The hot Fitchburg sun beat down on us as we made the trek from my roommate's old Ford to the ramshackle hut where they distributed the apple sacks. As the four of us strode across Eplegaarden's dirt parking lot, the fruit we were about to pick were far from my mind. Hundreds of pages of reading, an ominously close standardized test and my nonexistent love life hung over me like three thunderheads on an otherwise clear day.

These three clouds had become devoted companions lately, following me everywhere, making my LSAT-induced, Funyun-fueled fits of studying more of a personal hell than they should have been. I had begun to fear that nothing could drive these clouds away. Neither the delicious breakfast of tea and scones we enjoyed on Willy Street nor the conversation on the way to our destination did much to rid me of them. It's not that I was merely pouting; I was glad to be with friends, and the simple joy of picking locally grown apples was appealing to me. Nonetheless, the grave matters plaguing my conscience for the past days and weeks had not relented by the time we arrived at the quaintly decorated, Norwegian-themed orchard.

Not wanting to sadden my traveling companions, I stifled my melancholy and smiled while I got an apple sack from the cheery 60-something behind the counter at the hut.

My friends and I continued past the hut, making a brief stop to sample the fruits of the raspberry and grape fields (just a taste, I swear!) before heading toward the main attraction. We came over a hill to see rows and rows of apple trees, each marked by a sign denoting the variety of apple planted there.

The picking was not particularly good as we made our way through the first few rows, so we entertained ourselves with conversation. We discussed life, apples, Facebook and sundry other interesting topics, but none could hold my attention a tenth as well as my three thunderheads. I tried to join my friends and the frolicking families in their merrymaking, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

Surprisingly, a pessimistic comment that I made changed all that. I lamented, "I wish I could reach those apples way up high! There aren't any left down here!"

Hearing this, a tall friend of mine reached up, grabbed me an apple from the top of a tree, and gave it to me to try. I bit into it, only to discover it was both sour and mealy, a combination I had previously thought impossible.

Seeing my anguish and surprise, another friend of mine lent me a hand. She told to me that there were plenty of good apples at our level. All it took was a careful eye and the willingness to dig through some branches to find them.

I joined her in an effort to look for apples at arm's length. Since we were at the end of a row of trees, we turned around and walked past trees I had previously thought to be empty. To my surprise, my friend walked up to one of these trees, reached just beyond the leaves and started picking out beautiful, sweet apples.

Seeing our success, the rest of the group joined us, and we filled our sacks with these previously overlooked apples while chuckling and chatting like happy friends should. For the moment, my thunderheads had rolled away, and I was living in a Norman Rockwell painting.

When our bags were full, we made the short hike back to the hut, stopping to pick up a couple of grapes and raspberries on the way back. The attendant was every bit as friendly as she was before, and in spite of the 10 dollars we paid her for our apples, the four of us left much richer than we had come. After settling the bill, we hauled our harvest to the car and headed back to Madison.

With a trunk full of fruit and a cabin full of conversation about the kitschy orchard, our trusty Taurus thundered down the Beltline. As the chatter in the car died down, I began to reflect on our morning of apple picking. I slowly became astonished at how easy life seemed in that moment. All matters of "grave importance" that loomed so large in my thoughts earlier seemed to dissolve over the course of an hour-and-a-half of apple picking. Good apples and good friends had done for me what junk food and solitary studying could not. With the help of my friends, I had discovered that sometimes all you have to do is move aside a few branches to discover true joy.

Eplegaarden

2227 Fitchburg Rd.

Fitchburg, WI 53575

(608) 845-5966

http://www.eplegaarden.com