One afternoon, four or five miles into a hike through Jackson State Forest, I cross an isolated county road and then come to Big River, which threads all through this part of the northern coastal range before spilling to the estuary at Big River Beach, just south of the village. The streambed is narrow and shallow, lined with mossy stones. I have a spool of lightweight line and a few fly hooks with me, and try catching one of the pale trout flicking in and out of the shadows. But they’re too cautious, and soon I’m too hot. I give up, strip to my underwear, and wade into the pool. Above, through canted light, molecules of pine dust swirl like gold mist. The water plays over my skin like cool silk ribbons. I feel my heartbeat slow. This. This is what Hap meant by medicine.

On the way back, I head straight over the ridgeline, mostly for the effort of doing it. The terrain grows so steep in places I have to drop and scramble along on my hands and knees, through gray lichen and bracken and humus, my breath coming fast and sharp, my face filmed with pine dust and phosphorescent pollen.

At the top of the ridge, I stop for water, feeling winded and exhilarated. A hemlock has fallen up here and looks like a slain giant, its trunk like wet black sponge. Where the root ball has pulled up violently, I see three long scrapes in the earth and a length of animal scat that might be from a mountain lion. When I bend for a closer look, something flickers in my periphery, not an animal, but a solid form. Shelter.

Though the sun has begun to drop and a chill has settled between my shoulder blades, I plunge down the hill anyway, too curious not to take a closer look. I have to lean back on my heels to keep my balance on the decline. The soil is thin and full of deadfall. Dry bracken stings my hands and slaps at my jeans, but finally I reach the small compound. Someone’s set up a hunting site like you’d see in a wilderness guide, propping a six-foot lean-to pole against a stripped Douglas fir, and then threading it with wire loop snares at intervals. It must be working. Around the base of the fir, pine-cone scales and other ground cover show trampling, the effort spent resetting the snares again and again. This is an effective kill site, elegant even. Whoever built it knows exactly what they’re doing and is eating very, very well.