It’s wheelless now—the memory of a mill, taxidermally stuffed with department store furnishings. The crossing is ramshackle and time-beaten, all rust and lichen. It marks a way now mostly forgotten, except by those undeterred by unending green. First, a reed marsh, sparsely punctuated with willow and young oak. Next, a fork: one way a lonely farm; the other, along the river, to the eventual promise of huffers.