It is springtime in New York State. The elemental scent of thawed earth laces the air. Freeze-dried moss greens in the pale, lemon-yellow sunlight. Sunbeams filter through the pine boughs and lay in bright slivers on the forest floor. Wild turkeys lope silently across rust-colored pine needles. In the distance is the sounds of chopping. Another logging operation? No—happily it’s the sound of a hiking trail being cleared upstate—the northernmost reach of the appropriately named, eagerly awaited, Long Path.