chopping time before I have to lug all this wood in.
I stand up from the stump I’ve been using as my chopping block, and take a breather. Not necessarily because I’m tired, but because I’ve just remembered I might need to chop some extra wood, for a little modification I need to make on my log cabin.
Part of the railing on the stairs up to the house is getting a little rickety. And I’ve just forgotten which part I thought was leaning too much. So, I’m looking at it now, trying to remember which part I lean into a lot every time I go up and down. It’s definitely on the side of the railing that is on my stronger side.
Figures. Here I use all my inheritance — the money Mom and Dad left me when they passed away — on Grandpa’s old log cabin, and it’s the railing that still needs attention! I chuckle, remembering how Granddad used to bitch about that. How he used to say the railings were ricketier and more unsteady than he was. And he was over 100.
Granddad was always fixing it. Dad told him he should just rip it out. Replace the whole damn porch and stairs, but Granddad wasn’t having it. And I understand why. All of us kids — great grandkids, grandkids and so on — we’ve all had our names up there. Carved into bits and pieces of the railing. Especially as boys, so of course Granddad wanted to keep that. And so did I. That’s why I tried to keep it, even with all the renovating I did.
But if I don’t fix it, I’m gonna end up biting it one of these days. And I can’t risk that happening — anything unexpected happening — right before I’m due to start my new job.
I sigh, looking at my woodpile for a suitable piece. Something I can split into a small, manageable part that can be sanded down and made into a railing. Or at least a piece of connective tissue.
I’ve just spotted the lucky winner from my firewood pile — a small, raggedy-looking piece of log — and lined it up a little off center, for just the perfect cut — when I see something even more urgent than the repairs needed on the railing.
Just through the trees, I’ve spotted a young woman sitting out there on the other side of my little screen of pine. Dressed as she is — in pale white or gray pants and a matching T-shirt — she looks like a ghost. At least she does to me.
Her dark, messy hair is windblown. Part of it seems to be an edgy style; the other part of it, my gut tells me, is the result of desperation. The frayed end of a rope.
My stomach dips, then knots. Though I can’t see the woman’s face, her posture tells me everything I need to know— she could be suicidal, not really “here.” It’s in the way her shoulders droop. Her back bends with the manner in which she hunches over the cliff there. The opening in the mountain range, almost waiting for the rock and wilderness to swallow her whole.
I drop my ax and run for the trees— or, more accurately, for her, on the other side of them. It might just be my eyes — the change in the evening light as it goes from dusk to night — but it looks like she’s wobbled forward, leaned closer to pitching herself over the edge, and I’m not gonna have that. Not while I’m around and can do something.
After all, there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander. Just a silent accomplice.
“Hey, young lady!” I shout, hoping to get some attention. Some response. “Don’t stay like that. You might fall, miss!”
Even at my semi-loud bark — the tone I used a lot when I wanted to get my fellow SEALs’ attention — the woman doesn’t respond. She just continues to face out toward the horizon, toward the drop off below, like she really is a ghost. Like she really isn’t here anymore.
When I get within arm’s reach, I think I see her starting to pitch forward again. And that’s when I make up my mind: whether she hears me or not, I’m going to let her know I see her. I’m going to snatch her from the precipice, before she does something she can’t take back.
I put my arm around her small, frail body and pull back.
And that’s when my ghost girl decides to come to life.