On a brisk fall day an hour or so after noon, my dad and I tried to conquer the trail known as Indian Hill. It was a fair temperature not too hot or not too cold but just right. As we trotted up the vast hill, apples were littering the ground and my dad was busting my chops about something that didn’t even matter or was irrelevant to anything; he does things like that. The light was being prevented to touch the brown rocky soil by the trees lined all in a row for miles it felt like. I could see light for the first time in 10 minutes and a massive field stretched for hundreds of yards. The broken down mush on the ground signaled a path through the tall crops. Off to the left brown dots filled the green grass with a red building on the top of
