I rode a horse today, with Abe, older son on the farm, a tall lanky good-looking young man, joking in Quebequois to Veronique, a very slim young French woman, long black corkscrew curls, as he saddled her horse. I think he is flirting with her. Our horses are all black. We ride through the beech and the saplings colouring in their red and gold and yellow, brown and orange, all the wondrous colour of the the fall in New England, and in Canada. We push through close set branches, uneven ground, where there appears to be no trail. Reaching a road, the horses trot then canter. Abe gives one bit of advice: if you start to fall off, hold onto its mane - hair won't come off, like a saddle will. I ride well, I don't need the advice. Dismounting, we stand still, three riders and three horses - all very still, quiet, silent. Next we wade the horses through a swamp, with mud, fallen trees, rotting limbs, thickstrewn with leaves of all colours, and sometimes the horses sink to their bellies. Emerging now on an easy path by the maple syrup trees - all blue-piped to pull the sap come springtime, it is growing dark slowly, and a de-lightful yellow moon is rising through the trees. La lune! I call to Veronique, who rides ahead. Apparently my French is bad, because she does not see the moon. As I unsaddle Shine, my horse, I receive a kiss. From Shine.

.... .... ....

Out in the cold night, on the deck of this farm in Quebec where I type this, is my little handheld GPS. It lies on its back, thinking about satellites, not about stars. Soon it will know exactly where it is.

I thought - I want to plot a position for you to see where we are! And road maps (of which we have plenty, from New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine and all the way to Nova Scotia, plus more) do not show latitude and longitude. It is as cold as Hobart in the fall in Quebec. Six degrees now.

Okay, I have it. 45 deg 32.7' North, 071 deg 01.9' West.

Gotta go. More to come.
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