The valley below is full of good Christmas tree prospects, but Bon Iver must inspect them all. His footprints zig and zag from pine to spruce, and he fingers the greenery, sniffs the trunks and performs careful (unscientific) triangulation calcuations to determine height and breadth.
My thermos of peppermint cocoa is dangerously low, and my feet are cold.
‘They all seem like good candidates,’ I say, somewhat exasperatedly. But his frustration appears to be worse than mine.
‘That’s the problem!” he says. ‘I want to give them all a home!’