The early twilight of late spring crept over the gorge, painting the jagged crests of the southern ridges in deep shades of indigo and slate grey. A damp, cool mountain air descended into the basin, carrying with it the heavy, clean fragrance of wet pine resin, wild mountain fern, and damp earth from the riverbanks. Down along the terrace borders, night-blooming primroses were beginning to open their pale yellow blossoms to the cool evening air, catching the last dim reflections of silver light filtering through the western clouds.
I stood on the stone floor of the timber framing shed, holding an iron drawknife and an oil-rubbed wooden square. On the broad sawhorses before me lay the central white-oak crossbeam meant to span the secondary entry archway of the wagon barn. The grain was inc
