By John McKinney

“What’s wrong with this trail?” the perspiring young sportsman in the Boston Red Sox baseball cap complains to me as I catch up with him at the one-mile marker on Echo Mountain Trail. “It doesn’t seem to be leading anywhere. And it’s got too many of those…turning things, those—”

“Switchbacks,” I offer.

“Don’t you just hate them?”

Even on the beach, my twelve year-old All Star can’t stop playing baseball. Danielgrips a driftwood “bat,” tosses rocks in the air, and hits them into the waves.
 
But something disturbs his hitting. He steps out of his imaginary batters box, peers at the bottom of his feet, and frowns. “Lots of tar today, Dad.”