Charles leaned against a tree, panting. “How much farther, Dad?” he asked.

Dad laughed. “Almost there,” he said. “I know, it’s tough going with all this snow.”

Charles bent down to scoop up a handful of the clean, fresh white snow. He bit into it, letting the cold flakes fill his mouth and melt into a sip of water. “You didn’t tell me we were going on a huge hike.”

His father laughed again. “It only feels huge the first time. You’ll get used to it. And it’ll be worth it, you’ll see.” He ruffled Charles’s hair. “I’m really glad you came with me, sport. We’re going to have a lot of fun, and I know Steve will be happy for the help. Plus, we’ll be here for Steve’s annual Spring Fling Wing-Ding.”

“His what?” Charles asked.

“It’s a big open house party Steve throws every year, to celebrate maple sugaring time and the end of winter,” Dad explained. “It’s always a blast.” He started off again, and Charles followed him, plodding along on his snowshoes.

It was spring break time, and Charles Peterson and his dad were on a special father-son trip together. Yesterday, the two of them had driven for hours to get to Vermont, where an old college friend of Dad’s lived. Charles had heard a lot about Steve, and he had even met him when Steve had come to visit one time, back when Charles was only a little kid. But he had never been to Steve’s place in Vermont.

On the way up, Dad had told Charles how Steve lived all by himself, way back in the woods, in a tiny cabin. He didn’t even have a driveway—at least, not in winter. As soon as the snow began to pile up, he skied or snowshoed his way home whenever he went anywhere, parking his truck at the end of a trail through the woods. Steve made his living as a carpenter, but in late winter and early spring he spent his time sugaring—making maple syrup from the trees that surrounded his cabin.

“It must be about ten years since I’ve come up here to help at sugaring time,” Dad was saying now, as he and Charles slogged their way up the snowy trail. “But I’m sure nothing has changed. Steve still makes his syrup the old-fashioned way, all by hand. It’s a lot of work, and he can always use help.”

Charles didn’t know much about making maple syrup, even though Dad had tried to explain it during their drive. He’d been too sleepy to pay attention to the details, but he knew the basics: at the end of winter, the sap in maple trees starts to rise. If you collect it and boil it down, you get maple syrup. Charles loved maple syrup. What was better than a plate of pancakes drowning in a golden-brown puddle of sweetness? That was exactly what they’d had for breakfast that morning at the inn where they were staying. Charles’s stomach rumbled just thinking about those pancakes. With all this hiking, his breakfast had already worn off, and his tummy was empty.

“I’m hungry, Dad,” he said.

“We’re almost there,” Dad said. “Steve promised he would have some lunch ready for us.”

“I didn’t think it was going to be so snowy,” Charles said as he trudged through the soft, wet drifts. They were following Steve’s well-packed snowshoe trail, but Charles still punched through, his whole snowshoe pushing down past the top layer of snow until he was in up to his knees on every third or fourth step. Each time, it was a struggle to pull his snowshoes back out. He could feel the cold wetness soaking through his boots and into his socks.

“I didn’t, either,” Dad admitted. “Steve told me they’d gotten a lot of snow this year, but I figured most of it would be melted away by now, the way it is at home. I always forget how much colder it is up here, and how much more snow they get. Even at this time of year. Steve says there’s always at least one big storm in March.” He stopped to catch his breath. “But look, isn’t it beautiful?” He held out his arms and gazed all around. “The bare trees, the shining snow, the bright blue sky, those puffy white clouds … and it’s so quiet! This is how I always remember Steve’s woods.”

Charles looked around. Dad was right, it was beautiful. He liked the feeling of the cold snow beneath him and the warm sun above. “Is that a sap bucket?” he said. “We must be getting closer.” He pointed to a big, gnarled tree just off the path. Hanging from it was a silver bucket with a lid.

“The welcome tree!” Dad said. “This is always the first one Steve taps.” He showed Charles where a metal spout had been pushed into a small hole drilled into the tree. The bucket was hanging from the spout. “Hear that?”

“What?” Charles asked.

Dad put his fingers to his lips. “Listen,” he said.

Then Charles heard it. Plink, plink, plink. Droplets of sap were falling out of the spout and into the bucket. He grinned up at Dad.

Dad smiled back. “That is the true sound of spring,” he said. He slid back the bucket’s lid to look inside. “Only an inch or two of sap in there,” he said. “Steve must have already emptied this one earlier this morning.”

“Is the sap sweet?” Charles asked. His mouth was dry and he needed a drink.

“Want to taste for yourself?” Dad reached into the bucket and scooped up a handful of sap for Charles to slurp.

The sap was cold. At first, Charles was disappointed because it tasted more like water than syrup, but then it hit his tongue with just a hint of sweetness. He smiled up at Dad. “Yum,” he said, putting his own hand in for another scoop.

“We can fill our water bottles later,” Dad said, scooping up a handful for himself. “I remember now, how we used to always drink the sap while we were working out here. Steve says it’s a spring tonic, really good for you.”

“That’s what Steve says, is it?” Charles whirled around to see who was talking. A tall, thin man with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail stood smiling at them, hands on hips.

“Steve!” said Dad. He stepped over to throw his arms around his friend. Steve gave him a big bear hug in return. “How’d you sneak up on us?”

“I’m like a cat,” Steve said, smiling. “Welcome! I thought you’d never make it, but here you are. And here’s Charles, all grown up.” He stuck out his hand and Charles shook it. “Last time I saw you, you were no bigger than a duckling.”

Charles laughed. He knew he’d been about as big as his younger brother, the Bean, was now, but it was still funny to be compared to a duckling.

“How’s Betsy? And Lizzie?” Steve asked.

Betsy was Charles’s mom, and Lizzie was his older sister.

“They’re great,” said Dad. “Betsy’s working on a big newspaper story about our town’s plan to become more energy efficient. And Lizzie—well, Lizzie’s always busy with something. Usually something to do with dogs. These days she’s trying to teach our puppy, Buddy, how to dance, I think.”

Steve threw back his head and guffawed. “Dancing dogs! What’s next? And are you still taking in all the little puppies of the world?”

Dad laughed. “Well, we are still fostering puppies, but mostly one at a time.”

“Buddy was one of our foster puppies,” Charles told Steve. Charles was usually shy with new grown-ups, but Steve was so friendly. “He’s the only one we kept forever.”

“He must be the best one then,” said Steve.

“He is!” Charles said, thinking of his sweet brown puppy with the heart-shaped white spot on his chest. It would be so much fun to have Buddy along, but Lizzie had refused to let Charles and Dad take him. Charles felt his heart swell the way it always did when he thought of Buddy. His fingers itched to pet Buddy’s soft, warm tummy and ruffle his silky ears.

Steve and Dad were still talking. “And the little one?” Steve asked. “Adam, right?”

“We still call him the Bean,” Dad said, “the way we did when he was just a baby and looked like a little lima bean when he was sleeping. He’s fine, too. Always getting into mischief.”

“Excellent,” Steve said, clapping Dad on the shoulder. “Glad to hear that the family is thriving. I must say it’s great to have you here, old friend. Are you two ready to haul some sap?” Steve pointed to a pair of big blue plastic buckets he’d set down in the snow. “The way it works is, we empty the smaller metal buckets into these bigger buckets. Then we haul the big buckets to an even bigger tank, just over the hill there, and dump them in.” He held up both arms in a muscleman pose. “It’s hard work, but it’ll make you strong.”

“How often do you have to do it?” Charles asked.

“Every day, as long as the sap is running,” said Steve. “And whether the sap runs or not depends on the weather. I hear we’ve got a great streak coming up right now, with the nights under freezing and the days sunny and warm. That’s what the trees love most.” He gave the big tree next to them an affectionate slap. “Don’t you, pal?” he asked.

Charles smiled. Steve was what Mom would call a “real character.” Who talked to trees? Someone who lived among them, Charles guessed. Why shouldn’t Steve make friends with his neighbors, even if they weren’t people?

Charles and Dad helped Steve empty a few buckets on their way to the sugarhouse, pouring the crystal-clear sap into the big blue buckets and then hanging the silver buckets back onto their taps. Charles spilled a little sap onto the snow while he was lifting a full bucket off its tap, but Steve just smiled. “It happens,” he said. “Hey, want to see something? Check out these animal tracks going across the snow.” He knelt down to point out a trail of little paw prints. “I’m thinking it’s probably a fox,” Steve said. “I’ve seen these tracks all around my cabin lately.”

“A fox?” Charles asked. “Really? They look like puppy tracks to me.”