Dale cleared his throat quietly and pointed toward the big stainless thermos sitting on an oak stump behind him.

“My friend Amy made hot black coffee before four this morning.

There’s plenty in that jug for the five of us.”

Russ Lindahl rubbed the back of his neck with a callused hand and looked down at his boots.

“We came up this ridge expecting a fight over Brad’s posted signs.”

“There’s no fighting with veterans on this ridge,” I said, stepping past Dale into the open morning light.

“My grandfather Arvid made this place for men who served.