The back country—the forest—beckons us. It smirks and it laughs at us. At our hubris; at our belief that we have conquered it and all that lives within it. The forest, for all of our technologies and capabilities, remains a mystery to us, wrapped within an enigma of our own making.

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The Antietam flows peacefully to its rendezvous with the Potomac River past the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland. It is not a stagnant, standing body of water; the Antietam carries with it, at all times, the memories of joys and fears, of tears and blood, of hopes and futility.

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My life was recently ended; almost. Ironically, my demise almost occured in conjunction with an award of an honrary life membership I’d received some few hours earlier.

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Out in western Virginia, in the shadow of the Alleghenies and very near West Virginia and Romney, you may pass by the village of Gore. If, that is, you travel on US Route 50 west from Winchester. You might not notice the sign that points to Gore off of the four-lane US highway, but you will pass right by it; the village is just by and south of Route 50.

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Blackbird Knob is not so tall as, say, Hogback mountain. It’s just a gently extended hump arising from the high mountain plateau, covered with hardwoods—oaks and sycamores and poplars—mixed with an occasional pine. Bathed by the sun’s first light, the eastern face standing starkly against the deep blue sky, Blackbird Knob is impressive. It’s reflection in the still water below the dark woods inspires awe.

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