Walking with Waldo

In some places, the trail is wide and flat.

In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.

-John Muir

Christine and I decided to take Waldo back to a piece of the Mass Central Rail Trail that we’ve visited before.  It runs westward from the western shore of the Wachusett Reservoir for some 5 miles.  It is an unpaved, crushed stone, track that parallels, for awhile, the Quinapoxet River as it flows down to the reservoir.  Along its course are the abandoned foundations of the Springdale Woolen Mill, and a nearby mill-worker’s village.  The trail continues west, passes a couple hundred feet under a huge concrete overpass, holding Interstate 190 (that goes north/south from Leominster to Worcester), and then winds its way over some hills to end at Wachusett St. (Rte 31).

There are a couple of reasons we decided to return here.  First, it’s a beautiful walk through a white pine and, in the wetter places, hemlock, forest.  Nestled in a glen, cut by the river, it is a tree-hugger’s delight, with trees that range from being new-growth, to upwards of 200-years old (which you can tell by the thickness of the trunks).  There are a few deciduous trees, but not many.  The ratio of conifers to deciduous trees is upside down from what it is along the Assebet River Rail Trail.  While Waldo enjoys the smells and new sticks he finds, Christine and I puzzle over the reason for that.

After a forest fire, there is a natural progression of the regrowth of flora as life recovers from the burn.  First, there are meadows, eventually filled in by pines and then those are replaced by oaks, maples and so forth.  This can’t be the whole story, because in many places, there are two-hundred year old pines growing next to two-hundred year old oaks.  Here, there are both old-growth white pines and old-growth oaks, there are just so many more pines.  Curious.

The temperature is cool, making it comfortable to wear a light jacket, unzipped.  The trail is sequestered beneath hills that rise on both sides, protecting us from the wind.  The river, on our left, rushes down a narrow course, over large granite rocks, in whitecapped turbulence.  The sky cover is broken, with high wispy clouds that allow sunlight to penetrate to the ground occasionally.  Where it is sunny, things are quite warm, and I’m working up a sweat.  Especially when we get to the part of the trail that winds up over some hills.  We pass other people out doing the same as we are, some with dogs, some on bikes, who also think it’s a good day to roam.

There is some kind of construction going on in the hills.  Large earth-moving vehicles are parked on recently created dirt roads that were no more than footpaths the last time we were here.  These roads don’t just follow where the footpath was, they branch off and go hither and thither in purposeful directions, I just can’t tell what that purpose is.  Are they going to build a housing development up here?  God, I hope not.

Soon, we come down a hill and the path abuts Wachusett St.  Just across the road, I can see Mill Street.  Since we were last here, I’ve found more websites that project where the trail is likely to go (these are not easy to find, because there are places, like Mill Street, where the trail doesn’t officially exist yet).  The information I found is necessary because there are places where the footpath does not follow the old railroad bed, so the continuation of the trail isn’t obvious.  I know the path doesn’t follow the old railroad bed because there are sometimes twists and turns that no steam locomotive could ever navigate.  I kept my eyes open as we meandered our way in the hills today and saw no obvious sign of where the railroad used to go.  But where we have been walking, according to the internet, is where the completed “rail trail” will go and it continues on to Mill Street.  That’s a project for a later date.

Seeing both ends of this trail was another motivation for returning to this hike.  Now that I have some idea of where the trail is going to go, I can look around and see where to park the car when we adventure on.  Now all we need is a nice, dry, warm (without being hot) day to do it.

It’s funny the way things evolve over time.  This whole walking thing started with getting Waldo.  He’s a breed of dog that requires a lot of exercise, which is one of the reasons I got him.  Then Christine got the idea of walking across Massachusetts, from the New York border to the tip of Cape Cod.  There, we met Phyllis, who also loves to go on long walks.  The next project was hiking over the entire Bay Circuit Trail.  This all whetted Waldo’s and my appetites for exploration and wanderlust, which led to exploring other trails nearby.  Now we’re always on the lookout for somewhere new and interesting to go.  It’s become an avocation.

And there are so many wonderful paths to wander down.

In others, it’s narrow and hilly.

Abracadabra and the ice is gone!

Sunshine and spring bring out the best in everyone.

-Kenney Chesney

Finally!  A shirtsleeve weather day.  The ground is still a bit wet from the melting ice and there’s water running in the drainage ditches, but it isn’t muddy in most places.  Waldo can always find wet grass to roll in, or damp weed stalks to walk under, that will leave him a bit dewy, but I’m dry.  It’s partly cloudy and there is only a slight breeze.  The sun is shining brightly between white puffs of cloud and, if it weren’t for the lack of any leaves on the barren branches and the fact the temperature is only in the low sixties, I could almost believe that we were well into spring.  But we aren’t quite there yet.  Nope, we’re walking in an unusually warm day, but still in winter, without the snow, ice and cold.  With the clearing skies and bright sun, though, much of the gray bleakness is gone.

The buds on branches and weed stalks are getting bigger and I can almost convince myself that they’re tightly rolled up tiny little leaves begging to be set free.  The grass is still yellowish and the Japanese knotweed hasn’t yet started to sprout.  The weeds that grow thickly next to the trail are all still dried-up straw-colored stems.  Now that the ice is gone, moss and liverwort appear alongside the trail, but not in the thick carpet that’s there in warmer, wetter months.  There ought to be a term for this weather, like the “Indian summer” of fall, but if there is one, I don’t know it.

Most of the migrating birds haven’t made it up from the south yet.  I can’t hear any Emmy birds yet.  They don’t usually show up until late spring, but with global warming, who knows how that will change.  There are ubiquitous crows cawing about and I see, once in a while, something that looks a lot like a pigeon.  Today, I’m bathed in more birdsong than for the past months and I do recognize some new tunes that I only hear in the warmer seasons.  The little sparrows that flit about bushes in hordes are not here yet and I haven’t yet seen a cardinal or bluejay.  I have heard the occasional woodpecker hammering away on a tree trunk, though.

Today, Waldo and I are walking down the trail, Waldo out in front at the end of his leash, and out of the corner of my eye, I see two red-tailed squirrels dash toward the path from my left.  Squirrels, this time of year, frequently seem to be cavorting in pairs.  Maybe it’s some kind of mating ritual?  Anyway, the lead squirrel passes right in front of Waldo, missing him by inches.  The one behind goes into a four-footed slide, barely misses running into Waldo’s left front leg, reverses course and rushes back into the pile of leaves it came from.  The one that made it past Waldo vanishes into a pile of leaves on the right side of the trail.  I’m impressed that they seem so comfortable about us being in their path that they would even attempt such a feat.  Or, maybe, they were so intent in their game that the rest of the world doesn’t exist?  Even more impressive is the fact that Waldo doesn’t react at all!  Not a pause in his gait, not a turn of his head, not even something I would recognize as a “whatever” reaction.  Nothing.  And they are squirrels!  What is caninity coming to?

We pass by the new park the city is putting in over an old trash dump.  They seeded grass on it last fall in places, but not everywhere.  The ground has been leveled off, except for some small, brown, clumpy mounds in the middle.  I don’t know why they didn’t seed the whole thing and left half of it for spring, but I don’t see anything in the forecast that would prevent them from finishing the job now.  The snow and ice are gone; there are no hard freezes in the foreseeable future.  Come on, guys, let’s get on with it!  Waldo and I need some open spaces to play in!  As it is, it’s going to be fall before the grass has established itself well enough to allow the public to use it.

Here and there, I am beginning to see what looks like little sprigs of garlic mustard poking their way through the dirt, but they are small and scattered.  There are places where the knotweed doesn’t grow and the ground, at least this early in the year, is open to sunlight.  I wonder how much work it would be to scatter some wildflower seeds there, to see if they would take root.  How nice it would be to walk through patches of perennial multicolored blossoms!  We have the Covid garden, but wouldn’t it be great to pass alongside swaths of brightly colored flowers, at least at some times of the year.

Well, that’s how things stand so far.  Mother Nature is, slowly, waking up and the season is progressing towards warmth and vivacious beauty.

And the ice is gone!

What a nice day for a walk!

The torrent that is the Assebet River in spring flood.

God is at home.  It’s we who have gone out for a walk.

-Meister Eckhart

Christine and I decided to take Waldo for a walk on the upper part of the Assebet River Rail Trail.  It starts at the South Acton Commuter Railroad Station and runs south through Maynard to a dirt road that passes by a tiny airport on Crow Island.  The northern part of the trail ends on Sudbury Road, just before you get to Honey Pot Hill Orchards.  We’re going to only go as far as the beginning of the dirt road and turn around.  That’s 3.55 miles one way, 7.1 miles round trip.  Like Hudson, they never plow the trail there, so we’re not sure just how much ice we’ll find.

The day is one of those tween days – when, without layers, it’s impossible to dress warm enough without being overdressed at some point.  I opted for my parka, a ski cap and gloves.  Christine is wearing a suitable jacket and a baseball cap.  Waldo has his sable birthday suit.

The sky cover is broken, filled with puffy gray clouds and there is an intermittent breeze.  When the breeze is blowing, I’m grateful for my coat.  When it’s not, I’m overheated and I want to take my coat off.  I compromise and unzip the thing almost all the way down and it’s good enough.  I’m zipping and unzipping a lot, though.  Christine is hunched in the wind, but appears comfortable when it’s not there.  Waldo is…  well, he’s just Waldo.  He likes these temperatures.

There is no ice on the path as we start out.  To our left is a busy street and on our right is swampland.  There are some fancy bridges we pass over to get past the wettest areas, and soon, we’re in downtown Maynard.  The trail passes behind businesses that line the street and there are a few people out and about with us.  Maynard isn’t a big town, but it does boast several coffee shops, restaurants and parks.  At one time, DEC (Digital Equipment Corporation) was located on the edge of a mill pond in the south part of the town.  They were quite big in the world of computers at one time, but it was their judgment that no one would put out the money required to buy a personal computer and never got on the bandwagon.  DEC is now extinct.

We pass over a bridge that crosses the Assebet River.  With all the ice melt, it is a rushing furious torrent, with rapids.  It sure is a lot different from this fall when Waldo and I were blocked by a still, placid flow of water at Honey Pot Hill Orchards.  Its color is blue/gray with whitecaps.  I’ve seen canoes floating down the river in other places; I wonder if they ever come on this part.

After we leave the town, we’re in real country.  The trail runs close by the shore of the Assebet River and we’re soon in the woods.  It’s not hard to imagine that we’re walking through an 18^th or 19^th century countryside, with the river on one side and wilderness tracts of trees and bushes on the other.  This must have been what New England was like before it became “civilized.”  Today, we have a paved trail to walk on, such as it is.  There are patches of ice that run all the way across the tarmac and we have to gingerly pick our way across them to avoid falling.

Waldo is really enjoying himself, exploring both sides of the trail and meeting the people and dogs we pass.  I think he’s happier being someplace new, or at least newer than our usual jaunt.  The happiest I’ve seen him is when we’re off the pavement and on root-rutted, stoney dirt paths.  It’s as if he sometimes needs to get away from the detritus of human habitation as much as I do.

It’s been a little while since Waldo and I have walked with Christine.  Gone are the days when we’d walk 12 miles, twice a week or so, as we walked across the state of Massachusetts.  We finished the Bay Circuit Trail and haven’t yet found a replacement and we haven’t set up a regular schedule to walk together.  This isn’t the time of year to start another project like that, but we do talk about other options, like the New England Trail that runs from Connecticut to New Hampshire, or the Midstate Trail that runs a bit further west than the New England Trail.  There’s also that part of the Appalachian Trail that runs through Massachusetts.  I’m thinking we’ll opt for the Midstate Trail first, but we haven’t yet come up with a definite plan.  Meanwhile, Waldo and I want to finish walking the entire Mass Central Rail Trail, and Christine and/or Phyllis may join us for part of that.  Come spring, after things have had a chance to dry out, we really do need to embark on a new joint adventure, though.

All too soon, we’re back at our cars and ready to go home.

Walks are so much more pleasant when shared.

Near the upper end of the trail, not far from the South Acton Commuter Rail station.

In some places, the ice is almost entirely gone.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,

From these, our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

-Lord Byron

Two days ago, the high temperature was in the high thirties.  Yesterday, it was in the mid-forties.  Today, it’s forecast to be 50℉!  I expect that much of the sheet-ice that was on the rail trail three days ago will be gone and what’s left will be soft and slushy on top.  Sunlight goes through translucent ice and is absorbed by the ground.  It then warms up the ground and melts the ice from below.  That puts a small airgap between the ice and the ground which can more easily be broken.  The end result is that whatever ice is left, I expect it to have a soft surface that my boots can bite into and some of it will break when I step on it.  If ice goes crunch underfoot, I won’t fall down and go boom.  So, I leave my cleats at home, to preserve them for the next time Waldo and I go walking on a glacier.  In Hudson, where the trail is never plowed and hasn’t been covered by a solid sheet of ice, I expect things to be just slushy and lumpy and the cleats won’t help any there anyway.  My boots will keep my feet dry and the treads are good enough in the slush to keep me from falling.

Once we get to the rail trail, I see that my expectations were pretty much right on.  There is only around 20% of the trail that has significant ice and my cleatless boots get good traction on what ice I have to walk on.  Waldo is off doing his Waldo thing by himself, so I’m left to put my gait on autopilot and fill my mind with the wonders of winter (in 50℉ weather!).

Never having been plowed, the off-trail landscape, even the reservoir, is still completely covered by a thick blanket of snow and ice.  The overall whiteness is capped by a gray overcast sky.  The boundary between sky and earth is delineated by a beige spikey swath of deciduous trees still in winter slumber.  Even now, still weeks away from the vernal equinox, I can see tiny little buds on the branches of nearby trees and on the stems of weeds, but still no leaves anywhere.  Here and there are freckles of pale green, where embedded white pines show off their year-round ability to photosynthesize.

The air is clean and cool and I can smell the wetness of the melting ice and snow.  I hear the gurgling of clear running water flowing in the creeks and ditches next to the trail.  I hear no birds.  Most, like the Emmy-bird, have not yet migrated back from warmer regions.  I know there are some birds around, like crows, but they don’t seem to be out and about today.  I see no rabbits, squirrels or chipmunks.  I wonder where everybody is on such a warm day, the first after so many really cold ones.  Maybe, after shivering hard in their hidey-holes, they’ve decided to have a good, warm sleep-in?  It’s curious.

There is very little wind, but the air is still cold enough to make the exposed skin on my chin and cheeks a little numb.  I’m wearing a light jacket, thin gloves and my wide-brimmed Walking-With-Waldo hat.  My uncovered ears are not cold.  As I walk along, I do my best to empty my mind of the incessant chatter that fills the damned thing morning and night.  I open myself to using my senses to feel the ambience and try to become one with my surroundings.  I doesn’t last long…

I learned a new word yesterday.  It is koyaanisqatsi, a Hopi word that means “out of balance with nature.”   I don’t know much about Hopi culture, but what little I do know about Native Americans suggests that this includes being out of balance with yourself, as well as with the world you live in.  They see themselves as an integral part of nature, rather than an outsider living in nature.  The question is, how can I possibly restore that balance without being intimately aware of the nature of which I am a small piece?  I look, listen, feel, hear and smell the world that surrounds me to gain that awareness.  It is calming and enlivening.opi word that means

In Buddhism, there is a concept of balance, the word for which is tatramajjhattata, which translates to “equanimity” or “neutrality of mind.”  It is a compound word made of Pali words that mean “to stand in the middle of all this.”  My take on it is the ability to be immersed in the furor of the world without being drawn into all the drama.  How better to be in balance than to be able to see the world around you without the distraction of emotional reaction?  To just observe it all and stay at peace with it and yourself.  That’s something I cannot do very often, but it’s a lot easier when I’m out here in the woods with Waldo.

Waldo and I finish our daily six miles – even the mile and a half of slush, ice and snow in Hudson.  It’s been a good walk and I have regained some of my “center.”  Waldo is eager to go home, have supper and return to his throne on the balcony.  I don’t think he is ever far from his center.

Tomorrow is another day and another walk in the woods.

But not in Hudson…

Ice, ice everywhere, with nary a safe place to step!

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.

-Robert Frost

And the ice wars go on…

What became a half-inch slab of cold, hard ice was buried in a couple inches of snow.  Things stayed cold and then another snowstorm, leaving another two inches came and went.  At the end of that storm, things warmed up a bit and there was freezing rain.  A single-digit-temperature hard freeze followed, lasting for a bit more than a week, and the ground became covered in an Oreo-cookie blanket of ice/snow/ice.  The top layer is about one-half inch thick, but it’s only supported by soft snow, so I can, usually, break through it if I stand on it.  Waldo isn’t heavy enough to do that, though, so he walks around on a sheet of ice everywhere he goes, except where I’ve first broken trail.

It was so slick out there, that I decided, on Waldo’s poop and pee walks, to keep to the sidewalks and parking lot, which the groundskeepers keep salted and free of ice.  After the last snow storm, I waited for a couple of days before going to the rail trail.  The city was busy cleaning other, more essential, parts of town and I thought that would give them time to plow the path.  Waldo and I then ventured down to the sentier ferroviaire (I used Google translator to translate rail trail into French and that’s what came up – that shows that the conversion of railroad beds to walking paths is international and not just American!) and I was right.  It was plowed, sort of.

Apparently, the plows couldn’t do the job thoroughly.  When Waldo and I got to the start of the trail, we found a solid sheet of half-inch, or thicker, cold, hard ice running all the way across the tarmac.  It looked like the plow was able to scrape off the upper cookie and the cream filling, but not the bottom cookie.  The remaining chunk was welded firmly to the ground and wasn’t moving for no stinking plow.  In places, there were, along one side or the other of the trail, areas where the top cookie still existed.  It was broken up into clumps, about the size of a coffee table picture book, that I could walk on without too much trouble – but it was a lot of work.  Even Waldo, with his low-slung, studded (with claws), four-paw drive, judiciously chose to walk where the broken upper cookie ice could be found.  We only slid a half-mile down the trail and I decided to turn around and try it again another day, with cleats on the bottoms of my boots.  I may be intrepid, but I’m not totally stupid.

The problem with cleats is that clear, dry asphalt destroys them, especially when you’re walking 6 miles or more.  At my age, it’s pretty much impossible to put the things on, or take them off, without taking my boots off.  So, I usually don’t use them unless there is a lot of ice out there.  Well, there is a lot of ice out there, so I’m using cleats.

I had an old pair, that I haven’t used for a couple of years.  I put them on the boots I wear when I take Waldo out for a poop and pee.  They worked great!  Except they fell apart quickly.  I think they got all rusted up, just laying around, waiting to be used.  So, I had to order a new set from Amazon, next day delivery.  They arrived, I put them on my boots, and today we’re finally ready to go.

The temps haven’t gotten above freezing, but that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been any snow melting.  The cream filling is white because there’s a lot of air in there.  Light can go through the clear ice on top, but it doesn’t get through the white stuff onto the ground.  That’s why you can’t see the ground.  The air scatters the light and it gets reflected back into the atmosphere without being absorbed.  End result, the sun will melt some of the ice on the surface of the Oreo, but just enough to thicken the outer cookie with the next hard freeze.  The Oreo remains.

Today, Waldo and I are going for our full trek, the whole six miles.  Waldo is all over the place.  He’s slip-sliding on the ice on the trail and on the outer cookie on the side of the trail.  He seems to prefer the disordered chunks of ice where someone has walked and broken it, but that can’t always be found.  Even so, he does pretty well on the slick stuff, as long as it isn’t on the side of a hill.  A few flailing steps here and there and he’s prancing along as if what he’s walking on isn’t ice at all.

Me, I’m doing really well myself, with the cleats.  The trail is about 80% ice and the 20% that’s clear lies in short spurts, here and there.  I keep to the ice on the edge of any clear spot I come to and I’m making pretty good time.  I’m not doing any power walking, but I’m not taking baby steps to keep from falling either.  I seldom feel my feet sliding at all, but I’m not pushing it either.

Then we come to Hudson.  Hudson is all Oreo except where someone has walked and broken through the outer cookie.  The Oreo is thick enough so it takes a lot of effort to walk there, but the broken cookie is uneven enough that it takes a lot of work to walk there too.  Soon, I’m sweating, even though it’s windy and the temperature is around 12℉.  I’ll be glad when all this slippery hard stuff is gone.

Good news?  Next week is going to be in the forties.  All week.  But it’s going to take most of that week to melt all this ice.  At some point, I’m going to have to leave the cleats behind, to preserve them, and take my chances with finding a cleatless way to go around the worst of the ice that’s left.

I don’t need spring, but a clear path to walk would sure be nice.

Because they never plow in Hudson, the ice there has an entirely different character.

it’s time for a walk! Let’s go!

The key to retirement is to find joy in the little things.

-Susan Miller

It’s been six years since I retired and began walking with Waldo on a daily basis.  It’s time to assess how things are going…

I’m still in pretty damn good health.  I have my wits about me and, with the exception of back pain, that I’ve learned how to manage, I’m probably (due to walking Waldo every day) in better shape than when I first retired.  True, I’ve lost much of my muscle mass and some strength (unscrewing the lids off of some jars can be a challenge) and when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but wonder, how the hell did I ever become that.  But, by and large, I’m reasonably happy (again in no small part due to Waldo) and I can physically and mentally function better than most my age and even better than many quite a bit younger.  The event horizon of my life is looming somewhere off in the not-too-distant future, but I’m not yet feeling its inexorable pull.

I can’t claim to have ever looked forward to retirement.  Working in the ER was stressful, but I never had a day when I resisted going to work.  It didn’t burn me out.

There were social aspects to being at work.  I certainly interacted with many different kinds of people in many different ways and circumstances.  That gestalt lies in the past, but I can be as social as I’ve a mind to be now.  For example. on my last trip to Switzerland, I enjoyed, very much, trying to draw people I encountered into French conversation.  Phyllis, who was with me, sometimes felt that I was intruding on a stranger’s space, but I was sensitive enough to back off when it became apparent that the other person wasn’t interested in exchanging bon mots.  Still, I put myself out there, in a convivial manner, whenever the chance arose and I was, more often than not, rewarded by meeting some very friendly people.  You can’t be totally alone if you don’t allow yourself to be shy.  Most of the time, though, I’m perfectly happy just interacting with my friends and family – which includes Waldo, of course.

There were times when my job was very rewarding.  Like when someone’s life was hanging on a precipice and I pulled them back from the brink.  I can think of little that would give me more of a sense of accomplishment and making a worthwhile difference.  But there were other times, too, when despite doing everything humanly possible, it just wasn’t enough.  Over time, I learned how to be philosophical about that, but, at the very least, it had a subliminal effect on me.  Overall, though, I retired with the feeling that I had done something good with my life.  Even so, when I retired, I felt that it was time to pass on the baton and move on to other things.  That chapter was over and it was time to turn the page.  I haven’t regretted that decision.

Being retired doesn’t mean that you suddenly have a lot of freedom.  For one thing, while you may have more control over your time, you likely have less wherewithal to pursue your desires.  For most of us, a retirement income is fixed and limited.  Add to that the fact that the older you are, the less functional you become.  Because of all that, I don’t regret, at all, that I significantly whittled away at my nest egg so that I could climb Mount Kilimanjaro and compete in aerobatic competitions, for example.  I was always mindful that it was better to spend my future savings so I could do now what I would regret not doing later because I was too old to do it.  I think it worked out well.  My life, now, is relatively quiet and I don’t desire much.  But it’s full of many valuable memories that I can reminisce over in that quiet.

Because I’m retired, I’m better able to do some things that I couldn’t before.  I have time to write and walk all over New England.  I have the blessed opportunity to not only think about, but to commune with, what the human experience is all about – for hours at a time.  I can raise a dog from a little puppy to an adult (whose age is rapidly approaching my own) and in a very close and companionable way.  I’ve always been interested in learning to interact, in a meaningful way, with another species.  Why, I’m not quite sure.  But being around a dog almost 24/7 and intimately exchanging thoughts, ideas and experiences (in the way we’ve mutually created) has proven to be uniquely rewarding.

Meanwhile, Waldo has grown from a self-absorbed, OCD/ADHD puppy to a loving, cooperative, yet very much independent, dog.  He’s a happy, healthy guy who is enjoying living life even though it’s in a third-story apartment.  People we pass on the trail tell me, “He’s so happy!  And cute!”

“He’s got a good heart too,” I reply.  “But his brain’s a bit bent!”  (Come to think of it, people just might say the latter about me!)  By that, I’m trying to express the idea that he’s not human and does, on occasion, some very unacceptable stuff, for a human.  But, for Waldo, it’s just fine.  We make allowances for each other and enjoy our differences.

My final assessment, to date, about retirement while Walking With Waldo?

So far, so pretty damn good.

No excuses, now. Let’s go!

New Englanders raise their wipers in surrender when a snowstorm is forecast.

If you’re going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.

-Karin Gillespie

Walking in winter can be, and often is… difficult.  Not only is it a lot of work to tramp through deep snow, small accumulations can turn into sheets of ice that are hazardous.

Several days ago, a couple of inches of snow fell.  Just enough so the kids where I live can go sliding down the small hills using various contrivances.  This pushes snow downhill and packs it in low areas at the bottom where it’s compacted further by people walking on it.  The caretakers have small electric vehicles they use to drive around off-road and that packs it down even harder.  Then, along comes a warming spell, followed by a cold snap, and that solid bit of hardpack turns into half to quarter-inch sheets of glassy ice.  Ice that I have learned not to try to cross, even with gentle baby steps and ice cleats.

In the past, I’ve done more than one ass-over-tea kettle flying butt and back flop.  I’ve not been seriously hurt and that is a concern at my age.  Added to that, I have, by necessity, adopted a policy of never going to ground without a good plan as to how I’m going to get back up.  These unintended attempts at aerobatics and off-field landings violate that policy.  You see, when you’re older, you lose strength in muscles you don’t use.  There are all kinds of small muscles (I’ve learned by experience) that help you get out of contorted positions that put your larger muscles at a mechanical disadvantage.  Since I (more or less) intentionally keep myself (as a rule) from being pretzelated, those muscles are not often used.  So, when I need them (like when I’m splayed on my back on a sheet of ice with a zero coefficient of friction), I have to be very creative and think hard about how the hell I’m going to get myself out of my predicament and back on my feet.  Meanwhile, I’m getting wet and cold and (not unusually) a little muddy.  I don’t like it.

Even Waldo goes around the stuff.  When he doesn’t, he’s prone to do a four-legged river dance in a mad scramble to get off it.  Thank God he doesn’t choose to poop on the ice.  Although it might be entertaining to watch him try, with all four legs flailing about trying to get a good enough purchase to squat.  You see, I am obligated morally, and, by contract with the community where I live, required to reposit what he deposits.  Anywhere he deposits.  I shudder at the thought of having to bend over and pick up what Waldo leaves behind while doing my own version of a chicken trying to take flight.  I could very well turn brown from more than just mud.

Fortunately, the ice isn’t everywhere.  It has a tendency to accumulated in low places where the melting snow can accumulate and then freeze before it can be absorbed into the ground.  Most of the time, Waldo and I can find a way around these hazards.  Sometimes, I have to bend low to go under a balcony, climb a hill (that itself can be a bit slippery), or snuggle up close to an evergreen bush, but it can be done.  Even on the rail trail, where the sheets of ice can range all the way across the tarmac, we can (usually) find places on the edges where things are not so slick.  Rule of thumb: walk where you see white.  White means there is air in the stuff; it will crunch under your weight and give your boots a little better bite on the ground.

Mother Nature seems to be ill content with our finding a way to cope with what she throws at us.  A couple of days ago, we had a cold dry snow cover the ground by something like an inch.  Just enough so I can’t see the ice.  With wetter, heavier snow, it will bind with the ice and provide my boots with a little better hold that will keep me upright.  But not this powdery stuff.  It just hides the ice and if I step on a patch of it under the snow, it’s like the snow isn’t there at all.  I can remember where the ice is, but it’s harder to remember exactly where the edges are.  Yeah, I went down again.

Today, we had another couple of inches fall.  This stuff is heavier and wetter and it sticks to the ice a bit better.  With a little caution, I can now walk on the worst of the slippery places without going down.  Waldo, too, is walking (and pooping) where once we feared to tread and the danger has passed.

Until the next warming spell and refreeze…

There’s ice out there.

Waldo doesn’t seem to be bothered by the snow.

To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold.

-Aristotle

It’s cold out today, with temps around 10℉, and there is an intermittent breeze.  There is a light dusting of powdery snow left over from the last storm, a few days ago.  I recently heard of something called “Musher’s Secret,” a combination of waxes that, when spread over and between dogs’ pads, protects them from salt and icing.  These are the conditions which cause Waldo to bite at ice between his toes.  He doesn’t tolerate doggy booties, so I decided to give the wax a try.  Earlier, he let me smear the stuff on and didn’t try to lick it off.  So far, so good.  I’ll be watching him now, to see if he bites at his feet or tries to avoid walking in the snow.

The first part of the trail is plowed, up to the border with Hudson.  There’s still some compacted snow on the ground that wasn’t removed by the plow, but, by and large, it’s easy going.  I’m dressed in my parka, with a knit ski-cap over my head and ears, and the hood is up.  I’m wearing winter gloves and, although I can feel the cold, I’m not shivering.  When the wind is really blowing, or if it’s colder than now, I wear my rain pants too.  They keep the heat in really well, but I know later on, after I’ve built up some exercise-induced body heat, I’ll be too warm.  So, no rain pants today.

Waldo hits the trail and is soon off into the untouched snow, romping and rolling, making snow-doggies.  He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the cold at all.  Sometimes, after a snowstorm, he’s challenged to find sticks to herd.  I’ve seen him go underneath many a bush and rip off a low hanging branch so he has something to put between his teeth.  But not today.  Heavy winds, during the past few days, have provided plenty of wood lying about on top of the white stuff.  He “tempts” me to play keep-away, and/or tug-of-war, with one, but is soon off doing his Waldo thing, oblivious to the cold and ice.  We don’t go far before we meet people (swaddled in thick wintery garb like me) and other dogs.  He elicits his toll of pets and pats from the people and canine sniffs and licks from the pups.  He just might prefer the winter because there are fewer bicycles out and about (but not always none).

After about a half-mile, my fingers ache because of the cold and I alternate which hand holds Waldo’s leash while the other is coiled in a fist to get warm.  Even given the aching fingers and, of course, numb cheeks, I’m not shivering and feel quite toasty.  I know from experience that after about three miles, the cold parts will no longer be a problem and soon after that, I’ll be dropping the hood and unzipping my parka a bit, to keep from sweating.  In these conditions, I may have to do that intermittently, as I might get a bit cold while unwrapped and need to re-bundle up.  All in all, I’ve learned, over the years, that the thought of venturing out into the cold is much worse than the doing of it — given that some intelligent preparation is done.

There are times when we don’t go for our wintertime long walks.  We don’t go when the snow on the ground is too deep (it’s just too much work) or if it gets ridiculously cold (like in the negative digits).  But, adequately prepared, once we’re out in the cold, wintery nature offers up her seasonal splendor to enjoy.  The Musher’s Secret seems to be working, or maybe the conditions aren’t quite right to make icicle toe jam.  I can’t tell.  Maybe, just maybe , it will increase the number of days we can walk.

In the depths of winter, there is a quiet poetry, almost as if things are caught in still-life.  It has an essential beauty and feeling that is buried by the more energetic, riotous, frenetic world of color, overwhelming the warmer seasons.  I look out over the beige and white landscape and it reminds me of the sepia photographs that were popular back in the day.  I can see so much further with the leaves of plants gone.  Only naked plant skeletons are left behind to obstruct my view.  Broad white snow-covered meadows spread out in undulating seascapes, rolling off into the distance until they disappear into distant trees, like waves breaking on distant shores.  When we pass through the densest forests, I can peer deep into the woods and see the hilly ground on which they stand and get a lay of the land that’s totally obscured in greener times of the year.  Some photographers feel that they can shine their artistry better with black-and-white photos than in color and nature does a pretty damn good job of it too.

All in all, I’m grateful to have the winter months to get out and walk in.  I don’t prefer it to the other seasons, but I do enjoy the stark variety it has to offer.  Even deserts have their beauty, you know.  The full spectrum of the seasons provides an artistry that I miss when it’s not there, like in the tropics.  And winter has something else to offer the other seasons don’t.

Getting out of the cold and returning to a warm home and a hot cup of chai.

This tunnel is the border with Hudson, where it is never plowed.

Just be there…

When you walk, arrive with every step.  That is Walking Meditation.

-Thich Nhat Hanh

It’s cold out today, around 18℉.  There’s not much wind and the sun is out, such as it is.  There are a couple of inches of snow on the ground, though.  That’s going to make it a bit colder.  Waldo and I haven’t been on the trail since it snowed because, at these temperatures, the snow bothers his feet.  I think ice builds up between his pads because I see him stop, pick up a foot and bite at it.  Icy toe-jam hurts, you know.  Today, though, the trail will be plowed and it’s warm enough, I don’t think he’ll be bothered.

We start out down the tarmac and Waldo is happy about being here and eager to get on with it.  I keep an eye on him and I’m ready to turn around if we need to, but he seems just fine.  He’s wandering out into the snow on the side of the trail, then coming back to the plowed part, then back into the powder.  I don’t know what he’s doing, but he’s really happy doing it.  I swear, when he misses a day out on a long walk, he feels like he has to make up for lost time.  He’s on a romp.

As I follow along behind him, I think about doing some walking meditation.  Walking meditation is a tradition in several spiritual traditions.  It’s a way of training yourself to be in the moment, while still being active and distracted.  Traditional sitting meditation, like on a cushion, is somewhat similar, but different.  Even if you aren’t a practitioner of spiritual practices of any sort, I think you can enjoy walking meditation.

I walk down the trail behind Waldo and I turn my attention to the sensation of one of my feet touching the ground, my weight being transferred to that leg, and the muscles responding as needed.  I experience the feeling of the thin layer of snow on the tarmac crunching underfoot.  My weight shifts as I move my center of gravity in preparation for the next step.  I’m noticing all this in fine detail, all the while feeling that it is something I’m not directing – my body is on automatic pilot.  My breath goes in and out and my nose is running, just a little.

Cold air plays on my cheeks, numbing them.  The cold also makes my fingers hurt, just a little.  Not so much that I feel like I need to do something about it.  I watch the low winter sun cast long shadows of trees across my path.  Where sunlight shines, it has a golden hue to it, turning the beige of winter into something magic.   I watch Waldo cavort and roll in the snow beside the path.  I feel happy, seeing him having so much fun.  Looking deeper into the woods, I feel the quiet slumber of nature, like a calming balm to my otherwise frantic human life.

No description in words can accurately describe what walking meditation is.  Words are symbols that represent concepts and ideas.  Walking meditation is neither about ideas nor concepts.  It is the enveloping of oneself in the experience of walking.  It’s bathing yourself in the raw experience without definition of what’s happening, without thinking about what causes this or that sensation, without judging in any way whatever it is that’s happening.  If I feel my cheeks are numb with cold, I’m not separating out “my cheeks” from the rest of reality, I’m not thinking the cold is causing them to be numb, I’m not judging whether or not the sensation of being cold and numb is good or bad, I’m just basking in the experience of having cold cheeks.

Personally, I find this is hard to do.  I can succeed for a moment or two, then the ideas and concepts come back and I’m no longer in the moment, I’m in a world composed of words and thoughts and not the immediate experience of being alive.  Along with the ideas and concepts come values.  I’m not just experiencing whatever is happening, I’m defining it, evaluating it and, sometimes, wishing for something else.  Walking meditation is a way to practice living in the reality of what is actually happening to you, rather than what you’re thinking about what is happening to you.

Ideas and concepts, thinking and evaluating have value.  They can be used to accomplish great things.  But they are only tools.  They are only ideas, and ideas are ethereal things that have no substance.  One should not confuse them with what is real – the immediate experience of being alive.  Focusing on that experience and letting go of the rest, is magical and enlivening.  Walking meditation is a means to remind oneself of what is real and enjoying it.

Waldo and I finish our walk and I’m absorbed with the mundane chores of getting Waldo and me into the car and home.  My mind is once again distracted by what it takes to drive a car and be safe on the road.  Soon, I’ll be absorbed by all the things I think I need to do.  But I can still check in and touch the real “me” at any time.

While doing anything.

…be present wherever you are.

Phyllis on the railroad bridge over I-95.

History gives answers only to those who know how to ask questions.

-Hajo Holborn

Today, Phyllis, Waldo and I are walking on the last piece of improved Mass Central Rail Trail.  It starts just east of I-95 and runs east for about 4 miles.  Then there is an approximately 3-mile gap followed by the 6-mile piece that we’ve already walked, going into downtown Boston.  The day is reasonably warm, for winter, but we’re still clad in parkas.  The sky is blue and there isn’t much of a wind.  The ground is dry and snow free.  Perfect winter day for a nice walk.

We park both of our cars in the parking lot of a New York Life building.  The plan is to do a roundtrip, for a total of about 8 miles.  To the west of the lot is the end of the Weston portion of the Mass Central Rail Trail.  To the east are streets and powerlines, cut by I-95 running north/south.  There is no trail where we start and what map I could find online shows there are two ways to cross the freeway to where the trail starts.  One involves a prosaic, convoluted path, following surface streets.  The other is some kind of straight-line path that goes directly over the highway, but I can’t tell just what it is, except it doesn’t appear to be a street.  In Weston, the trail follows some power lines, so, leaving the parking lot, we opt for walking underneath the continuation of those powerlines.  There is no obvious railroad bed.

We don’t go far and we come across an old railroad bridge that crosses over I-95.  It doesn’t appear to be old enough to have been built in the nineteenth century, when the railroad was built, and the freeway was built between 1957 and 1988.  The last train ran on the railroad in 1980, so, I suspect the bridge was built sometime significantly before that, but after 1957.  But, who knows?  It may have been built earlier and ran over another road that was replaced by the freeway.  I feel a little like an archeologist on these walks and entertain myself with speculation about stuff like this as I walk through history.

On the other side of the bridge is a clear railroad bed that still holds iron rails.  In less than a block, we have to cross a street and, on the other side, is a well-marked, paved rail trail.  The area is not industrial, but it is commercial, with businesses running along both sides of the street.  Once on the rail trail, we leave the sterile, uninteresting patina of twentieth-century city and penetrate into a tree-lined tunnel of nature.  This is greater Boston and there is city all around us, but civilization is held at bay along where the trail leads.  Whoever originally had the idea of turning old, unused railroad beds into rail trails was a genius.

Waldo loves going on new walks.  You can tell by his demeanor – he’s excited, out at the front end of his leash, pulling as if he were on an emergent mission.  He’s sniffing and occasionally picking up sticks, like he does anywhere he goes, but he does it with so much more fervor.  His border collie shows, too. I train him to sit and wait at places where we have to cross a street.  If Phyllis crosses without waiting (she’s not as well-trained), he gets upset and tries to drag me across the street to keep his herd together.

We pass a few people, but not nearly as many as were on the part of the trail that runs into downtown Boston.  There are a few bikes and other people with dogs, but most of those that we meet are just out for a walk like we are.  I’m always amazed, and pleased, at how many people use these paths for walking and biking.  I had no idea of their existence, let alone their popularity, until Waldo came into my life and I had to find someplace to burn off all that border collie energy.   I am definitely the better for it.

As always, Phyllis and I carry on a stream of consciousness conversation as we walk along.  She and I have many overlapping interests and philosophies, but there are a few points of disagreement here and there.  When they come up, we broach them and let them go when we come to an impasse.  We are good friends and companions, not clones.  For the most part, we bitch about the same stuff, commiserate over life’s inequities and celebrate the wonder of human existence.  I can’t give you more detail than that, though, because it’s all flow of consciousness stuff and the flow keeps going on.  And on.

Eventually, we arrive at a place where we’re not so much following a path as walking down a very long, narrow parking lot behind some commercial buildings.  At the end of the tarmac, an unpaved dirt path continues on in the same direction.  It certainly looks like railroad bed, with raised middle and dips on both sides for drainage, but we have to turn around or it’ll be dark before we get back to the cars.  We gotta leave something for another day, you know.

And there will be other days.

Heading west, near the end of our walk.