I eagerly looked forward to going into the mountains to gather firewood. I was drawn to the mountain, which from our yard seemed so distant and mysterious, and about which I had heard many stories—both hunters’ tales and true ones.
Yet the best part of all was the journey into the mountains, riding on the cart, although the return journey may have been even better.
I helped as much as I could, dragging branches and piling them into heaps while Grandpa and Father felled the trees with their axes and cut away the branches.
The heat was intense, sweat poured from every pore, and dust and wood chips stuck to our skin. We stumbled over thorny, snake-like branches and twigs tangled across the ground among rocks and boulders. Thorns caught on our clothes and tore the skin of our arms.
And so it went on all day, with an occasional break when we refreshed ourselves with a few sips of warm water and a bite of bacon that had already begun to turn rancid in the heat.
I could hardly wait for late afternoon, when the cut wood would be loaded onto the cart and Žuja and Siva harnessed. Rested and strong, they would easily carry us back toward the village.
Sitting high up on the load of wood, I could feel the tension leaving my body and myself relaxing. It would have been wonderful to fall asleep, but neither was it allowed nor was it possible, because of the cart jolting roughly along the rocky, uneven road, each jolt painfully driving into my tired and tense muscles.
Željko Narančić