“They’re along the south ridge,” I said.

“There are four.”

We walked along the edge of the cornfield and up the steep path into the timber, oak leaves crunching under our boots.

The first stand sat ten feet up in a three-trunk white oak, knocked together out of scrap pine boards.

Gordon set his boot on the bottom rung and leaned his weight onto it.

The bottom board split down the center, cracking straight through around a rusty nail.

Gordon drew his foot back and hitched up his belt buckle again.