The stones came up every year, like mushrooms. They crept up bit by bit with the annual frost heaves as the earth chilled and thawed. Left alone long enough, perhaps the field would end up being littered with the type of stones that would elsewhere cost $200 per ton at a landscape supplier.

This field had been left alone long enough, though. Last year, my first on the property, I paid a neighbor to disc up the field and broadcast a native seed mix, fescue, and wildflowers mainly. Having been ignored for several years, the 20-acre patch had turned to knapweed, vetch, tansy, and oxeye daisy. It hadn't been grazed or mowed or burned or sprayed. Nothing. An excellent five-year project for what I had in mind.

The land was just shy of forty acres and dead flat. It was a triangle whose eastern side traveled northeast along what once was a railroad line. Bordered by Wyoming Avenue to the south, neighboring hay fields to the west, and a drainage ditch between the two was lined with the fruits of previous stone harvests. The field itself would still need a couple more years before it was back to health, but some carefully managed goat grazing, when I eventually get them, and harrowing should bring it back to almost pristine condition. I had no desire to use the land for hay. Instead, I wanted to create a native oasis, and I had the plan to do it.

For the second time in as many springs, I used the antique, red, and grey tractor to ride over every square inch of the field, dragging a harrow rake. The previous owner's family left it behind when they abandoned the property, and I was more than happy to make good use of it. Harrowing knocked down any furrows caused by the discs, filled any low spots, and gave the seeds a good covering of earth in which to take root. It also educated me on how many stones there were in this piece of dirt. On all the other properties nearby, I had seen huge piles and long rows of stones dumped after they had been gathered from the fields. A farmer would work the soil and then send a son or daughter out with a pick-up or 4-wheeler and trailer to collect them. The rock harvest would usually take longer than any other aspect of the farming cycle. Nothing was growing yet, and the kids needed a chore to keep them out of trouble. Hence, this part of the country had lots of fields with four-foot-tall stone boundaries.

It was during this, my second season of stone harvesting, that the problems began. The year before, I had noticed an unusually large collection of stones, or rather, so many in one tight place. It didn't seem like the rest of the field, but I didn't give it too much thought. Plenty of stones to deal with, so no use getting worked up over these few. This year, the same problem in the same area. The harrow grabbed just enough of the buried nuggets that they dislodged the others, exposing 10 or 12 to the grey sky. It was unusual enough to get on my radar but not enough for me to alter my plan. What could possibly be wrong, right?

I didn't return to that spot for two days. I had been harvesting from other parts of the field and had started an impressive collection for the stone wall I was hoping to build. By the time I returned, oddly enough, the rocks hadn't moved on their own like I had wanted them to. One by one, they went into the back of my new-to-me farm truck.  

BAM!  

BAM!  

The low clouds and the closeness of the mountains made the din of granite on metal echo loudly. A rich, satisfying tone.

As I cleared the first few stones, I could see that there were several more just below the surface. Might as well, I thought. There was no way this project was going to be easy, so I just kept plugging along. By the 23rd stone (I was odd about counting things), I began to ignore a growing suspicion that the rocks were in an unnaturally neat, elongated shape. "Nope. Perfectly natural." I half-whispered to no one in particular.

It was rock number 37 that did the trick. Nothing special about it. Mostly grey, a few specks of black, and two ribbons of white going through the center. Its uniqueness was what lay beneath it. I saw the cuff of a sleeve from the remnants of what was probably a grey hoodie or sweater. And with it, a small, desiccated hand.

Though not a surprise at this point, I did have to take a step back to collect my thoughts. It's not every day that you find a dead body. Rarer still to find an old one buried on your property, property you bought and moved to for the express purpose of not finding dead bodies anymore.

Despite the apparent age of the body and its long-term exposure to the elements, it still had traces of that smell, that goddamn smell of death and decay. I said to the world my first clear words of the day, "Well … Fuck!"

I may have to alter some expectations of this new life in Westwood, Idaho.