A sighting, speculation and a rumor: that’s all I’ve got. Guess it’ll have to do.

First the sighting — two deer, likely does, one larger than the other. I spotted them after 7 Saturday morning. They were feeding in the fresh green stubble of a spring straw field as I took a hard right toward the gate to Sunken Meadow. There they stood like statues, gray-brown in the pale morning light, frozen and totally alert to my presence. When I pulled up short of the gate, grabbed the key and exited the vehicle, the deer bounded off toward the tree line, white tails pointing to the heavens, a pretty sight.

Hmmm? Interesting. Couldn’t imagine they weren’t the same deer I had watched there all through the summer and fall last year. Problem was there had been three of them, a doe and twin fawns, which I watched catch up in size to their mother as the year progressed. Maybe someone had killed the other fawn, I thought, in the road or hunting. Or maybe it was there but off to the side along the tree line and I just didn’t see it. Doubtful. I thought there were only two.

Anyway, I moved along, driving my truck down into the lower level, letting Buddy out and taking my regular route, not really giving much further thought to the deer. Yeah, of course I looked up along the wooded lip several times as I walked the first leg of my trek, just trying to pick them out standing motionless and observing us, but no luck. If they were there, I didn’t see them. But the story got far more interesting after I returned home and went to the roadside mailbox an hour or two later.

As I walked to fetch the mail, my neighbor called my name from across the road. She was walking toward me and obviously wanted to talk. So I crossed the road and she told me about carnage in the neighborhood, an overnight coyote deer-kill in a backyard of a cluster of homes. The wife of a cop, I trusted her information, still do.

“The animal-control officer got a call and investigated,” she said. “He arrived on the scene and found the doe torn to shreds with an unborn fawn pretty much intact.”

Apparently, the homeowners heard something going on but couldn’t see what had happened until daybreak. Then they saw the dead deer lying near their house, the yard bordered on the north by a wetland hollow. My neighbor didn’t like what she had heard, was concerned about her dogs, her horse. “Have you seen coyotes in your yard?” she asked.No. I had never seen a coyote on my property but my son once had, five or six of them by the flower bed in the full midnight moonlight. He was concerned about his favorite tiger cat, Big Boy, who survived that late-night canine visit. Furthermore, I knew of no coyote problems around my neighbor’s hen house, which is surprising, given the amount of close coyote talk I routinely hear around my place year around. “They’re pretty elusive,” I told her, “very good at lurking along the edges and staying out of sight.”

Curious, I tried to track down further information about the incident but came up empty. So I cannot claim to have every detail precisely as it happened. I tried, making several fruitless trips to the home where the kill reportedly occurred, but couldn’t get an answer to the doorbell with many cars in the yard. Then, after learning the homeowners’ names, I left a phone message and  killed time reading a field guide to ferns, portable phone within reach. No return call. Determined to get the story, I called the number twice from work and got the answering machine. Must have had caller ID. Apparently the people didn’t want any publicity. I wouldn’t have used their names or address if they didn’t want me to. It’s easy to get around superfluous details like that with a story like this. It’s the tale that’s relevant, not necessarily names and addresses. To say it happened in the Greenfield Meadows would have been good enough for me. Oh well. You’ll just have to take it for what it is: a story based on fact that is generally accurate.

Of course, the same could be said of my speculation that the dead doe was the missing twin from my Saturday sighting. There’s no way of knowing that, either. I can’t even say those deer were the ones I knew. Still, given what I later learned and the way the scenario developed, my hunch is that those were the same deer minus a pre-dawn coyote-kill. At least it makes a lot of sense to me.

Imagine that. No snow or cold or injury to weaken the deer; just a pregnant doe in her vulnerable last trimester, and still no match for a coyote pack. Who knows? Maybe that doe was carrying twin fawns and there was only one left. Stuffed from a tasty meal, the coyotes probably intended to return for fetid fetus cutlets.

Overnight rain had a remarkable effect on my yard Wednesday, lifting my spirits on a gray, dreary April morning. Spring can do that to a man, even one t’other side of his peak.

What immediately drew my attention on the way out to the kennel was a lilac bush along the western perimeter of my property. Barren with no hint of green Tuesday — bingo! — it was sporting vivacious, quarter-inch, green buds Wednesday. No exaggeration! Overnight. No sun. Chalk it up to the power of spring rain: lawn greening as though a watercolorist perched on a maple bough mischievously splashed blotches here and there with a flick of his saturated brush; bright yellow daffodils against the house drooping, fists clenched, a day after standing straight as a preacher in bright sun. I can only hope their lethargy had nothing to do with poison Fukushima rain. What a dreadful disaster, one we’re hearing not nearly enough about. Loony Charlie Sheen and Sarah Palin are much more important, right? So are tightwads John Boehner and Eric Cantor, gleaming their pompous air of self-importance and deceit. Then, even when the news does bemoan those haywire Japanese reactors, it’s played up as nothing to worry about. They’d have you believe last week’s three-million-gallon Pacific dump was no worse than a drunken hiker emptying his bladder into a Quabbin feeder stream. Don’t buy it. It’s misinformation aimed at the ignorant. Cheap “news.”

But let us not digress … as my flowers bloom and bushes bud, backyard Hinsdale Brook is roaring with youthful enthusiasm, and so is the swollen Green River it feeds a short bit downstream. Speaking of which, you should have heard the peepers in riverside Sunken Meadow Monday afternoon. The sound was new, overwhelming and encompassing, like you were trapped in a small, breathless chamber with billions of the chirpy little buggers belching. I took a quick ramble down there with the dogs Wednesday morning and not a peep. What a difference a day or two makes. It was still warm but soggy, a steady rain falling. I stayed just long enough to stretch my legs, wet my shoulders and observe the surging river — Tiger Lily plump with pups, due anytime, waddling along; Buddy sprinting, leaping, hopelessly infected with joie de vivre. I think Lily will have a big litter. Fun. Perfect time of year for puppies.

Honestly, I didn’t know young Buddy had it in him, the rascal. Hey, sometimes a young lad can surprise you. Well, I guess those ladies I hear pitching their cougarlife.com website late nights between sports talk on WFAN-New York wouldn’t be surprised. They have faith in young pups. We’re not talking here about those extinct Eastern cougars. No sir. These radio cougars appear to be thriving in Eastern metropolitan areas; same ferocious growl, gentler bite.

Ooops! That email I’ve been awaiting finally arrived. I just heard the beep. Back to the task at hand, that of trout stocking and tidbits. Then back to the parlor La-Z-Boy, where I’ll raise the footrest high, flip off my Birkenstocks and resume a captivating study of American novelist Henry Miller; he and Anais Nin, their twisted, tangled labyrinth of lies and secrets. Or was it a nest? Doesn’t matter. Fact is they were fascinating artists — blasphemous, erotic sinners whose books were for many years banned in this country and England. Imagine that! George Orwell called Miller the only living writer of the English language worth reading, and his books were banned where English is spoken. What makes Miller and Nin even more interesting from my perspective is their connection to a Whately man I once knew from afar. Question is, why did it take me so long to discover these literary icons?

Well, I guess if you’re inquisitive and open-minded, you’ll find important stuff sooner or later, even if you were a rebel who dismissed school as a waste of time when you could have been spoon-fed by some droning, upright pedant, just another 200-pound sleeping pill so common in education.

I guess I didn’t miss much. I have always found it more meaningful to solve my own mysteries.

Enough!

When Bill Hubbard died last week at 91, the Pioneer Valley lost its dean of antique dealers. With his passing went a moving, breathing repository of knowledge to which I once had privileged access. I usually took his advice as gospel, and on the rare occasion I strayed — once — I got scalded. Lesson learned. Bill knew antiques and those who peddled them.

My first memory of Bill, known to his closest friends and wife Eleanor as “Hub,” is a lean, tallish, balding and bespectacled man with a professorial air about him, the father of my best friend, from Sunderland. I was in the fifth grade and had met this friend, the late Jon Hubbard, playing baseball. We became instant pals and swapped sleepover weekends at each other’s homes through junior high school, wearing a deep bicycle path between South Deerfield and Sunderland.

I didn’t know it then but Bill, his classic home and its Americana planted a seed in fertile loam blanketing my bedrock; gray, cranial matter in which it would eventually sprout, take root and bear tasty fruit. It was Bill who showed me what it meant to be a New Englander with deep Connecticut Valley roots. The decorating style he introduced to me was at first, in my wayward, distracted youth, ignored, then chased with hungry passion as an adult collector and hunter. Fact is I’m still collecting. Always will. Not to mention reading and exploring. All because of what I observed around that Hubbard homestead.

At the beginning, I recall the shop, the office, the barn and the customers. Then there was hired hand Dave Pinardi from North Amherst, a pleasant North Amherst chap who reminded me a lot of my artist Uncle Ray and repaired furniture and picture frames and whatever between visits from customers; also everyone’s favorite insurance man, Billy Burns, then a recent Deerfield grad performing odd jobs around the place, taking us to his city-league ballgames at night. That was before Bill had opened his auction gallery, and his shop drew an eclectic, distinguished crowd: from tall Amherst tycoon Walter Jones in that big Stetson hat (I think it was a Stetson) and devilish grin, to flamboyant Poet Laureate Archibald Macleish in one of his flashy tartan kilts, to the first openly gay couple I ever laid eyes upon, New Yorkers to whom I later made a few weekend antique deliveries to their secluded Ashfield country home. My introduction to these alternative types taught me at a young and impressionable age that just because someone is “different” doesn’t mean they’re weird or dangerous. I found the two men to be bright, articulate, genial and generous, also interesting, and I will always entertain fond memories of them and their warm demeanor.

After he had opened the North Amherst auction gallery that made him a small fortune, I vividly recall the time Bill came upstairs early one morning, woke Jon and me and asked us if we wanted to take a ride and make a few bucks. We popped out of bed, threw on our clothes and accompanied his crew — two vans and a U-Haul truck as I recall — to the picturesque western corridor of Connecticut, where we cleaned out a colonial hilltown mansion from cellar to attic, a fascinating treasure hunt I will never forget. I once even worked as a runner at his auction but regretfully didn’t stick with it. By then I had discovered other enticing interests and couldn’t get far enough away from adult supervision. But I came back to Bill as an adult and built a new friendship I cherished. He had a classy, venerable way about him and taught me things I will never forget, may someday even share with my son and grandsons if ever they become interested in arts and antiques and the hands that crafted them.

I visited Bill at the first nursing home he entered in Hadley several years ago, then saw him often at Charlene Manor, right down the road from me. But I never did get to the Holyoke Soldiers Home he died at. It was faraway and too difficult. Every time I walk into one of those places I remember my late grandmother, the one who bailed me out of many jams, begging me, tears flowing, to take her home. It left a permanent scar. Have I a choice, no one will ever get me into one of those places. Sadly, sometimes there is no choice.

I miss talking to Bill at his museum-quality antique home. We’d sit there in matching La-Z-Boys talking about this and that, maybe even gossiping a bit — that rare, diminutive Deerfield tap table between us, carved shore birds and books behind him, Miss Childs’ handsome, Federal, tiger-maple desk and bookcase from Conway facing us, its ancient lacquered patina gleaming like a harbor beacon. I loved to pick Bill’s brain and feel fortunate that he welcomed my queries. Life is all about the interesting people you meet. I have met many. Bill was one. Hopefully, there will be many more.

I’m sure I will often think of Bill Hubbard before I join him among the departed; I already do. It was he who placed a precious Sanderson family tall chest in my home, and it was he who warned against buying that four-drawer chest I overpaid for. His spirit lives in both bureaus, and it’ll soon inhabit a special riverside burial ground I never tire of visiting.

Bill and I were brothers of sorts, our deepest roots crossing in many places, some bright, some dark, all sacred. We were kindred valley spirits and damn proud of it.

You never know where a brief walk with the dogs will take you.

I finally found my way back to Sunken Meadow late last week for my first visit of the New Year. The field is wide open, minus a slim cuff of granular corn-snow along the southern edge, where the sun is obstructed in the partial shadows of naked wetland cover and tall, bare hardwoods along a bordering, 15-foot-high lip. I’ve taken the short trip there twice daily ever since and have enjoying every second, so peaceful and private.

My springer spaniels also love the small, secluded riverside depression, romping to a joyous songbird symphony through rows of Christmas trees and a thin bordering wetland — mostly sumac, its pale red fruit scattered along the edge, also alders and wild rose, no sign of cattail patches that were obvious last fall. Where they went, I do not know, perhaps flattened by snowstorms. The dogs, bred for high energy and endurance, stay very busy, noses high and alert, investigating every scent, splashing through large, steel-blue puddles, the brushy edges soon to be mallard nesting grounds. Who knows? Maybe wood and black ducks as well.

Lily, six weeks pregnant and showing, has slowed a tiny bit but displays no sign of that tell-tale waddle, the excess girth not dampening her spirit one iota until it’s time to head home. Then she stands below the tailgate and gets psyched for the leap before adorably wiggling her flank and jumping up, no problem once she puts her mind to it.

The rows of Christmas trees — infant, mature and in-between, some flagged — stand out against the drab, March-brown field. Upon close inspection, there are fresh, red, root-like sprouts clinging to the frozen turf here and there, soon to be rich, green growth that’ll need chopping or mowing, maybe even uprooting at some point. A tall, broad pignut hickory dominates the meadow north of center, towering over a shorter mature tree some 100 feet west, maybe half its height and gnarly. I still haven’t identified that tree but noticed for the first time this week that it once had a larger twin. The stubby tree that’s still standing is connected along the ground to rotten bowl-like remains of its thicker, vanished twin, which must have fallen years ago. Soon I will bring along “Sibley’s Guide to Trees,” an illustrated bible of trees and their identifiable parts by Concord author/artist David Allen Sibley, better known for his bird books. Maybe I’ll have a positive identification before the leaves pop. Then again, maybe not. But who cares? There’s no rush. That tree is not nearly as regal as the mature hickory, aristocratic in every sense as it towers over the meadow like a presidential monument.

Monday was the first day I walked to the water’s edge and focused on the Green River, running about perfect for wader-fishing. The water is deep and cold enough to hold feeding trout just about anywhere. Problem is that there are probably few trout left this time of year, with the water just right. When the state liberally stocks the pretty stream in the weeks to come, most of those fish will be quickly hooked where they are dumped by a parade of truck-followers. Then, when the water drops to its summer level, the few fish that survive will have limited refuge. That’s always been the problem on Green River: It’s too shallow to fish in most places during the summer. By then, whatever trout are left retreat to the deepest pools, which are few, easy to fish and thus quickly fished out. Probably a man with patience and determination could find a few holdovers this time of year, but likely not enough to make the effort worthwhile. Sad but true. Yes, the Green is now just another put-and-take stream.

As I stood and watched the swollen river flow strong and green, faraway whitewater flashing in the sunlight above and below me, for some reason I reminisced back to the last time I had stood in riverside observation back in December. That day I was standing on the upper plateau looking far down a steep bank to a ruffled section of flat water disturbed by a brisk, cold, north wind. It was just before Christmas and the bitter wind was penetrating my Polarfleece jacket, creating an uncomfortable chill as the dogs scurried about free, easy and unaffected. On the water were two beautiful mergansers or redheads, both males, seemingly enjoying the afternoon. I remember watching them and wondering why in God’s name free migratory creatures like them would choose to stay so far north when they could be swimming in southern climes. I guess for the same reason a man remains in an dead-end job, a woman in an abusive relationship for a lifetime. It’s what they know. Change can be disruptive. What is it they say? That familiarity breeds contentment? Something like that. But you can’t convince me those ducks would not have been better off in Maryland, Virginia, the Carolinas or even south Jersey, for that matter. But no. There they were, totally content in frigid New England winds. Who am I to judge? They looked perfectly happy. To each its own, I guess.

When you look at Green River this time of the year, you totally understand that it came by its name due to its greenish hue. Called Pocommeagon by the Natives, then Green River by colonial settlers, the river runs a grayish-green this time of year and after hard summer rains; likewise the tributary Hinsdale Brook, centerline of which establishes the northern boundary of my Greenfield home lot. The green tint of that backyard stream comes from clay banks a mile upstream, where powdery gray silt is washed into the flow. That type of clay must be prevalent throughout the Green River drainage.

Although I cannot be certain, I must assume from what I’ve read that the Native name also meant Green River and the English settlers adopted it in their own tongue. As for the spelling, well, because the Natives had no written language, their words have always been spelled phonetically and, I might add, inconsistently. Deerfield historian George Sheldon spelled the Native version of Green River the way it’s shown above, while Greenfield historian Francis M. Thompson spelled it Picomegan, and a more-contemporary report published by the Massachusetts Historical Commission spells it Pocommegan. Take your pick. I guess there is no right or wrong. Although I prefer the look and sound of Thompson’s word, I’d probably lean toward the state spelling for the sake of consistency. Problem is that I seldom publish the Native name and will thus probably have to look it up again the next time I do. I’ll likely then go through this whole footnote issue another time. Oh well, such are the drawbacks of writing a weekly column, far from unbearable.

And to think this all began with a refreshing morning walk through Sunken Meadow. God, I love a walk; sets the blood, the brain aflow.

What for a man to do? It’s mid March, cabin fever fading, that of spring ascending like sweet sap from deep-seated roots, yet winter still, snow too deep to drive or even park off-road, comfortable walking for snowshoers and snowmobile-trail hikers only. Soon, annoying mud will appear. But I guess we all have our ways of getting through it and staying content.

Me, well, I’m on my usual late-winter reading spree. You never know where these indoor diversions can lead, but for me usually to history, literature, politics or all of the above, most often the latter. Must be in my blood or core. Yes, idle time can be a treble-hook that snags and drags you through some wild, thought-provoking places, swallowing you to your chin in exploratory quicksand before you can escape. This winter, I’ve kept busy reading Hamsun and Didion and McPhee, a little Updike, some Kropotkin, Tolstoy and Goldman, then Orwell, of course. Seems I always come back to Orwell, that visionary British “New Journalist,” cutting edge.

Before someone suggests involuntary 30-day observation at the local loony bin, let me assure you I also read mainstream stuff, such as the biographies of Mantle, Koufax and Stengel. Could I get anymore mainstream than that? American heroes, no less. So, see, no need to worry. I still have both oars in the water. But then came the kicker: a biography of rebel American (or is it un-American) journalist I.F. Stone, to whose bi-weekly newsletter I was introduced as a boy by a man living in a radical little village tucked into southwestern Franklin County’s hills. Must be something in the water up there, because that pretty little slice of upland paradise had similar political leanings during Daniel Shays’ day.

I remember way back when being swept away by Izzy Stone’s courage to report truth when others in the media ignored it, printing instead government lies as unchallenged gospel. So, when I found Myra MacPherson’s 2006 biography cheap, in paperback from discount Daedalus Books, I snapped it up and couldn’t put it down. In fact, the book so captivated me that I told a couple of colleagues it should be required reading for all J-schools. We then revisited the subject after deadline and wandered to a place called Poplar Hill, where a “leftist” publisher once resided. As I dredged for memories of the man and tried to describe his literary journal, I realized that, despite having read his wife’s autobiography nearly 20 years ago, I knew little about the quarterly publication. So off I went … way off the beaten path, in fact, on a little discovery mission.

Cursory investigation (Isn’t Google great?) brought me to familiar names like Henry Miller, Anais Nin and D.H. Lawrence, all naughty artists who were banned in Boston and everywhere else in the country during the Depression era. Not surprisingly, all of their bylines appeared in the late Poplar Hill editor’s short-lived, later reincarnated journal, Lawrence’s stuff appearing posthumously in the late 1930’s when our publisher was living in Woodstock, N.Y. Our man and the mostly American authors and poets only he dared to publish were called “bohemian” and “expatriate,” both pejorative among the Windsor-knot, meetinghouse gang. No wonder that fiery little man with the trademark Navy-blue beret so intrigued me as a bright-eyed, impressionable teen observing him, his retinue and their philosophical shtick from afar. I remember the man as spirited, bright and articulate, talking, maybe even arguing about pacifism or protest or government lies when they were fashionabe subjects.

Over the years since, I have often viewed from faraway his classic, Federal, New England home — multi-paned rooftop cupola gleaming in the morning sun — while seated against a massive red pine, shotgun across my lap, hunting deer or turkeys. Sitting quietly there, my mind wanders back to my adolescence, when students and professors and gadflies like Stone and that irascible Whately publisher were peacefully protesting in the streets, raising a ruckus at town meetings or wherever they pleased.

That was long ago. The good old days to some, me included. I do not believe I will experience another American political climate like it. Preventative measures are now in place, Big Brother watching from traffic lights, rooflines and stylish street lamps.

Where are Izzy Stone and Jimmy Cooney when we need them? That’s the question I find myself asking these days, with our Gulf ecosystem poisoned as radiation hemorrhages into the Far Eastern sea and sky? Thankfully, I was around to meet these men before dissent was squashed and thought-police reigned.

Those men from my past taught me that “alternative” is not always undesirable, no matter what Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck and the WEEI morning boys would have you believe.

The roars of March, brought by our first hard rains in months, emanated from my backyard early this week — one a constant, soothing roar, the other sudden, violent and threatening, like a bear trying to chase off Old Man Winter; one welcoming spring, the other expelling winter.

The continuous roar was the brook that has lain dormant since December, always flowing gently under ice and two feet of insulating snow which prevented it from freezing. Even during frigid days and sub-zero nights, never once did the steady flow stop as it did last snow-starved winter. I remember marveling several times this year at the stream’s determined flow through deep, sporadic openings, riffles visible, rattle clear, like dogged passion that could not be killed or restrained. By Monday afternoon, the stream had swelled, turned brown and carved open a continuous, central, snake-like channel sluicing through the icy constriction. I knew the surface would soon be consumed and washed away in big, dangerous chunks, widening the stream out to its banks. And sure enough, upon returning from work at midnight, I could hear that first, unmistakable, cold, dark purr of March, the sound of spring purging winter with a calming fury. Again, like untamed passion, it’s wise to stand back and observe from above, afar. Even a experienced whitewater man riding the torrent for the joy of it could be decapitated by an overhanging branch or vine, maybe dumped, washed away and snagged in a morbid tangle among hidden, undercut roots and debris. Only fools take lightly nature’s overwhelming power.

The quick, thunderous, bear’s roar came from a closer source; it was a slate-roof avalanche tobogganing the final, stubborn pile of shaded snow off the north woodshed ell and crashing it into the wall of a stubby kitchen wart across the slim, square alcove. I jumped up to see if there was damage. No. Everything fine. The resulting snow pile stood high above the windows at its peak, had filled the space with chunky sheets of dense, icy snow that reached all the way up to the opposite wall’s windowsill. Any higher and it would have blasted out the glass and ruined my day. Had a rugged, beefy man been standing in its way, he would have been chopped in half; like the raging stream, long-held snow shooting off a slate roof is nothing to fool with.

It’s funny, the more I read and heard about collapsing roofs this winter, the more I worried about that ominous pile of snow deposited onto the woodshed roof from the one above. It was piled so high and heavy atop the ridge and against the house that it had filled the eight- to 10-foot gap between the perpendicular roofs and I could step from one to the other. When a friend recently told me he was raking in 100 bucks an hour removing snow from central and eastern Massachusetts roofs, I uttered a wry chuckle and informed him that, although I understood his clients’ concerns, I had chosen another route. The way I looked at it, my old buildings have survived worse winters over parts of four centuries, so I wasn’t going to fret about 2011, no matter how determined newspapers and nightly newscasters were to terrify me. I guess my instinct served me well, saved money. No roof collapses and, miraculously, not so much as a drop of water leaking into the house, barn or sheds beneath slate roof extending almost the length of a football field.

Yes, the old tavern made it through another cold, snowy New England winter just fine, thank you, and will probably weather many more, friendly spirits smiling from above. Soon the bushes will be blooming, the turkeys will be gobbling, the kids will be fishing, Tim Duprey will be walking my roofs to replace slates now lying atop tall snow piles, and I’ll find the right contractor to build and install a copper roof for the barn cupola. It’s never-ending, yes, but sure does keep life interesting.

A redeeming element of tough winters is the way they enhance spring-fever euphoria, an annual affliction that raises spirits and rivers, and often caused me problems in my younger days. Undaunted, I welcome spring with enthusiasm, not fear.

“An army’s bravest men are its cowards. The death which they would not meet at the hands of the enemy, they will meet at the hands of their officers, with never a flinching.

Monday, final day of our shortest month, a long, cold, snowy February. The trees and bushes are covered with heavy crust as a limb-busting, uprooting rain pelts a slim, exposed slice of flagstone terrace fronting the house under a dense four-foot mound of snow from the slate roof. Audible splashes splatter the clapboards, clearing an inset, two-foot granite face fronting interior cellar bricks. The front-yard bushes and ornamental trees are drooping ominously to the ground, shiny, straining not to snap, frozen in duress until rain and sun removes the tiring snow and unlocks nature’s frozen grip. A perfect day to isolate indoors, let the wheels spin, risky indeed. Never know where it’ll lead a man like me.

So here I sit in my comfortable study, thinking, 9-pointer peering over my head, flames dancing and cordwood crackling in the Rumford fireplace, tall, brass, Federal andirons casting a radiant, orange glow. Having read Jane Kramer’s “Cowbow,” John McPhee’s “Travels in Georgia” and, of all things, a Peter Kropotkin essay on anarchism, I’ve just returned from the mailbox, nothing exciting. But now my shoulders are wet, my wool socks worse, totally my fault. Keen Kreeks are made for stream crossings on summer treks, not tiptoeing through slushy driveway puddles during winter rainstorms. I walked right past a pair of warm, dressed Gokey boots standing beside the hot soapstone stove. Never even considered half-lacing them on. Stupid, I guess. Either that or plain stubborn. Must be that obstinate Yankee streak I’ve coddled for a lifetime, hopefully will only reinforce as I age. Why obey rules and regs when nobody’s here to enforce them? That’s my motto. Guess it must be the Kropotkin in me. A proud Kropotkin at that. I find that stern law-and-order crowd stifling, unimaginative, not for me. I value living in a free country, one that’s getting less free by the minute, if you allow it. I don’t. Refuse. Even find myself fantasizing about retiring at the end of a secluded dirt road somewhere, only the sun, the moon, the stars and critters watching.

My knees are still stiff, tender and cranky after snowshoeing to a Saturday ice-fishing gig on southern Vermont’s Harriman Reservoir. I went with fellas who choose secluded, toasty duck blinds and ice shanties to bring out their little boy within, away from critical eyes. Me, well, I still enjoy a taste of the past now and then. Can’t deny it. But I don’t really need to isolate on a frozen lake or hidden pond to break free; am defiant, I guess, unafraid to occasionally “let go” in the comforts of home. Again, must be the independent, sometimes irascible Yankee in me, god love him. But who knows? It may have nothing to do with colonial rascals or the austere Puritan deacon with a Quaker wife in my background. Could just as easily be the wild-Irish blood of Great-Uncle Dan — a man his Keane siblings spoke of with a twinkle of feigned shame in their eyes — or maybe even the maritime merchants and fishermen from my Nova Scotia roots. They were Acadian French of the name Comeau, their seaside Bay of Fundy hamlet called Comeauville. How could there not have been free spirits among them, probably many more than their women would ever admit, even posthumously? Myself, I have nothing to hide, am what I am, say take it or leave it. Some take. Many have left. But my philosophy has led me to places few “respectable” men have visited, and I do believe I’m a better man for it. Many would disagree. Why argue? It’s pointless. Even my most ardent detractors will praise this free country. They just interpret that bromide different than me, try to strip freedom from and fill prisons with those they say can’t “handle it.” But who are these people, anyway, and who is it they protect? Those are the questions I ask. The answer doesn’t always settle right with me … which brings me to my late son and a pair of war veterans I know, born a generation apart.

First my namesake son, who left this imperfect world three months ago, age 28, far too young. His wife, still numb with heartache, re-posted some of his music videos overnight on Facebook. I just now watched them to rekindle poignant memories and procrastinate a bit, must admit I’m gleaming with pride at his open defiance. Yes, it’s true he had matured and softened his rebellious ways before passing, but there were authority figures from his past he would never forgive, or forget. I wish I could play his lyrics to the rigid flock he scolds, the same people I myself have battled and will continue dismissing as hypocrites and frauds till my final breath. I’d like to tell them to listen carefully, that he’s speaking to them, looking them square in the face, no fear, trying to point them toward the faded path to empathy and understanding, not prosecution and punishment. I accept his views as sound and just, but the people he’s speaking to are not listeners. They’re guardians of convention and conformity, often devoted to a Christian doctrine that places us here temporarily to suffer for a better life after. Yes, we’re supposed to listen to them, and kneel in devout reverence. This vindictive, judgmental lot prefers to sit in private lunchrooms to proclaim to any who’ll listen that the kid’s parents were his problem, and theirs, and the world’s. Their colleagues nod in solemn agreement. Dr. Phil — that tiresome Texas bore, champion of American housewives — would agree.Not me. I’m proud to be of a different persuasion.

I’m reminded of a Facebook tribute posted the day after Gary died, one written by a man I remember as a boy at my house after school, weekends, you name it, a friend of my younger son. He was acting up in school as a teen and, his parents said, heading down the wrong path. They intervened at graduation time and pushed him into the Army, which took him to Iraq, a place from which few have escaped unscathed. Some boys go off to war, buy-in and return to law-enforcement, security, sales jobs and National Guard units throughout the land. Others travel to faraway nations to “save” oppressed people and are greeted by hateful, penetrating eyes that scream, “Go away!” and force them to ask “Why am I here?” When these young men of conscience return home, they tend to drop out, drown their sorrows, get sober and carry the mail, silent and sad, confused, trying to piece it all together. I have known such men who  served in Vietnam, now this boy from the next generation, smart, sensitive, insightful. His day-after tribute to my son read: “Gary was the first person to teach me that authority figures can be jerks. He was right. Still is. R.I.P., Gary.” This a remark fresh from the hot sands of hell by someone sent there for “seasoning” and to learn about respect and obedience, no less. Looks like the men barking orders couldn’t break him.

That young man is similar to the college roommate, teammate and roadmate I befriended a generation ago. An illegitimate twin with a selfish stepdad, he was dropped as a 17-year-old virgin in the late 1960’s onto an Air Force base overlooking Da Nang from a high, sacred mountain. He returned home an angry young man addicted to the best heroin money could buy. Although buried deep, his resentment and fury would surface after nights of heavy drinking. We’d retire to our frat house, apartment or motel after a long night carousing and talk till the sun came up. The conversation would go back to “Nam,” to Lackland Air Force Base, to the officers who ruled him. He’d get agitated, squint his hateful green eyes and scoff, “Give ’em a half a thimbleful of brains and one more stripe than you, and you have to do what they say. They’re in for 10 years and have one more stripe you.” Despite this bias, he held a curious fondness for one “lifer” he would have typically detested. The man was a captain or major whose wife had taken a shine to my friend, a tall, handsome bad-boy with a reputation as a surly, hair-triggered slugger on the base’s fast-pitch softball team. The weekly base newsletter had only to publish a photo of his shorts, tube-socked calves and cleats and everyone knew it was “Mr. Incorrigible,” known up and down the East Coast for towering home runs that disappeared into white summer clouds and landed far behind outfield fences. Everyone else wore their uniform. A steamy and scandalous affair with this officer’s wife ultimately led to a vicious scrap at the officers’-club bar where my friend did not belong. He was promptly cuffed and stuffed and spent 33 days in the brig, what he often called the best 33 days he spent in the Air Force. He faced a court martial for his crimes and settled for an early-out general discharge. The Air Force was happy to be rid of him and the feeling was mutual. But get this: Two or three years after the incident  had rocked the base, the officer-husband he had beaten up came to Amherst annually as my buddy’s weekend guest for the UMass homecoming football game.

I never really asked any probing questions or tried to sort it all out, just watched the two men interact like old friends, with warm eye contact, roars of convivial laughter and playful banter in one loud, smoky bar after another, never so much as an angry word or glance. It was confusing to me, but my friend could not understand why. “I’m grateful to him.” he’d explain. “All I wanted was out, and he helped me.”

You can’t make it up. Impossible. But how to make sense of it all? That’s the question. Or, better still, and more pertinent, how did I ever wander off into this rainy-day ramble on February’s final day? Just came to me, I guess, like a cold draft under the woodshed door. It tickled my nostrils with an evocative scent that wafted me away on a sweet little ride fueled by fond memories.

It’s over now but will come again, perhaps liberating another entombed sliver of unconventional, unpopular perspective from this sovereign soul.

After a long, frigid, snowy winter, spring is peeking over partially exposed stonewalls poking through snow beneath naked hardwoods gathering bright midday sun on southern slopes. Soon, on these same sun-splashed hillsides, the first maple sap will flow freely as dense deer yards break up and scatter hither and yon.

In fact, sap buckets are already dangling from taps on stately old maples gracing our early, muddy, rutted upland roads. Yeah, I know tubing is the way to go for maximum production, but forgive me for being old-fashioned and preferring lidded buckets, the sight and the syrup they produce. But that’s just me. Old-timers will tell you plastic tubing cannot duplicate the “fancy” first-run syrup gathered by bucket, a chore for real men, especially in deep snow. It is said that even the lightest amber gathered by tubes is always a hint darker than bucket fancy, even when the tubes siphoning sugar-bush gold into large basin vats are diligently steam-cleaned before each season, a process which, according to those who know best, happens rarely in frugal New England Yankee land. Why? Simple. Because it takes too big a bite out of profit.

I’m sure some will get hopping mad at me for saying such a thing in print, but those who know best say sap collected in galvanized pails produces lighter syrup in every grade. Being no expert, I’ll take them at their word. But, enough of that, I’m not here to discuss the idiosyncrasies of maple-syrup production. Let’s talk about deer, which, like the maple orchards where they sometimes seek winter refuge, can sense spring approaching, thus the many recent predark sightings along our country roads.

Reports of abundant deer sightings started reaching me early last week, when a friend and hunting buddy called to say he had taken a half-hour ride through north Greenfield and Leyden and counted no fewer than 42 deer. “If you have a chance, you ought to take Joey out for a ride some night before supper,” he said. “I think she’d enjoy it.” And, yes, I may take such a ride if everything lines up just right. But to be honest, it’s not urgent. We have seen it before: fields full of deer exiting their winter yards to feed before dispersing to their home ranges.

During a winter like we’ve endured, with deep, cumbersome snow making travel difficult, deer yards draw more animals than during mild winters. A respected deer biologist and friend once told me that a local deer yard near my home likely draws animals 30 to 50 miles from the north and west. When the snow gets deep, dangerous and daunting, deer leave the high country and settle into southern valley slopes that make life easier. Once the snow melts and the woods open up, the deer disappear, wandering back where they came from. That day is now near. But the next couple of weeks should be ideal for sightings of large deer herds. They seem to love the southeastern Leyden hills, along that first upland plateau west of the Connecticut River.

Less than a week after the first of three rapid-fire reports from my hunting buddy, there came a phone call at work from an old South Deerfield friend who’s ventured into photography in the comforts of retirement. He said he’d been watching several deer eat his evergreen landscaping for weeks but had noticed a significant spike last week. He counted 27 deer as we spoke that night and said he probably missed some. He was curious why, suddenly, his backyard herd had tripled or quadrupled. One of his photos accompanies today’s piece; another, of a coyote with a bloody snout from a fresh deer-kill, accompanied last week’s piece. Obviously, there is a deer yard not far from his home. Those deer are gaining mobility and are now traveling deeply trodden trails to his yews, arborvitae and rhododendron. “Maybe I ought to start buying something to feed them,” he chuckled. “It would probably be cheaper.” Yes, most definitely. In fact, a friend of mine likely feeding some of the same deer puts out dried corn on the cob.

The locations I’ve mentioned in Leyden and Deerfield both rest on elevations not far from the Connecticut River, overlooking rich, Hadley-loam bottomlands. Several recent rides I’ve taken through higher country to the west have revealed little if any deer sign. Then, at a party Saturday night, I had a discussion with an upland resident who lives a little more than a mile up the hill from me. He supported my opinion that the deep snow had chased deer into the lowlands. Asked to assess the regular deer crossings along the steep road behind my home, my neighbor said there were none, zero, and there haven’t been any since the New Year. His last deer sighting on daily commutes to and from home occurred during deer season, when the snow was still manageable.

Soon, along the fertile flats that sprout our first tender, green growth of spring, or around cornfield spilth, motorists will observe unusual herds of 50 to 70 evening deer feeding like cattle, not fleeing when cars slow down to watch. In no time they’ll be gone and smaller groups will again start appearing in the upland meadows.

Yes, this winter’s mortality rate was likely higher than normal, but it’s nothing the herd cannot tolerate. Nature doesn’t work that way without human interference.

Deer, snow, coyotes and, um, a hilltown homer, that’s where we’re headed today.

Yes, more interesting feedback, most of it concerning last week’s column about icy snow spelling deer doom. One respondent was a state cop, another a kid I once coached in South Deerfield, the third an old Hampshire League ballplayer who recalled an ancient home run I hit in Shelburne Falls as a 16-year-old high school junior. All three sources had interesting observations to share.

The trooper, Kevin Wesoloski of South Deerfield, wanted to expand upon my unsubstantiated tale of coyote deer carnage discovered by Hampden snowmobilers. He said he’s heard through the grapevine similar stories from West County snowmobilers who’ve come upon gruesome scenes, blood and body parts everywhere, what he called, “a sure sign that our deer herd will suffer this winter.”

“Weso” also described driving Route 9 through the Quabbin the other day and seeing a half-dozen deer in an oak grove, “all appearing to be standing on top of the crust, good for movement but equally bad for their ability to paw through deep snow for acorns.” That site, east of here, received more freezing rain than we did, thus the thicker, sturdier crust. “Here, our hilltown deer are breaking through and sinking to their bellies,” Weso warned.

Accompanying Weso’s e-mail were three trail-camera photos of large, wily, nighttime coyotes standing atop local snow. “Look at the size of these dogs,” he wrote. “Put a couple in a deer yard and tell me they won’t take down the healthy ones. The weak are always first but these critters don’t just stop there.”

His point is valid. Maybe all the whiners out there, the ones who want to protect every beast in God’s creation, even transfer to them human rights, should someday learn how packs of dogs, wild or domestic, kill deer. Canines do not kill a deer before eating it; they kill by eating, after shredding back-leg tendons to immobilize them. Dogs start on the hind quarters, deer groaning in misery, before tearing open the belly and eating whatever’s available, including organs, stomach contents or tiny, tasty fawns in the womb. At least a big cat snaps the neck of its prey before devouring it. Dogs are less merciful. That’s why domestic dogs were shot on sight in the woods a generation and more ago, a practice today less common because of leash laws.

As for the kid I coached who responded to last week’s column, he’s Keith Bohonowicz. A snowmobiler and avid hunter, Boho’s troubled by the deer he’s seen on woodland travels. No, he hasn’t come upon any slaughterhouse scenes like the one I described in Hampden, just deer in obvious deep-snow distress reacting to human intrusion in a peculiar fashion. Two such rapid-fire observations occurred last Wednesday in the West Deerfield/Shelburne woods known locally as “The Old World.”

First, when Boho and his party approached a small, forested, hemlock-bordered spring hole, he noticed many tracks and all the hemlock branches within six feet of the ground torn to shreds right through the bark. It told him that abundant natural feed on the forest floor was inaccessible. Nearby, he noticed movement and spotted four mature does and a skipper standing with a “deer-in-headlights look,” at mid-afternoon. “As the other machines approached, the deer tried to bound up the ridge,” he wrote. “They made it about 25 yards into thicker cover before stopping and letting us pass.”

After meeting a rider at his house and backtracking, they again passed the site about 20 minutes later and the deer were still standing in the same spot, “not feeding, not moving, almost like they were taking a break after the scare. They proceeded to watch us drive by, even when we stopped for a minute or two to take in the spectacular winter view.”

The crew continued west toward Bardwell’s Ferry and, while descending to the railroad tracks, spotted five more deer standing about five yards off the trail. These animals had stress written all over them as they clumsily fled up a hill. “They tried to ascend the ridge and, as I watched the first doe bound off, she could only go about five or 10 yards before stopping to reset herself in the deep snow and bound again. I’ve seen similar scenarios many times and all you see is a white streak and the deer are gone. It took these deer two or three minutes to go 75 yards to the ridge-top, where they stopped like long-distance runners after a race and looked at us like, ‘Why did you make us move?’ The deep snow is having a negative effect on deer and it worries me. In all my years of hunting and snowmobiling, I have never seen deer act in this queer manner.”

My final source, the one who mentioned that home run, is George “Ace” Mislak, an Ashfield native who now lives not far up the road from me on Patten Hill in Shelburne. Mislak didn’t mention coyotes, just his assessment of the deer population near his home and in his old Ashfield haunts.

“I concur that the deer population has gone from slim in the 70’s to great in the 90’s to slim now …,” he wrote. “Billy Meyers of Colrain is my brother-in-law. We agree that there are fewer deer tracks in the snow these days.”

Something else of interest before I get to the long ball: Mislak’s wife recently saw a cougar near their home. “It had snowed just after Christmas and, as my wife was raising the shade and the neighbor was plowing his long driveway, she noticed an animal cross the main road. You can add her to the list of people who have sighted a long-tailed cat. I quizzed her on every detail and, sure enough, she described a cougar. I know it was not a bobcat. We both watched a pair play near our Reynolds Road home a short time before this.”

As for the home run, well, I hesitate to mention it but cannot resist, finally, because it has been referenced so many times over the years by West County ballplayers who witnessed it, including two righthanders who claim to have been the pitcher. This latest mention stirred my curiosity and sent me to The Recorder microfilm Tuesday night in search of written evidence.

The blast Mislak recalled as “a three-run homer that rolled into the brook,” was in fact a two-run job, according to the April 24, 1970 newspaper account. Mohawk coach Bill Pollard reported the home run without additional fanfare. But judging from the tale’s lasting power, that brook had to be a seldom-reached yardstick. I vaguely recall it as a soaring shot straightaway over the left-fielder’s head, wooden bat and soggy spring turf.

That diamond is today gone. I suspect it was the old Arms Academy ballpark — if so, the house that Harper and Wizzie built. I wonder how far that little brook was from home plate? Maybe not so far. Tales seem to get taller with age. But someone must have an idea of distance. Maybe an old-timer knows and could even add other baseball lore from that storied hilltown ballyard now alongside the elementary school.

God, how I love this stuff.