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churned past Hallstead Island. It was a behemoth of red and black steel, longer than one football field in length, with a small bridge and a large gray smokestack. It passed within a few dozen yards of the island, and I felt like I could almost reach out and touch its massive bulk. I watched in fascination until the stern of the boat passed by. A flag I didn’t recognize, presumably the flag of the nation under which the ship sailed, flapped in the wind from the back of the boat, and several men stood on the deck, watching the scenery go by. They all wore peacoats and wool caps, and they waved at me from their perch high above where I stood. Delighted, I enthusiastically waved back and then watched the boat until it was well down the channel and the waves from its huge wake had stopped slapping against the low stone wall that surrounded the island.
    After the ship had continued on its way, I looked around at the other nearby islands. Now that the ship was gone, the waves lapped softly against the shore again, gentle and rhythmic. The water surrounding the island sparkled in the bright autumn sunshine, like an ever-shifting blanket of diamonds. The islands I could see from where I stood were of varying sizes, and the homes on them displayed different architectural styles. On the island closest to me was a large white Victorian-style home surrounded by beautifully manicured formal lawns and gardens. Across the channel, I could see a large island with an old, rambling red house on it. There were lots of trees on that island, as there were on Hallstead Island, but unlike Summerplace, the red house commanded a sweeping view of the river.
    I continued walking along the river’s edge, keeping far enough away from the water that I wouldn’t have to worry about losing my footing and falling in. I took quite a few pictures of the neighboring islands and of my surroundings. Eventually, I came upon the unique-looking tree that I had seen yesterday from the boat. It was a rather small tree; its trunk grew straight out of the ground for about three feet and then arched over the river, where its slender branches grew both up toward the sky and down toward the surface of the water. Red leaves tinged with saffron swayed in the breeze. I took several photos; then, turning to go back to Summerplace, I noticed a path leading into the denser woods away from the leaning tree, so I followed it, hoping it led back to the house. After several minutes of walking through the cathedral of trees, I emerged at the back of the cottage used by Vali and Leland.
    As I walked back toward Summerplace, Leland came around the corner of the house. When he saw me, he slowed his pace and looked away. Undeterred by his obvious desire to avoid talking to me, I walked up to him and said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Leland. Would you mind coming up to my room and showing me how to build a fire in the fireplace?”
    “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.” I went upstairs and put my camera away, and in just a few moments I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and Leland was standing there glumly, holding a box of long matches, some sticks, and several newspapers. He said, “All right, let’s get this over with.”
    I followed him into the room. He knelt in front of the fireplace and asked over his shoulder, “Do you just want me to light it now, or do you want to do it yourself later?”
    “I’ll light it myself tonight,” I answered.
    Leland proceeded to crumple up several sheets of newspaper and throw them onto the grate inside the fireplace. Then he stacked the small, spindly branches and twigs on the paper. Finally, he took two logs from the small pile next to the fireplace and placed them on the grate, on top of and slightly behind the papers and the kindling.
    “Just strike a match and throw it on the bottom of the pile when you’re ready,” Leland stated.
    I thanked him and he left without another word.
    After a moment, I