The Moss-Covered Notebook

A spring walk through the land lab takes an unexpected turn when Geoff and Sandy uncover a mysterious, moss-covered notebook. Amidst the thawing earth and budding plants, their conversation drifts from forgotten discoveries to ambitious dreams of creating local food products and tackling community challenges, all while their own connection subtly deepens.

The mud squelched under my boots, a satisfying, sucking sound that spoke of ground finally letting go of winter’s grip. The air, thin and sharp, smelled of wet earth and something else, something green and almost electric, like the year finally deciding to wake up. Sandy, a few paces ahead, pivoted on a rock, her worn hiking boots surprisingly steady.

“You’re going to get stuck, you know,” she called over her shoulder, a hint of a laugh in her voice. Her dark hair, usually tamed in a neat braid, had escaped in wisps around her face, clinging to her cheeks where the exertion had brought a flush.

“Never,” I retorted, my breath puffing out in a white cloud. “I’m a professional mud-walker. Been doing it since I was old enough to know what a puddle was.” I watched her, the way the light caught the few loose strands, the way she didn’t quite look at me when she grinned. My stomach did a small, involuntary flip.

“Oh, a professional, are we?” she teased, not stopping. “Then perhaps you can explain why your left boot looks suspiciously like it’s trying to become one with the trail?”

I glanced down. She wasn’t wrong. The dark, rich soil had indeed claimed a good portion of my ankle. I tugged, and with a soft *shlupp*, it came free, leaving a fresh, muddy imprint. Sandy laughed properly then, a bright, clear sound that seemed to chase away the last vestiges of winter from the woods. It was a good sound. Always had been.

“Alright, fine, I’m a semi-professional,” I conceded, wiping my hand on my jeans, adding another streak to the already impressive collection. “But point taken. We’re going to be tracking half the forest into your dad’s truck.”

“That’s okay,” she said, finally turning to face me, her hands in the pockets of her well-loved canvas jacket. “He expects it. It’s part of the land lab charm, isn’t it? Proof of a good day’s… exploration.” She gestured around at the still-bare branches overhead, the faint green haze of buds just beginning to show on the maples.

“Exploration of what, exactly?” I asked, squinting against a shaft of sunlight that pierced the canopy. “Mostly just… mud and the promise of mosquitoes.”

“Optimist,” she scoffed, though her smile softened the word. “The promise of a new season, Geoff. New growth. We should be excited. This is when the magic starts.”

I kicked at a patch of particularly resilient moss, pulling a loose strand free. “Magic that involves a lot of digging, weeding, and fending off deer, if last summer was anything to go by.” But even as I said it, a warmth spread through me. Last summer had been good. The best, probably. The thought of it, of us, elbow-deep in strawberry plants, still made me grin.

“Speaking of which,” Sandy continued, her gaze sweeping over a small clearing to our left, where the ground was still mostly brown, awaiting the gardener’s touch. “Think the strawberries will be as prolific this year? I’m still dreaming of those jam batches.”

“If we get another run like that, we’ll be set for life,” I mused, picturing the overflowing baskets, the sticky fingers, the scent of ripe fruit heavy in the air. The land lab, a project started by the community to foster local food security and teach sustainable agriculture, had truly flourished. Our small plots of berries, cucumbers, and tomatoes had yielded more than anyone had dared hope. We’d spent most of August trying to keep up, harvesting, preserving, and even selling a few punnets at the tiny weekend market.

“Remember the cucumber glut?” she chuckled, a genuine, full sound. “Your mum was trying to pawn off jars of pickles on everyone in a ten-kilometre radius.”

“They were good pickles!” I protested, laughing with her. “And don’t pretend you didn’t hoard a few of your own. Your dad’s a fiend for a good dill spear.”

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of our jackets and the soft, distant murmur of the nearby river, swollen with snowmelt. The trail narrowed, weaving between skeletal birch trees whose white bark peeled away in delicate curls, and ancient spruces, their needles a dark, stoic green against the grey-brown of the forest. I liked these parts best, away from the main plots, where nature still held the upper hand.

### A Curious Find

It was Sandy who spotted it first. Her stride faltered, then she stopped, a hand held up. I nearly bumped into her. “Whoa, what is it?” I asked, peering over her shoulder, my heart giving a small, curious thump. Usually, her sudden stops meant a particularly interesting mushroom or an unusually colourful stone.

This was different. Tucked into the hollow of an old, partially fallen log, almost entirely swallowed by a rich carpet of emerald green moss, was something dark and rectangular. It didn’t look natural. It looked… placed.

“Look,” she whispered, her voice hushed, eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and something like awe. She took a step closer, then another, her gaze fixed. I followed, leaning down. The moss had grown over it, softening its edges, blurring its original shape, making it look like a part of the forest floor itself. But as I brushed away a patch of damp, clinging verdure, the dark, worn leather of a small notebook revealed itself.

It was old, definitely. The cover was thick, almost stiff, and felt strangely cool under my fingertips. The moss had left faint, green stains along its spine, but the binding still held. No title, no author. Just the silent promise of forgotten words. A stray tendril of a fiddlehead, still tightly coiled, brushed against my knuckles. A gust of wind smelled faintly of wet dust and cold sweat, a peculiar mix in the clean spring air.

“Someone just… left it?” I murmured, half to myself. It felt wrong, like disturbing a burial. Yet, the urge to see inside, to understand what story it held, was overwhelming.

“Maybe,” Sandy breathed, her voice barely audible. Her finger traced the edge of the leather, not quite touching. “Or maybe it was lost. A long time ago.” She glanced at me, and I felt the unspoken question pass between us: *Do we open it?*

“It’s not… ours,” I pointed out, though my own curiosity was practically thrumming in my veins. My mind, usually a jumble of to-do lists and academic anxieties, was suddenly clear, focused only on this small, forgotten object.

“No, but… who would leave something like this?” she countered, a challenge in her eyes. “It looks important. Not just some trash.” She was right. It felt significant, weighted with history, even if we didn’t know what kind.

I carefully picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy, substantial. The leather, once dark, was now faded to a mottled brown, and felt smooth and cool beneath my palm, still damp from the moss. I turned it over in my hands. No lock, no clasp. Just a simple, unadorned journal. The corners were scuffed, the edges softened by time and weather. My fingers fumbled slightly as I tried to open it, my heart doing a little thump-thump-thump against my ribs. Sandy watched, silent, leaning in close, her hair brushing my arm. The faint scent of pine and something uniquely Sandy — maybe a little lavender, maybe just her — reached me.

“Anything?” she whispered, as I finally managed to ease open the cover. The pages were yellowed, thin, and brittle, and a faint, musty smell, like old paper and dried leaves, wafted out. But they weren’t empty. Faint, looping script, in what looked like faded ink, filled the first few pages. It was English, but the handwriting was tight, almost cramped, hard to decipher at a glance.

“Just… writing,” I said, feeling a pang of slight disappointment that it wasn’t a treasure map, but also a surge of excitement. “Looks like a journal. Old. Very old.” I didn't try to read it right there. It felt too big, too important for a quick glance on a muddy trail. We needed to be still, to respect whatever lay within its pages.

---

### Plans for Tomorrow

We continued our walk, the notebook tucked carefully inside my jacket, a comfortable weight against my chest. The mysterious discovery had sparked a new current in our conversation, a quiet hum beneath our usual banter. We talked about it for a while, speculating on its owner, its purpose, its story. Eventually, the conversation shifted, as it always did, to the future, to the land lab, and to us.

“So, the big plans for the new year,” Sandy began, kicking at a loose stone that skittered ahead of us down the path. The sun had climbed higher, warming the air, and the distant sounds of spring peepers had begun to swell from the swampier areas of the forest. My boots still squelched, but with less insistence now.

“Yeah,” I agreed, pushing a low-hanging spruce branch out of the way for her. It scraped against my sleeve, leaving a dusting of tiny, dark needles. “We need a strategy. We can’t just grow things and hope for the best again. Not if we want this thing to really take off.” My mind started to click into problem-solving mode, a comforting familiar rhythm. My brother, who was already at university, always joked that I had a spreadsheet for every aspect of my life, even when it came to picking out cereal.

“Agreed,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Especially with the success we had. People actually want local produce. They just don’t always know where to find it.” She stopped, scanning the emerging greens of the forest floor, where patches of wild ramps and fiddleheads were starting to push through. “What if we make something? Like, a proper product. Not just raw vegetables.”

My ears perked up. “A product? Like… more jam? Berry pie filling?” My mind immediately went to the strawberry glut. We’d made so much jam last year, my kitchen still smelled faintly of sugar and fruit, even months later.

“Think bigger,” Sandy urged, a spark in her eye. She bent down, inspecting a patch of tiny, budding plants. “Something unique. Something that really showcases what this region has to offer. Beyond just berries.” She carefully pulled a single, small, green leaf, crushing it between her fingers. “Smell this. Wild mint.” She held it out to me. The scent was potent, earthy, and undeniably fresh. “Imagine that in something. Not just tea.”

“Wild mint… interesting,” I mused, inhaling the sharp, clean aroma. My mind raced, trying to connect the dots. “Maybe a savoury application? Like a mint jelly for lamb? Or a garnish oil? That’s getting pretty gourmet, though. And we’re still teenagers. People might not take us seriously if we start talking about artisanal mint oils.” I shifted my weight, feeling the uncomfortable bunching of my sock inside my boot, a tiny, annoying distraction.

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, straightening up, her eyes bright. “That’s part of the challenge, isn’t it? How do we take something simple, something local, and elevate it? Make it something people *want* to pay for, and respect the effort?” Her enthusiasm was infectious, bubbling up like a spring itself, impossible to resist. It always had been. I found myself grinning.

“Okay, okay. So, we’re thinking beyond straight-up produce. Beyond basic preserves,” I summarized, trying to keep up with her rapid-fire ideas. “Something with a local flavour profile, a unique selling point. And we’re leveraging the land lab’s bounty. Which, by the way, we still have to plant.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Details, details. The grand vision first, then the back-breaking labour.” She began to walk again, a little faster now, her mind clearly alight. “What about, like, a spruce tip syrup? Or a berry vinegar? Something tart and bright that you could use in salad dressings, or even fancy cocktails.”

“Berry vinegar,” I repeated slowly, letting the words roll around. “That actually has legs. Like a shrub. Could be good. Raspberry vinegar. Or chokecherry, if we can get enough of them this year. They’re finicky.” I liked the idea. It felt sophisticated, yet still deeply rooted in our local landscape. My internal spreadsheet was already popping up new categories: 'Ingredient Sourcing', 'Processing Costs', 'Target Market'.

“See? You’re getting it!” Sandy clapped her hands together lightly. “And that ties into the bigger picture, too. The community. Small communities like ours… we face a lot of challenges, right? Getting young people to stay, finding new ways to make a living beyond traditional industries.” She suddenly looked more serious, her gaze distant, fixed on the bare treetops.

“Yeah,” I said, the playful energy in our conversation fading a little, replaced by a more grounded, thoughtful tone. It was a truth we both knew intimately. Our town, nestled deep in Northwestern Ontario, was beautiful, but jobs were scarce, and opportunities for young people often meant leaving for the larger cities down south. Many of our friends had already moved away for college or work, leaving behind a quieter, sometimes emptier, place.

“So, if we could create something here,” she continued, picking up a fallen twig and snapping it into smaller pieces as she walked. “Something that uses local resources, creates even a few local jobs, offers something unique… that’s creative entrepreneurship, isn’t it? Not just making money, but building something for *here*.” Her voice had a fierce passion to it, a conviction that resonated deep within me.

“It is,” I agreed, feeling a warmth spread through my chest, something beyond the chill of the spring air. It wasn’t just about the money, or even the product itself. It was about proving something, to ourselves, to the community. That we could make a difference, right here. “But it’s a huge undertaking. We’d need proper equipment, a commercial kitchen, permits… all that boring stuff.” I hated the boring stuff, the endless paperwork and regulations that always seemed to get in the way of good ideas.

“Boring, yes, but necessary,” Sandy countered, ever practical. “But we have the land lab. We have the community’s support. Mr. Henderson, down at the general store, he’s always talking about how we need more local products. And Mrs. Dubois, she knows everyone at the farmers’ market in the next town over. We’d have a network. And the land lab itself… it’s a perfect testing ground.”

She was right. The land lab wasn’t just plots of dirt; it was a hub, a place where people gathered, shared knowledge, and, most importantly, believed in the idea of a self-sustaining local economy. We’d spent countless hours there over the summer, tending the plants, sure, but also talking, laughing, planning, dreaming.

“So, what’s the first step?” I asked, looking at her, a challenge in my eyes. “Dreaming is good, but execution is what counts.”

“The first step,” she said, slowing down as we approached a small clearing, where the sunlight streamed down, illuminating patches of new grass, a startling, vibrant green against the brown. “Is to decide what our hero product is. Our signature. Something that screams ‘Northwestern Ontario spring’ or ‘Northwestern Ontario summer’. Something that’s *ours*.” She turned, facing me fully now, her expression serious, yet still alight with possibility. The sun caught her hair, turning it to a halo of warm brown. My breath hitched, just a little.

“Something that’s ours,” I repeated softly, the words hanging in the air between us, suddenly taking on a deeper, more personal meaning than just a food product. The notebook, forgotten for a moment, seemed to press against my chest, a quiet observer to our burgeoning aspirations. A gust of wind rustled the high branches of the pines, smelling of sap and damp pine needles, a deep, wild scent that grounded me. My vision jumped from the way her eyelashes caught the light, to a tiny scuff on the toe of her boot, to the way her fingers absently twisted a loose thread on her jacket. It all felt so real, so immediate.

“Exactly,” she affirmed, her eyes holding mine, a silent understanding passing between us, a shared commitment to not just a project, but to a vision, a hope for our little corner of the world. It was exciting. And a little terrifying. But mostly, just… right. Like we were on the cusp of something important, something bigger than ourselves. He didn’t know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? He just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second. That feeling, it was new, and it was potent, like the wild mint itself.

---

### A Shared Horizon

We found a fallen log near the edge of the clearing, softened by moss and time, and sat down. The wood was cool through my jeans. The air was still, quiet save for the chatter of squirrels and the soft, insistent buzz of a lone bee exploring the earliest dandelion blooms. I pulled the notebook from my jacket, its cover still slightly damp, and held it out. Sandy reached for it, her fingers brushing mine, a fleeting, electric contact. She didn’t take it, though. Just looked at the worn cover, then at me.

“Later,” she said, her voice soft, reflective. “Let’s just… let the ideas sit for a bit. Before we get lost in someone else’s thoughts.” She leaned back against the rough bark of a pine, gazing up at the patches of clear blue sky visible through the skeletal branches. A lone hawk circled high above, a tiny speck against the vastness.

I nodded, understanding. The notebook, with its promise of old stories, could wait. For now, the future felt more compelling. The silence that settled between us wasn’t empty, but full, pregnant with unformed ideas and unspoken feelings. I glanced at her, her profile serene against the backdrop of the waking forest. Her brow was furrowed slightly in thought, a habit I’d come to recognise. I wondered what grand, impossible schemes were swirling in her head now. Probably a berry-infused, spruce-tip-smoked, wild-mint-garnished artisanal vinegar that would somehow single-handedly revitalise the local economy. And knowing Sandy, she'd probably figure out how to make it happen.

I thought about the strawberries from last summer, the sun hot on our backs, our hands stained red. I thought about the ridiculous number of cucumber jars, stacked high in my mother’s pantry. And I thought about the taste of the wild mint, sharp and clear. It was all a tapestry of small moments, stitched together by shared effort and quiet understanding. It wasn't about the grand adventure of exploring an unknown land, but the quiet, profound adventure of building a life, a future, right here, with someone who saw the world with the same fierce, hopeful eyes. The thought of it, of us, made the chill of the spring air feel a little warmer, and the vastness of the woods a little less lonely. The sun, a low, golden orb, began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of soft orange and rose. A new season, indeed. A fresh start. And maybe, just maybe, something more.