Two creeks converged in a field on the west end of our farm. It was a three-cornered patch with the best topsoil in the county. I was plowing with my right leg swung casually over the right arm of the seat so I could keep an eye on the plow. Suddenly, without warning, the left rear wheel dropped through the topsoil into a cave dug by the beaver. In place of a lodge in the middle of the pond, they...
