Near the top of the hill is a clearing strewn with plastic buckets, tractor tires, a rusted swing set, a wooden doghouse with a corrugated roof. For a time, maybe thirty or forty years ago, someone used this spot as a base camp for logging the whole hillside. The felled trees lie here, waiting, bigger around than pretty much anything left standing. Surprisingly, I can see that, just like me, someone has left their heart behind in these woods.