Giant is sort of a hogback mountain, with broad faces exposed on both east and west and scarred by several major slides over the years. I’ve been on its 4626-foot summit many times, winter and summer, but very likely never will be again. That’s fine with me; I’ve had my shot.

What I gaze at from the ferryboat is the line of the north ridge that drops down to a col between it and Hopkins. A hiking trail that used to be a logging road runs through that notch, and just below that, on the west side and hidden from my view, lie the almost invisible ruins of an old logging camp – pieces of cast-iron cook stoves, an abandoned forge, an icy spring. It must have been the very devil to get supplies to it from the valley below. On the other hand, the logs they cut must have gone down like a shot.

Farther down the west side stands the place where my memories reside: the hunting camp I went to for just fifty years, starting in 1958. Its first iteration was an outlaw wall tent far up Mossy Cascade (obviously named by summer folks); the second, still slightly illegal, a sixteen-foot-square frame structure with four bunks, a dark canvas Korean War tent for a roof, a pair of stoves, a sink, and almost all the comforts of home.

When November rolled around, I dreamed of little else. The aroma of Hoppe’s Number Nine bore cleaner and gun oil filled my office as I got my Winchester ready. I shopped for groceries and beer to augment what they’d have in camp (I’m not much of a fan of Genesee Cream Ale or Bud Lite). And on Friday afternoon, just as the early dusk thickened, I headed down the driveway, turned west, and headed for New York

It was a trip as ritualized as any church service. I had a choice of several gaps over the Green Mountains as I headed for the bridge at Crown Point. Then Port Henry, Mineville, and the snaky dirt curves of the Tracy Road. Right on Route 9, left on 73, and through the notch separating the Hudson from the St. Lawrence watershed. Down the other side, and here was the truss of the old iron bridge at last. A quick stop halfway across to make a small donation to the distant Strait of Belle Isle; across the meadow, and finally a shift into four-wheel drive for the last mile up the mountain.

No lights were ever more welcome to a traveler than those of the camp glowing through the trees. No voices more cheering than the abuse that greeted me when I stomped onto the porch and swung open the door. My gun went into the rack, my pack onto the bunk set aside for me. Supper was usually in the offing. If somebody’d been successful, it was usually a venison stew called slumgum, with pie and ice cream for dessert.

All that’s long gone now, sixteen years. The Winchester still sits ready in its cabinet, and my heavy wool Ballard pants still hang in the closet. But my hunting is done. I don’t think I’d have the heart to shoot a nice buck anymore, much less the stamina to drag it out. But, oh! the memories!