A Shoulder to Land On

There was an afternoon, an Easter Sunday, I believe, when I was 20. I'd taken my bike out for a long ride around Pocatello, across her green foothills, pedaling through historic Old Town, around her winding and circuitous edges, to all the places I'd grown accustomed to seeing through the windshield of Cleo, my car rather than out in the open. I was pedaling up the long line of Pocatello Creek Road, through the neighborhood where I'd grown up. It was a lovely day. The Mormon churchgoers were out in their shiny new clothes, the heathens were mowing their lawns or washing their cars, and I had the street mostly to myself. There was no such thing as iPods and I didn't own a Walkman so I could hear the sounds of the world around me: the birds in the willows along the creek, the barking of the dogs, the laughter of children from their backyards, the rush of hose water and slop of soapy sponges on cars, the voice of a small boy telling his father, "Daddy, look at that bird attacking that man on the bike."

I'd been staring down at the road beneath my front tire, reveling in the feel of my legs working the hill, the crunch of the loose gravel under my tires, the sound of my heart in my ears. That's when I noticed the large bird-shaped shadow descend upon me, it's wings spread wide, it's body hovering directly over and behind mine. I turned just in time to hear it scream and rush at me, snagging my hat and tearing it from my head. I nearly lost control of the bike as I ducked and swerved out of the way. I watched the crow, a big one, shiny and black, turn effortlessly and come at me again, this time from the front, its body swooping straight toward my face, its eyes locked on mine, a scream rising from its throat. I swerved again, put my foot down, yanked hard on the handlebars and turned around. 

"Hurry!" the voice of a man called from his carport. "Get over here!" I pedaled across the street and skidded to a stop directly in front of he and his small son. "That was close," he marveled. "She nearly got you!"

"What the hell..." I stammered through my heavy breaths. "Why...."

"She's been doing it to people all morning. Even a couple of cars. We figure she's got a nest up there somewhere." His eyes scanned the line of trees across the street. "You want some water?"

I nodded as he hurried inside, got a glass of cold water, and returned. I guzzled it down, spilling half of it on my bare chest, barely able to hold the glass in my adrenaline-shaking hands. When I finished I handed it back to him.

"You can stay as long as you like, but I think she's gone. You could make a break for it."

And so I did, pedaling as fast as I could up into the mountains, my head turning this way and that as I kept a look-out for an attack that never came.

This morning I awoke early. There were errands to run and I needed to take my car in for a checkup. There wasn't time to take Duncan on our Saturday morning walk around the lake, so we crossed the street and strolled down the trail that winds through the prairie dog metropolis along the greenway. The birds were loud in the trees and the traffic hadn't picked up on Quincy where they're doing the roadwork, so everything was perfect. Despite tomorrow's imminent snow and days of cold weather ahead of us, the sun was bright and warm and I was enjoying sharing that moment with Roo.

And that's when I saw the shadow. I didn't have much time to react because no sooner had I seen it, and heard the rush of a body through the air, than I felt the soft weight strike my shoulder and stop. I'd ducked a little but when I turned my head I saw the grackle standing on my shoulder, perched as though I was the most natural place in the world to alight. Duncan, who'd also startled, turned and saw the bird, big and black, sitting inches from my face. His eyes widened and he moved toward me. The bird and I stared at one another for what felt like a very long time, me in what surely looked like shock and idiocy, it with what I can only describe as calm trust. It adjusted itself as I stood up, stepped back and forth, its soft nails clinging to my shirt tightly, but not enough to pinch. It was close enough that it could have plucked my eye out had it wanted. Instead, it screeched that rusty swing-set call, hopped forward, fluttered its wings very lightly, and touched down on Dunc's back. Roo jumped sideways, pulling the leash from my hand, and shook the bird loose. It hopped down in the long grass in front of him and allowed him to sniff its back. It screeched again, looked back at me, and then flew away as though there was nothing out of the ordinary, just another Saturday morning adventure. My heart was racing in my chest and Duncan was on full alert, his eyes alternately scanning the grass where it had landed and the trees above us where the grackle had vanished. After a few moments he barked and wagged his tail, I laughed, and we continued on our way, the soft weight of the grackle forever remembered by my shoulder.



*Please leave a comment. They're like lovely little morsels. Thanks!

An Effortless Chord

This is one of those things I love about Pocatello:

It was just after six this morning. It was still very dark out, without even a faint glow of light spilling over the mountains behind my mother's home. The low, wispy clouds from last night had drifted away and the sky had the kind of clarity and depth that buckle my knees every time I see it. Mom had turned the Christmas lights on and their warmth, gold and red on the blue of the snow, cast a welcome glow through the trees and the empty flower beds. There were two kinds of wind, the big one roaring through the narrow valley of the Portneuf Gap not far from here, and the wind churning its way down the mountain behind us. The house shielded us from its bite but not the soft whine of its voice as it rolled through the washes on either side of us. And then, from the city five miles north of us, came the low bass hum of a train whistle. The trains used to be one of my favorite things when I lived here. You can hear them from anywhere in town, the loud clang as the cars lock together, the grind of their wheels on the track, and that groan of the whistle. On the rare occasions I stayed overnight at a friend's house, I would close my eyes and listen for the trains and imagine I was hearing them from the comfort of my own bed.

This morning, standing with Duncan in the silence of the far south side of town, the faraway wind and the nearby wind, and then the whine of the train, joined to form a nearly perfect harmony, a simple, effortless chord that caused Duncan to pause on the step, cock his head and listen into the darkness. I stepped away from the light of the house and turned my face up into the abyss of space and listened with my ears and body, and smiled as the memories of living here and the comfort of coming home, rolled over me.

I do love being home at Christmastime.

Early Bloom

It seems Spring is over and we've jumped right into Summer, so much so that our Russian Olive trees have been blooming for the past week, nearly a month before they regularly appear.

I hadn't been paying attention and then one evening, after the sun dropped low and the air cooled, Ken and I took Duncan out for a slow walk down The Run, quiet, transparent clouds of gnats and other hovering motes dancing in the air before our eyes while a lazy breeze drifted across the golf course, the tall grass that grows along the fence line rolling under its touch. Dunc ambled ahead and Ken and I were doing what partners do on slow evening walks, talking about the unimportant things like the shape of the clouds or the falling snow of the cottonwood seedlings, when suddenly it caught me, that familiar buttery mint sweetness of my youth on the foothills of Pocatello. It stopped me dead and I caught Ken's arm and squeezed, startling him.

"There," I exclaimed. "Do you smell it? Close your eyes and smell it."

He did as I asked and nodded. "The Russian Olives?"

I could hardly speak, standing as I was, inhaling the sweet air, feeling the gold veins of the fragrance course through my lungs and into every inch of my body.

"Yes," I said finally, a smile spreading across my face. "The Russian Olives. They're here."

And everything will be good because normally they don't come until the middle and end of June, when I plan on flying east with my family. I'd feared missing them but Nature found a way. I will take a clipping of a branch, wrap those precious yellow blooms in a bag and carry them with me. Flowers for flight.

Grrroomed, Again

It has been three years since I've had Duncan professionally groomed. It's not that he hasn't had a ton of baths and good brushings since then, or even the occasional trim around the tail feathers, feet and ears, it's that his papa is cheap and lazy and didn't want to drive all the way across Denver to see Diane, the groomer who worked with him last time. I've managed myself, alternating between our tub and the ones at Wag n' Wash––which has had its share of adventure––just up the street, but I figured it was high time we got him cleaned up, especially because we'll be leaving for Idaho on Wednesday morning and Dunc needs to look extra cute for Grandma. Unfortunately Diane's schedule was full and we couldn't get him in to see her, so I called Chelsea at Hero's Pets to see who in the area she recommended. She praised It's a Dog's Life, which is right up the street, so yesterday morning, after a nice long walk and plenty of rolling in the wet grass trimmings at the park––one last opportunity to get nice and grungy––we headed over there to get the deed done. Knowing there would be plenty of treats involved and an opportunity to show off his rugged good looks, Dunc was more than happy to hurry down the stairs to the car and head out.

They were very kind and patient when I explained that there is almost nothing he hates more than the roar of the big driers and the best way to calm him is with the big fat bag of Coconut Cruncher banana treats and Gus's Green Bean treats I brought along just in case. They insisted they'd never had a problem with the driers but humored me and took them anyway. I gave him one last scritch behind his ear, kissed his nose and watched them lead him back into the grooming room. He paused in the door, looked over shoulder at me with an uncertain raise of his eyebrows and vanished inside. A moment later as the door closed behind him the relative quiet of the reception area was shattered with his loud wails and one or two plaintive barks. "Yeah, I think you'll need those treats," I told them as I hurried out the door.

 

I spent the next two hours getting the car detailed, figuring that if Duncan  deserved to be shiny and clean for the trip the car did, too. It took them forever to get rid of all the red hair that had collected in the backseat from Duncan's travel there but eventually they handed me the keys and I climbed inside. I hurried home to wash the blanket I keep back there for Dunc to sit on and then Ken and I got the call that it was time to pick him up. They led him out, bright and clean, a big wide wag on his tail and a matching smile on his face, a blue bow secured around his collar, the bag of treats nearly empty when they handed it to me.

"Got some use out of those, did you?" I asked with a smile.

And so he came home, happy and thirsty, smelling clean, his coat soft and smooth, ready for the long drive to Idaho and his grandma waiting there for him with treats and hugs and lots of love.

Listening to the Snow

It is a quiet night, a snowy night, one of the first we've had in Denver all year. Duncan and I stepped outside for a walk down to the mailbox, the snow falling cold on our faces, crunching softly under our feet. While he sniffed the places he hasn't visited while we were in Idaho for a week, I closed my eyes and listened to the snow fall, a nearly imperceptible crystalline sound, like a whisper of bells through the trees. I am glad to be home and off the treacherous Wyoming highways we braved yesterday, but that sound, that faraway holiday tinkle of snow falling on branches and other snow, made me miss home more than I have in a long time. It would be nice to be there tonight, sitting near the people who love me, the firelight flickering on the faces, the smell of mom's candles filling the room.

The sound of the falling snow and the silence of the city around me have reminded me how much I miss them, how precious being there is. A line from a Cole Porter song has been running through my head almost constantly:

There's no love song finer

but how strange--the change

from major to minor--

ev'ry time we say goodbye.

We had a wonderful visit, much of it spent sitting at home in front of the fireplace talking with mom or walking up the hillside behind her home to the wide sage plain that overlooks the Portneuf Valley, Duncan ambling at my side, nose to the ground, hunting out bleached deer bones rather than squirrels and rabbits, his tail standing tall above him. He loves it there in a way that is magical to me, and seeing it through his eyes is like seeing it in a new way, or for the first time. I marvel at his wonder for the lichen which grows vividly green at the base of the junipers and the way he rolls in it, pushing his face into its softness. Or the way he wanders far ahead of me through the narrow winding tunnels of the tall sage until he is good and lost and then stops and listens for the sound of my boots on the soft, breakable shale, then sprints back in my direction, his eyebrows raised excitedly, a smile wide on his face, a look in his eyes as though there is much he discovered, all of it amazing and important, from the peeling bark of the junipers to the wide field of once-purple nettles now fallen over, pushed by the wind and laying flat like a blanket across the ground.

I love my dog more than many, many things, but I love him so much more in Idaho, where the world becomes wondrous, where my mother dotes on him and plays with him, where the wind stirs the red hair on the top of his head and Zeus, the neighbor dog, scampers alongside us, where his love of the world is bigger than the plains, longer than the valley where Pocatello nestles, and higher than the clouds that spill like great plumes of water down the mountainsides I call home.

Apropos of Nothing

I have a strange memory. I remember everything (although there are portions of my senior year in college I will admit to having blanked out on, which is probably for the best). I can tell you what clothes I was wearing on certain days and can even tell you what day of the week it was. I know which gas stations I used to stop at on my long drives from Chicago to Pocatello and what songs were playing on my stereo at certain points on those trips. On more than one occasion my friends have heard me say ridiculous things like, "It was Friday the 12th because on Monday the 8th we all went to that dinner where so-and-so tripped because he was wearing those shoes he'd bought downtown the Thursday before. When we skipped class. Remember?" It simply does not quit.

I'm telling you this because it was two years ago tonight I was sitting at my desk waiting for Ken to come home from work. It had been a busy day grocery shopping for our quiet Thanksgiving dinner later in the week, tending to the chores and taking some time out to watch bits of Gone with the Wind (as I do every year right before Thanksgiving). Duncan and I had been playing and dancing (to Jimmy Sommerville's cover of the Frankie Valli hit, "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You") and I was in a silly mood so I downloaded a photo off the internet, which I hung, as a joke, in front of his food bowl and water dish, just to see if Ken would notice (he did. Two days later). When I moved a few months later I brought that picture with me and put it up for him again. Numerous people have asked about it (I can even remember who) and I always tell them that although I don't understand Duncan's "lifestyle" I support his right to live the way he wants.

If Duncan could talk I'm sure he's either thank me or say nothing and merely shake his head.

Time Capsule

Duncan and I have come home to be with my family and say farewell to my grandmother.

While it was not the easiest journey, we made it safely and despite the shocking cold in the air--yesterday morning was vaguely October-ish even with all the green in the trees and on the mountains--it was well worth the trouble. I have been in need of a quiet and peaceful place, searching for an escape which I finally found in my mother's garden.

While Duncan plays outside with Zeus, the neighbor's German Shepherd, I wander across the grass and marvel at the place my mother and Kevin have carved out for themselves on the edge of the desolate and sage-riddled desert foothills. It is lush and green here like we don't have even in Colorado. The calendar may say that summer is nearly upon us but in Pocatello Spring seems to only have just begun. The ground is still very soft and dark and moist, and the garden is practically dripping with nectar. The Russian Olives have not yet bloomed even though they are nearly finished in Denver where the Lindens are already beginning to open and waft. As Duncan and Zeus frolic and chase one another I find a nice warm, sun-dappled spot in the shade and listen to the birds, which come in colors I have not seen since I left Illinois: the tanagers with their bright heads, the magpies, purple and cobalt in the sun, the tiny darting hummingbirds, so small and fragile but so fiercely territorial. The air smells clean and delicious and rich enough that I can almost lap at it with my tongue. A buck meandered into the yard and excited Roo, who chased it off before returning to me.

This place is a time capsule where magic can unlock memory. I drive the streets past new buildings and homes, up mountain roads that wind and wend, my muscles somehow remembering where the potholes are, where to slow for dips in the road. There is hardly a place in this town not tied to some precious spot in my heart, and with very little effort I can see the faces I surrounded myself with twenty and thirty years ago. The Universe always listens and sometimes it answers us if we ask the right question. Just yesterday I literally bumped into my friend April and her two sons, the very April I wrote about a week ago but did not expect to see or hear from. There is great magic here indeed.

I have forgotten how perfect this place can be at times and shouldn't have to work so hard to be reminded that no matter how isolated I sometimes feel in Denver, that there is a home here for me, a place where I feel rejuvenated and safe, even if only through photographs and sweet, golden memory. Immaculate and untouchable.

To:

April,

It has been a very long time, my old friend, and although our lives have changed dramatically since last we hugged and shared one of our many perfect and poignant farewells, you have been on my mind a great deal. I think of your sons and marvel that I have never met them, that they probably don't even know I exist. I think of the Pretty Girl with Pink, Round Cheeks, the Handsome Young Man and the Little Red Car. I think of how shocked our younger selves would be to discover we'd not only lived past thirty but that we were nearing forty.

Lately, as the Russian Olives have come back into bloom I have been thinking of the safe, quiet spot in Idaho we called home for so long, and how it was you who taught me that although it wasn't a place we felt comfortable, or a place that offered us the kind of opportunities we dreamed of pursuing in our lives, it was our home and that it would always be there waiting for us, even if only in memory. And most importantly there was a beauty there that should never be overlooked.

Duncan has been leading me to the Russian Olives this week, somehow knowing how important they are to my spirit. Growing up in Idaho I never noticed them, which seems strange because you can hardly throw a stick there without hitting one. In my memory Johnny Creek, that long and winding road up to your parent's home, was practically infested with them. They always looked rather weedish, like something that springs up along the edges of a dusty Idaho stream. Their pungent aroma was so strong at times it was almost sickening and made me recall childhood fishing trips standing on the shore of a lake or the bank of a river mere feet away from where some bottom-feeding sucker lay rotting in the sunshine, it's rainbow scales faded and gray, it's puckered mouth agape, discarded but refusing to be forgotten.

It wasn't until you joined me in the Midwest where the Russian Olives don't grow, that I learned to love them so voraciously. Their absence was heart-wrenching and pained you greatly. Often we journeyed across the vast, bland plains to our mountainous home and as soon as we entered The West you'd hang your head out the window, or take long walks at rest stops and just breathe, your head tilted back, your face turned into the dying blue of the day, your eyes picking out the first twinkling of faraway stars. "That is the smell of home," you'd tell me in a whisper. "Do you remember? My favorite smell in all the world." So I'd stand with you and just breathe until I felt Pocatello racing through my veins, pumping the blood in my heart, igniting images of those mountains and our valley and all the years we'd spent there.

The summer Aran had his truck and let us take the top off, we spent our nights driving through the mountains and down onto the desert of the reservation and each time you caught a whiff of your tree you seemed to change, become someone far wiser, someone who took nothing for granted and understood the deeper meanings and subtler nuances of all creation. Your unruly mane of chestnut hair lifted up, caught on the wind and whipped across your cheek, sometimes catching on your fire-engine red lips, where you'd pull at it with a perfectly manicured fingernail, tucking it safely behind your ear. You never looked more beautiful than on those nights.

So I smell the Russian Olives each day when I walk Roo, and at night when the air cools I open my windows and they waft through my small apartment––the one I never envisioned for myself––inciting dreams of days I'd give anything to revisit. I think of you and how big the hole in my heart has become with your absence. I think of Ken, now living in Milwaukee, so close to you, and how there's almost nothing I wouldn't do to spend an evening with just the two of you, smoking a cigarette, talking and laughing so hard we'd be hurt the next morning.

I don't know if you'll ever read this, but if you do I hope there's nothing you take for granted, that you have been taking care of my Messy Little Man, that there is still something in you that burns as fiercely as that creature I rode shotgun with across the roads of The West, the one who taught me  a love of simple things and a love of home I never understood, the one who introduced me to the wild, weedy trees that pain me with longing and gratitude.

I hope you are still immaculate and untouchable.

Blessings of Silence

Tonight on our walk there was a moment after the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the light slowly extinguished from the sky like a candle flame swallowed by rising wax, when the world held its breath and we stopped moving down the path. Strangely the geese on the fields were quiet and even the light traffic on Bowles seemed to come to a standstill. Duncan stopped and looked at me as his leash fell slack on the icy sidewalk and I thought of those last few minutes in Pocatello, just before we left town.

I'd pulled off Philbin Road and up the lane toward Ruth's parent's house and the giant green barn I've wanted to explore for the past twenty one years but have somehow managed to never set foot in. It was a cold morning. I could see the frost building up on the fence posts. Even the gravel beneath us was crystalizing. Pocatello was at the base of the mountains in the distance, the morning just bright enough that not even her street lights could be seen. I stopped the car and rolled down the window and breathed in that sweet Idaho air once more, relishing the silence out on the potato fields a quarter mile from the reservation. I climbed out and looked south toward the orange line in the sky. Duncan turned in the backseat and leaned out the window to follow my gaze. An entire day's adventure loomed ahead of us, six hundred forty miles, most of it yellow and windy Wyoming. My body was already beginning to vibrate as though the road had begun to pass beneath us at seventy, eighty, and sometimes ninety miles an hour. But at that moment, with the day still only a vague notion, only the silence mattered, the silence and the journeys we'd made together.


Tonight, on this the first night of the new year, with Pocatello and my family so far away, with another Christmas only a memory, the silence and the oranging light above the mountains was like a wish for peace and health and love, for kindness and pleasant dreams of flying, all the good things one could hope for as the calendar turns over once again. It was a wish for the future and a prayer that the past is able to find its place and be content there.

And as the moment of silence ended––for it was only a moment, lasting only as long as it takes two hummingbirds to kiss––as the world swallowed and its ears popped, as the traffic noise returned and the geese took flight and the ice on the lake shifted and moaned softly, Duncan and I stepped together into the new year. We have shared many steps, weathered many storms, but also many idyllic days and nights. Here's to hoping the blessing of the new year join us in our journey.

Spoiled

Duncan loves my mother. A lot. After working hard at keeping him from begging for people food, or even coming in the kitchen, it was my mother who undid all my hard work by introducing him to turkey, feeding him in the kitchen and letting him beg for it. And even though I scolded her and continue to tease her about it, it's become a bit of a tradition whenever they're together. They sneak and connive and plot behind my back and there's nothing I can do about it.

When we pulled up the drive last night after a ten hour trek across the vast bland yellow that is Wyoming, Dunc was more than ready to get out of the car. Except for the soft blue and green and red lights glowing along the eves, the house was dark and quiet. I was afraid no one was home but soon the door opened and mom was standing on the walk beaming from ear to ear. Duncan, who'd already begun pacing and whining softly went from zero to eight thousand at the sight of her. He jumped up and pawed at the window, his whine turning into a prolonged, high-pitched jet engine wail. I turned off the engine as Mom rushed forward and opened his door. He jumped up, straight at her, chirping like a rabid parakeet as he clutched the sleeve of her jacket in his teeth and led her back and forth through the dusting of snow on the yard as though he were showing her around.


This morning we went to her shop to get my hairs cut. I had barely turned my back when she fed him a lollipop. She held it up hoping he'd take a few tentative licks, which he did.


She was not, however, prepared for what followed. He quickly decided that cherry suckers were his very most favorite things in all the world (right up there with a roll in the snow and turkey fed directly from Grandma's fingers). Before she could react he slurped up the entire thing and fought her for control of it.

She squealed and pulled and fought back as hard as she could but he can be surprisingly tenacious, especially when it comes to things as wonderful as cherry-flavored lollipops.

Eventually her only recourse was to beg and plead.

He's spoiled rotten but it looks like I'm going to have to keep my eye on mom rather than Roo.

Not Just a Mountain, Not Just a Walk

When I lived in Illinois, or The Shire as I like to call it, all that flatness and rolling green monotony tended to unnerve me after awhile. I'd been born and raised in The West, where the landscape can be desolate and magnificent, where mountain ranges offer shelter and safety, and the people, for all their crazy religious and political faults, are wild and dangerous, but somehow beautiful in their purity. After months in Chicago's suburbs, nothing brought me more joy or peace of mind than returning home to Idaho, driving up to my special spot in the mountains that surround Pocatello and sitting or walking in silence while a summer breeze played with the bumblebees and wildflowers, or a winter wind ravished the junipers and the sandstone cliffs. Mountain Therapy, I called it, and it was so precious to me that only a few hours of it could sustain my mental health for months, or even a year.

When Ken and I moved to Denver ten years ago we spent our weekends exploring the area, driving up to Lyons and Estes Park where we sipped Bloody Mary's at the Stanley Hotel, or visiting Keystone and Steamboat, venturing south to Pikes Peak and Colorado Springs, where the crazies live, driving through the San Juan Mountains and over Wolf Creek Pass, feeling as though the car was flying and not touching the ground at all. Ken had grown up in the Midwest and there was something magical about watching his face each time we rounded a curve in the road and entirely new vistas opened up before us, jutting mountains, treacherous valleys, an endless expanse of desert, sage and antelope.

And then I got sick. I couldn't conceive of visiting the mountains let alone leaving the safety of my home. The anxiety robbed me of much of my ability to enjoy the things which were at the core of who I was. For an entire summer I laid on my couch unable to read a book or watch television or listen to music. Duncan stayed with me, though, and looked after me, offering his weight as a brace when I was so dizzy I could only crawl to the bathroom. When the panic attacks got bad, when my chest felt as though it would explode and my brain throbbed and raced as though it already had, when I couldn't breathe and began doubting my strength and how much more I could endure, he would climb onto the couch, step softly onto my chest and look directly into my eyes, matching his breathing to my own and then slowly, almost imperceptibly take longer and deeper breaths, soothing me and bringing the calm I thought would elude me forever. When I had no faith in myself or my doctors, Duncan stepped forward and reminded me that magic still exists in the world and that not all of it could, or should, be explained.

There have been a hundred small triumphs in the four years since, almost all of them things that most people don't even have to think about, like driving to work, going to a movie, standing with pride in a crowd of two-hundred thousand people at an Obama rally, traveling to and from Idaho in severe weather with only Duncan and my magic feathers to keep me sane. But yesterday, quite unexpectedly, The Universe offered me another chance to reclaim a part of myself I felt had been lost.

Duncan, Olive, Winnie, Pip and I had hunkered down on the couch, pulling the blinds, turning on the AC, trying our best to avoid the heat which raged outside. It was a bright day, hot and dry. The dew had burned off the grass early and I didn't really want to go outside, but after Duncan, sprawled beside me, sighed with boredom and turned to rest his chin on my hip––unsettling poor Winnie, who only barely tolerates him––I decided we needed to try something new. A walk through the park just wouldn't cut it, so before I knew quite what I was doing, I'd started packing water bottles and doggy bags, sunscreen and everything else we'd need for a nice afternoon walk in the mountains. It was time for a little Mountain Therapy.


Moments after making the decision, we were in my car and on the road to Chautauaqua Park in Boulder. I've been there several times, once to see my friend Marc graduate from Naropa, once with Rick on a day when the mountainside was taken over by a mother bear and her two cubs, and once two years ago when Traci had paid me a visit. We had taken Duncan and attempted to climb the trail to the Royal Arch, but Traci is an asthmatic from Chicago (elevation 500 feet) and I was a smoker and the trail was a lot more strenuous than we'd anticipated for a leisurely Autumn walk. We made it halfway, which was a good place to turn around, especially since neither of us was serious about the climb. We simply wanted to be outside where the air was crisp and smelled of pine.


Yesterday was much warmer, which made the shade that much sweeter. The climb through the meadow to the base of the Flatirons was tough in the heavy sunlight, but once we reached the treeline and began the ascent, the air cooled and the breeze coming down the canyons was sweet and gentle. The rocks and eroded trail, however, were not, and as the switchbacks became steeper and more frequent my anxiety began to increase. I poured Duncan water into his fold-up travel bowl and took sips from the bottle, watching as our supply began to dwindle. Halfway up my inner conversation amped up and I began to doubt we'd make it at all. I know my limits––have become well acquainted with them over the course of the past four years--and took no shame in the thought of turning back. But we didn't. We pressed on, taking frequent breaks to rest against the sides of enormous boulders and listen to the silence of the mountains, the call of the hawks and the scurrying of the chipmunks playing tag in the wild berry bushes along the edge of the trail. People often passed us, but once we resumed our march we'd pass them as they rested in their own spots.


It was grueling and at times frightening. As the doubt and panic increased I started worrying not about reaching the goal, but the return hike and the subsequent drive back to Denver in heavy afternoon traffic. Each step up that occasionally nearly-vertical trail became more and more difficult. I began to judge myself based on the ease with which our fellow hikers marched along unaware of the difficulty I was facing, not just physically, but emotionally as well. Their mountain was not my mountain. We were on two completely different journeys, two different paths.


And then, after nearly two hours of marching up steep canyons and back down through winding valleys, we neared the end. The blood was pumping in my ears. The back of my neck was constricted and ached. My heart raced in my chest. Duncan was panting and kept looking at me questioningly, as though unsure of my safety. But we marched on, a small group of people in front of us and a couple out for a leisurely afternoon behind us. Dizzy and on the verge of utter panic, my despair and self-loathing at their peak, I collapsed on a rock and sat taking huge gulps of air as a million thoughts raced through my mind: Why had I done this? Why had I done it alone? Why had I left the cell phone in the car? Why had I not brought more water? Who did I think I was that I could accomplish something like this? Who would help us if something happened? What would happen to Duncan if I was carried down the mountain a raving lunatic?

I shook my head and heard that part of my brain I know too well rise up and speak to me. You don't have to go on. You can turn around. It's not a big deal.

And then, as if in answer, the woman in front of us, the self-proclaimed leader of her group, turned back and saw me. She hopped down a few rock outcroppings toward us and yelled at me. "Come on, man. Get up. You can do it. You've only got three minutes and you're there."

I felt my body collapsing inside itself and shook my head again. "I don't have three minutes in me," I gasped.

She came closer. "Turn around," she yelled at me. "Turn around and look. You're there! Forty-five seconds! Get up now!"

I looked over my shoulder and saw it, the Royal Arch, an enormous stone bridge crossing from one side of the trail over the other. I could not calm myself enough to think, so Duncan, sitting at my feet, panting and watching me, thought for me. His leash was around my wrist and curled tightly in my hand. He jumped to his feet and scrambled up the last few boulders, his feet nimbly catching on each rock and propelling him forward. I had no choice but to follow. I stumbled after him, leaving the water bottle where I'd been sitting. I crawled on all fours up the boulders under the arch, and then suddenly we were at the top looking out on forever. And with my good dog, my amazing best friend at my side, everything stopped as I caught my breath and let it all go.


There we stood at the top of the mountain, the city of Boulder spread out before us, and Denver beyond that, and an eternity of green plains vanishing into a horizon I suspect was Kansas and Nebraska. The silence was loud and unmistakable, even over the soft conversation of the others who'd gathered to sit and marvel at the size of the world. Duncan perched on a rock and licked my calf as I scratched the top of his head and felt my chest fill with air and relief.

While the others whispered and looked out on their well-earned reward, I sat with Duncan and hugged him, actually teared up as I pressed my face into his chest and whispered over and over again, thank you, thank you, thank you. Once again, Duncan had known me better than I knew myself, had faith in me where I had none, had literally dragged me to my own salvation. My climb meant something different––not more or less––than the climb the others had made. I hadn't conquered the trail or the mountain, I'd beat my fear, which has been great and terrible but now seems a little more transparent, something not quite so permanent.


Eventually I was able to compose myself and made small talk with the others gathered beneath the arch. I took a picture of the couple who'd followed us up and promised to email it to them. The man, Jim, gave me his email address, which he was sure I would forget, but have not. That moment is sealed in my memory, every part of it––the shaking of my legs, the burning of my lungs, the sound of the air at that altitude, the colors of the world. They will be a part of my body forever. That climb is now built into me, a piece of my fabric, something which can never be undone.


After a good long while we began our descent, Duncan leading the way sniffing for chipmunks while I smiled into the sunshine. I repeated the stranger's email address like a mantra and before I knew it we found ourselves back in the broad meadow at the base of the Flatirons, the ache gone from my legs and my spirit a thousand pounds lighter. A storm was gathering over the mountains but the thunder, gray and heavy, and echoing off the rocks, sounded like triumph and glory in my ears. I was practically dancing by the time we reached the car, where Duncan and I shared a bottle of water as the first small, hot raindrops spattered against the asphalt and our skin. The earth smelled, like grass and late Spring and I could not contain the emotion inside me.

I am getting better, one small but significant step at a time.

There are much worse things than anxiety in this world, like the loss of loved ones to terrible diseases, or unjustifiable wars, poverty and hatred. My story isn't much, but I'm glad it's mine. Getting sick and then getting better has taught me that no task is too small, that everything has significance and worth, that the destination, however beautiful and rewarding is not nearly as remarkable as the journey.

And that there is nothing--nothing!--better than traveling through this life with a good friend at your side.

Irony

It has been five years since I've been here, but I can not remember an Idaho summer this green. It is impossibly green for July, a green so thick and heavy that in some places the mountains appear nearly black, especially early in the morning or in the evening as the sun sinks into the reservoir west of the city. My corner of Idaho, the place I was born and raised, is a brown and yellow expanse of land, broken up by rolling hills and small mountains, heavy black chunks of lava rock and vast flowering potato fields. It is somehow desolate and comforting all at once.

My mother lives south of Pocatello on a nice chunk of land that backs up against the mountains. Her backyard is a mountain, dotted with tall clumps of sage and wide stands of juniper, with deep washes that run down either side of the property. Normally a visit this late in the summer finds the tall grass long since yellowed and crisp, the flowers faded and a bit wilted and the air sharp and hot in the lungs. This year, unlike any year I've known, heavy rains have fallen nearly every day, prolonging Spring and cooling what is typically an unbearable July, keeping the air fresh but dry, fragrant and easy on the nose. Everywhere I look I see green, tall and limber, as alive and tender as May.

Several weeks ago a massive storm gathered near The Gap, the place my mother lives where two mountain ranges come together, creating a narrow valley. Storms often move through the valley and meet these two enormous walls of land and rock and back up on themselves. But this storm swirled and grew in force until it erupted in one of the most fierce microbursts mom has ever seen. Flash floods raged all around as water spilled down the mountains and into the washes on both side of the house, flooding her backyard and running down into the street, which became a river.

Last night after Duncan and I arrived, tired from a long day's travel across Wyoming, we were warned to stay off the mountain because the flood pushed the snakes down lower than usual. My mother, working her amazing gardens and flowerbeds has encountered several, and the neighbors have reported killing rattlers. Duncan has never been to Pocatello in the summer,and his only experiences on the mountain have been in the deep snow. He loves it up there and I've been promising him we'd trek all over. Mom and Kevin's warning was more than a little disappointing.

This morning before I took Duncan for his walk, while mom was getting ready for work, she warned me again. "I wouldn't take him up there," she said. "He's just so curious and I'd hate for him to poke at a snake, especially a rattler."

I nodded and listened, but once she was gone, my dog gave me that look and so we grabbed Zeus, the friendly Shepherd pup from across the street and went up the hillside, running through the juniper, staying out of the sage where the ticks lurk, up and down the hill, back and forth. Duncan was ecstatic and it was all I could do to keep him close. I could stand and watch him run and explore for hours. His enthusiasm and appreciation for all things, old and new, is remarkable.

The morning eventually began to wear off and the sun grew hot. We climbed back down, south of the house to the road, where we walked down the middle, Duncan admiring the stink bugs scurrying for the grass line, and me admiring him.

And then there it was, spread out right in front of us, a long thin snake, tan with black diamonds on its back. I froze, gasped and being terrified of snakes, did a full body quiver. Duncan stopped and stared at the horses, oblivious to the snake directly in front of him. I tightened my grip on the leash and pulled him back close to me. I had no idea what kind of snake it was, and although I was pretty sure its tail didn't have a rattle, those diamonds made me nervous. The snake, of course, did not seem to even notice us. Its tongue spiked out once and only reacted when I moved my hand, sending a shadow across its field of vision, it reared back and looked right at us, capturing Duncan's attention. He bent forward and sniffed it's thin tail, nudging it with his nose, causing the thing to slither a few inches forward. Duncan's tail exploded in joy and he looked ready to pounce.

Duncan was convinced he'd found the ultimate stick, and before I could react, leaned down, scooped up its tail in his mouth and prepared to trot away. I yanked hard as the snake coiled up, startling him. He dropped it and leapt back, his eyes never leaving it as it slithered across the gravel and under a tall clump of lavender.

I could hardly wait to tell mom that the danger was not on the hillside but right in the middle of the road where she'd urged us to walk.

While Washing Duncan

I think Duncan rolled in something dead last night. If it wasn't dead it should've been. It certainly deserved to be.

But then if he hadn't rolled in whatever it was, I wouldn't have been mistaken for a twenty-two year old by the young man--nay, boy-- who worked at Wag 'N Wash where Duncan got his bath.

While my friend Rex and I stood outside chatting late last night, the dogs circled around the trees, mingling with the moths and occasionally vanishing into the shadows for a few moments at a time. Obidos, Rex's Chow/Shepherd/something else mix was good and stayed relatively close, coming when called and keeping his nose close to my pocket where I kept the bag of treats. Duncan, however, crawled down into the lower levels of Hell where he found the most disgusting thing imaginable and decided he wanted to share it with me, a surprise he waited to spring on me until he climbed into bed and nestled down against my pillow. Needless to say, he was banished from the room and pouted in the living room all night and well into the morning.

It has been a hectic day and the rest of the week promises to be just as crazy. You see, my friend Ruth is flying in from Minneapolis on Wednesday so that Thursday morning we can hop in the car and drive to Pocatello where we will celebrate our twenty year high school reunion. We're very excited, but of course these things tend to bring up some silly concerns about age and mortality and other such pleasantries. Naturally an adventure of this magnitude requires a lot of prep: an oil change, a car wash, a hair cut, cleaning of the apartment, laundry, packing, making arrangement for Ken to tend to the cats, and all the rest of it. Discovering that your best friend smells like rotting carcas dipped in Linden dust tends to alter the plans considerably.

So tonight, after working late and missing my chance to get an oil change, I raced home, grabbed Duncan, took him to Hero's to buy enough raw food to see him through our trip home, and then headed to Wag 'N Wash where I discovered I'd missed the last chance to give him a bath. I pleaded, offered to clean up my station and gave them the best puppy dog eyes I could manage, even explaining that this was the one chance I had before tossing him into my car for a nine hour drive to southeast Idaho. Finally, in utter desperation I made them actually sniff him, at which point they cracked under the pressure and gave me a tub, a hose and a supply of freshly washed towels.

And while I washed Duncan, spraying him and kissing his nose as he whined and looked at me like I was torturing him, the nicest young man--nay, boy--made our acquaintance, offering a few pointers and helpful tips while standing awfully close and asking all sorts of questions,which eventually led to me revealing I was venturing home to attend my twenty-year high school reunion.

He cocked his head. "You graduated in '89?" he asked. His eyes grew wide and he stepped back. "That's the year my parents graduated."

It was almost like getting kicked in the nuts, only not as pleasant.

"Sorry, man," he stammered. "I thought for sure you were my age, maybe a little older. Seriously. I thought you were twenty-two."

"You're very kind," I told him. "But you're too late."

"I'm eighteen, " he offered and I pretended not to know what he really meant. And even though I can still hear those words ringing in my ears, That's the year my parents graduated-- a sound not unlike the time I hit an elk and heard the imagined echoing crunch as it smashed against the side of my car for weeks afterward--I have to admit I smiled all the way out the door, Duncan, clean and fluffy, prancing at my side.

It may have been twenty years since I was in high school, but I still have it. Oh yeah.

Now if only I can find the time to get an oil change.

Not Walking, Just Standing

I've spent so much time the last few days unaware of the sun and the brilliant bright mornings which have overtaken us, warming my face and painting Duncan a startling gold by seven A.M.. Duncan has been patient and generous with my spirit, but I wonder if perhaps he has been walking me instead of the other way around. This morning he led me outside and down the yard, turning to look at me over his shoulder as if to make sure of me, to see whether or not I'd noticed the blue of the sky or the softness of the grass beneath our feet, the way its slowly beginning to turn green, despite the inevitability of a heavy March snow. I have been a bad walker, oblivious to the world around us, only the dull scuff of each step along the sidewalk, across the streets and through the park, trapped some place between my head and heart, Roo's leash the only thing grounding me, his soft pull a sort of wandering anchor.

This morning, when the sun seemed garish and harsh, when all I wanted was to climb back in bed and forget the boxes littering my living room and the work that should have begun days ago but hasn't because I'm too tired and too fearful, I longed for sunset and the safety of the stars. I craned my head skyward hoping to spy just one, perhaps low in the west where the sun could not quite reach. And when I didn't find any I felt my thoughts drift over the mountains, across the desert to home, where perhaps one or two still twinkled in the sky above Pocatello. I imagined them, resting just above the hillside across the valley from my mother's house, breaking through the bare trees just outside her big picture window, but even that seemed empty and brought little solace.

I'd never considered what stars do during the day but then I realized they're still there, whole constellations I haven't seen and would never know the names of even if I did. They go no where, it's we who drift and move from one side of the world to the other, and maybe if we're patient, if we wait through the day and spot them early enough in the evening, when they are still sleepy-eyed and groggy, they'll listen to us, hear our voices and offer us the peace our hearts seek.

When I left the school tonight, vowing to take Dunc on a long walk through the park and maybe up the hill to overlook the lake, Venus, the Evening Star, was the first thing I saw, shining almost directly over my home three miles away where Duncan sat waiting for me. The sound of the traffic on Santa Fe Drive faded and for a long moment, not walking, just standing and looking at that bright spot above the mountains, it was just Venus and me. I felt I had to say something to her, maybe remind her who I am and praise her, but the only thing I could think of was a child's rhyme, but somehow that seemed perfect.

Star light, star bright,
the first star I see tonight;
I wish I may
I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.

It was a beautiful walk even if my wish doesn't come true.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

A Walk with Grandma

It was warm today with a donut sky, a big swath of blue ringed by a wide band of clouds which seemed content to swirl around us without ever quite swallowing our patch of sunshine. It was windy, however. A cold wind, the kind that left the fetal folds of my ears feeling bruised and as heavy as stone while the tender pink insides stung and throbbed as though they'd been filled with sand or angry bees. It was a grimacing wind, forcing a pained and rabid smile across my face and my teeth still ache as though I've bitten straight down into hard vanilla ice cream. Even the bottoms of my feet, which were covered by heavy socks and thick rubber soles, are cold, especially the very tips of my big toes. I wonder, on walks like this, when the wind has stripped and plucked the weakest branches from the trees, scattering them across the brittle yellow grass, how Duncan can love it so much, how his tender paws––which feel like soft, stern pillows against my cheeks when we cuddle or wrestle–– can be strong enough to endure the rough cold of the road or the bite of the twigs as they snap beneath him. But there is joy in each step he takes, joy and work, and that's what got me thinking about the hardest walk I've made.

Today would've been my grandmother's eightieth birthday. As Duncan and I trudged across the park, leaning into and cursing the wind even as I said a quiet blessing for the sunshine, which has only recently reappeared on our evening walks, I thought of my last walk with Grandma, which was probably the most important walk we shared. She was an expert at walking and taught me an appreciation for the slow journey and all the unfoldings it can offer our senses. Unlike the rest of my family, I never really enjoyed fishing, unless, of course, I landed one. On most of our family outings Grandma kept me occupied, making the best peanut butter and raspberry sandwiches I've ever had, telling long stories about my mother and uncles, the farm they'd all lived on when the family was young and new, the animals they'd loved and cared for. And we'd walk. While Grandpa was fly-fishing downstream of us, Grandma would lead me down a rutted dirt road, the thick smell of mint rising up as loudly as the horse flies and cicadas which droned insanely from their unseen perches in the trees and undergrowth. It was on those walks she taught me to be vigilant for the deer, which became a sort of trademark of our bond. She taught me to listen and to hum and to tell stories with her.

Her death was a very difficult experience for me but when I was asked to deliver her eulogy I was able to take the lessons she'd taught me and share them with the rest of the family. It was an excruciatingly hot July day so I retreated to my special spot in the mountains south of Pocatello, climbed a hill and settled down under a tall pine on a low rock with a bed of cracked and broken shale spread out around me. With only the sound of the bees and the breeze running down the valley before me, I found the kind of words I think Grandma would've been proud of, words which as hard as they were to speak, brought a silent and tremendous joy to my heart.

It was the last walk which was the most difficult. I hadn't expected to be a pallbearer, and was shocked to see my name included on the list of cousins at the bottom of the program. It was not something I wanted to do and rebelled at the thought. Writing and speaking the eulogy, keeping my composure when all I wanted to do was shout and cry, seemed more than enough for one person to do. I could not imagine carrying her coffin to its spot on the hillside which overlooked the valley where she grew up. I refused and threw what was the last tantrum of my adult life, until my friend Mike called and explained that I should look on it as an honor, to carry her on the last walk we would share. And so I did it, my cousins at my side. We lifted the casket from the car and moved solemnly across the grass to her spot in the shade under a tall tree. I remember each and every step we took and the weight, not just of her dazzling white casket, but of every memory and emotion I carried with me on that hot afternoon, of the faces gathered around watching, the hands clasped tightly together, the heat and perspiration running in a straight line from my collar down my spine.

Duncan entered our lives shortly after my grandmother died and I have been walking nearly every day since, not with the same heaviness of heart, but with the same attention to detail Grandma inspired in me on all those walks all those years ago. And on days like today, when the sun is bright but the wind in our faces is bitter and ornery, when every thought somehow finds its way back to the absence of her, I can take comfort in the details, in humming a little song as I go, in the light dancing through and playing with the wild hair at Duncan's ears and the curls across his back. There is solace and peace in every step we take.

Only Venus

It was an April day today, bright and sunny with dark shadows falling on the grass, which still believes––rightly, so––that it is early January on the edge of The Rockies. I spent most of the day at my dark little desk in the far corner of the bookstore dreaming of walking with Duncan while the sun was still high and the air a surprisingly warm sixty-six degrees. It was not meant to be, of course, as it was dark and cool by the time I arrived home. The sun had left a faint smear of itself on the western horizon, an orange fingerprint hovering above the mountain shadows for an hour or so before even it finally melted away.

But it was still warm for a January night and there seemed to be a sense of celebration in the air, accompanied by the summer scent of steaks on the grill and the far away sound of passing music drifting out of some open car window. We leashed up and with only the slightest amount of regret at not having the sense to fake a sudden bout of stomach flu in order to spend the afternoon playing outside, we turned away from the goose-trodden park and walked down Leawood toward the elementary school where Duncan loves to run back and forth across the soccer field. I have lived in many neighborhoods here in sunny Denverland, including Stapleton, which, at one time, was the place to live, but none have offered the same sort of warm welcome as the familiar-ish homes on Leawood. They remind me of the street where I grew up in Pocatello, and the houses where my friends lived and played. It is not often we get down that way in the winter months so tonight seemed the perfect night to take an extended stroll with Duncan marching ahead of me, his eyes trained on the shadows for a glimpse of the ever present crouching rabbits which linger on the edge of the sidewalks and huddle among the shrubs in the brittle, amber flowerbeds.

There was no sun, but there was Venus, high above in the south, traipsing gently westward, Orion rising slowly at her back. She was bright and vibrant, unwavering, unblinking with beauty as surprising as the day was warm. She was the only star in the sky and once the others had blinked awake, the brightest. While Duncan nosed around the mailboxes and lawn ornaments, I could not take my eyes off her, and wondered for a moment why the sun had seemed so important when Venus was out, offering clarity and calm, the kind I crave so often throughout the day and look forward to on my nightly walks. There was something familiar about her, close and warm and I wished every night could be like this night, with the heavens open and welcome, a warm hand on a cold forehead, a promise that clear winter nights can be as magnificent as any summer day.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

Promise and Potential

Denver almost seems a foreign land since our return from Idaho earlier this week. Pocatello was drowning in snow and the road crews were unable to keep up with the accumulation, which, after being ignored for several days, made driving unpleasant. The roads were icy with deep ruts carved into them and getting anywhere--which normally only takes ten or fifteen minutes--became an almost monumental affair. Denver's roads are blessedly clear, though. In fact all of Denver is clear. You'd be hard-pressed to find snow anywhere except up in the mountains. Even the foothills are barren, their golden grass matted but still visible. The temperatures have been hovering in the low 60's all week, and even the nights are pleasant with warm breezes and clear, cloudless skies. We have walked and walked and played in the sun at the park and today I took Duncan down to Chatfield where he spent so much time swimming last summer. The ponds were iced over and I kept him well away from them, but he didn't seem to mind, running wildly among the trees and low bushes, playing chameleon in the long grass, a silly Golden grin spread wide across his face, warming my heart and holding tomorrow's cooler temperatures at bay if only a little longer.

Why anyone would share their lives with any dog other than a Golden Retriever is beyond me. There is no magic quite like it. With Duncan at my side this new year is full of promise and potential.

Home for the Holidays

I can not conceive of any other place to spend Christmas than in Pocatello. As beautiful as Michigan Avenue is during the holidays, with the big FAO Schwartz window and all the lights on the trees and in the windows, or downtown Denver, with the Civic Center remade in every color imaginable, the capitol building glowing green and red, Pocatello is magical to me because it is so simple, as though George Bailey could run down any of our streets while Ralphie Parker gazes at his Red Rider carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle (with a compass in the stock) from one of the many display windows. The lamp posts that line Main Street and Arthur in downtown are still wrapped in garland and wreaths and the buildings look as though they were made especially for this time of year. People smile as they hurry along under the wide green awnings and I never feel quite as self-conscious whistling Christmas music here as I do elsewhere. The snow can render our narrow streets almost impossible to navigate with any speed and you can forget about parking, but I never feel the hustle and bustle of Christmas here like I do in other places. There is a serenity to Christmas in Pocatello that feeds me and makes me return year after year. Duncan and I have spent a great deal of time driving her streets and walking the road outside my mother's home admiring the lights and the silence, the soft jingle of bells that ring each time a door is opened and closed again, sitting in front of the fireplace in love with home more than ever before.

I suppose, though, that home is wherever my dog and I can sit together and enjoy the world, happy with the gifts we receive but also with those we give.