The Years of Farming in the Mountains

Early March in the budding spring—the gentle warmth of the sun and the soft, balmy breeze melt away the last lingering chill of winter. The mountainsides are a lush green, and the streams murmur as they wind through the wilds. Halfway up the slope, shaded by the trees, a patch of earth about half an acre lies bare and exposed, overrun with weeds and tangled with creeping vines.

A young man, clad in coarse homespun with his pants rolled to his knees, works steadily with his iron hoe, the tool rising and falling as he turns over the soil, crushing clods with the handle and pushing them aside. The small field is already dotted with uneven mounds of earth, dry and yellow beneath the bright sun.

With a grunt and a swing, the hoe bites deep and uncovers a fat, lively earthworm. Startled by the sudden change, the worm writhes in distress, its pale-banded head burrowing frantically at the surface, desperate to return to the safety of the soil. But the young man is swift—he pinches it between his fingers, ignoring its struggles, and drops it into a bamboo tube hanging at his waist.

He seals the wooden lid; through the air holes, other earthworms can be glimpsed within. The bait for tomorrow’s wild fishing is ready. A smile tugs at his lips, anticipation lighting his gaze. There are several secluded stone pools and springs on this mountain, not to mention winding brooks—more fishing spots than one could count. Last time he ventured into the woods, he’d found a promising new spot and sensed there were big fish lurking. But he’d been too busy sorting through old te