Wet.

Logging jeans. Still poignant when wet with dew or exertion or both, there is the unmistakable aroma of pine sap, almost erotic. The stains in the knees come alive in memory, a fresh kill is evoked. The weight of the pants reflects the crashing weight in a perfect silent forest of a wise ancient tree felled with the best of intentions. You are standing, in the forest, an axe in hand, covered in life.