A quarter mile from the parking lot is a ring of stones in the middle of the road. Fifty years ago, I would look ahead of the car to see it, and today I do much the same as I walkâonly it is barely visible now. The stones are buried, and their tops are flush with the surface of the road. As do all rings of stone, they foster in me a sense of mysticism. Who put the ring of stones 14 there? What was it? A campfire? Just for fun, I have taken to doing a kind of war dance on the stones before I go any farther. Sometimes I stuff a bottle of Boston Lager at the bottom of the pack in an ice-filled ziplock bag, and I drink it on the ring of stones as part of the ritual.