Next morning, I wake to a squirrel studying this new log in his neighborhood. He’s got a nut in hand, but has stopped eating when he sees movement in the log. He scampers off, leaving behind his breakfast.
“Sorry,” I tell him and laugh, catching myself with shame at such levity in the face of Dieter’s loss. Being alive as I am, I’ve no right to laugh at anything.
After washing in the river and eating my last can of peaches, I fill up on water, then pack my gear and move on. The day is cold, trees refusing much sunlight, but by noon I’m again warm. Ma Nature is downright generous, seeing how it’s late October.
I follow a rough road that runs about fifty feet from shore—at least I think it’s a road. I’m hoping there’s something up ahead, and when there comes behind me a freight wagon full
