Page 126 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Because apparently I packed for a mountain spa retreat. Not actual wilderness living.
I move across the yard and stare at an axe that weighs approximately the same as a small child.
The wood-chopping area behind the cabin is clearly set up for someone who actually knows what they're doing. There's a proper chopping block, a neat stack of logs waiting to be split, and even a covered area to keep everything dry.
Be bad at something that doesn't matter,Piper's voice echoes in my head.
Well, if I'm going to fail at something, might as well be spectacularly.
I picked up the axe with confidence. I recall the three YouTube videos. I've got excellent hand-eye coordination and core strength from years of Pilates classes squeezed between eighteen-hour shifts at the hospital.
This should be simple.
I position a log on the chopping block, lift the axe over my head with what I hope looks like mountain woman competence.
"Argh!"
I bring the axe down with all the force I can muster and… the axe bounces off the log like it's made of rubber.
"Shit."
The vibration shoots up my arms and nearly makes me drop the handle entirely.
"What the hell?" I stare at the log, which doesn't even have a dent in it. "How is this harder than performing cardiac surgery?"
Maybe it's about physics. Force distribution. Angle of approach. I've successfully repaired human hearts, surely I can figure out how to split a piece of wood.
I try again, this time with more strategic thinking, adjusting my grip and focusing on precision over brute force.
This time, the axe hits the wood and immediately sticks, but instead of splitting cleanly, the whole log goes flying off the block and crashes into a decorative planter, sending dirt and beautiful pink alpine flowers everywhere.
"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, dropping the axe to survey the damage.
Soil cascades over the wooden deck like brown confetti, and what used to be a perfectly arranged display of mountain wildflowers now looks like a crime scene. The ceramic planter is cracked down one side, and there's dirt in my hair.
This is exactly the kind of thing that would have sent me into a full panic spiral six months ago.
Proof that I can't handle anything outside my controlled hospital environment.
Evidence that I'm failing at yet another thing, that maybe I really am just a workaholic surgeon who can't function in the real world.
But you know what? I'm not in surgery right now. No one's life depends on my ability to split wood.
This is just... a learning experience in spectacular failure.
Exactly what Piper ordered.
I drag the log back to the chopping block, brush dirt off my yoga pants, and grip the axe handle with renewed determination.
"Okay, mountain life," I say out loud, staring at the log. Heavy metal music starts playing from somewhere nearby, and I can't quite tell where it's coming from, but the fast beat seems to match my determination. "Let's see just how bad I can be at this."
The next swing is marginally better. The axe actually stays in the wood instead of bouncing off, but now it's stuck so deep I can't get it out.
I pull and twist and leverage my entire body weight against the handle, until finally—
CRACK.
The log splits with such sudden force that I stumble backward, arms windmilling wildly as I try to keep my balance. My foot catches on something—maybe the axe handle, maybe just my own lack of coordination—and I go down hard, landing on my ass in the dirt with pieces of split wood scattered around me.
