What I remember most about the late Ellsworth Barnard was the day I met him and wife Mary at their forested cabin in Shelburne’s Patten District, five miles up the hill from my Greenfield Meadows home. It was back in the late 1990s, probably 1998, which would have made him 90 or 91.

I had heard about and purchased his then recent tribute to High Ledges, ”In a Wild Place,” then read it, paying particular attention to the essay about the American chestnut, its demise and the many young chestnut trees Barnard was nurturing near his idyllic West County retreat. Intrigued, I found his number in the phone book, gave him a ring and asked if it would be possible to meet him, that I wanted to see his chestnut trees and have him autograph my book. Vaguely familiar with this column, he recognized my name, knew my farmhouse and invited me up.

”Drive to the sign that says ‘No Motorized Vehicles Beyond This Point,’ and ignore it,” he instructed. ”Drive right in and you’ll arrive at my cabin in a half-mile or so. I’d like to meet you.”

In no more than an hour, I was there, snuggled up to the 4WD vehicle parked near his cabin overlooking the Deerfield River, Shelburne Falls and the Berkshire Hills, a breathtaking view, especially for someone who’s patrolled the western Franklin County hilltowns for decades.

I went to the door, knocked and was greeted by Mary Barnard, a distinguished lady, hair tightly tied back in a bird’s nest.

”Come in,” she said. ”Dutch is in the kitchen.” At least my memory tells me it was the kitchen where we sat and talked; could have been a combination kitchen/dining room, though; casual, rustic, modest furnishings, fieldstone fireplace, spectacular view to the south and west.

We sat and talked for about 15 minutes before going outside to inspect the chestnut grove. As I recall, there were maybe a dozen trees about the width of my travel mug, maybe a bit wider. As he spoke about his little forestry project, you could feel Barnard’s affection for the chestnut trees. But he was a realist. He knew they would not survive.

”They’ll get a little bigger, look perfectly healthy, then dry up and die overnight,” he lamented. ”It’s a tragedy. I keep thinking that, with time, they’ll build a resistance to the blight and make a comeback. I will not be here to witness it.”

We chatted for a little while longer before I bid him adieu and retraced my path home, never again to lay eyes on him. I did catch his January 2004 obituary, age 96, and thought back to our visit. I remembered him as a gentle, soft-spoken, simple man; professorial of tongue and appearance; fit but bent and frail from age.

I now feel as though I know him better, having recently finished his four-volume memoir, ”In Sunshine and in Shadow,” written in retirement between 1985-91. He crafts nearly 1,100 pages to chronicle his life, starting with his Patten Hill boyhood on Barnard Farm, near High Ledges, where he acquired his love of nature centered on birds and wildflowers, then moving to his education and the turbulent teaching career that followed. A fiercely independent English prof, Barnard’s loyalty was to his students, not administrators, and he paid a price for it, bouncing from institution to institution, starting and ending at UMass/Amherst.

His autobiographical journey articulates his fascinating political evolution from a dyed-in-the-wool, rural New England Republican and F.D.R. foe to a left-wing radical, enemy of the military-industrial complex that pollutes the precious air and water, hungers for war, and abuses labor. I guess that’s what reading, reflection and worldwide life experience will do to a pensive, objective human mind, one that’s willing to listen and explore.

I must admit I came away from the memoirs wishing Mr. Barnard, my neighbor in many ways, was still alive. I would have enjoyed another visit, knowing what I now know. His was a fascinating tale, one worth reading on many levels. The voice is that of a Franklin County hilltown Yankee who had developed a profound philosophical approach to life and living.

Undoubtedly, those alive who knew Dutch Barnard intimately still miss him because of what he represented — a dying breed in these troubling times of shallow Dittohead bores and contrived profiteer wars.