Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind Fleur of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet her fingers come away dry. Fleur tilts her head upward, feeling her hair tumble further down her back; the pines are several houses tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself upon her freckled face, rose-pink lips semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before she knows it her feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's morning-time and no-one expects her home until supper. When the day is growing old and the hearth calls, the sun sinks down beneath the tops of the pines. The light streaks through the boughs in both brilliant and shadowy beams. In the summertime they were white gold, illuminating the greens into virescent riots; yet the gift of those warm days has passed for the season. On these wintry days the fogs cast those same beams of light into sepia tones and the woodland becomes the most beautiful of photographs. The trunks of fallen trees bare icicles longer than my hand, no two of them the same - more enchanting than any work of man. Every twig and blade of grass grows winter "leaves" of ice crystals, frost deeper than the fleece in my gloves. And never is the woodland silent, though it is quieter than any city street for sure. There are the birds above, calling, pecking for grubs. There is movement of mammals, mostly small, sometimes not. There is is the water that flows quietly until it meets the sharp rocky scree slopes and forms the waterfalls I love so much.

The mountain lay in the distance like a ridiculous green camel hump or perhaps the nose of a slumbering giant turned to rock. Martha held out her hands to make a “picture frame.” It fitted right in, a perfect photograph; from here it even looked two dimensional. She wondered if the air was thin at the top, if it was the kind of peak you had to take an oxygen tank to like some crazy backwards diver. She imagined herself all grown-up, dressed like a professional climber, one of a team. She'd have the spiked shoes and the pick-ax, a woolen hat and sporty lycra clothes under a fur-trimmed Gortex jacket in dusky pink. It was going to be such fun. But the car turned off on the road to Grandmas, the only adventure today would be apple pie with her firm-to-bite pastry. The mountain path grew wide where the soil was soft and then narrow in the rocky passes. There were times it was barely there at all, no more than a mild disturbance in the dirt. But always it lead upward to the peak, the only destination the five of them could keep in mind. The mountain path is a merely the least challenging ascent over the rocky boulders. Many are so tall Fleur scrambled up on all fours, their backpacks almost pulling them back down each time they lose momentum.

Fleur paced night and day, not daring to stop for fear of lost time. She passed by a number of towns on the way, having the poorly-drawn map. She was standing on a narrow track made of loose gray pebbles that crunched under his combat boots when he walked. The track snaked around the side of a mountain with a sheer drop to the right. Night turned to day and day turned to night in a matter of what seemed like seconds, though in reality it was a million miles before she could ever reach the forest abomination called Worth Woodsea. She slapped herself awake multiple times before finally approaching the entrance to the new forest among forests. As soon as she reached the entrance, she knocked out. It was too much work.