Page 11 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

The commodifying. The noise.

The way people get grabby with beauty.

But I donate seventy percent of all proceeds to charities around the world, and that makes it hard to stay angry.

If the work can fund clean water and shelters and scholarships and whatever else my team places in front of me, then fine.

Let them print it on a million things.

As long as I don’t have to stand in a suit under bright lights and pretend it’s fun.

As long as I get to stay here.

On my mountain.

Alone.

With my art.

Because I love what I do. And the mediums I get to experiment with—wood, metal, resin, ink, stone, leather—well, that’s half the fun.

My mind gets to sprint without anyone telling it to walk. I get to follow the thread of an idea until it turns into something I can hold in my hands.

I get to breathe.

I get to be.

So I keep my world small on purpose.

I keep my cabin quiet.

I keep my name locked down—the world simply calls me the Lumberjack Artist after part of my flannel cuff made it into a photo.

And I keep the roads to my cabin unmarked, the security cameras running, the phone on silent unless it’s an emergency.

I hate fame.

I just want to stay on my mountain alone with my work.

Is that too much to ask?

March is a menace in Woodhaven. Mud season is in full effect, and we’ve been pounded by thunderstorms for days.

The wind answers by hurling another sheet of rain against the window, rattling the glass like knuckles.

I’m at the workbench when I hear it—faint beneath the howl of the storm.

Not the wind.

Not the trees.

Something else.

A crunch.

A scrape.

A muffled thud.