When I reached the bottom of the ridge, the stream was not there. I didn't know where I was. I told Duda to take us home. She walked further to the right; I followed.

When I need her to lead, Duda walks no more than fifteen yards in front of me. Suddenly, she began to run. My eyes first followed her path; I was damned putout at her exit. Then I saw two full-grown deer; the fawn-brown of their bodies, dramatized by the white flashes of their undertails. They bounded--leaped--ahead of Duda. I saw how facile they were in avoiding the underbrush, greenbrier, and fallen trees which had so slowed me.

Duda had led me into heavy, underbrushed marshes. I called often to her; I couldn't keep up. She was constantly losing me. After I was bogged down in the marsh, I knew I couldn't follow her. Duda might know the way home, but she couldn't get me there. Moving toward another ridge, to get above the marsh and briars, I heard traffic noises.

Now it didn't matter where I was. If I moved up the next ridge, following the noise, I would eventually be at the mountain highway; from there I could walk my way down the mountain and back into Jewell Hollow. The highway embankment was so high I had to crawl, pulling myself up by grasping large clumps of grass. I was two miles up the mountain from where I should have been.

After descending the three-lane mountain highway, the dogs and I sauntered slowly down the park road. At the bottom, the dogs took a swim in a pool in the stream that cascades the mountain fifty yards behind the cabin. The walk up the state road, from the base of Jewell Hollow, was slow and laborious for the three of us. The four puny morels produced by three hours of marsh and ridge walking? We pitched them; not enough substance to bother taking an iron skillet off the kitchen wall.

Sunday was Easter. Geoff, Connie, little Amy and Avery joined us for an overnight and delicious Jeanne-conjured meals. Saturday evening, I grilled a marinated London broil. The meal, when combined with potato pancakes and home-frozen corn from Danny's farm, is the "Movie Star's Memorial Meal." The movie star still lives, in Europe and various places, so the title isn't accurate.

The first time the movie star came to dinner in Jewell Hollow, he so enjoyed the London broil, he continued to eat it with his fingers right through the dessert and cheese courses. Jeanne and I were impressed; thereafter, the meal of London broil and potato pancakes has been the "Movie Star Memorial Meal."

Easter evening's meal was glazed ham, garlic-mashed potatoes, and asparagus with Jeanne's perfectly-whipped Hollandaise sauce; for dessert, she created a raspberry, white chocolate cheesecake. What a meal! Jeanne works in Washington, DC, at least three days a week; she commutes for three hours each way by auto, train and subway. Despite her own work load, whenever our nearby family arrives, it is always to a greeting of just-made chocolate chip cookies and a series of large, creative and delicious meals. When Geoff's family is in Jewell Hollow, Jeanne's culinary creativity gives Connie relief from her daily kitchen chores.

Geoff and I were working outside when Boogie, and two sons, stopped on the state road. Boogie's recently deceased 101-year-old grandfather lived most of his life near the top of the hollow. Boogie was raised there, in a small stone house; he can't get the hollow out of his system.

Boogie is an extended part of our family. One time, he, Verna and the three boys lived in the cabin for a time, while more permanent arrangements were made.

Boogie is addicted to Jewell Hollow. He hunts deer, bear and turkey here. Often, like his cousin, Charlie, he meanders through the hollow for no apparent reason.

Sunday, Boogie had a half a bread sack of morels. He is the best Jewell Hollow morel-picker ever. He took me and the boys picking one spring; he showed me some of the most productive spots. That is akin to the farmer allowing the traveling salesman to have his way with his daughter.

"There are four or them, right where you are standing," Boogie said. I saw nothing. Boogie's boys spotted one or two. The four were there.

Boogie is short, barrel-chested and quiet. He was in combat in Vietnam, one of the no-college-no-elite-parents boys sent to fight and die there. For a time, he loaded Agent Orange into spray planes. He hasn't been totally healthy since. Boogie gets by. Boogie doesn't complain, and he walks the forests of Jewell Hollow, at every opportunity.

Tuesday
One of our male Ruby-throated hummingbirds has returned from Mexico or Central America; it happens each spring. I was standing by the window when a hummingbird came looking for our feeder. Do you believe that? This particular bird, less than four inches long, weighing less than four grams, fed at our front window from spring to autumn last year. In September, he, his mate and children, began a journey of a couple of thousand miles, give or take a few hundred; included in this incredible odyssey was a non-stop 500 mile flight across the Gulf of Mexico. Now he has repeated the journey and is looking for our -- his-- sugar water feeder. The incredible annual round trip flights are carried out with wings scooping the air at over 20 beats per second.

How does this tiny bird fly to the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico, or further south, across 500 miles of open wind-swept sea, and return to Jewell Hollow, to the very window and feeder he left six months ago? How does he do that? What intricate guidance system has God given him?

I know our first returnee is a male because males return north first; his lady will follow. They will mate and eat all summer from our feeder and the red flowers in the area, and return to the Spanish-speakers in the autumn.

We have the luxury of viewing our hummingbirds from a distance of six inches. The feathers on the throats of ruby-throated hummingbirds reflect light to produce bright iridescent colors. There they are: virtually stationary, as they hover, their long needle-like beaks inserted in the feeder; then they dart about, seemingly starting and stopping absolutely instantly. Hummingbirds love to play dive bomber games with each other at the feeder. After the newborns join the fun and frolic in midsummer, it is common for us to see six speeding, swooping, diving ruby-throated birds zooming at once around our red plastic feeder. The sight is pure joy.

At this moment, Jeanne has re-hung the sugar water feeder and the lone male hummingbird immediately began to drink. The totality of a hummingbird, the size, beauty, energy, and commuting ability is a mind-blower -- staggering. Spring is now clearly with us.

Wednesday
This morning, two hummingbirds are zooming at each other around the feeder. Another male? Has the first male's mate returned from Mexico? We shall never know: the plumage on a hummingbird is too gender-neutral for my untrained eyes to discern the difference between boys and girls.

Birds are heavy upon Jewell Hollow. Yesterday, while walking heavy-shouldered down the state road after an afternoon of meandering for morels, I spotted the male Mallard cruising the middle of the pond above us. The two previous days, Mr. Mallard was spotted bobbing for whatever on our pond. The drake is safe and sound. Yesterday he flew down the power line clearing into the old Sour farm. The duck nest must be somewhere in that 90 acres. Upon seeing the drake back on our pond, Jeanne and I each independently had the immediate thought: Wouldn't it be fun to have the mother duck show up some summer day, trailed by five or six of her ducklings. Things like that happen in Jewell Hollow.

Phoebes have nested with us each summer for many years. they lay claim to their vernacular name because of their trademark whistle: a high-pitched "fee-bee," with the accent over the "fee." Last summer a mating pair built their first nest on the window sill nearest the front door of the cabin. Granny, in particular, watched the eggs and then the progress of the three chicks, until they were spirited away by their mother to larger quarters.

Phoebes produce two families a summer in Jewell Hollow. Usually the mud and tiny-branches nest is constructed on a wooden support under the overhand of the summerhouse roof facing the cabin. Phoebes are with us again, building a nest on their normal site. The delightful sound of "FEE bee" is heard throughout the day in the area between the cabin and the screened room we call our summerhouse.

Spring brings weekend guests to Jewell Hollow. Saturday afternoon, our cousin and friend, arrived with his second wife for an overnight, London broil dinner, and scheduled game of "Trivial Pursuit." Dave developed distinctly different tastes in wives: his first is thin, offish and a CPA. The new one is open (almost to a fault), with flowing blond hair and a dandy body. A country girl from West Virginia, Nancy relished coming to Jewell Hollow. Dave's first wife preferred to stay in the city to study for her PhD, or some such.

Sunday, Johnny Three-Sticks and his young lady friend came to the cabin for a day trip. Johnny Three-Sticks is an attorney in the Department of Justice, she, a young lawyer for a newspaper chain. I gave Johnny his nickname (his father is a junior, he a III) years ago, when he lived next door with his parents, our dear friends, on the Saint Clair River. Jeanne and I have watched him grow from a somewhat-surly college sophomore to a future legal superstar. After good grades at his law school, law review, a Federal judge clerkship, he is now in the very selective honors program for young lawyers at Justice. I have been somewhat of a minor mentor to Johnny Three-Sticks; it is enjoyable for each of us when we can spend some time together in the Hollow.

After I returned from a Sunday morel-gathering, Jeanne and our guests hit the forest for the guests' virgin attempt at morel discovery; they did very well, returning with a half a bagful.

Jeanne's brunch included a "breakfast pizza," a delicious combination of sausage, dough, eggs and cheese. My favorite of the meal was an almost gooey blueberry bread. Before Dave and Nancy began their return to the city, Jeanne sauteed a skillet-full of morels. Slightly powdered in flour and then sauteed in butter in one of the old iron skillets; the delicate, sweet flavor and almost ephemeral texture is difficult to describe. Folks usually get a slight morel taste in pricey French restaurants in certain cream sauces. To eat them whole, saut_ed, is akin to robbing a morel mushroom bank.

Johnny Three-Sticks and Kim stayed for the evening meal: spicy Tandoori chicken thighs broiled outdoors and homemade potato salad. Jeanne made a raspberry pie from our remaining wild raspberries, gathered last summer.

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