At the end of a dirt road on a hillside in Vermont is an old hollow tree. In my youth, it marked the boundary between my parents’ land and the dense maple and pine forest that spans thousands of acres along the rolling hills. The tree is very old and very dead. When I would enter the forest, I would always throw a stone into its large hollow before tearing up the old logging road with stick in hand to fight dragons and explore the woods. I happily wandered through every good green place — the sunny forest clearing where all the logging roads meet, the deep gully that collects tangles of deadfall trees perfect for climbing, the old overlook high up on the hill with the old camper trailers — receiving stings from nettle and bites from briar, building forts and cultivating an overwhelming love for all things that grow. As this wandering, daydreaming, and adventuring continued through my adolescence, the dark tangles infested with goblins became a study in which to read, and the climbing …