I've only vague recollections of Grandfather, an energetic man who lived life unrelentingly until the pace seemingly wore his body out. By modern standards he enjoyed but a short existence, but he certainly exceeded the life expectancy of the average male of his era. He has been gone a very long time, my own father behind him. Now I find myself the old man. My grandfather--the archery hunter and original Dunkin McLeod--died in 1926, when I was only six.

My father never showed the faintest inclination toward his father's passion. When I was young and full of curiosity I could find his intriguing wares in a dusky corner of our cluttered basement with everything else discarded or awaiting usefulness according to season or occasional utility. I would steal down there to slip those ancient weapons from their rugged cases and dream. I was too weak to brace those longbows but I'd feel the smooth contours of polished wood, pluck an arrow from among dozens to brush stiff feathers across my face, finger the filed edges of steel arrowheads secured with fine brass wire. There were also leather shooting gloves and tooled bracers and quivers lined with sheep wool owning belt loops to hang at the hip.

In the same mothball-reeking steamer trunk were squirreled a litter of letters, post cards, train tickets, journals and such. The assorted remnants of his life I found most fascinating. I marveled at the dates and exotic locations; places well north, in the Catskills and Adirondacks. The Adirondacks especially were as foreign and remote from our Hempstead home as possible, where it was easy to imagine, at my Grandfather's urging, that hostile Indians still roamed, that its lakes contained flesh-eating serpents.

I slipped down to visit Grandpa's archery gear often, despite having it all fairly memorized. This ancient equipment spoke to me somehow, possessed me like a secret vice. I knew someday it would figure in my own adventures. I was correct on that account.

All those dreams are now realized and relegated to a hazy past, and I recently found myself a widower and my gracious daughter suggested she and her husband might use help with their children. It was strongly suggested that I move into their spacious spare bedroom. I knew all too well what was implied and, frankly, had to agree. But this is not my story.

Moving meant paring down and I found myself, after decades of dusty neglect, sorting through Grandfather's affects. I was most interested now in Grandfather's journals. I took them to the den, a good excuse to procrastinate, and read. In the year 1919, before his health took a sudden turn, Grandfather would undertake his last expedition into Adirondack wilderness.

He embarked from Union Square in mid-October, chugging northward following that "main artery of our Empire," the Hudson River, to Yonkers, Peekskill and through the granite gates of West Point with Bear Mountain regarding the slow, clamorous progress dispassionately.

The train pushed on through the night, passing the lights of Poughkeepsie, and into the relative wilderness of Dutches and Columbia counties. From Albany he telegrammed his wife, my Grandmother, to say all was well and that he was enjoying a grand adventure, the company becoming more appealing the farther from New York City he traveled. By Glens Falls, nearly three days into his journey, passengers were reduced almost exclusively to loggers and sportsmen like himself.