I stood next to a sign that read Vayland Rd. The other two stayed clear of me and waited.

People from the city think that open country is quiet. I knew better. Crickets, rustles, wind, night birds, the high-pitched whine of bats — sometimes you had to raise your voice to be heard over all the restful quiet.

It was the sound that personified life as I used to know it. I’d exchanged that sound and that life years ago, but here I stood, with an old hunting rifle over one shoulder and a heavy stick in my off hand. No cell phone, no email… there were times during the year when my current equipment would be the norm in this part of the country.

”Well, let’s go,” I said.

Of course, I had to raise my voice before they heard me.