This had been, once upon a time, a special place to someone.
We were looking for pheasants and rabbits. That meant stalking hedgerows, kicking brush piles and prowling tangles.
At one point, walking through a field, a rooster flushed wild, too far out for a shot. We marked the spot where he seemed to be headed, though, and went after him.
That’s when we found the old foundation.
It was hidden, overgrown by briars and young trees.
That couldn’t conceal the workmanship that went fitting the stone together long ago. Caring hands were at work.
But whose hands were they? How long ago had they toiled? What had the home looked like? Who lived in it, and why did they leave?
Those are the questions that come to mind when I come across one of these remnants.
They’re not uncommon. Spend enough time outdoors, wandering farm country and woodlots, and you’ll come across your share.
My grandfather and I were walking through the woods when we found a home that looked as if it was cleaved neatly in half. Intrigued — we could see clothes still hanging in closets on the second floor — we went up the front porch and stepped inside. We didn’t go far. The floor boards seemed less than trustworthy, so we didn’t linger.
Before we left, though, I noticed what seemed to be a complete set of encyclopedias scattered about. I checked the dates. They were published in the late 1800s.
I stuffed one in my game pouch to take home, wondering all the while. There were no roads leading to this house. It simply was in the middle of nowhere.
Once, surely, there was a pathway. But even in its best days, it likely was rough.
Yet someone — in an era before the answer to every question was just a few keystrokes away — was concerned enough about knowledge and education to lug those books into the woods.
And then, what? They disappeared.
Sometimes these odd bits of lost history become a part our outdoor experiences. Who hasn’t rested on an old stone wall, stopping for a sandwich and a breather, when chasing birds? They’re perfect places for lingering.
Springs set off by stone walls built when that qualified as home improvement have a special kind of appeal, too. I can’t pass one without imagining another hunter with a few rabbits for the table — probably an important contribution to the pantry — stopping along the way for a cool drink after walking the fields he cleared.
Spend enough time hunting an old farmstead and, after a while, you start to feel a little ownership, as if you inherited the place from that pioneer.
Our sharing the woods with that foundation builder, separated by decades if not intent, never did lead to a pheasant killed that day. The bird we thought we had marked scurried for parts unknown while we dallied.
But that’s OK. Someone had walked that land seeking game before we got there, and, I like to think, someone will walk it gun in hand long after we’re gone.
