BrothersThe forest track rode the mountainside down into a broad meadow bisected by a swift running stream, and ended before a log cabin. My rented Expedition trailed a plume of dust across the wooden bridge to the rustic hideaway I’d impulsively leased for the summer. I’d hoped the seclusion and solitude would inspire me to paint the Great American Landscape Masterpiece. The scenery was certainly conducive to it: beautiful shades of green and brown, and a vaulting blue sky to die for—except it was beginning grow overcast. But even the roiling gray clouds were fantastic.
As I crossed the bridge and pulled up to the log cabin, a squat, aging man crawled out of a Chevy pickup and introduced himself as Old Man Gunderson—that’s how he introduced himself—the property owner. While he made small
