The First Trail Line

I slid down from my suspended bunk and eased past the front door's rubber sweep out onto the open porch planks. Resting against the base of the corner post was a blunt stub of white chalk, smoothed flat on one side. A proper frontier post demands visible transit lanes for any outward march. Bracing my boots against the damp cedar grain, I gripped the chalk stub with both hands and bore down with steady pressure. I dragged it smoothly along the seam of the center floorboard, laying down a crisp, powdery white boundary line straight toward the garden steps. That bright marker gave our morning route an orderly, dependable start.