Woodcutting season is officially closed.
I’m not entirely comfortable with what I’ve put up, but winters in the high desert are episodic: If I don’t have enough wood to get through till April there’ll be plenty of warning. No law says I can’t cut more in February or whenever.
For right now, I’m reminded of the old cliché I spout so often: It ain’t the years, it’s the miles and the collision damage. And right now I’m feeling mine. Maybe I’ll get more ambitious when my shoulders heal back up. Don’t bet the farm on it, but maybe.