The memory did not begin with the cold or the iron or the smell of a dying fire. It began with the sun.
In the high, sweeping valleys of the northern range, summer was a fleeting, golden miracle. Seven-year-old Erik sat on the porch of the family cabin, his legs dangling over the edge of the smooth pine boards. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming wildflowers and the sharp, clean tang of the surrounding hemlocks. Inside the house, he could hear the rhythmic thump-hiss of his mother's iron and the low, off-key humming of a lullaby she had been singing since he was in the cradle.
"Erik! Don't wander too far toward the creek," his father called out. He was near the woodpile, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, sun-browned forearms. He swung the axe with an easy, practiced grace, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack that echoed through the valley. "The runoff is high this year. I don't want to have to fish you out of the rocks before dinner."
