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hemlock board and batten that was hewn from trees on <strong>the</strong> lot. This is <strong>the</strong> place three m<strong>in</strong>utes from <strong>the</strong><br />
campsite.<br />
Here, a muddy driveway forms one of <strong>the</strong> borders of Knight’s forest. Though, of course, it’s not his<br />
forest. Every night of his stay he was illegally trespass<strong>in</strong>g. I was likewise trespass<strong>in</strong>g, and had resolved to<br />
keep as quiet as possible. Knight’s campsite was somewhere on a two-hundred-and-twenty-acre parcel, with<br />
one year-round house on it, from which Knight never stole. It’s a large piece of property, but <strong>the</strong> North<br />
Pond area sees a regular procession of hikers and hunters and cross-country skiers, and <strong>the</strong> community hosts<br />
an annual boat parade, ice-fish<strong>in</strong>g derby, and loon count. With all <strong>the</strong>se people around, it seemed strange<br />
that Knight’s spot rema<strong>in</strong>ed unknown for so long. Perhaps <strong>the</strong>re was a good explanation.<br />
As I stepped off <strong>the</strong> driveway and <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> woods, <strong>the</strong> mash of trees and shrubs was so dense that <strong>the</strong><br />
forest held its own humidity. My eyeglasses promptly fogged. <strong>The</strong> Chris Knight woods are an old-growth<br />
multispecies forest, a couple of enormous eastern hemlocks tower<strong>in</strong>g above <strong>the</strong> crowd, <strong>the</strong> undergrowth<br />
burst<strong>in</strong>g with ferns and brilliant red-topped mushrooms. <strong>The</strong> explanation for <strong>the</strong> site’s secrecy was <strong>the</strong><br />
jumble of boulders—vehicle-sized, possibly glacier-borne gifts from <strong>the</strong> last ice age, scattered wildly and<br />
everywhere, carpeted with moss and lichen. Half <strong>the</strong> steps I took required handholds, rocks grabbed for<br />
support while branches cracked and crunched, quiet as a car alarm.<br />
O<strong>the</strong>r than central Ma<strong>in</strong>e, <strong>the</strong>re are not too many places <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> United States that could host a hermit like<br />
Knight. <strong>The</strong> Ma<strong>in</strong>e woods are ideally thick—<strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> western U.S., as well as all of Alaska, <strong>the</strong> forests are<br />
generally far more open—and <strong>the</strong> population <strong>in</strong> this part of <strong>the</strong> state is perfectly distributed, nei<strong>the</strong>r too<br />
dense nor too widely scattered, ei<strong>the</strong>r of which could h<strong>in</strong>der a thiev<strong>in</strong>g habit. Plus <strong>in</strong> Ma<strong>in</strong>e <strong>the</strong>re’s both a<br />
keep-to-yourself ethos and a lax adhesion to private property boundaries, so that if you do happen to spot a<br />
stranger walk<strong>in</strong>g about, it’s common to simply disregard him or her. One North Pond cab<strong>in</strong> owner who<br />
lives most of <strong>the</strong> year <strong>in</strong> Texas, where trespass<strong>in</strong>g is less tolerated, said that no one like Knight would have<br />
survived undisturbed <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> Lone Star State.<br />
<strong>The</strong> cryptic <strong>in</strong>structions from <strong>the</strong> handyman were this: “Keep <strong>the</strong> late-afternoon sun <strong>in</strong> your face and walk<br />
up <strong>the</strong> hill.” Okay, but <strong>the</strong>re were a dozen little hills back <strong>the</strong>re, and with <strong>the</strong> boulders it was impossible to<br />
move <strong>in</strong> anyth<strong>in</strong>g close to a straight l<strong>in</strong>e. No paths exist, but summer is rife with mosquitoes and poison ivy<br />
and thorns. P<strong>in</strong>e needles stick to your sweat, and you have to roll down your shirtsleeves to fend off <strong>the</strong><br />
bugs. You can’t see more than a few feet <strong>in</strong> any direction; it’s claustrophobic and disorient<strong>in</strong>g. “<strong>The</strong> billygoat<br />
woods,” Sergeant Hughes called it. <strong>The</strong> locals’ term for this patch of forest, known for repell<strong>in</strong>g<br />
hunters and hold<strong>in</strong>g snow, is “<strong>the</strong> Jarsey,” shar<strong>in</strong>g a name with <strong>the</strong> unpaved Jarsey Road, which cuts through<br />
it.<br />
I had never lost my bear<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> a forest more quickly, so I gave up, fumbled back to <strong>the</strong> muddy driveway,<br />
and sat on a rock to reset, gulp<strong>in</strong>g water. <strong>The</strong> second battle with <strong>the</strong> Jarsey was no better. Even after<br />
carefully align<strong>in</strong>g myself with <strong>the</strong> sun—it was, <strong>in</strong>deed, late afternoon—once aga<strong>in</strong> I was soon wander<strong>in</strong>g<br />
randomly <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> Brillo forest. <strong>The</strong> third attempt was worse. <strong>The</strong> moss cover<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> boulders was damp,<br />
slick as ice, and my foot slipped and <strong>the</strong> weight of my backpack, stuffed with camp<strong>in</strong>g gear and food,<br />
yanked me off balance. I tumbled face-first, bump<strong>in</strong>g my forehead on a rock with enough force to raise an<br />
immediate lump. One of my hik<strong>in</strong>g boots was torn, no match for <strong>the</strong>se woods. Knight walked here all <strong>the</strong><br />
time. Silently. Without <strong>in</strong>jury. At night. How was this possible?<br />
<strong>The</strong> day before, at his office <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> Skowhegan barracks, Sergeant Hughes had sat with perfect posture <strong>in</strong><br />
his starched green game warden uniform and black combat boots and described what it was like to follow