The Moments of the Summer

Author Shane Johnson

Published August 2026

My mind buzzed with what ifs, and I could feel my stomach tightening as I drove north up I-87. I’d made this drive about a million times, trekking up to Middlebury, a place that felt like home after four years; a place where I developed an identity, where I found people that I loved, where I felt comfortable. Now, I felt like I was floating — just when I thought I knew who I was, what I wanted to do, my life felt about as stable as the muddy canoe rattling against my roof rack. What was a liberal arts grad doing, trying his hand at forestry? Maybe I should’ve gotten an office job, maybe I should’ve gone to a school with a forestry program, maybe I should’ve just stayed at home for the summer, I should’ve, I should’ve… my mind silenced as I turned onto Route 7. On each side, I was greeted by the humble sentinels of southern Vermont. Sure, the Taconics and Greens had neither the awe-factor of the Rockies, nor the dramatic cragginess of the Acadia, but in that moment, their wisdom was more apparent than any mountains I’d ever seen. Suddenly, I could feel the sun shining warmly on my face from the west, “Beast of Burden” melted softly into my ears, the Valley of Vermont gestured me north, and deep in my gut, I knew I was in for a great summer.

It was great. At Smokey House, I’ve expanded my skill and passion for the joyful, thoughtful, and often painstaking work that is forestry and farming. The work that all six of us apprentices had the privilege of doing was meaningful and impactful: conducting the first ever property-wide inventory of SHC’s forested land, searching far and wide for black ash seeds to give the species a chance in the face of extinction, tending to agroforestry systems that seek to facilitate and inspire a regional revolution of economically and ecologically sound agriculture, and tackling a myriad of impressive and important independent projects.

A common thread through all of these projects, and a theme that has consistently re-emerged in conversation among our tight-knit group, is the permanence and foresight of this work. Noah, an eclectic farming sage we had the chance to meet on a field trip to Breadtree Farms, might have put it best: “The impact of the work we’re doing now might never be seen by us. But maybe by our children, or our children’s children, even further down the line…our work will prove bountiful. We are living ancestors.” That idea captures the complexities of this occupation. It is daunting — the weight of all time, the responsibility of posterity weighing constantly, knowing you may never sow the fruits of your labor. At the same time, that lofty charge fills us with passion and excitement; it feels like something bigger than us. The opportunity to create a legacy of a healthier, happier world.

This work is both beautiful and important, and it attracts special people. While the trees and soil and animals have taught me much this summer, that connection has been strengthened through liaisons of the natural world: my colleagues, mentors, and friends at Smokey House. Every person I work and live with here has taught me valuable lessons about interacting with these ecosystems, big and small. Ela teaching me bird identification, Lewie showing me how to sharpen chainsaws, Eliot talking me through tree felling. I've learned many technical skills. But some other lessons feel more valuable, and one particular memory will always stick with me.

We were at Breadtree Farms harvesting trees for firewood, and my amateur felling skills, paired with unjustified confidence, finally caught up to me. My blade was pinched, wedged into a paper-thin kerf with the weight of a 50-foot sugar maple bearing down on it. An apprentice’s nightmare! My boss is gonna be pissed. Instead, Walker showed me what it meant to lead with poise and compassion. He made it a learning experience, talking me through my mistake, never talking down to me or killing my confidence. I was coming out of my skin, watching my boss burn precious time fixing my mistake. After about an hour of finagling, he managed to fell the tree and unstick the saw. I stood quietly by as Walker sauntered over with his signature, full-faced smile, and clapped me on the back. “Every time you fell a tree you’ll think of this mistake, and you’ll never make it again.” I smiled back meekly. “Because I know you’ll have a long career felling trees, and you’re gonna get real good at it.” I pulled Walker into a hug. I’ll never put the trigger on the compression side again. 

There were many moments like that throughout the summer — moments where I learned from the bravery, resourcefulness, toughness, and kindness of the people around me. Those qualities are what give me confidence in this place, even facing an uncertain future for our world. Smokey House's work is full of  immense responsibility, complexities, and some seemingly insurmountable difficulties, but it's equally full of people willing to sacrifice and meet those challenges. I have no doubt that the effort and passion here will remain constant. This place will always be special to me —  but more than that, I know Smokey House will always be a driving force for a healthier relationship between land and people.

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