On my way back through the woods I have shouldered a sack of wapato wealth and a few cattail rhizomes, and I leave in my wake footprints and drips of water as my soaking clothes try to relieve themselves of the weight.

Something is amiss. A human sound is heard. I encounter other hikers rarely, and I can tell from his awkward footsteps that he’s an amateur. If I can hear him, he’s an amateur.

And as I turn the corner that hugs an old birch tree, I see him. He kneels on the earth, cutting stalks of what he surely thinks is milkweed. Idiot. It’s dogbane. Still, I have not previously met another forager and so I am still – being one with the Earth – and watch.

I don’t know why I do it. He takes the dogbane stalk and sniffs it. He prepares to take a giant bite when one of my precious tubers leaves my hand and collides with his head. “What are you doing, idiot?!”

“Ouch!” He turns circles like the imbecile he is, trying to locate his attacker.

He bends and picks up the wapato. “What the…?”