Several cooperative members were coordinating transportation.
And the young farmer had arranged for the harvest equipment to be inspected before work began.
She wasn't going to repeat her father's habit of keeping old machinery alive through sheer stubbornness when proper repairs were necessary.
She smiled at the thought.
Her father would've argued with her.
Then probably admitted she was right.
On the first morning of wet harvest, she walked toward the old wooden gate.
She wore her blue farming shirt.
Navy overalls.
Muddy boots.
And her red hair in the same thick braid.
The retired hydrologist stood nearby.
Several workers waited along the embankment.
The quiet farmer had arrived early to help.
The old gate had been inspected, and the water-management plan had been reviewed for ordinary harvesting conditions.
Everything was ready.
The young woman rested her hands against the iron wheel.
For a moment, she looked toward the forest.
The trees were still.
No unusual rumble came from the north.
The sky was clear.
And the water moved quietly through the channels where it belonged.
She smiled.
Then began the harvest.
As the cranberry beds filled under the controlled operation, the red fruit began rising.
At first, only a few berries floated to the surface.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
Within minutes, a broad sheet of crimson spread across the shallow water.
The harvest crew worked carefully, guiding the floating berries toward the collection area using the appropriate equipment.
The young farmer watched with quiet satisfaction.
The color was extraordinary.
Deep red beneath the pale autumn sky.
Bright against the dark green pines.
And almost impossibly beautiful after the muddy devastation of the previous year.
For a moment, she remembered standing at the same gate while three older farmers laughed at her.
She remembered the largest man's finger pointing.
The cruel remark about her father.
And the way the forest began moving beyond the trees.
Then she looked toward the workers.
Nobody was laughing at her.
They were smiling.
Talking.
And helping one another gather a harvest that represented months of recovery.
The quiet farmer approached carrying a clipboard with the collection schedule.
He looked toward the water.
Then smiled faintly.
"Your father always liked this part."
The young woman nodded.