Fire on the Mountain

I could see and smell the smoke at work, a seventeen mile drive from where I live. There was a subtle haze on the horizon that smelled like the campfires I remember from my youth but I didn't give it much thought until I drove home and saw the tall billows rising up quite near where I live. The entire mountainside was shrouded in heavy smoke, gray and foul as it gusted eastward, but thick and white and red near the ground. The closer I drove the bigger it got until it took up my entire view, blocking out the sky and the mountains.

Duncan and I headed straight to the park and climbed Rebel Hill behind Columbine High School, a vantage that allows us to see all the Christmas lights in December and all the colors of the sunset over Johnson Reservoir on summer nights. Tonight, though, the view was remarkably different and terrifying. While the fire poses no threat to us there are homes in that area that have been evacuated and the smoke, billowing eastward on frighteningly strong winds, has filled my apartment and tainted everything I breath. From our vantage we watched it rise up and curl outward, fanning out over Littleton and Highlands Ranch, and when the wind turned in our direction I watched it sweep away my view of the grocery store where I shop not a mile away. It was when Duncan began to sneeze and duck his head low to the ground that we turned back home. There was no leisure to our walk as we hurried back across the fields and up the stairs to our sanctuary. And now, an hour later, sitting on my patio I have a clear view of the burn, the tallest plumes catching the last of the sun's rays while the base glows gold and red.

So I will close the windows and watch the night southwest of us burn and hope for the safety of others.

Decade

Ten years ago tonight I was sitting in my dining room with Ken and April, Nikki and Ashley, our two Golden Retrievers, curled at our feet under our big oak table, while Winnie and Pip cuddled on the soft downy top of their tall kitty condo, half dreaming, half awake at the sounds of our laughter mixed with talk of the plans we were making. Our bags were packed and sitting near the door, two Frontier Airline tickets resting atop them. We'd eaten dinner and were discussing the early morning drive to Midway, the things April needed to do to tend to the animals, my anxiety over the entire trip. There had even been a great amount of talk about the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton which had taken place earlier that day. At some point I stepped outside to let The Girls out, stood in the newly greening and damp grass in our backyard and smoked a cigarette while watching the stars move slowly across the sky. I could hear the soundtrack to Evita playing from inside while Ken and April did the dishes, the gentle chink of the tags on The Girls collars as they sniffed out the yard. I remember feeling like my life was on the cusp of a dramatic change and not liking it one bit. I have never been good at such things and despite my dislike for my job at CDW and the monotony of life in quiet, remote Round Lake Beach, there was comfort in its predictability, safety in routine.


Duncan and I walked the park today and only barely managed to safely navigate the flood of news vans and media which had gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of the shootings which took place at the high school across the street. It was not a pleasant walk, surrounded by sad faces and heavy hearts huddled together under the same blue sky that rose overhead ten years ago. Duncan was anxious and we didn't actually find peace in our walk until much later, when I took him out after dinner under a clear, darkened sky, the stars shining down as a warm April breeze carried the scent of the lake to us. It was the same sky I saw all those years ago in Illinois with the same constellations, only very little of that life remains. April has married and had children and we are no longer in contact, despite an immaculate and untouchable friendship. Nikki and Ashley have crossed the Rainbow Bridge and Winnie and Pip, while still full of vim and vigor, are nearly thirteen and spend far more time napping in the sunlit windows than they do chasing each other. Even Ken, who I always counted on as my constant, the one person who would always stand at my side, isn't here. I don't even own the same clothes I packed and carried across the country. It's all I can do to remember this new address.

But at least I have Duncan and our walks and the stars. On nights like tonight, when my heart feels like it's breaking, there is tremendous comfort to be found in those simple things.

Sudden Dark

Yesterday, on our late afternoon walk, Duncan was not ready to come home. We'd already strolled up to the library, around the side of the lake, up the hill above Columbine, down to the gray cinder block parks and rec building where the bunnies hole up on the safe side of the chain link fence, back across the park and through the lower soccer field. The sun was warm despite being low in the western sky, hovering just above the mountains, casting them in heavy shadow even as it favored the rest of the land in gold. It was a marvelous afternoon, with one or two stars already peeking out and the wind blowing the smell of toffee and cinnamon. So I indulged him and let guide me across Pierce to Leawood, where he stopped and sniffed at every spot where we've ever encountered a rabbit. He played with Jinx, a familiar Golden on our route and chased only a handful of bunnies under a large, low-boughed pine tree. And even after the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the sky began to turn, when the air cooled and rustled our hair, chilling, if only a little, our cheeks, he still did not want to come home. With some coaxing and promises of extra treats with his dinner, I was able to convince him, but as I sat on the patio outside, my feet propped up on the railing listening to Miles Davis, I wondered if coming home had been the right choice. We have been unseasonably lucky here in Denver the last few weeks, with clear mornings, nearly hot afternoons and mild nights, the kind which allow for windows left open a crack to cool our dreams and night imaginings. I realized after the sun had set and Duncan had finished his dinner (in addition to some of the duck strips Lori brought him when she visited two weeks ago) that the day's glowing afternoon walk will become a rarity, that the sun will have set by the time I arrive home. Time has suddenly shifted and where there was day there is now dark. I will hold the memory of yesterday's walk with me a long time, watching Duncan sniff under hedges, step gently around fences, the sun dancing as it does so willingly across the curling gold and red of his back. He knew dark was coming and wanted only to walk in the sun as long as possible. My wise, wise friend.

Visitors and an Ordinary Walk

When my dad announced several weeks ago that he and his friend Jane planned on overnighting in Denver, he said, "Would it be possible to go on a walk with you and Duncan? Jane and I have talked it over and we think it would be a great thing to experience, if it's okay with you, of course."

I smiled into the phone and told him, "Well, I have to be honest with you, our walks are just like any ordinary walk. The clouds do not part, angelic choruses do not burst into song and there certainly isn't a beam of golden sunshine that follows us around. We just walk. It's really quite mundane. I'm afraid you wouldn't be very impressed."

But they insisted and when they arrived yesterday afternoon I was more than willing to take them with us to the park and around our usual spots. I was glad to have them but also a little nervous. Duncan tends to assume that when others are present I'm distracted, which he thinks means is reason enough to attempt to get away with murder. I don't know how many times we've gone over this lesson, but I am not distracted, perhaps more in tune with our walk simply because we have a reputation to protect.

And so we ventured across all six lanes of traffic on Bowles, which my dad rightly remarked upon as being "a bit dangerous." I laughed and told him that last winter when the snow and ice were piled up there and Duncan and I were standing in the median waiting to cross I'd envisioned my own death by sliding down the ice into oncoming traffic.

The park was wonderful, although a bit quiet. We walked down to the high school and then up toward the memorial. On the way we spotted several bunnies and dad and Jane got to witness Duncan's hunting skills live and in person, which I thought was quite exciting. He put on a full show for them, going rigid, lifting one paw slowly and letting it hang in the air, bobbing lightly before setting it back down. We climbed Rebel Hill, which offers a nice view of Littleton, the mountains and the eastern plains and looks down on the prairie dog town, which Duncan alternately shows mild interest in or utter indifference.

On the way home dad asked. "Was that a typical walk? Was that the way they normally go?" Except for the pace, which Duncan prefers to amp up a little more, it was a pretty typical walk, and as I'd explained, no angels burst into song and the sun did what it normally does which is take no notice of us at all. Even Duncan, who tends to act up, was well-behaved, only pulling on his leash every now and then. He even sat on the curb before crossing the street, waiting for me to give the all-clear command. It was an ordinary walk, except for the fact that dad, who I haven't seen in eight years, and Jane, who I'd never seen at all, were there with us. It felt good showing them the places I cherish, the places that inspire me and the places Duncan has led me to. And it was good to be in a place that is my own, to know the trails and the roads and to be able to point things out, to show others that that little boy, who, as my dad likes to tell, peed on the doctor the instant he was born, has made a place for himself in the world with a dear friend he calls Duncan.


*Please pardon my comb-over look. Dunc had given me a bath right before the picture was taken.

Walk with Everything

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
(Henry David Thoreau)

I let Duncan lead the way again today––this glorious, bright and beautiful April day––and he walked me down Pierce, past Columbine to Polk, where we've walked before, but not since the heat of Summer had just passed and Autumn was on its way. We'd bypassed the trail there and walked through the neighborhood instead, where we could smell grilling burgers and hear the sounds of families sitting down to dinner or TV, or both, and came out just south of Clement Park, near the lake and the hillside prairie dog town. Today, however, Duncan pulled me up the trail through the Lilley Gulch greenbelt, which follows the path of a narrow creek, not full but babbling and trickling over rocks, wending its way through tall yellow and red reeds, under small bridges, and between grand willow trees, their long vines hanging low, swaying softly and just beginning to bud. The sun was in my face and my sunglasses kept slipping down my nose so I closed my eyes and did that thing I sometimes do when I pretend I'm blind just to see how well Duncan will guide me.

Our discovery of the park had seemed rich enough but blind it was like the whole world opened before me. The sun was still bright and warm on my face and even with my eyes closed I could "see" a yellow glow before me. The calls of the birds magnified, as did their rustling in the tall grass along the creek, their hops and skips along the wet rocks and downed branches lining its shallow bank. I wish I knew birds better so I could share, give them their proper names so that even in print their voices could be heard. There were flitting, nervous little kilddeer, though, and sparrows, robins, doves, poetic and cautious, woodpeckers drumming the trunks of trees. There were so many birds, so many sounds that the symphony of them brought a smile to my face, something that could not be contained and burst from me as a sudden and surprising laugh that seemed unnatural for a moment and heard by anyone else would've labeled me as crazy, but even it was beautiful and harmonized almost perfectly with the chorus around me. The creek didn't mind, nor did the birds, and the squirrel, who lounging on a low branch in a tree, draped and lazy, unmoving, only yawned and continued his meditation. It was joy, simple and fine, sudden and perfect.

I was recently asked how I'm able to take something as mundane as walking a dog and turn it into adventure and discovery, even on those walks when nothing happens. "It must be your words," I was told. "You're a story-teller; it's something you've learned to do." The secret is not the story or the language, the secret is nothing. Nothing is what I strive for, the whole point of the walk. Being empty means you can only be filled. It's the something that leads you astray, that distracts and bends your spirit away from the poetry of exploration and discovery. Walk with nothing and you walk with everything.

That is the wisdom of dogs. That is why they are our best friends. They have many lessons to teach and we have much to learn.

Destination

Sometimes Duncan knows where we're going. I have leashed him up and from the second the door opens he has a purpose, a destination in mind. Last Fall he dragged me out the door, across the street and around the lake to a specific flower, which he presented as though he'd grown and tended to it himself. He has led me the top of Rebel Hill to witness pink and gold sunsets, streaked with clouds, where warm and cool breezes have ruffled the long hair at his chest. He has shown me things with such urgency that I often marvel at his knowing.

Tonight, as the sun was dipping low behind the mountains and the temperature was beginning to drop, he pulled me across the park–stirring up vast numbers of geese in the process–as though he'd gotten online and discovered some new and wonderful location that had to be shared immediately. On the far side of the park, above Columbine he took a sharp left, pulling me across the parking lot toward the batting cage and up a narrow trail wedged between two baseball diamonds. There was such insistence that even though I needed to return home to call my friend Lisa to plan our night out together, I allowed him to lead the way. We stepped through the mud, slipped on the water which was just beginning to thicken up into a nice smooth surface of ice and stepped around dark puddles. He leaned forward, the leash tight and it was all I could do to keep up with him. At the top of the hill he turned right, not even sniffing the edges of the sidewalk. His eyes were focused straight ahead and I trusted him to take me to the place he had in mind.

When we came to a dead end between two sheds he looked up at me, a blank expression on his face. This was it: a barren, slightly muddy strip of sidewalk on the backside of the high school where kids probably sneak away to smoke cigarettes.

Yes indeed; sometimes he does know. And sometimes he just doesn't. I smiled as he sniffed around, no shame on his face, perhaps only some minor confused creases in his eyebrows. I patted his head and said, "Come on, Roo, take me home." And he did without hesitation because that destination was just as good as any.

The Kid

So there was this kid. This little Hispanic kid, maybe sixteen, with a sickly, see-through mustache and Princess Leia buns on his head. Or rather that's what they looked like. It was hard to tell with the black hoodie he wore pulled up around his face. Maybe his hair was pushed forward by the hood, or maybe Cruller Chic is the new look. I don't know and who am I to judge, really? All I know is that he looked like a masculine Princess Leia and he wore a hoodie. And he wouldn't stop talking to me or following us on our walk. Duncan and I had spent some time playing in the snow on the field and as we rounded the baseball fields this Star Wars cantina-looking kid comes out of no where and starts making conversation like we've known each other for years. "Is this Columbine?" he asked, gesturing wildly around the park. I nodded and pointed toward the high school. "Yeah, right over there," I told him. "All this?" he asked, his eyes wider than a Womp Rat at Toshi's Power Station. "No, just that," I pointed again without breaking my stride. Duncan had places to go, geese to chase. "Yeah, I start here in a couple of days," he said, plunking his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. I smiled, the kind of smile that says, "That's nice. Now go away." I'm not an unfriendly chap, not at all. Just the other day we made friends (again) with Simon and Penny, the two Basset Hounds, and their people, Tom and Sharon, who suffered a stroke while walking her dogs right before Christmas. We'd chatted for nearly an hour, about all sorts of things, like Yellowstone Park, strokes, places to walk dogs, strokes. I like talking to other dog walkers, but this kid had no dog. And it was cold. So I kept walking and he kept following and it was only when he said, "So you go here, right?" Here meaning Columbine. "What grade you in?"

That was when my heart opened up and I no longer cared that he looked like Carrie Fisher with a five o'clock shadow. That's when he became my new best friend.

What grade am I in? It was like 1988 all over again.

Snow Therapy

I did not have a good day and because I've grown so used to spending the majority of it sitting on my butt at my desk, my feet hurt because I was on them all day. By the time I got home I was grumpy, tired of people and barely able to stand myself. I certainly wasn't in the mood to take Duncan for a walk, but, once again my dog is smarter than me and showed me that I did want to walk, that sometimes doing the silliest things–dog things–can be rejuvenating and healthy.

We crossed the park and almost immediately he tossed himself into the snow, keeping his eye on me the entire time, almost as if he expected me to do the same. Of course I was in no mood for that so I pulled on his leash and demanded he walk. We hadn't gone more than ten feet when he did it again, rolling and sliding through the the wet, watching me as though I were the fool for not doing the same.

I finally coaxed him into walking but when we got to the far side of the baseball diamonds he simply stopped, turned toward the upper diamonds above Columbine and stared, his back to me. "Come on, Roo," I urged but he wouldn't budge. Thinking he might have spotted a rabbit, I finally gave in and let him take the lead. He led me up the narrow walk, turned left and kept going as though he knew exactly where he was taking me, which I don't doubt he did. After leading me around the volleyball courts we came to a a nice quiet spot, lined with short round trees with undisturbed snow where Duncan stopped and looked at me. He has this way of watching me, of cocking his head and raising his eyebrows that seems like he's trying to say something if only evolution would allow it. We stared at one another a moment and when he finally rolled over, face first, into the snow, I got the message.

Dropping his leash I flopped down on my back, spread my arms wide as Duncan threw himself into them. He nuzzled his head against my cheek, kicked his feet up into the air, as if trying to run upside down, grunted and snorted and covered me in thick wet snow. I laughed, pulled him close and tossed snow straight up, closed my eyes and felt it rain back down on us.

It was heaven, laying with my dog in the cold, not caring if someone else, or even the coyotes, were watching. I didn't care if they thought I was crazy because at that moment I knew that I was more sane than I had been all day.

Comets

This afternoon while trying not to fall under the crushing weight of my mundane job, I was browsing the news online and read about Comet Holmes. Last week one of ACC's professors set up the telescope so that people could take a gander, but, being the lazy fellow I am, and so dedicated to my dog that I rushed home to let him out rather than wait in line to look at a faint smudge across the blackness of the sky, I missed it. It didn't seem a big deal and I did have a rather disappointing history with comets. I'd been burned before, during the frenzy that was Halley's Comet back in '86 when my friend Tim Bernasek ruined my only chance to view the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence by leaning on the telescope moments before clouds moved in and blocked it from my view for the next ninety-some odd years. Comet Hale-Bopp, the Great Comet of '97 was a wonder to see, however. Ken and I drove all over northern Illinois searching for a darkened patch of country road so we could gaze up and marvel at the sprinkling of glowing dust across the northern night sky. It was quite an adventure and after hours of driving to and from we returned home only to discover it was perfectly visible from our porch. It was a wondrous thing to experience, yet in March of the following year my memory of the event was forever changed by a houseful of whack-jobs who wore Nike tennis shoes and committed suicide in order to hitch a ride "home" on the tail of the thing.

I had almost no interest in Comet Holmes until this afternoon when I read that it has now become the largest object in our solar system, bigger than even the sun. I won't (read: can't) go into all the scientific details of what happened (I'm not even sure the scientists know at this point), but it seems Holmsey experienced "an unexpected eruption" that caused the comet's coma, a kind of atmosphere, to expand to a tremendous size. Although that little ball of ice or rock or whatever it is is actually quite small, the haze around it is now bigger than our own sun and is visible to the naked eye.

Visible to the naked eye?! thought I. I love naked-eye visibility. It's the best kind! I must check this out!

Being the not-so closeted romantic I am, I envisioned my walk with Duncan on the hill above Columbine, kneeling in the grass and gazing into space at this thing, this ancient piece of space detritus that is destined to circle and circle our solar system, witnessed by thousands of eyes over the course of thousands of years, and even though I could not shape it or touch it, or impact it in any way, my eyes upon it, and the moment shared with Duncan, would somehow be enough to matter, would carry forward with the thing, through space and time, gliding silently around and around, beautiful, cold and unending.

Sounds nice, right? Ah, if only the clouds had agreed.

Maybe tomorrow. Or perhaps Tim will appear and ensure that this one, too, will be lost to the ages.

*Photo taken with no permission whatsoever from wikipedia. org

Too Long

a wind has blown the rain away and blown
the sky away and all the leaves away,
and the trees stand. I think i too have known
autumn too long (e.e. cummings)

If only Autumn weren't such a schizophrenic bitch she'd be a much better time. It was warm and perfect all day; the air tasted somehow amber-scented and the light felt musical on my face. My job is far away from any windows and I was only able to steal quick moments on the west lawn of the college, watching the squirrels wrestle in the leaves, fighting over a piece of discarded hamburger bun. Far out in the field a group of friends gathered to play Ultimate Frisbee. As I watched them, all I could think about was getting home and not taking off my shoes, not resting a moment on the bed with the cats, but leashing up Duncan and going for another long walk through the neighborhoods east of Columbine. After last night's embarrassing and aimless wanderings I've felt the need to redeem myself by learning the streets and their strange, wandering routes. Unfortunately, 45 minutes before my weekend began, the skies were invaded by low, dark clouds and a fierce, unfriendly wind picked up which was not at all inviting to someone looking to take a long stroll with his dog. Duncan couldn't have cared less, of course. He only wanted to be outside. I think he knew I wasn't as enthusiastic as himself, which meant he had to prolong the walk by any means he could: inspecting every shrub and tree and bramble along our path, sniffing and rooting on the ground for the most minuscule sticks and twigs, peeing every hundred yards or so. He likes the wind, likes to turn his face into it and lap up whatever scent it brings his way. I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to be inside where I could make dinner and dream of a warmer Saturday than tonight would presume.

Gift

It was a pulling day, with a tight leash and a sense of mission, of which I hadn't been informed. It was a tough walk and I couldn't count the number of times I said, "Duncan, slow!" But he kept pulling and choking on his collar, which only irritated me more. Several people glanced over as they passed us on the trail, their looks implying that it was somehow my fault, that I was abusing my poor dog. It couldn't have been further from the truth; in fact, I could make the argument that it was I who was being abused, my shoulder wrenched back and forth, walking along through clouds of small gnats, my knees not quite warmed up to the idea of running. But Duncan knew where he wanted to take me. Or so it seemed.

I'd actually considered cutting the walk short and taking him back toward the park, maybe cutting through the neighborhood behind Columbine just for some variation, but then he stopped on a narrow piece of bank and looked up at me.

You think I'm making this up. You think I have far too much faith in the intelligence of my dog, that it's ridiculous to believe he knows exactly what I need. But I am not crazy; I am not deluding myself. I am not ridiculous.

On this fine, sunny day at the end of September–one of the last, I know–Duncan led me to his gift. And it was wonderful. He walked right up to it, turned and looked at me as if to say, "Here, this is what I had to show you before the sun dipped down behind the mountains. This is what was so important."

“Every friend is to the other a sun, and a sunflower also. He attracts and follows.”
(Jean Paul Richter)

A Port-a-Potty for Your Kingdom

And so Summerset is upon us.

If I hadn't taken Duncan for a walk last night, when the first two booths had appeared and the grass had been painted in orange grids, I would've been shocked at the changes which took place while I was at work today.

The whole park has been transformed. The long soccer fields are lined with tents and booths and trailers where corn and gyros and burgers will be cooked, where crafts will be sold, leaflets handed out. It's a county fair in my front yard.



The back side of Rebel Hill, between the lake and Columbine High School, has been transformed from a grassy slope surrounding the amphitheater into a maze of stages and aisles and rows of more tents and more booths. The edge of the lake has been marked out for the fishing derby. Already people are wandering around trying to sell their goods to the other people who are trying to sell their goods. Everywhere I looked were kids hawking glow sticks for the fireworks display, which may or may not occur tonight (it's cloudy and cold).

I was impressed with how much stuff they're going to cram into the park. Duncan was impressed by other things.



He didn't want to go home.

Sports Night

I have never been a fan of sports. I haven't even been able to successfully pretend to care. I have never seen any use for kicking or throwing or batting or catching or running with a ball. I've long admired the enthusiasm people have for their favorite sport or team or athlete, but it doesn't stop me from thinking it could be put to better use. If fifty thousand people came out one afternoon to cheer on the arts, I couldn't be happier. If people spent a quarter of the money on educating their children that they spend on memorabilia or merchandise, we'd live in a vastly different world.

I was never comfortable with sports, never liked how black and white they were. Some kids felt like superstars and the rest of us felt awkward and leaden, judged and discarded. I was never the guy picked last for the team, but it was close, standing there feeling sorry for Tom or Jason, hoping just once they'd get picked sooner, but still hoping I'd get picked before them. Sports change people from rational individuals into lunatic mobs. And I hated what it did to me, even when I was made a team captain once in boys PE. Rather than do the nice thing and pick Tom and Jason, just to make them feel better, I did as all my predecessors had done, I picked the star jocks, ignoring the pleading looks from my true peers. I hated feeling like I wasn't fast enough or strong enough or brave enough.



Aside from running cross country in junior high, which I did for two years–and even then only to hang out with my friends after school–the only other sport I ever took any interest in was soccer, and that happened for all of about one week. In elementary school, our PE teacher, Mister Lucky, introduced us to soccer, which I immediately fell in love with. I was good at it. I felt fast and agile and graceful and capable. Until I mentioned it to my father while on a weekend trip to visit him.

"Soccer!" he proclaimed in that radio announcer voice of his. "Soccer's no good. It's not a real sport. Nobody likes soccer, except Europeans. And girls." The implication was enough that I don't remember touching a soccer ball again.

I get all the positive things that sports can do for kids, I just don't see them as often as I see the negatives.

My walks with Duncan at the park have not been entirely pleasant as of late. The junior leagues have taken over our turf and it's pissing me off. Every day I steer clear of not one, not two, but four kiddie football teams, ten soccer teams and the Columbine Cross Country team, not to mention the six baseball fields that see three games a night. I haven't been able to throw Duncan's ball for him, I'm constantly restraining him from going after soccer balls or footballs, and don't get me started about the baseballs. It just hasn't been fun because I've been feeling strange about myself and strange about the enterprise as a whole.

I do not like listening to coaches demean kids who are still too young to deliver newspapers, or accuse them of running like girls, or call them fat, all within earshot of parents, who sit on the sidelines in their Sports Authority fold-up chairs and watch it all. "It develops character," they say. Or, "She'll learn to be part of a team," and "It teaches responsibility."



Bullshit, says I! That kind of sportsmanship alienates, scars and breeds the very resentment that led to the tragedy that took place not half a block away.

I just want my park back. So I can play fetch with my dog, the ball lover!