Clearance at the Iron Verge

With the map tied securely, I departed the shelter of the cedar bench and marched toward the boundary. The rusted bottom bar of the iron gate hung three fingers above the damp gravel, blocking my advance southward. I grounded my rifle stock into the loam, resting both hands over the muzzle to study the clearance. A wedge of dried oak bark had jammed beneath the gate post, cutting the passage in half. Bracing my shoulder against the cold iron, I nudged the brittle wedge with my boot heel until it cracked and gave way. The gap cleared. Ahead lies the open lane.