Last weekend I pounced on the opportunity of seeing Paul in action with the chain saw, taking down some rotted pines behind our manure pile.

I should explain that when I say ‘our’ manure pile, I mean the horses.

“Please, please,” I begged, “can we go clear the trails now?”

When Paul agreed, my heart leapt. Our property is half in established pasture and half heavily wooded. Thanks to both the pine beetle and storms, the meandering bridle path which leads a rider on an intensive, hilly, half mile loop has been impassable with fallen trees. Horses will eagerly jump over a log here and there, but when three to four Loblolly pines all crash down in the same place, horses aren’t keen on the idea of repelling up one side and down the other, so this cherished woodland hasn’t been used for years.

The chill in the autumnal afternoon made working conditions perfect. My personal Paul Bunyon sliced through timber and we both hauled away the logs, briars and brambles to reveal the trailhead. The distant waft of woodsmoke in the distance made me somewhat nostalgic.

“This takes me back to my dad and the other fathers in the neighborhood cutting firewood for the winter,” I remarked, shoving two downed poplar branches to the side. “Remember?”

“I grew up in Miami,” Paul replied, frowning at the chain which had come loose on the saw. “So, no.”

What also reminded me of my childhood was failing to duck after Paul, walking ahead, pulled a branch to the side before letting it snap back, whacking me across the cheek.

“Ow,” I said, putting my hand to my face. “That’s gonna leave a mark. Just for that I’m going to make you stand in line with me at Walmart so every one will glare at you with suspicion.”

Not long afterwards, a piece of rotted pine flew up and beaned Paul in the shoulder. I didn’t laugh at this bit of turbo karma, but I did when he later tripped over a hidden root the circumference of a piano wire, and crashed down on one knee—his bad one.

“Is it Okay?!” I rushed up to him in alarm.

“I think so,” he grumbled, rising to brush off his jeans.

“Not you, the chainsaw,” I said, leaning over to pick it up. “We have another quarter of a mile to go!”

It wasn’t long after that that my right foot stepped deeply into a hole left from a rotted stump and I wrenched my ankle considerably.

“This is the part where Jason comes up the trail with a meat cleaver to murder me,” I groaned, sitting on the forest floor. “I feel like I’m in the middle of a B horror movie. The stupid girl always trips on something and can’t get away.”

After limping back to the tool shed, Paul fired up our ancient Ford tractor, attached the bush hog and made three passes over the length of trail to smooth the terrain and pulverize the fallen leaves. Holes that could snap both horse and human legs were filled and the end result was a wide, inviting path that takes one deep into a protected habitat where wildlife abounds.

That very night, legs elevated on the coffee table with frozen bags of peas resting on our knees and ankles, Paul and I watched the evening news and nodded with smug satisfaction as a health segment told of how doctors are now prescribing walks in the woods several times a week to patients with anxiety disorders and lifestyle illnesses. Turns out it’s more effective than many prescribed medications. Just being outdoors in the woods, one doctor explained, lowers blood pressure and is enormously beneficial for mind, body and spirit.

“Heck,” I smirked, adjusting my bag of peas to decrease the swelling in my ankle, “We could have told them how healthy the woods are years ago.”