I. THE HORSE SWAMP
Under the cypress trees, I sit on the remains of an ancient beaver dam, mossy and moldering. My son, Jack, sits on a fallen log. It’s an arrangement we’ve settled into over dozens of duck hunts here. We are far enough apart that we can each safely swing a shotgun, but close enough that I can hand him a venison tenderloin biscuit without making much movement. And we’re close enough to carry on a conversation.
That has turned out to be the most important reason I lease the Horse Swamp. The duck action is irregular here—heck, it can be largely absent—but the gorgeous old beaver pond is just far enough of a drive from the house to make us feel like we’re getting away. We know every stump and creek channel. We have hunkered down under those cypresses and talked our way through Jack’s middle school social angst, high school girlfriends, and college application essays, and most recently, how to navigate his new job and new life in a distant city. We have killed ducks and geese, to be sure. But what we remember most clearly, and why we return so often, is how the Horse Swamp seems to be a place that leads to deep thinking.
