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trees. I followed the track where they slid the logs to the river and spied the holes in the far bank where they’d built their underwater lodge. In between the dry stumps chewed in past years were oozinjj markers to more recent beaver labors, surreal and sticky with rising sap that stained the wood a mottled mixture of gray, red and black. Mounds of empty shells showed where a squirrel had dined.
In the most unexpected places, I stumbled over clumps of double.^ flowered, old fashioned daffodils^ perhaps planted by some earlier homesteader whose cabin had long since been swallowed by the forest.
But other signs of man’s presence weren’t as benign. In a clearing where the Thornton bends close to 'the state road, making the riverside more accessible, beer cans - some with labels faded to illegibility, others with the brand colors and logos still bright - showed where partyers regularly gather.
In other spots, red clay stained the water, the run-off from ill-considered bulldozing done simply to make the walk down to the river easier for the future residents of a new hilltop home. In the tracks of the
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