I slip my feet into boots still wet from yesterday's wading. Memories. Cold wet boots are the Kuskalana Glacier, where cold wet boots were actually frozen boots that only became wet after being worn a few minutes. Wading in hiking boots is always a stream near Engineer Creek, where my friends followed caribou trails, while I, after too many miles of punching scrub willow, retreated to the openness of the river, preferring wet feet to be really wet, and not minding cobbled bottom.
Some thing or some occurrence at some later place and some later time will undoubtedly be Smoke Farm.
Walking into the wind, back towards the barn, I look up to find something out of place. As still as stumps, what they are doesn't register immediately. My brain lags in adjustment behind my eyes...a doe and a fawn are doing the same with me.