A friend suggested I climb a little mountain in Vermont called Haystack. So I did. But the trailhead was not easy to find. It lay along an unfrequented dirt road. Vermont is the second least populous of the fifty states. The one or two farmers I asked directions from gave me stony looks and little else. I finally found the trailhead, which–like most things in the course of my days–came by accident. I started walking. I passed a couple of cows. A hermit thrush called from high in a tree. The brook I crossed was nearly dry. The top of the mountain looked like a farmer’s face, but with more sky and clouds and vistas abounding.