From their upper deck, the lake view was now almost completely open.
That was when disbelief became anger.
I did not shout.
I did not walk over there.
I did not call Gary.
That surprised me later.
I am not naturally confrontational, but I am capable of anger.
This was different.
Maybe because the damage was irreversible.
If someone damages a fence, you fix it.
If someone drives across grass, the ground recovers.
If someone cuts a mature tree, an apology does not put it back.
I walked the line.
Every stump was clearly inside my fence.
Not straddling it.
Not growing through it.
Inside.
The closest roughly six feet.
Several ten to fifteen feet.
The largest maple almost twenty feet onto my property.
The fence itself was intact.
Whoever entered had either come through my driveway, crossed from the road, or climbed the fence.
I pulled out my phone.
Photographed everything.
Then stopped.
I realized I did not yet know how to document properly.
So I called Dale Jensen.
Dale owned the parcel north of mine.
Seventy-one.
Retired county surveyor.
He had spent thirty-five years locating property boundaries before GPS equipment became common enough to make his old transit look prehistoric.
He answered after two rings.
“You busy?”
“I’m retired.”
“You say that every time.”
“Still true.”
“I need your eyes.”
“What happened?”
“Trees.”
Twenty minutes later his truck came down the road.
He got out wearing an old canvas jacket.
I said nothing.
He saw the stumps.
“Oh.”
That was all.
We walked.
Dale knew several older control points from surveys he had worked on decades earlier.
He did not pretend that made him the official surveyor for the dispute.
He was careful about that.
But he could tell me whether my understanding was obviously wrong.
He pulled a tape from his truck.
Measured from the fence.
Looked at terrain.
Compared old post locations.
Then said:
“Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“Those trees were yours.”
“You're sure?”
“As a retired surveyor giving you an informal observation?”
“Yes.”
“As somebody whose statement you use in court?”
“Get a current licensed survey.”
I appreciated that distinction.
He took out a small notebook.
Wrote:
March 26, 8:47 a.m.
Observed eleven fresh tree stumps east boundary Mercer parcel.
All observed stumps west of existing fence.
Approximate offsets six to eighteen-plus feet.
No visible evidence fence recently relocated.
Recommend formal boundary survey.
He signed.
Then handed me the page.
“That is what I’m willing to say today.”
“Perfect.”
Dale looked toward the Warner deck.
“You going over there?”
“No.”
He glanced at me.
“Good.”
“You think so?”
“I think you're angry.”
“I am.”
“Angry people should collect things before they say things.”
That sentence became my strategy.
I returned to the house.
Opened a new folder.
Not figuratively.
A physical file box.
Then a digital directory.
TREE REMOVAL - EAST BOUNDARY.
The first document was Dale’s note.
Then photographs.
Wide.
Close.
Each stump numbered.
I photographed a measuring tape from the fence to each stump.
Not because that would replace a survey.
Because conditions change.
I recorded GPS coordinates using my phone.
Again, not survey-grade.
Reference only.
I photographed tire impressions near the access road.
Boot prints.
Brush pile.
Sawdust.
Cut surfaces.
The Warner sightline from my own property.
Then I found my original closing survey.
Deed.
Title insurance policy.