I had put the forests with their delicate shades of autumn dying feast behind me and the land of my Grandfather into perspective. The stories he had told me as I sat helpless, intoxicated by adventure and a noble spirit inside the frame of a now large man, weathered by time, eaten away by the wrongs he had caused his family, triumphant in the blasts of heroic failures and the conquering of young delusions and milestones, all were lapped up by a young mind powerless to stop the imagination from flooding over in torrents; wave after wave of images that he brought to life with a sensitive and yet commanding air, I now had buried in the forests where the buses refused to go and where the Timber Wolves sit waiting to harvest the dead.