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第4章 在行路中遇见自己 3（第1页）

第4章在行路中遇见自己（3）

OnthiswaningautumhenorthernMainela，pelling，shadowedhereandtherebypuffsoffair-weathercumulus，remnantsofsummer。Here，adozeofWaldoboro，Iomysummersfromtheageof12to14atohoseIndian-namedboys’camps—mothahinkabout。

Istandontherisewasohebaseballdiamond。Thtistheblackoak，severalhundredyearsold，besidewhichweusedtoholdhtcampfires。Howma-heavyAugustdayshaveIstoodonthisriselookiheetowardthehills?Formeitwasalrospect，theausteretrysidestretgawaywiththesharpdefinitionofauryaquatintacrosshillandwoodlandtoMt。Battieoutlithehorizon。AtourcampfireeveheredarouoakjustaftersuBattiewithoutlosiionwouldtakeonablueluminosity。

&heyearsaraggedsed-groenandbirdspeckledalder，atthefaredgeofthebaseballdiamond，hasblottedoutthatview。hihtheeskybuttheuopsofsed-growthtrees。Alreadytheskyhasbeguhesteeliertintsofwitiehasdisappeared。

Onsultryafterheairquiveredinthedfadinglightofearlyeveniaheoldoakandlookoutainterludeofsdsfromwhichseveralmilesaway，ahillemerged。Asahillitwasinsignifiough。Belowitsbaresummitaurelaydottedwithgrougsofgrahingaboutthathilldrewme，bee，ailes。Iotbeartotakemyeyesfromit，Ikhatbeforesummeregotoit，makemywayoverthepasture，upanduppastshrubailIstoodo。ItwassomethingIhadtodo。Iotexplainwhy。Ididnotevenaskmyself。

Notthatitwaseasytogetawayfromingandafternoon，ouractivitieswerereaselor’snotebook。Wehadtobeswimmingtennisorbaseballatratoffonnaturewalkssomegadgetiryshop—justsolongaswedidsomething。Buttodonothing，toclimbahillforhatwasoutsidetherules，againstthe“campspirit”。

Saturdayafternoons，withtheirinfluxofparentsandvisithtarelaxation，lessatability。Ononesudvividafternooogettomyhill。Fromthegreatoak，Icouldseeitssummitaheadofme，unknown，inviting。Inspicuously，Iedgedalongthebaseballfield，theheunderbrush。

Itwashardgoing，hardtokeepasenseofdiresugleofvihicket。Istumbleds，steppedintoanthills。Marshhillocksgavewayu，deadbranaggedme，pricklyseedsworkedisheairwasstagnant。Withmosquitandhover-fliesganddarting，Iploddedon，losingmyselfandlosingtrae。

Imusthavebeenstrugglingonforatleastanhour。Sudde，anopengroveofashandmaple，afilteredthroughtheleaves。Isawinfroeroforivehhtlypaintediyofedwithscrollsandscallopedshihnarrow，high-pitchedroofs，eaorethananarm’slengthfromthe，ay。Therewasnosignofanylivingbeing。

Tfromthewood，thesunlitgrovewaslikesomethingoutofGrimm，asifthisoddlittlevillagehadbeenputunderaspellandhadbeenasleepfor100years。Ayellowhouseinfrohablue-lattitporchcouldhavebeenwaitingforHanselael。Soquietthegrovewas，sostilltheair，thateventheaspenleaveshunglimp。Blueandgreendragonflies，poisedintheair，addedtothee。Faroff，Icouldheartheichofayellowwarblerandalobuzz。Otherwisesilence。

&upontheporchofapinktrimmedhouseahroughthesinglerosaiough—aroomleofchairs，atable，acoup。Aladderledupstairstoasleepingloft。Thegrovewasamystery。Whywerethoselittlehousesthere?Whyweretheyemptyahesametimecaredfor?Whoowwaseerietoseetheseminiatureshuddledtainstallthatspace。IhalfexpeeguardiantoutaIwasdoingthere。

Isupposemyentedvillagewassomesortofcampmeetingground，usedafewweekseachsummer。Ineverdidfindout。OnthatafternoonIdidhesun’srayswerealreadyslanting，theshadowslonger，andmyhillstilllayaheadofme。Agaiheunderbrush，breakingthroughatlasttoaruttedroadscoredwithpuddles。Butatthefirstturhefootofthehill，myhill，openahelengthenedsuhinmeadowgrasshadturnedbrowhatohepasturehadfallenapart，aymulleihrustiheboulders。UpIwent，raniteledgeandaeaddownhardhadmeadowsweetinmyhurrytogettothetop。