In the crisp mountain air, the horses seem to glide through the timber, side-stepping small trees and fallen logs. The chainsaw roars devastation, but the mighty pines float to the ground as they fall. These are the dead and dying, those that have been singed by fire, invaded by the beetle or abandoned by the rain and snow. The limbs fall to the forest floor as mulch, and the stripped trunk leaves its birthplace. The horses snort and bow their heads as the men call out short and simple commands through the sawdust fog. But the horses know what to do as they feel and guide the load, drawing on the generations of toil and experience of their forebears.

On the terrible Tuesday of October 15, Carl and I came home and noticed that Sky was stumbling and dragging his back feet and his chest was swelling. Knowing that pigeon fever was in the neighborhood, we called Georgette, our vet. On Wednesday, Georgette identified the symptoms as West Nile, and began the treatments. Sky weakened considerably through that day and began stumbling and falling even more. Carl and I went to bed that night fearful and sleepless.