The two little hounds are whining loudly and scratching at the metal kennel doors. We had just pulled off the road down an overgrown two-track on a mostly forgotten plot of public land. It’s early December and most of the deer hunters have ended their season, so this little piece of paradise is all ours. Struggling to strap the GPS collars on the squirming beagles, I grab my single shot .410.  Its amber finish has been scraped away by the unforgiving miles of raspberry patches and young balsam fir.

As we walk down the path, the fresh snow shows tangles of tracks and droppings weaving through the multiflora rose of what was once a tilled farm field just a few years back before the state purchased the land.