Page 19

Sam explains the difference between vacuum tubes and bucket tapping as we venture downhill into the woods. Suddenly, he stops. “See these ruts in the ground? They’re from an ATV. Snowmobiles use those same trails in winter.”

“Does that violate my preservation status?”

“No, recreational trails are fine, but it looks like someone’s gotten in the habit of trespassing on your land. They might be hunting here, too. You’ll need to post signs if you don’t want people shooting on your property.”

My dad didn’t hunt, but I’m no stranger to the culture. In Wisconsin, opening day of deer season was a school holiday. It’s unnerving, though, to imagine armed men roaming my land. “How is a flimsy sign supposed to keep out a gunman?”

“Hunters take property rights pretty seriously. On the other hand, if they injure an animal, they’re supposed to pursue it onto posted land to make sure it doesn’t suffer.”

“Is that what you’d do?” I ask.

“I would if I hunted, but I don’t. Not because I think there’s anything wrong with it. I just don’t eat meat myself.”

“No guns for you, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” A troubled look clouds Sam’s face. “Before I joined the ag extension, I was a ranger in the Adirondack Park. There’s more to it than rescuing lost hikers. Hey, look, there’s our next landmark.”

We’ve come to an abandoned well, its hip-high circle of stones overgrown with poison ivy. It seems weird to me that someone would have dug a well in the middle of a forest until I discern the four sides of a crumbling foundation nearby. It may be mine now, but the stones remind me I’m just the latest in a long line of people who’ve called this land home.

Sam checks his compass. “From here, the deed says your boundary continues northeast until we come to a stream at the bottom of the valley.”

“I always thought of deeds as such precise legal documents.” I’m panting from keeping up with Sam’s long strides. “This is more like a story, though, isn’t it?”

“People know how they belong to a place by the stories they tell.” Sam stops for a drink of water, giving me a chance to catch my breath. “Don’t mistake what they share for the whole truth, though. People keep plenty of things to themselves.”

I take a swig from my water bottle, then tell Sam I’m ready to continue. As we trudge downhill, white-barked sycamores join the ranks of pine and maple and oak.

Sam cocks his head. “Listen. Can you hear it?”

The woods seem silent to me. I’m about to ask what I’m listening for when I catch a subtle burbling. “Is that the stream?”

“Yup.” Sam leads the way down to the water. “It’s too small to have a name on the map, but this stream marks the eastern edge of your property.”

We follow the mossy bank north, insects buzzing and pestering in the moist air.

“See that, Audrey?”

I squint in the direction Sam’s pointing. “You mean that tree house?”

“It’s actually a deer stand.” He pulls a pair of compact binoculars from a pocket of his cargo pants. “Looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time, but that’s the kind of thing you want to keep an eye on.”

As we walk, Sam gives an impromptu lecture about snowmelt and runoff and how the water from my little stream will eventually find its way into the Battenkill and on to the Hudson. After a while, we spy a dilapidated barn on the opposite bank, its skeletal timber frame exposed where the boards have fallen away.

“Huh.” Sam stops and checks the map. “Says here that side of the stream is McIntyre land.”

“Is that important?”

“No, it’s just that was my mom’s maiden name.”

I lift my eyebrows, amused. “Are you saying we’ve discovered your ancestral homeland?”

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. “You’ll find the name McIntyre on headstones in just about every cemetery throughout upstate New York. They can’t all be my ancestors, can they?”

“Couldn’t you find out?”

He shrugs dismissively. “There’s no one to ask. My grandfather died when I was a baby, so I never knew him. According to my mom, he never talked about his childhood. His obituary mentioned winning a state championship for the Schuywich track team, but it didn’t say where he was born or name any relatives. Seems like he was an only child, maybe even an orphan.”

“That’s something I can relate to,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t matter how old you are when your parents die, you still end up feeling all alone in the world.”