An undisturbed snowplow ridge told the story: It had been months since a four-wheeled vehicle had driven the aboriginal trail that became a Colonial path, then a well-used thoroughfare from Williamsburg to Conway until discontinued around 1950.

Because the mud season hadn’t yet arrived, I decided to give it a shot, convinced I’d stay atop the solid, crunchy corn snow, confident the come-along and chain in my pickup’s bed would rescue us if needed, always a comforting thought. But we got through our little journey fine, no issues, then poked around briefly in a quiet hardwood forest, once the farmstead of 18th century rebel Perez Bardwell, a Whately man of hardscrabble Yankee temperament. Unusual name for the time, too.

I had traveled this intentionally unnamed, unimproved road many times in worse conditions, deeper snow, muddier, with chains fastened around my back tires. So I was confident my all-terrain treads would take us the short distance required without calamity, which, at midday, work in the foreground, I wanted no part of. An experienced four-wheeler never lets his guard down at this time of year, the absolute worst if the mud is right. I know. Seems I learn most lessons the hard way, including mud-caked misadventures. Guess it’s just who I am. But it’s gotten me this far and I’m too old to change.

My passenger was a Pennsylvania native who touched down in Conway some four years ago and, having a history background, is enthralled with the town and its 18th century pioneers. Of particular interest to the man, working on a book, is a fiery Bardwell soul brother named Samuel Ely, a disrobed Congregational minister who came to Conway from Somers, Conn., in 1772 and called our western hilltown home for 10 turbulent years. It was during his final year there, in 1782, that he whipped a frenzied mob into open revolt against the Massachusetts government and Hampshire County Court. Coined Ely’s Insurrection, the clamor proved to be a precursor to Shays’ Rebellion (1786-87), which brought western Massachusetts notoriety before the Constitution was written or George Washington was elected our first president.

Back in the day, Ely knew well the country we traversed, the roads, too, connecting Conway, Whately, Burgy and beyond. In fact, a road we sampled would have been his route from Conway to the Hampshire County Courthouse he and his insurgents assaulted. That’s why I showed my newfound historian friend the layout, for perspective, not to mention invigorating chatter. Our interests intersect in many local-history spheres and, come to find out, politics as well … a subject to approach on tip-toes with someone new.

Always searching for an excuse to visit my favorite haunts before turkey season and after a tough winter on deer, I was more than willing to show my companion the lay of the land, and the place Bardwell called home before moving around 1790 to Phelps, Wayne County, N.Y., where he died in 1815. A proud veteran of French and Indian War expeditions to Crown Point and Canada, then a Revolutionary lieutenant, Bardwell was a member of the mob that freed Ely from jail in Springfield, then briefly was held hostage by Northampton authorities trying to recover Ely. I knew Bardwell’s cellar hole from research following many deer hunts there, and thought it would be of interest to my passenger.

We pulled up to the intersection of two wooded trails and parked, releasing two of my Springers, Lily and Bessie, from their porta-kennels before taking a short trek, maybe 100 yards, to the flat wooded site at the base of a ridge. The first visible remains were stones from a barn’s foundation, then 100 feet east, a stone-clad cellar hole some 40 by 25 feet, no indication of where the chimney had stood, probably centered. A short distance east of the homesite was a small, clear, free-flowing spring brook, then, some 75 feet upstream, a stone foundation that crossed it, likely a barn judging from the high western foundation butted up against a shallow hill; no small barn, either.

During hunts and hikes covering bits of five decades and two centuries, I have identified many similar sites in those woods, reconstructing a lost world in my memory’s bedrock. It’s a fascination that lures me to such places, often alone, gun in hand, so it’s always a bonus to meet someone to share them with, especially folks who’ll respect and leave them undisturbed, no metal detectors, please. My companion on that day fit the bill.

Our first field trip was brief; too short, in fact; but I was able to point out future exploration routes along the way, ones we’ll revisit when the snow’s gone and the turkeys are gobbling. Once the mud dries, we’ll return for further inspection along roads that appeared iffy this week. Why push it? The day will soon come when I’ll be able to show him Morton’s mill, Elihu Waite’s farm, and the small home of Isaac ”Cider Marsh,” known before the turn of the 19th century for the spirituous liquors he distilled and, apparently, liberally consumed. Legend has it that people in the neighborhood back then referred to 30-barrel tanks as ”Marsh’s tumblers,” obviously a tribute to a man who could ”hold his liquor.” Yes, sir, they say old Cider Marsh was quite the boy, a throwback from way back, a local legend whose spirit still lurks in the damp watershed air. My newfound Conway friend and I will return to pull this damp, wooded, Marshy spirit deep into our lungs. From it will come lively conversation, a brisk walk, an energetic romp for my pets. It’ll be mutually beneficial. Stimulating on many levels. Physical, mental, spiritual. Especially the latter.

I guess it’s all about knowing the woods in a way not generally associated with hunting.

Like chasing ghosts, kindred spirits.