Cracked asphalt meets crumbling topsoil at the cloudy dead end of Ramble Place. Scraggly shrubs and pokeweed flank a ramping rise of the ground — a foreboding entrance to the dark woods beyond.
Past that, thickening brush over a thin-trodden path, trees leaning in to block the grey sky. A gradual ascent, passing an abandoned, burned-out fort strewn with charred smut. As the hill plateaus, a golf green is visible through the trees to the north.
To the west lay Horseshoe Canyon, but one would have to cross territory belonging to “The Farmer” to get there. Either way, you'd get yelled at by grown-ups.
No one knew what he “farmed,” and the only livestock anyone remembers was the odd guinea fowl and cherry-eyed Basset that would wander loose as far as Sheffield.
Still, traversing the hill was an adventure in itself.
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