A pile of wood and an aging wheelbarrow sat along the western outside wall. A basic Coleman grill—the kind you see on a thousand porches—leaned against the firewood. A massive aspen tree towered over the eastern side of the shack, its branches splaying in all directions. It was one of the most impressive aspen Matt had seen, and he’d seen quite a few. Its white bark was smooth and matte. The leaves looked like jumbo silver dollars. On windy days the leaves fluttered and sang like a balsa wood chime.

Behind the shack to the north was the widest part of the orchard. The apple trees no longer produced sweet apples. Instead they delivered tart little monsters that made your mouth pucker. Eventually this part of the orchard joined the encompassing forest, rising to greet it to the north. The shack’s west side was also orchard, rolling out into open high ground. A short path led from the shack uphill towards the property high point. A single wooden leaning post marked the top of the high point, nothing more than two posts and a horizontal piece of wood connecting them. The leaning post stood as a symbol from a time long ago when the property was an active apple orchard and farm. It had been a hitching post, but now was a place to put beer, cigarettes, whiskey bottles, and lighters. Next to the post, embedded into charred soil was a fire pit. The view from here was one of the best in the U.P., and that was no exaggeration.

Matt loved it, always had. The Midwest wasn’t known for rugged, scenic views, but this was an exception. Everyone who first glimpsed this spot seemed to be in a trance. From this vantage point one could gaze across miles of seamless hardwood forest to the south. The forest stretched on until it piled against the ancient Huron Mountains, like someone had bunched up a vibrant rug. The Hurons, rising like a sleeping giant in broken granite ridges, dominated the horizon.

To the west of the high point, the orchard dipped into lowlands, and eventually Twenty Mile Bog, one of the most inaccessible locations in all the Northwoods. The trees deep in the bog had never met the axe. Twenty Mile had always been a source of strange noises. Moose and bear could be heard huffing and snapping branches. Fishers darted around the bog, using the dead fall as forest highways. Bobcats found the orchard and bog edges to be prime hunting grounds, often stalking numerous grouse that used the tall grass to hide. The rare goshawk nested high in older bog trees, hunting along the orchard edges, surprising rabbits and grouse with ambush tactics.