It is hard to break wilderness. You take a plot of wild land, forest, mountain, and stream and throw a rope around it, clear it and put down a homestead and it will bring itself to bear on you. The land gets riled and resists and fights you. It no more likes being bridled than a wild mustang. It kicks, and bucks and works you down, wore down. You plow a row and it takes back the last two. Once wild, land likes to stay that way, cherishes its freedom, and like a man, wants to throw off anything that reduces it. Wild land won’t stay tame either. Walk away from the leash you hold it bound to and it will just return to its wild state, free and free willed. River, mountain and forest, Betty and I got a line around them but they are wild against us and it’s working us down. This small plot of wild earth we named Fair Haven—we’re on her and she’s outta the chute—we got the line tight, hot rosined and spurs dug in—she won’t break us but we will be buried in her.
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