We’d risen in the dark, had a quick breakfast and hurried down the stairs to the street. No one had a garage in our neighborhood, the steep hillside the houses perched on, and their close proximity prevented such luxuries but in the 1960s no one considered this an inconvenience. Dad and I jumped into the VW Bug.
The faithful car started immediately; it always did. We were fully dressed; VW heaters were pitiful, barely managing to keep the windshield clear. But, for traction, even on the slickest roads, you couldn’t beat a VW.
A 30-minute drive took us to the big flats near the airport. We put the flashers on, quickly grabbed shovels and attacked the roadside drifts clearing a parking spot. Dad made sure I had my map, lunch, watch, matches and a compass.
The rolling flats were interspersed with low identical ridges, swales and swaths of red brush. Even after hunting this area for several years, it was easy to become completely turned around. Without a compass you were literally lost.
The easy part was the road ran due East and West. Simply heading North or South brought you out. There were a few scattered, recognizable landmarks here and there.
A large grove of big hemlocks on a point and an occasional remaining section of cable marked the boundary of an abandoned oil lease. Here and there grew unique, even grotesque, black cherry trees each with their own distinctive twisted trunks and irregular, gnarled limbs. The hilltops’ sparse, acidic soil was no doubt responsible .