Last fall I began work on a new book and I ran into a little snare right at the beginning. I was describing the campus of a boarding school in September, in Connecticut, and I had all the trees aflame with bright russets and golds and somebody was raking leaves. It was still early in September when I was writing this and it dawned on me that the leaves might still be green well into October. I really had no idea. And I wasn’t quite sure when the first frost usually arrives. So I decided to start a journal to document the local flora and fauna as the seasons change. I also determined that since there is no better place to observe anything than astride a horse, I would trailer my horse Mark to Steep Rock Land Preserve every day, weather permitting, and that way I could see the exact same landscape as it changed with the season. I kept what I called my Steep Rock Diaries from September until December. Then I had to stop because the trails were too icy for horses. I've been hiking in Steep Rock this winter and spring, on and off, but am dying to get back there with Mark. My trailer needs a new tire but is being serviced on Tuesday and then I will start up with the diary again.

I don't even know where to begin to describe the beauty of Steep Rock. First, there's the winding Shepaug River that divides the preserve:

That's my daughter Dev on the trail. There's an old railroad bed that runs along the river's edge and it's great for riding.

In places, the roots of great hemlock trees have wrapped themselves, like tentacles, around the rock outcroppings along the river's bank. This one appears to be testing the temperature of the water with its root, although you can't actually see the water in the photo:

So we do this big loop, Mark and I. We go along the railroad bed and cross the river and go up to what they call the "clamshell" and enjoy the views and loop back around and across the river again. We go out in the early mornings and it’s often cold riding along the old railroad bed, but when we cross the river, if the sun is out, it shines down on us and sparkles off the rocks below. Mark always stops in the middle of the river at our crossing place and we stand there for a moment. The damp, dark smell of river always reminds me of my childhood, of a winding creek that ran behind a house in Michigan that we lived in. My brother and I spent our summer days wading around this creek looking for tadpoles and crayfish and watching muskrats glide just under the water (muskrats are cute, if you've never seen one - nothing like regular rats.) Sitting on my horse, at this point in the Shepaug River where the clear water rushes over the rocks, something always comes over me. The coolness, the washing, rushing sound, the smell of water and fish and wet dirt and something else – loam? Silt? It all makes my head light and my muscles - even my bones - seem to go soft. Everything in me seems to dissolve into the horse and the river below and once, when a Great Blue Heron soared above us on that very spot, Mark and I both stared at it, blinking, blinking into the dazzling sun and then the sky was made blurry by my tears and I thought, there is a God. There is a God. Because the bird seemed so hulking and primitive, yet it flew. And the horse, and the river...

But the thing I love most about Steep Rock, because it thrills me, and terrifies me, is this:

The dark abyss, not my sweet daughter about to enter it. But I will blog about that another day. I'm supposed to be working on a book.

In 1871 a tunnel was blasted into a small mountain in Washington, CT, to make way for the proposed Shepaug Valley Railroad line. The engineering of the tunnel was overseen by a local explosives expert known as “Glycerin Jack.” I’m writing this in bed and so cannot start searching my house for the book that told me about Glycerin Jack, but I really should because there is another interesting fact about this important person in our town’s history. Apparently, the man passed a tapeworm that was something like thirty feet long (will fact-check length when I find the book). The local doctor kept the tapeworm in a formaldehyde solution in a jar on his desk and all the townspeople came to observe it.

Anyway, the Shepaug Valley Railroad ran from 1872 until 1948. When the train stopped running, the tracks were pulled up, but the flat, packed stonedust bed remains and there is no better place in this area to gallop a horse. The old railroad bed winds above the Shepaug River, through groves of centuries-old trees, alongside the old carriage road, and eventually, after you come around a bend, you see in the distance, this:

The first time I saw this, I was alone, on foot, and I wasn't sure what exactly I was seeing. When I got a little closer, I saw this:

And then, finally, I was confronted with this:

Every time I approach the tunnel, whether on horseback or on foot, I become a little breathless with fear. First, once you step into the beginning of the blasted out area, before you even enter the cave, the temperature drops about five degrees. And there is sudden silence. The rushing sound of the Shepaug River, which had been a constant white noise, ceases. And the striations of the rock, the way it sweeps up gives the ledge a sense of rapid, upward motion, like a great wave rising up over you. But the most unsettling thing about it - and the reason my horse always balks here - is because there is no light visible at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel curves, so it's not until you are inside that you are able to see that there's a way out. A phrase from one of my favorite poems comes to my mind whenever I see the tunnel and it is this:

At the wood’s mouth,
By the cave’s door,
I listened to something
I had heard before.

The poem is "The Lost Son" by Theodore Roethke. It's a rather long poem about nature and sexual longing and remorse and death and there's a sort of manic flight pattern and then, at the end, a stillness. The words at the end of this poem are taped above my desk now. I'm in a bit of a creative void (writer's block), and it feels like the task before me is daunting and dark and Roethke's words are meant to give me hope:

Was it light?
Was it light within?
Was it light within light?
Stillness becoming alive,
Yet still?
A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
Be still.
Wait.

People often ask me if I miss living in the city. My friends tell me they think it must get terribly depressing to be “stuck” up here in Connecticut all winter long. “Yes,” I tell them, “it’s awful. You’d hate it!” Then I receive all sorts of sympathy and attention and kindness from them, because it seems that nothing pleases people more than discovering somebody else’s regrets and I’m happy to let people savor their action-packed city life at my expense.

“We've thought about moving up there, but I think I would need more …stimulation,” people have said to me. I'm never really sure how to respond to this, but have often been tempted to say, "well, I'm a simpleton, so watching grass grow is about all the stimulation I can handle." Instead, I say, “It’s mind-numbing. Really, you’d hate it,” because the truth is, I don’t want neighbors who are running around jonesing for stimulation all the time. I like neighbors like this:

I have this little nervous condition that offers me stimulation-a-plenty, so I need neighbors like this guy, who lives down the road. He's a Scottish Highland calf. He likes to ruminate. Me too. Every day I drive past his field and sometimes I have to get out of the car for a proper visit. I have often wanted to offer him a treat, but am against feeding anything that has more than one stomach, plus I really don’t know what is safe or unsafe for cows to eat. But this handsome chap doesn’t need treats – he seems to thrive on compliments. He always wanders over to the fence and waits for me to start in with my gushing praise.

“Good God,” I always say, “you’re making me sick, you’re so cute!” and he blinks and tosses his bangs. “Okay, get in the car,” is what I want to say to him then. I want him to live in our house and sleep in our bed with us. I want to frolic with him in a meadow, then I want to curl up on the couch with him and watch an old movie.

This gorgeous redhead lives at another farm in town. She's part of a small herd of Scottish Highland Cattle at Maple Bank Farm, which has been owned by the Hurlbut family since the 1700s.

Here's a photo of their farm stand:

They sell fresh vegetables, homemade pies, yarn spun from their sheep's wool, homemade jams, flowers, plants, fresh honey, maple syrup, apples from their orchard, fresh blueberries, fresh eggs and the most delicious sweet corn on earth.

Recently, I attended a book reading and signing at our local independent bookseller, The Hickory Stick Bookshop.

Honor Moore was signing copies of her new book. The Bishop's Daughter. If you haven't read it yet, go buy it - it's my favorite memoir in years. Honor is a poet and the memoir is about her father, a famous Episcopal Bishop who had a secret life. It's beautiful and loving and riveting as all good memoirs should be. You might have read excerpt that ran in the The New Yorker a few months ago. Anyway, I can't recommend this book highly enough, so go buy it - but if you can, buy it at in independent bookseller, and here's why -

Before the reading, a bunch of us stood around mumbling about the Washington Pharmacy, which used to be across the street from the Hickory Stick, and which had suddenly closed its doors two days before, with no warning. The pharmacy had been there, under one ownership or another, for over a hundred years. It looked like this:

The pharmacist knew all of his customers by their first names. Once I needed some antibiotics but couldn't make it to the store before they closed and he left them in the mailbox for me. Now, all our prescriptions will have to be filled here:

So we were all talking sadly before Honor's reading about how a town slowly loses its character when small shops are forced out of business by the giant chain stores. And we all vowed to order our books from the Hickory Stick, where lovely Fran Keilty knows most of her customers by name. Fran keeps her charming shop stocked with all the latest great books and has wonderful author events. Everybody from Frank McCourt to Henry Kissinger to ... well...me has signed books there. Fran pointed out that it's better for towns, better for the economy and better for the environment if we all remember to support local businesses.

So, to order Honor's book - or any book - at the Hickory Stick, call: 860-868-0525.

So, I blogged a while back about a bird that had built a nest and laid her eggs in one of the hanging plants on our porch. There was a very sad story involved, unfortunately, but I am happy to report that the first of the surviving eggs hatched today. That bright red thing in the center of the nest is baby's open beak. The other eggs have yet to hatch.

Okay, just everybody relax. My camera has a very good zoom lens. I wasn't close to the nest at all. I've been trying to photograph the mother bird for days, but was unable to. Today my daughter went out and got this beautifully framed shot in one try.

I believe she is some kind of a sparrow, but if I'm wrong, feel free to correct me. We were trying to think of a name for her over dinner last night. Because of the unfortunate egg incident, names like "Dropsy" and "Butterfingers" were bandied about. There was some speculation as to whether the falling egg was an accident at all and somebody suggested "Mommy Dearest." But her nest is right outside my office window and I get to watch her every day and I can see that she's a very good mother, though I sense this might be her first brood as she has been a little overdramatic during the gestation period, checking the eggs every minute or two, frantically moving bits of nest here and there. She's a hoverer and a fretter, that's clear. I think we'll call her Jane Sparrow. Plain Jane Sparrow.

Allow me to introduce Pete. Pete lives at North Forty Farm in Roxbury, CT. He's one of those rare and wonderful dogs who can smile:

Pete's a boxer-mix. He weighs over 100 pounds. I'd estimate that fifty pounds of that is head. When you first drive up to North Forty, if Pete hasn't met you before, he will usually rise from his bed next to the riding ring and give you a few short woofs. He's an impressive looking dog, with those big jaws, and if it weren't for his slowly wagging tail and his affable smile, you might think twice about getting out of your car.

Pete's owner Mike is in the army. When he is away, as he is most of the time now, Pete lives with Mike's parents Mariann and Larry. Mariann and Larry dote on Pete, and when they're not busy grooming and cleaning and mucking and tending to all the other duties involved in running a small horse farm, they are brushing out Petey's coat or fluffing up one of his many dog beds.

The other day, Mariann told me that Mike was coming home for the weekend. Pete was lying at her feet. "Yes, Daddy's coming home," Mariann said, and Petey lifted his head and stared off down the driveway, his ears alert, his tail thumping the ground, his mouth turning up, ever so slightly, at the corners.

I have featured most of our dogs and our cat on my blog, but realize the only horse I’ve blogged about is Mark. (More on Mark here, if you're interested. And here.) We have three other horses, so today I present Snoopy.

Snoopy is a draft cross. He was born in Montana. I bought Snoopy when he was three years old, which is technically still a colt. Even at that young age I could see that Snoopy was a very laid-back individual, which was what I was looking for. I wanted a "guest horse" that anybody could sit on and go for a quiet ride without fear of getting bucked off and run away with. A "husband horse." My friend Jen found him for me.

Snoopy is what they call an “easy keeper.” When horse people say that a horse is an "easy-keeper", they are really saying that the horse is a fatty. Nervous and high-strung horses, no matter how much you feed them, tend to look too thin because they burn off the weight pacing and worrying. Snoopy doesn't have this problem.

Snoopy is a gentle giant. My daughter Devin took him to 4-H camp when she was only ten years old and he showed all the fresh ponies how to behave like a gentleman. I have hunted him, paced him, ridden mile of trails on him and Devin has shown him. Snoopy prefers Devin to all of us and he's her horse now. Today we went on a long ride along some of the beautiful country lanes in our town, Devin and Snoopy and Mark and me. Snoopy is a bit of a couch potato, he felt that the hills were a bit much for him, so he did a one-horse performance piece at the end, to demonstrate how exhausted and overworked he was. This was the finale:

"I'm dead. Are you happy now?"

Last night a beautiful moon floated above our field. It was one of those immense and luminous moons that make you draw in your breath and cry out, "look at the moon," even if you're just alone with your dogs, as I was. But when I took a photograph, it was just a regular moon.

I had forgotten that you can't photograph the moon when it's so big in the early evening, because its size is an illusion. It's called "Moon Illusion."

It's not real, but we all see it. Everything is not what it seems, it seems. It's beautiful, this moon illusion. It's strange. For some reason, it makes me a little sad. Not sure why.

It's hard to find time to mope around about the son going off to college when I have my daughter Devin and her friend Ellen keeping me busy with their elaborate schemes. Yesterday, they came up with a plan to take our three horses to Steep Rock Land Preserve for a long trail ride. The complicated part was that I only have a two horse trailer. No problem, said the girls. I could drive two horses there, they would stay with them, then I could drive back to the barn, pick up the third and bring him to Steep Rock and we'd all go for a ride. Despite the fact that this would add up to about three hours of horse hauling for me, I agreed, as the girls and I are riding in the Bedford Hunter Pace this weekend and I wanted to see how the horses would behave trotting and cantering together in a group. Besides, how can you turn down a pair like these two?

Or, for that matter, these two:

So we eventually got all three horses transported and we rode the beautiful trails of Steep Rock, which look like this:

Trotting through the pine groves, splashing in the river and climbing the hills of Steep Rock on horseback, accompanied by two of my favorite people on earth, was such a restorative and, I hesitate to say it - it's so cliche - but really a spiritual experience. Before I disengaged the "Google Alert" on my computer, I used to be able to see every nice and nasty thing anybody said about me, anywhere, on the web. One blogger said that, in addition to other despicable things about my personality, I have a blog in which I brag about what a great life I have, which made me wonder if that's how I come across. But I do have a great life, and it wasn't always so great, and I'm prone to depression which sometimes makes it hard for me to see all the goodness around me, so it helps to write about the good stuff. There's so much.

I'm grateful. I'm .... again, sounds trite... incredibly blessed.

We're having such a beautiful fall in New England. The trees have never been more brilliant, everybody around here agrees. Was planning to go out and take some photos for my blog but realize that nobody wants to see another foliage shot. So I decided, instead to post John Keats', Ode to Autumn, which I learned recently was the last poem he ever wrote. It's a beautiful poem, and maybe because when I read it this time, knowing he was soon to die, it seemed to be a little sad and foreboding. There's all this abundance and ripe beauty, but the gathering swallows give me a chill.

We have had such wicked wildness these past few nights from our neighboring coyotes. The screeching and howling and yipping have driven my dogs nearly out of their minds. They're out there now barking into the woods. Our dogs have an underground electric fence and the coyotes know exactly where the boundaries are and pace and sometimes sit just out of reach which makes the dogs insane with rage. I've seen this. Of course the elf is confined to a small fenced in area next to the house. The coyotes know she's there and would gobble her up in an instant if they could. I love the sounds of the coyotes at night, Denis, the kids and I all do. It's just so primitive and we love the way that one will start up with a thin wail and then what sounds like hundreds of others join in. And then they will carry on with all sorts of playful yips and yikes.

I found this great coyote soundboard online. Here's what they sound like, except, often it sounds like they're right under our window. Click on "Coyote Group" that's what was going on last night, times 10.

Sometimes you just hear one vocalizing and it sounds like #3. I always imagine a Salem puritan hearing this noise and imagine it's Goody Whatsherface from the neighboring farm, having a bit of mischief. It's no wonder Halloween is in autumn. It's so spooky in the country this time of year. Last fall, I took my horse to Steep Rock every day that it didn't rain and the way the light changes so suddenly and the wind whips things out of nowhere had my horse and me both a little spooked, and we also kind of thrilled at the spookiness. And we kept coming across odd characters. With the leaves off the trees, everything sounds different and the river is high in the fall and sometimes you imagine you hear somebody right behind you, but when you turn, nobody's there. Real "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" stuff. I love it.

So here's Keats' poem, Ode to Autumn:

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Heather, a regular blog reader, said that she'd like to hear more spooky stories about our house and places where I ride. So today I will share something that happened to me last fall around this time. I was riding at Steep Rock every day because I was keeping a journal for a book that I am now working on. Every day after I rode, I would load my horse Mark into his trailer, and then I would sit for a few moments in the truck and write notes about who and what I saw. I was basically just trying to keep track of the season - when the leaves usually start to change color, etc. I have blogged about Steep Rock already a few times.

Anyway, a few words about Mark, about whom I have also blogged. Mark is not really a horse. We're not sure what he is but sometimes we think he might be part dog. Often, because he and I share so many character traits, I think he might possess a human soul, somehow, and that we are soulmates. Like me, he is sometimes funny on purpose, but more often it is by accident. He is vain, yet insecure. He is full of bravado but is a complete coward at heart. He loves attention, but is not sure why. Basically, he is an egomaniac with an inferiority complex - just like me!

Anyway, the above photo always makes me laugh. It was taken a few years ago during a shoot for Instyle Magazine. They wanted us to stand in front of the house and we stood down in a field where we sometimes let the horses graze. Well, the horses were out but they were panicked by the cameras and crew and had galloped up to the barn. All, that is, except for Mark. Mark, somehow, had an intuitive understanding that something very important was going on. He wanted to be part of the magic, the delicious limelight, but he didn't want to be too obvious about it. He didn't want anyone to think he really cared about whether he was in a silly magazine or not. So he casually grazed his way over to where we were standing. He would take a few bites of grass, then take few steps closer. A few bites, a few steps, until finally, he was standing right behind us. Then, he proceeded to strike what he seemed to think were very regal poses. You can see he has no halter or lead - it was all his idea. In shot after shot he stood with his attempt at a noble gaze. That's another thing about Mark. He is under the impression that he is a very, very handsome horse. Anyway, he did grace the front page of the magazine spread. Those photos are always so funny, because they try to make it look so candid. As if Denis and I are in the habit of standing around leaning on our horses and gazing lovingly at each other. Okay, well, now I've rambled on so long that I don't have time to tell a spooky story. Tune in tomorrow!

Okay, as I started to explain in my previous blog, I often ride my horse Mark in a local land preserve called Steep Rock. For more on Steep Rock, just look at the right hand side of this page and under "Categories" click on "Steep Rock Diaries". Not everything there is about Steep Rock, but it's all about local stuff.

Anyway, one of my posts was about the tunnel in Steep Rock, which was blasted out of a small mountain so that a train could pass through, many years ago. The train has long since stopped running and there is a great riding trail where the tracks used to be, and you can ride through the tunnel or not, because there are plenty of other trails to ride. I usually choose not to ride through the tunnel, as I'm claustrophobic and it's really scary to me. This is what it looks like from a distance.

The picture above was taken on a beautiful spring day. It's spookier on a gray, cold fall day like the one I am about to descibe. This is the entrance to the tunnel:

When I took that photo, there was nobody around, but later, when I loaded the pictures onto the computer, that ghostly human figure with the small animal was in the shot!

Just kidding. That's my daughter and the elf about to enter the tunnel.

Okay, but seriously, what I am about to tell you DID really happen. Let me just preface this by saying that I live in a very small community and like to think I know most people, and am especially aware of the odd or unusual ones. Last fall, I tried to ride in Steep Rock every day and I came to know, at least by sight, all the "regulars" who routinely walked their dogs or hiked or rode on the trails.

So it was a weekday morning, and I loaded Mark in his trailer and hauled him off to Steep Rock. Normally, in the fall, there are at least one or two other horse trailers in the parking area, but that day there were none. There were actually no cars either. It was a gloomy, cold day that threatened rain, so that is probably why.

I unloaded Mark, mounted and we set off down the trail. Usually, Mark strides out with great confidence on the trail but that day he was nervous and actually attempted to turn back towards the trailer a few times. Everything looked different - we had had a windy night and a lot of the trees were bare and the lighting was different. Horses really notice stuff like that. There was not a soul on the trails. Once we reached the old railroad bed, I asked Mark to canter a little and was almost unseated when a plastic bag flew up in front of us, causing Mark to leap to one side and spin back towards the trailer again.

Anyway, finally we arrived at the tunnel and for some reason I decided we would go through. We had done it before, but always with other horses and riders. I just thought we'd go through the tunnel and then ride back and call it a day. When we arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, Mark balked. He refused to go in. Mark actually shakes when he's afraid, shakes and grinds his teeth, which often makes me shake and grind my teeth. But that day I was determined to exude calm, assertive energy. I clucked and urged him forward with little kicks, but he wasn't going in. So I dismounted and led him through, and once we were inside, all the calm assertive energy was sucked right out of me. We walked along, Mark and I, both literally quaking with fear. Mark seemed to think that the only safe spot to place each foot was exactly where I was placing mine, so he managed to step on my feet several times, causing me to curse and swat at him, which, of course made him more anxious and determined to cling to me for safety. Actually, it seemed like he thought it would be best if I carried him. At one point I panicked at the idea that it was so dark I couldn’t see my horse’s head and then realized that I was looking up into the brim of my helmet. Finally, we reached the other side. I mounted, we rode a little further, and then we rode back through the tunnel. I stayed on this time, knowing Mark wouldn't refuse to walk through the tunnel heading back to the trailer. But Mark wanted to bolt through and it took all my strength to keep him at a frantic jog. We reached the other side but on the whole ride back, we were both so unnerved by the tunnel and the stillness in the woods, that we kept spooking each other.. I heard a branch break and held my breath for a moment, which caused Mark to stop dead in his tracks and shake, which caused me to sweat, which caused him to jig frantically. Mark had it in his mind that the best thing to do would be to gallop at breakneck speed back to where the trailer was parked and I had to really work at keeping him at a wildly jigging prance.

FINALLY, we arrived back at the trailer, both of us drenched in sweat, despite the 50 degree temp, and there were still no cars. Just our trailer, but as I loaded Mark I saw an old man off in the distance with two fat Labrador Retrievers walking lazily along next to him off leash. He seemed to be looking at us so I shouted hello but he just stared at me. I figured he couldn’t hear me because, like I said, he was old, and pretty far away.

I loaded Mark, and fussed around in the trailer. When I was finished, I jumped down out of the trailer and almost screamed when I found myself TWO INCHES from the man I had just seen off in the distance. We were face to face and he was staring eerily off into the space above my head with two bright, bright red eyes caked with crust.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said in a deep, formal tone, his eyes now scanning the tops of their sockets, “but I can’t see you. I’m having problems with my vision.”

I stammered something like, “What, really? Something wrong with your eyes?"

His eyes were so inflamed, I'm not kidding, they were like embers. His skin was dreadfully white. He was about 6’4 and was very thin, but he wore the ageless, timeless uniform of the preppy. He wore a crisp pair of khakis, and crew-neck Brooks Brother's sweater and those docksider shoes with no socks. His labradors, two fat, amiable gals, one chocolate, the other yellow, swished past me, tails sweeping the air slowly, noses to the ground.

“I wanted to thank you for greeting us so cordially,” the man continued. His speech had the tone and affect of an old-fashioned theatrical actor. “Many people aren’t very welcoming to dogs here.”

It’s true that many people freak about unleashed dogs at Steep Rock, so I said, "I know, but horse people usually like dogs, don't you find?" Suddenly I wondered if he even knew that I had a horse with me. The smell of fresh manure wafted from behind us and I wondered if he thought the smell was coming from me.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I find that horse people usually take the most objection. So I thank you.”

Then, he actually bowed his head to me! I told him that he was quite welcome and then scuttled off into my truck and drove off as fast as I could. I told many people about the man, and nobody in town seemed to have ever encountered him. The man was COMPLETELY blind. He didn't really know where I was when he was talking to me, yet he managed to walk to (and presumably from) Steep Rock without a cane. And those portly labs were no seeing eye dogs.

Okay, now reading back over this, I feel that I built the story up too much and it's not really THAT scary. But later that day I reread "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," which I remembered involved a man on horseback on a dark, scary autumn road, who was trying not to let his fearful imagination get the better of him. So this is my "Legend of Steep Rock" story. I hope you'll be able to sleep tonight!