The walls are pale green. Sheer curtains are very still over a filmy, painted-shut window. There is a smell of medicine in the very warm, heavy air. In an oval picture frame is a print of three roses. Crocheted afghans drape over the back of a sleeper sofa and an ancient recliner. Stacks of papers hold up the black rotary phone.

A mix of maples, beech and birch filter the light, but it is still very bright. Birds sing and a smell of ferns is in the air. Verdant moss cushion granite rocks warmed by the sun.

The path is subtle, a bit hard to see. It is wide, but fallen trees and runoff washouts make the going difficult in spots. But overall it is fairly level. Though unmarked, orientation is possible by observing slight banks left by bulldozers decades ago. Probably ten people on foot use the trail each year.

The marshy lake outlet culminated at a stone and earth dam. Warm, brown water trickled through the aged boards of the spillway. White scum loitered on the surface as the water waited to filter through. Beaver-chewed branches filled the sluice. The smell was sweet despite the appearance of rot--the marsh was living and breathing.

Leaning against a stump, half in the shaded stream, is an aluminum canteen, covered in olive green cotton duck with snaps and a strap.

A tarnished brass skeleton key protrudes from the pine duff. Maybe it's the key to the closet in the back of the boathouse at the dam. No one has ever seen it open.