Sometimes—while hiking stretches of the Appalachian Trail, while driving cross-country, while forging new relationships—I imagine myself an explorer discovering inhabited lands. I imagine myself surrounded by plants I have never seen, mountains I have never climbed, rivers I have never crossed. I imagine the exhilarating mix of hope and fear felt upon meeting a native people—Maliseet, Penacook, Coo-ash-auke—of making that first failed attempt to communicate, using gestures more than words. I imagine that infinitely tense moment of first contact when the natives decide their reaction. Maybe they will accept me, teach me their language, tell me their stories. Maybe they will deem my motives specious and end my exploits for good. Or maybe they will simply turn me away, send me back into the unknown from which I came. Ruth worked part-time as a clerk at an antique furniture store …
