I eked my way painfully down the steep tree-covered slope, watching for every root, loose rock, slippery leaf, clutching feebly at each branch. A fall at this age would do me in, though it wouldn’t be the worst way to go, with the damp soil against my face, the rich aromas of pine and cedar filling my senses. That’s why I took the chance.
I wanted to see the place I’d sat 70 years ago, a little boy pretending to fish, dreaming about Indians and bears. And again, later, finding shelter from my family. And again and again: a life.