off to work we go.

We trudge through the tall river weeds humming, “hi ho, hi ho,” in our heads, for it is off to work we go. It is not a loud, bustling job we endeavor at, but it is always outside, and so keeps our senses alive. We’ve come to survey the land. It is true that many have failed in their attempts to conquer the outdoors, and while we conquer it not, we must measure it. Man would own all this. We would see him own the right parts.

I am not sure if it is noble, what we do. But I am certain it is not wrong.

While it can be dull at times, I find it is a vibrant setting for the imagination. Many a knight has ridden by and bidden me a fine day, wishing me sunny skies while I waited for father to finish thinking. He, that is father, is awfully clever at the thinking bit. Much as I nod along with his mathematical mutterings, and amuse myself that I think along too, I haven’t the mind for it. And most times I accept the truth—I am only present for manual labor.

Once I’ve accepted my role though, I am at peace with it. Either way, I snootily conceive that the company I provide is a little better than the lack of it I do not.

This morning we trudge. It’s the swamps of the Missouri River bottom which they have called us to and it is vital, father says, that we keep our feet dry. Not freezing out, but when we stop moving the wind reminds us of our proximity to Christmas. Late December never was too warm in these parts.

Hi ho, hi ho.

Father paces along the river bank, with cold, lulling waters eight yards below. I chat with the lost pirates who ran aground near St. Louis over two weeks ago. They are rather grumpy after their extended foot-journey, but I offer them a bit of the lunch in my knapsack and they cheer up. I don’t ask where they are headed. I have learned not to inquire about such things. No doubt their quest involves treasure. And so does ours, in its own way.

I often equate our looking and digging to a treasure hunt. For we stop trudging only to search out buried landmarks every thousand feet, give or take some hundreds and a few mathematical specifics. Through the years I have learned to feel a deep excitement when we unearth old surveyor stones and irons—I can now say it is comparable to the thrill of finding a chest of doubloons. As a child my sentiments were slightly different.

The sky begins to tuck the sun into bed for the evening and we only just finish our last search. It is a faint tune now—exhaustion quiets us sweetly—but our heads fill again with the song of dwarves.

Hi ho, hi ho.

But now, it is home from work we go. And that is the best part of it all.