His farm is off a dead-end road that runs up into the hills; it sits in a natural amphitheater, like a giant NASCAR stadium built by the Romans and worn by time. The driveway in and the lower slopes are lined with apple trees.
Commercial orchards, still fighting the spread of tract houses, roll back from the Thruway and the state roads of the Hudson Valley. They grow apples for cider, or for supermarket shelves, to be displayed between the tangerines and the endives. This orchard is a much smaller operation, half U-pick for locals and leaf peepers, half obsession. The grower is an agronomist by profession. In a bad year, like this rain-soaked one, he begins by asking his clients to tell him what they like about farming; he knows they will be free with their complaints. After hours, he tends his apple army.
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