I persuaded a couple of friends to follow me on a bushwhack that began in deep obscurity, perhaps somewhere behind Pandora’s Tavern, and led to still deeper obscurity. We plunged into the wild woolly-wags and started up a mountain, only to get beech-whipped and bush-hobbled for mile upon bloody mile, till at last we stumbled upon a vague path that led to a tenebrous prospect, somewhere high above a dusky, slow-moving river. There we encountered other wanderers, bewildered as we, gathered upon a ledge, discussing the options. Arising from the crepuscular woods below came a riddlesome sound, perhaps the snoring of Rip Van Winkle or the growling of Cerberus. Or both. Nobody could explain it. So we kept walking. And found a way home before dark.