Yesterday the sun pierced with a deep heat, as we sat on the bank of the pond. I fed the fish the first fly of the season. Country flies are much slower to respond than city flies; much easier to slap with one's hand and pitch to the waiting fish.

Only two weeks ago on an early March evening, my wife, Jeanne, was trapped in a blinding blizzard on the mountain. Unable to proceed further up the steep grade in six inches of fresh snow, she abandoned her car. Following shortly behind her was the owner of the local McDonald's in a four wheel drive heavy vehicle. After taking Jeanne's car down the mountain to a safer, wider point in the road, he drove her home to Jewell Hollow. It had taken an hour and a half for her to come from the village of Sperryville, at the base of the eastern slope of the mountain, over Thornton Gap, down the western slope and into the Hollow. Sperryville is only ten miles away. There was palpable tension in the cabin while the dogs and I waited.

Now it is already spring, immediately after winter's last gasp; or so we hope. I walked about our section of the forest yesterday. Wood stacks, unused during the winter, are erect. Some trees have fallen over the winter, but none block our customary paths.

One day during a warm spell (the blizzard which stranded Jeanne on the mountain developed from a morning in the sixties), I took a morel walk. There were, of course, no mushrooms; it is much too early; they won't arrive in the forest until mid-April at the earliest. The walk was to remind me that I would soon be searching in trusted areas for the delicate, pocked, conical spring mushrooms. As the dogs and I retraced a spring mushroom walk, I came upon the rock wall.

There are several rock walls in the forest. "The wall" is where two years ago I found the largest morels I have ever seen, ever dreamed of. Usually morels are two to three inches high; the heads of those monster morels were as large as my fist and eight inches high. I picked them. As I circled the wall again to certify that more did not exist, the copperhead poisonous snake slithered out of the wall in front of me. Its brown, scaly diamond-figured skin made me initially believe it to be a rattlesnake; it was not -- no rattles. I knocked the adult, four-foot snake to the ground and beat it with the end of the staff I've carried with me in the forest since Jeanne's mother had it made for me, four years ago. When finally dead, I hung it on a post beside the rock wall. It took the crows four days to find it. Then, one day, it was gone from its perch, without a trace.

The combination of the monstrous mushrooms and the snake was probably a sign from God: beware of fulfillment beyond your wildest dreams; a serpent lurks nearby. As I found the morel-seeker's ultimate cache, the serpent challenged me. During my pre-morel walk last week, I found that a tree had fallen on the wall, completely covering the top; perhaps God laid it there to inhibit my search for the giant morels which, with the right moisture and temperature conditions, might be ready to spring to the surface as annual fruit of a huge fungus below. Regardless, the hunt will begin in earnest in another month.

March Wednesday

Jeanne and I were gleaming clean, ready to leave for a day in Washington. The dogs had been released from the cabin early in the morning; now it was 7:30 AM and time to begin the 90-mile drive. The dogs had not reappeared as usual after their early morning forest run.

Jeanne clanged my grandfather's dinner-alert iron triangle, which hangs on a large hemlock tree, near the kitchen door; no response, which was unusual. I honked the loud horn of the old diesel auto we were to take to the city; again, no response; no dogs.

In the far distance, deep in the forest, we could hear barks; we didn't know if the racket was being created by our dogs.

"You can't lose a day's work over damned dogs. You go on," I said. She did.

I changed from a suit into jeans, heavy cotton sweater and steel-toed boots. I removed the .38 caliber revolver from my nightstand; I assured myself it was loaded and placed extra rounds in my pocket.

I walked out the kitchen door, right and onto the path leading toward the national park, following the continuous sound. I crossed the first stream without mishap and climbed up the sharp stream bank and walked the animal path, extending from the stream to the fire trail; from there, over the fire trail, across a larger stream, stepping on ice-glazed rocks and into the park. I walked beyond a thicket of hemlocks and onto a short ridge. By then, I knew that our dogs had treed a raccoon or had cornered another animal in the forest ahead.

Finally I saw Duda and Attila: against a huge boulder, they had cornered a deer. I yelled, but they didn't hear. I fired two shots in the air and the dogs pulled away from the deer and tried to slink away, 20 yards above me. I called them to me and beat them on their rumps with a rolled newspaper. The deer moved out of harm's way as soon as the dogs were distracted by my shots.

Later, Charlie, who hunts in Jewell Hollow and serves as one of our quasi-caretakers, told me that the deer was probably sick and dying and, therefore, unable to escape our clambering, harping dogs.

March Tuesday

The weekend brought friends to Jewell Hollow. We gathered George and Harriett Friday afternoon at Dulles Airport: George, our friend and my one-time hiree and subsequent law partner, was bringing his new bride to Jewell Hollow for the first time. I thought originally it was to be a Valentine's weekend surprise: George called and stated he was giving Harriet a surprise gift trip to Jewell Hollow and a Saturday evening meal at the Inn at Little Washington. I took it that they were arriving in February; Jeanne prepared much of the anticipated Friday evening meal in advance, but had received strange telephone signals from George.

"That London broil will sure be ripe after marinating for a month." The dates and days were the same, February and March. George said they were coming for a Valentine's celebration on the 17th. George claims to have added March; I didn't hear it.

The March Friday evening meal was a duplicate of the one planned for Valentine's weekend: marinated London broil, broiled on our outdoor grill; garlic mashed potatoes; spinach salad; and a spectacular chocolate-almond-Jewell Hollow wild raspberry jam-sherry-custard-whipped cream trifle.

The wild raspberry jam (the berries which we pick on neighbor's land during late summer months and which Jeanne cooks into jam on our tiny cabin propane stove) added a home-made sweetness to the exotic dessert.

Saturday morning we all walked up and down the mountain, in and out of the national park. In the afternoon, we watched college "March madness" basketball via television. Our friends stated they needed country relaxation; they received it and apparently enjoyed their rustic retreat.

Harriet was extraordinarily responsive to our dogs: the serious demeanor and affectionate nature of Duda and the irrepressible high-spirits of beige-ball Attila; while each of our visitors travel extensively, there was much talk of acquiring a dog or two, upon return to Michigan.

George Washington set out the boundaries of Washington, Virginia, in 1749; it was the first village, town, or city so named. The town is small, colonial-bricked and quaint. The Inn is always ranked among the ten best eateries in the United States, by Conde Nast Traveler and other judges of such things.

The juxtaposition of our jeans-and-boots chainsaw-wood-smoke deers-and-bears Jewell Hollow existence and the fussy elegance of the Inn is dramatic. Little Washington is a county seat in miniature: a tiny red brick courthouse, two churches, three or four residential streets in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, to the west. Nothing as tacky as a gas station, convenience store, auto repair or hardware store is entertained in Little Washington; only a lawyer's office or two, realtors, and a main street bed and breakfast, replicated three or four times.

The Inn fits in. Outside, a non-descript building, that was a junk/antique shop in the days when the state trunk road ran through the village before the state built the fifteen year old four lane, now bypassing Little Washington. Inside: dark woods, fussy printed wallpaper, lush, thick drapes; every square inch of space has been attended to by one with an eye for the busy.

The food is painstakingly decorative, extremely imaginative in concept ("Chilled, Dilled Fettucine Streamers with Ossetra Caviar and Stolichnaya Vinaigrette," a sweetbread and veal and ham "sandwich") and delicious. The appetizers and desserts are perhaps the most imaginative of all. The service is unobtrusive but very alert and attentive. The wine steward is a young French boy named Oog; he oversees one of the great U.S. restaurant wine cellars.

One New Year's Eve, Jeanne and I were in attendance for a thirteen course dinner. Dessert was served as midnight approached: each guest was presented a round chocolate torte with the face of a clock; the time on the clock was the exact moment each person was served. At midnight, the chef and co-owner, came through his dining area greeting guests by blowing soap bubbles into the room from a child's bubble blower and exclaiming in a high, wispy voice, as if in ecstasy: "Thank you. Thank you. Happy New Year. Thank you." Not soon to be forgotten that!

Our four friend, one-month-delayed, three hour extravaganza at the Inn was decorative, tasty and near perfection in execution. The Inn is, however, much like Commodore Vanderbilt's answer when asked how much it cost to operate his yacht: If you have to ask, you can't afford it. On a weekend evening, if one were in the mood for a long journey into Virginia Blue Ridge Mountain foothills for an extraordinary meal in the village George Washington laid out, one should plan on leaving the chef, and his partner, $100 per occupied chair; wine and spirits and a generous tip for the perfect service will add substantially to the total.

The Inn at Little Washington: a world-class dining experience, and only 15 miles from Jewell Hollow.

Sunday morning we arose by 7 AM to be certain there would be time for a proper send-off meal and the 75 mile trans-mountain drive to the airport.

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