Until that day in early July, I had always underestimated Collin’s intelligence, the importance of binoculars, and the usefulness of rocks. The morning began on a glum note as the buzzing of chainsaws reverberated through the forest. Collin stared out into the bright Sierra day from the cabin’s living room window, a large screen sheet nailed within a rectangular cut-out in the lumber walls. I buried my nose further in summer reading.

Dad sat on the couch beside me, holding an open novel, though his gaze continued to wander between Collin’s countenance and mine. “Come on guys,” he finally said. “It’s too hot to be inside. Let’s go swimming or something.” 

I looked at Collin, hopeful. The icy water of the mountain creeks, fed by melting snow, would be a welcome change from the stuffy living room. 

“I just hate that sound,” Collin finally said. 

The loggers had just begun the work of cutting the trees with circumferences under 20 inches, a tree size which was apparently conducive to the spread of flames in the event of a forest fire. Dad, in his capacity as a forest ranger, had finished the project of measuring and marking the trees in the overgrown sections of forest on our property and on the surrounding government land. Collin had become increasingly convinced that Dad had measured too carelessly, marking trees that were larger than the specifications. I worried that Collin would never forgive him once the trees in question were logged.

The oppressive buzzing continued throughout the day and into the afternoon when Dad left for work and Collin agreed to venture outside the sweltering cabin. He led the way as the two of us began to hike, crossing the brook behind Foxglove and working our way up a shady slope. We hiked through a grove of sticky manzanita shrubs and up to a small granite outcrop surrounded on all sides by mountains. From the route we were taking, I could tell that Collin was headed to one of the forest groves that Dad had recently measured and marked.

“What are we doing?” I said. “I can tell where we’re headed.”

He smiled. “You’ll see.”

“Dad’s worked on areas much closer to the house,” I said.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to run into any loggers,” he said. “I’m sure they won’t make it this far today.” 

I followed him nervously. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Hearing the loggers today just got me mad,” he said. “But it also got me thinking.”

“And?” I said. 

“And you know, last night I was sitting on the porch. And I could have sworn there are more owls this year than ever,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just noticing them for the first time ’cause of Button. But I just…” he trailed off. 

The grove was dense and mosquito-filled. I noticed the logging road that looped around its outer edge and worried that one of the loggers might be parked out of sight. Collin removed a pair of binoculars from the pocket of his cargo shorts. He scanned the landscape, surveying ever higher portions of the forest. His wordlessness was wearing on me.