From the moment you met her, somewhere in a sparse pine forest on the gentle western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, or in the dense Hoh Rainforest of the Pacific Northwest, or strolling along the muddy trails of the Cataloochee Valley, you imagined yourself decades later, in a small bower on an ancient parcel of land, setting birdfeeders and splitting wood for the winter. Squirrels chatter and birds sing, but the winter never comes, and the fall never comes. You’re forever in mid-spring, with the cleansing rains, budding flowers, dark green reflections of the leaves on the slate floor.