Sam Anderson

Or that because the grave was originally unmarked, the headstone had been put in the wrong place. Thematically, it's tempting to think that his body is still there, somewhere, just eternally out of reach. That he's even maybe buried under the road. Someone once asked me what I would say to the old leather man if I could meet him. I thought about it for a minute. Nothing, I said.

Or that because the grave was originally unmarked, the headstone had been put in the wrong place. Thematically, it's tempting to think that his body is still there, somewhere, just eternally out of reach. That he's even maybe buried under the road. Someone once asked me what I would say to the old leather man if I could meet him. I thought about it for a minute. Nothing, I said.

That still feels like the right answer. I would just stand there with him, silently, in alienated communion. That's what I felt whenever I sat inside one of the old Leatherman's caves. I was an intruder, but also at home. My body was filling the same pocket of rock that he once filled. And the very fact that I was there meant that the old leather man was not. My presence guaranteed his absence.

That still feels like the right answer. I would just stand there with him, silently, in alienated communion. That's what I felt whenever I sat inside one of the old Leatherman's caves. I was an intruder, but also at home. My body was filling the same pocket of rock that he once filled. And the very fact that I was there meant that the old leather man was not. My presence guaranteed his absence.

I was like a hermit crab moving into another crab's shell. But it also seemed like he was still there, faintly, just vibrating on a different frequency. Like we were sitting in each other's laps across a distance of 150 years. We were alone, together. Sort of like two patches of leather woven into different parts of the same suit.

I was like a hermit crab moving into another crab's shell. But it also seemed like he was still there, faintly, just vibrating on a different frequency. Like we were sitting in each other's laps across a distance of 150 years. We were alone, together. Sort of like two patches of leather woven into different parts of the same suit.

This paradox is one of the things that fascinates me most about the old Leatherman. It is the black hole, you could say, at the center of his loop. He removed himself from society, obviously and dramatically. In doing so, he opted out of all the normal things. He never gossiped, never ate in a restaurant, never mailed a letter, never blew out birthday candles. But he also never fully left.

This paradox is one of the things that fascinates me most about the old Leatherman. It is the black hole, you could say, at the center of his loop. He removed himself from society, obviously and dramatically. In doing so, he opted out of all the normal things. He never gossiped, never ate in a restaurant, never mailed a letter, never blew out birthday candles. But he also never fully left.

He didn't become a true hermit and disappear forever into the deep woods. Day after day, the old Leatherman put himself right in the middle of all the things he refused to engage in. He walked main roads, passed by schools and shops and town halls.

He didn't become a true hermit and disappear forever into the deep woods. Day after day, the old Leatherman put himself right in the middle of all the things he refused to engage in. He walked main roads, passed by schools and shops and town halls.

And so he remained this bizarre in-between thing, an ever-present absence, a visible invisibility, a speck of isolation injected into the heart of society. I felt this paradox most strongly in one of the earliest caves I visited, in the town of Bedford Hills, New York.

And so he remained this bizarre in-between thing, an ever-present absence, a visible invisibility, a speck of isolation injected into the heart of society. I felt this paradox most strongly in one of the earliest caves I visited, in the town of Bedford Hills, New York.

The cave sits directly behind a combination gas station Dunkin' Donuts near the intersection of two major traffic arteries, Interstate 684 and the Sawmill River Parkway. If you know where to look, you can see its opening from the parking lot, a gash of black halfway up the hill. To get to it, you have to look like a weirdo for about 10 seconds.

The cave sits directly behind a combination gas station Dunkin' Donuts near the intersection of two major traffic arteries, Interstate 684 and the Sawmill River Parkway. If you know where to look, you can see its opening from the parking lot, a gash of black halfway up the hill. To get to it, you have to look like a weirdo for about 10 seconds.

Walk past the parked cars, hop on top of a retaining wall, and squeeze between some decorative shrubs. But then you are all alone. You have entered the old Leatherman's world.

Walk past the parked cars, hop on top of a retaining wall, and squeeze between some decorative shrubs. But then you are all alone. You have entered the old Leatherman's world.

No one will see you fighting your way up the steep slope, which is covered in dead leaves and thorny vines and rotting logs, and which is so steep that I lost my footing multiple times and once actually fell and skidded down so hard that my pants filled up with dirt and I lost my cell phone. I found it later perfectly wedged into the crook of a tree.

No one will see you fighting your way up the steep slope, which is covered in dead leaves and thorny vines and rotting logs, and which is so steep that I lost my footing multiple times and once actually fell and skidded down so hard that my pants filled up with dirt and I lost my cell phone. I found it later perfectly wedged into the crook of a tree.

The cave, after all that struggle, felt like a refuge. Its inside was cool and damp. Crickets lived on the ceiling. Although it was deep enough to disappear into, with a slight right turn at the back, I found myself drawn most powerfully to its opening, that switch point between worlds where the light stops and the darkness begins. I sat on a rock at the mouth of the cave,

The cave, after all that struggle, felt like a refuge. Its inside was cool and damp. Crickets lived on the ceiling. Although it was deep enough to disappear into, with a slight right turn at the back, I found myself drawn most powerfully to its opening, that switch point between worlds where the light stops and the darkness begins. I sat on a rock at the mouth of the cave,