A Bigger Boat

February lingers. I can feel her in each breath, each gust of wind that slaps my face, each bitter nugget of snow that finds its way between the cuff of my jeans and down alongside my ankle. I can see it in the icy blue of the sky just before the sun sets. Winter's tenacity is unmatched, except, perhaps by that of cockroaches. And maybe Cher.

And all we can do is hunker down, pull our collars tightly around our necks and plod through for a few more excruciatingly long weeks. Were winter a shark (and I'm not convinced she isn't––a great roaming white monster with unmoving black eyes, fixed and determined, focused on a single objective) we would all play the role of Roy Scheider's character in Jaws, who proclaims, upon first seeing the beast, "[We're] gonna need a bigger boat."

The park has seemed like the belly of that shark all week, smooth and cold and also treacherous. But Duncan has been with me, joyful and impervious to it, warming me even as my ankles and wrists have struggled against the ever-searching wind.

It's difficult to trudge through the blowing snow and cold and see it as anything other than what it is. My boots work wonders, but I need goggles and today I would've felt much more comfortable astride one of the Taun Tauns from The Empire Strikes Back. The wind was cruel, the snow was like sand, fine and sharp and relentless in its pursuit of soft, warm places. It's difficult to enjoy walks like this when all you can think about is getting home. But it was while watching Duncan throw himself about that I simply stopped struggling and let the walk take me where it wanted, let the world transform from a cold, empty park into something more. I stood ankle deep and watched the snow slide toward me, making a soft hiss as it came at me and I had the strange sensation that I was moving forward, gliding just over the surface of the park watching the ground move toward and then beneath me. It was like moving without moving. And then I remembered fishing off the Osborne Bridge over the Snake River with my grandmother and my sister. We loved the bridge because the swallows built their nests on the underside and we'd watch the birds come and go by the hundreds, perching on the edge of their nests, greedy and sharp toothpick beaks emerging and chirping wildly for food. But the real magic of the bridge––aside from Grandma's peanut butter sandwiches or the L'il Smokies we'd snack on––was when we faced south and watched the river move away from us, there was a moment of discombobulation when we felt like we were moving. Like the bridge was the back of a giant boat working its way upstream. The water wasn't moving, we were. We'd clutch the rail and hang on because there was always a brief moment of vertigo while our brain tried to catch up to our eyes. Standing in the park as the snow rushed toward me felt like being on the bridge, and for a moment I could taste the peanut butter and hear the stories Grandma used to tell or the songs we'd sing about Joe Cogan's goat, or the one about the little dog named Jack who lost his tail on a train track ("Wagon wagon" ).

This is when my walks mean the most, when simply being present and attentive leads me to new places. Or old places. It's walking meditation, time travel, the biggest boat in the world.
Photo of complete and utter strangers on top of Osborne Bridge courtesy of Google Images

Scent Path

Of the senses, I believe scent to be my favorite. That doesn't mean I would choose it over the ability to see or hear, it means that scent brings me pleasure in ways the others do not. We can all agree that seeing a puppy or hearing the sound of a newborn brings us joy, but scent is a highly subjective and personal experience. Sauerkraut may remind someone of winter afternoons wrapped in the comfort of their grandmother's kitchen. It makes me think of vomit.

Scent is the sense most associated with memory; in fact the place in your brain that processes and interprets odors is right next door to the place that "contains" your memories. Trigger scent and most likely you've triggered a memory that pertains to it. Hence my association of sauerkraut to vomit.

Tonight during our walk I watched Duncan trace nearly our entire path with his nose. He stops at the same places every night, sniffing here, taking a deep breath there, analyzing everything through his nose. He knows things about the park that I could never imagine, like where the rabbits have sat, cautious and careful as they move across the fields at night, or perhaps what the short, rectangular-shaped hound we occasionally see had for breakfast this morning.

Following his lead, I let me nose guide me. As we cross Bowles, just outside the gate, the smell of earth is strong, almost pungent, wet, like an old fishing net. The earth is soft and I know they water too long at night, so the mossiness of it is no surprise. As we cross the football field, which always smells of thick, freshly mowed grass, and enter the square at the center of four of the baseball fields, I smell popcorn and beer from the concession stand, typical, cliche and also perfect. Coming out and up the hill toward the playground there is the smell of cedar, which always makes me think of Tyrone, the gerbil I had when I was younger. The floor of his cage was covered in cedar chips, which I could always hear him moving around in. That takes me backs to nights on Booth Road, when I sat in my window, listened to Tears for Fears or Depeche Mode and to the baseball game down at the field at the end of the street. On those nights, with Ty scurrying back and forth across his cage and the smell of sage and junipers from the hills around us, I listened for the sharp slap of the ball meeting the bat and I always felt the world was as it should be.

Past the playground I can smell the lake, fishy and duck shitty, but strong and pleasant and full of memory. Never a real fisher myself–although I wanted to be–I spent a great portion of my childhood either sitting on riverbanks or lake shores with my grandmother and mom, eating a peanut butter sandwich, keeping my eye on my bobber to see if something had snagged my worm. It was at Chester Bridge, where we sometimes took afternoon trips with my grandparents, that we stood on the bridge, facing south, and watched the Snake River pass beneath us, creating the illusion that we were moving, leaving the water behind.

Around the edge of the lake, after stopping to take a picture, we passed a couple who'd come out to the park on a date. The man was holding the woman, who looked a little drunk, but was happy when he guided her to the swinging benches overlooking the water and the mountains and the sunset above that. She reeked of perfume, a sweet, Springy smell, flowery, with maybe something like clove as the bass note. Duncan and I followed her path all the way down the backside of the hill. I closed my eyes and allowed my nose to guide me, and for a moment I wondered if perhaps this is what it's like to be a dog, to trust that side of yourself that people seem to take for granted. Eventually we moved out of her path, but I could've pointed out her car, her smell was so strong around it.

And then near the skate park and the playground nearby everything smells of cigarettes, sweat, fast food and salt. Past that we we're back onto the wide fields where everything smells green and healthy, with the cinnamon fragrance of red Autumn just growing stronger every day.

This weekend is Summerset, a festival in which the park will become a playground of events and booths and balloons and people and odors. We probably won't get to throw the ball much, and it'll be quite crowded, but maybe I'll take Duncan just to see where his nose leads us.

(If you'd like to read more about scent, and the other four senses, check out Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses–easily one of my all-time favorite books.)