Horizon

A Wessex Lad

Thomas Hardy, born today, 1840. When was the last time anyone here read a Hardy novel?

The first time, a friend and I hiked six miles from the bottom of Bala Hill to my father’s hunting camp in Mullyville. It was early February, and we weren’t hunters, but a couple of twenty-year-old headtrips who wanted to indulge ourselves for a few days in the bitter cold. I’m not sure it got above ten below while we were there. In the mornings we could slide down the slope in front of the camp in our moccasins, the snowcrust was so hard and fast. We spent hours roaming the beaver flows, and an equal amount of time inside, feeding the stove, reading, and inducing appetites. One afternoon a beaver trapper on a snowmobile, bearing a gift of bourbon, stopped by for a visit.

I had a copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles that I bought for ninety-nine cents off a remainder table. Didn’t know a thing about Hardy, but it looked important, and even thirty years ago, a buck wasn’t much of a risk. I finished it that trip and read the rest of the major novels within the year. Haven’t been able to read a word of him since.