The forested lower slopes of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State are dense and not much inhabited. But, venturing there in recent decades, walkers might well believe they had discovered an Old Man of the Woods.
He wore a brown peaked cap, like an elf’s, on white dreadlocked hair that fell to his shoulders. His beard was long, his scruffy clothes were matted with mud and straw, and he went barefoot, even in snow.
At times, as he scavenged for berries, dragged branches or enjoyed a swing from perilous trees, his fleeting, shuffling form seemed more animal than human. But his wave, with a hand that held either a chainsaw or a fat hand-rolled “herbal palliative”, would be welcoming and warm.
Once long ago, in late 1976, I set out to write the great American Quaker novel.