It’s July 4, 1776, at the marsh. The only fireworks were the stars in the night sky before dawn. The only bugling is from trumpeter swans paddling on the water. The only drumming is a pileated woodpecker hammering a tree. The only picnics are elk feasting on bluegrass, clover, willow.

I’m not the first to be thankful for a November walk amidst the drooping oaks, the rain-wet sedges, the bog birch. Far from it. There are the turkeys, for one; the deer bounding off the main trails, their telltale white tails flying up before becoming lost in autumnal camouflage; the sandhill cranes gliding overhead and caterwauling in the glades.

For more than 12,000 years, people have lived and died here.