Behind the “No Dumping” sign shot up with bullet holes, the downhill slope offers up weird findings. They don’t show up all at once, much less by categories, but let me classify some of the more intriguing types.

First, the automotives: I see something not quite shiny, but definitely metallic. A wiggle and a tug, and up comes a rusty old muffler. Something round looks like the bottom of a bottle but, pulled up, reveals itself as a carburetor. Sunlight gleams off an object in the leaves— a chrome steering wheel. Windshield wipers go into my trash bag, along with a big old truck radio.

Next, abandoned apparel: A tee-shirt, men’s colored briefs, women’s lingerie; a single flip-flop sandal here or there, a solo jogging shoe, and more of the same in other places though never matching, never in pairs; one sturdy-looking hiking boot, plus another boot sole and heel without the upper.

Someone thought the forest animals might find a long cell phone charging cord useful. I discovered it neatly folded in an open box. I’m unconvinced that raccoons and ‘possums talk on the phone so I tossed the package into my trash bag.

I decline to roll the dozens of old tires up the steep incline. A television, its thick glass screen punched out, resists coming up from its semi-burial site. One of these days, I’ll haul up the tricycle wheel with pedals still attached. And so far, I’ve left a folded lawn chair and a number of rusting real estate for sale signs. I may get them when I bring a stronger bag, and perhaps a stronger friend.

Speaking of things left where I found them, did I mention the toilet? It’s still sitting on the valley floor, scarcely sheltered by scattered trees. I doubt anyone uses it. You can’t flush it. A purple skink slithered out of it when I took a look.

My friend Pam says this toilet will evolve into a planter growing ferns and moss. If so, someday someone will write a song about the green commode in the valley.