Walking with Waldo

My buddy, patiently waiting to cross the street.

Before you get a dog, you can’t quite imagine what living with one might be like; afterward, you can’t imagine living any other way.

-Caroline Knapp

It never ceases to amaze me that I ever had enough time to have a career, let alone one as demanding as medicine.  Now that I’m retired, I still can’t finish everything I want to do in a single day.   Of course, I rarely let myself get sleep deprived the way I used to, and sleep takes up about a third of one’s life.  There are a couple of programs I like to watch on TV, around the times I’m eating, but that doesn’t eat up that much time.  There’s grocery shopping, preparing meals, taking care of ADLs (Activities of Daily Living), like showering and so on, coming and going, driving around.  I read books, do whatever writing I’m working on and pursue other projects of interest, and poof! my day is done.  I am never, ever, at a loss as to how to spend my time.  I haven’t mentioned the time I spend with Waldo, but, all told, that doesn’t consume more than four hours a day of constant, direct contact, unless we’re on one of our longer walks.

Even when I’m not walking or playing with Waldo, he is still there, on my mind at some level of awareness.  I made a good choice when I decided on getting a border collie.  Waldo has a mind of his own, only occasionally seeks my attention, and when he does, more often than not, it’s because he needs something – he’s hungry, he has to go outside, or he’s bored.  Actually, bored is rare for Waldo.  After all, he has his balcony to perch on and survey his dogdom, which seems to keep him well entertained, somehow.  Even so, Waldo is the organizing principle around which my life is built.  He is the bedrock that tethers me to what my life has become.  He is my family.

My daughters and friends think I’m a bit bizarre because of that.  I’m invited out to dinner, or over to someone’s house where Waldo isn’t welcome, I don’t stay for longer than about four hours.  With travel time, that means that I have to leave Waldo in his crate for six hours.  He can easily hold his business for that long, but it just seems cruel to keep him in jail for so much time.  Even if I let him run around the apartment while I’m gone, he’s still restricted to only a small living area.  I know for a fact he hates being left alone.  I may have family and friends, but all he’s got is me.

I don’t feel that any of that is a burden, or restricting my freedom.  It’s a choice I made when I got a dog and a choice I continue to make on a daily basis.  I found out, a long time ago, that real love takes place only when you take care of someone else.  It’s the tending to the needs of another that engenders the internal feelings of affection and appreciation of that other that we call love.  Performing those duties aren’t as much an expression of what we feel as they are the reason for why we feel it.  Making sure Waldo is fed when he’s hungry, has plenty to drink, gets his antiflea and tick and heartworm medicine, has enough exercise and entertainment to keep him happy, are all acts that make me feel affection, they are not done because I already feel that affection.  Cleaning up the stinky gooey mess he leaves behind because he has diarrhea and can’t get outside in time, or wiping up the wet muddy footprints he tracks in the house, or fixing the thousand other ways he creates chaos, are even more powerful ways of filling me with fondness for him.  Oh, I piss and moan, even yell sometimes, but that’s not directed at him.  It’s more directed at the fates that forced me to have to deal with whatever has occurred.  Because it’s so onerous, that kind of stuff leaves me loving the dog even more because I took a situation that I really disliked and dealt with it, making his life, and mine, even better.

I know, too, by the glint in his eye, the wag of his tail and the mischievous lunge at my bare feet, that he feels the same.  The licks he gives me when sitting next to me in the car, or when he rests his chin on my forearm, or paws at me playfully as he passes, all tell me that he, also, has affection for me.

My day is not just full of things to do.

It’s also full of Waldo.

Waldo, patiently waiting for me to take a picture.

Our familiar trail.

Tourists don’t know where they’ve been.  Travelers don’t know where they’re going.

-Paul Theroux

Warmer weather is upon us and it’s almost time to start our next long trek.  We never finished the Bay Circuit Trail, we’re about two thirds along the way, but that’s been put on hold until Phyllis can join us.  She is tied up with her husband, for the moment, but is very much committed to finishing the walk, so we wait.  This year, the plan is for Christine, Waldo and I to walk the New England Trail, running from Long Island sound, near Guilford, Connecticut, north to the Massachusetts border with New Hampshire – about 207 miles.  Like the Bay Circuit trail, the NET isn’t a separate independent trail, but a collection of shorter trails that run in the right direction and are connected by streets and highways.

I really want to get going on this trek because I don’t want to take Waldo on a long walk in temperatures much above 75℉.  Even if we leave home in the early morning to avoid the heat, Connecticut is a couple of hours south of us so we can’t get started on the trail until that much later in the day.  The logistics just become impossible by mid-summer.

On the other side of the ledger is the fact that spring is mud season and there are a lot of low-country wetlands along the way.  We’re used to that, but there have been so many rainstorms recently and I know the cooler days haven’t dried up the ground they’ve soaked.  I can deal with a wet muddy dog, but I really don’t want to have to slog through mid-calf deep slimy swamps, if I can help it.  However, it’s time to bite the bullet and deal with whatever happens as it happens.  Being flexible, innovative and dealing with obstacles as they present themselves is part of the charm of these walks.

In physical preparation for this trek, Christine, Waldo and I have, in the past three weeks, walked 12.7 miles once and 10.5 miles three times.  As far as I can tell, Waldo is no worse for the wear, but Christine and I have gotten a bit stiff and sore as a result.  It was nothing that didn’t go away after a day of rest, so we’re confident that we’re in good enough shape to get started.  The weather forecast for next week is about as good as it’s going to get, so, unless unforeseen circumstances get in or way, that’s when we’ll start.

Since we leave a car at both ends of our daily walks, part of the logistical planning is to find places where it’s safe to leave a car for about six or seven hours.  At our starting point, this is no problem.  There is a lot where people can park their cars to go to the beach about 0.2 miles or so from the trailhead.  There is also a place 12.1 miles from the trailhead where the path leads across a back country road.  The question is, is it safe to leave a car there?  How do we find out?  There is nothing so disconcerting as to find out your car is not where you left it after a 12 mile hike (that hasn’t happened to us yet, but the thought of the possibility worries me).  It may just come down to trusting to luck.  The car will only be wherever we leave it for seven hours at the most.  I also have no idea if where we would leave it is on private property or not.  The worry definitely adds spice to the adventure.  I think I’ll leave a sign on the dash with a phone number and a message that reads, “On a hike.  Be back at [enter time here].”

As much as I love the woods and the trail where Waldo and I live, I am looking forward to venturing out once again into unknown territory.  I do have a certain penchant for such things, you know.  Waldo, he’s always up for finding new sticks to stalk, new smells to sniff and beasts to bother.  Christine is enamored by the challenge and all three of us are eager to get started.  Until then, we may just do another 10.5-mile walk, or maybe explore the unimproved portion of the Assebet River Rail Trial on the other side of Hudson.   There is never a lack of interesting places to walk — all you have to do is look for them.

I’m looking forward to telling you about it once we start our trek.

Trees are still skeletal, but the bushes are getting green.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood and Waldo’s taking to the shade.

Those who train their hearts in natural wonder shall forever know the rivers, forests, wildflowers, and oceans, as friends.

-Atalina Wright

Today was the first time this season that I’ve been able to walk on the rail-trail comfortably in shirtsleeves.  The temperature is in the low sixties, with little in the way of wind to make it seem colder.  There are a few clouds overhead that keep the direct sun off me, so I’m not heated by solar radiation.  It is really a pleasant day to be out walking with Waldo.

What breeze there is blows a welcomed gentle, cool bath of air over my sweaty skin as I work up some body heat with the exertion.  There’s just enough sweat there to feel a light chill as it evaporates, but not so much so as to cause a shiver or even raise goosebumps.  The wind in the still-naked boughs of the trees causes a mild sibilance, nothing compared to the rustling it will generate when things are fully leaved-out, but it’s there just the same.  I can hear Gaia as she breathes and feel her breath as it plays with the small hairs on my arms and face.  It’s as if she’s talking to me in a nonverbal way.  I find the conversation calming and soothing and yet enticing in its magical beauty.

Squirrels are out and at play, rustling the dead leaves.  They usually appear in pairs, one chasing the other, in some game that carries them over the ground and up the trees.  Birds are whistling their distinctive tunes, talking amongst themselves in a language I can’t decipher.  They seem happy as well, whatever it is they are saying, and it raises my spirits to listen.  There are no buzzing insects to distract and no swarms of gnats, flies or mosquitoes to swat at and avoid.  All my senses are whetted by waves of sensations that induce reactions, feelings and emotions that are subtle, but somehow, if I open up to them, profound.  I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling that a trip into the woods serves as an escape from my mundane life and a journey into a life more ethereal, basic and real.  What I experience here has beauty, magic and is reassuring, all I have to do is pay attention.  It is never threatening and surrounding myself in the zeitgeist makes my soul respond with, “Aaaaah.”

I just finished reading Hope Always Rises, by Kathie Giorgio.  It’s a wonderful book about a character who maybe can’t feel as I do in the woods.  She is beset by an overpowering, unattached sadness that eventually leads her to suicide.  After the act, she awakens in Heaven, where God greets her and, for the first time she can remember, she is without an omnipresent feeling of gloom.  Her sadness was a product of a biological engineering mistake that’s no longer present in her celestial being.  She meets other characters with similar stories and they share their experiences.  The book is an exploration and a destigmatizing of what can lead one to taking their own life.  It’s not judgmental or heavy or depressing and it’s not an intellectualization.  It’s more a journey taken beside a number of characters who suffered unbearably in life (a suffering that stopped after death) and just wanted the pain to stop.  The story artfully induces in the reader an empathy for its characters that would lead those characters, if they were flesh and blood, to feel that they are heard, that the reader understands, not in an intellectual, but in an existential way, their plight.

One of the things mentioned in the book is that the characters often find that art can be very therapeutic.   Of course, this is well known and widely used in psychiatric treatment, but the way it’s presented allows the reader to experience how putting what is felt on canvas, or in stone, or on the written page, can objectify emotions, externalize them and soften their impact.  Walking in the woods can also be very therapeutic.

Being in nature doesn’t involve putting something experienced inside on the outside where you can view it as being separate from yourself, though.  It’s more like you put aside what’s happening on the inside, let it go for the moment, so you can experience what’s happening on the outside and be one with that.  You replace your internal dialog with a conversation generated by the outside world, Mother Nature, and you just listen, and smell, and taste, and look, and feel.  You pay attention to all the ways you respond to what’s happening with your senses.  You experience, in depth, the human condition as it is at that moment, aside from your daily angst.  This, too, can ease life’s pains, or, at least, give some respite from them.

Just ask Waldo.  As I watch him saunter down the path, it’s apparent to me that he’s totally absorbed by what’s going on in front of his nose.  Directly in front of his nose and in the moment.  He gets a whiff of something and, for a while, that’s all that exists.  A passing dog might bark and growl at him, and he sidesteps a bit, then we walk on and continue down the trail.  The other dog is gone – it becomes nothing more than a memory — if that.  All that exists is what’s around him at the moment.  If he ever worries about what will happen or has happened, he doesn’t do it when we’re out walking.  And he is such a happy puppy.

Could I possibly go so wrong by following in his pawprints?

It’s hard to hold a stick when you gotta pant!

This part of Massachusetts goes back a long ways.

But the beauty is in the walking – we are betrayed by destinations.

-Gwyn Thomas

For some time now, I’ve wanted to walk, in one trip, the southern and northern parts of the Assebet River Rail Trail, and the gap in between.  Christine wants to walk from the southern shore of Connecticut to the northern border of Massachusetts this year, so she is interested in doing some longer walks to prepare for that.  It wasn’t hard to talk her into going with Waldo and me on the entire ARRT.

I’ve done some reading and the total distance is supposed to be 12.5 miles.  I suspect this distance is along the railroad bed and not on the surface streets in the gap.  The reason the entire 12.5 miles is not open is that someone has denied access across their property.  I can see on the map how to walk along the streets to bridge the gap, but I can’t tell where the property is that we would have to go around.  So, this walk will be something of an exploration.  I always enjoy these kinds of walks.  Of course, Waldo is eager to go on any walk at all.

We leave a car at the northern end of the trail, in Acton, and start from the Marlborough trailhead.  The temperature is right around 40℉, but the windchill makes it feel well into the thirties.  The sky is cloudy, but occasional patches of sunlight intermittently warm us as we make our way north.  The snow is almost gone, but not quite — there are a few short icy white patches we have to traverse, but nothing significant.

After a little more than an hour, and 5.25 miles, we come to the end of the paved trail.  The unpaved, unimproved, overgrown, raw railroad bed continues through a swampy area a short distance, then crosses a two-lane highway.  We bushwhack our way along the path until we hit the street.  I’ve been here before, but, during the summer when everything is covered in weeds.  I couldn’t see it then, but now, with all the leaves gone, I can see where the raw roadbed continues on the other side of the street.  We continue forcing our way through the weeds until we come onto another street where the overgrown bed joins it at an acute angle, making it appear that the street is following where the rails once ran.  We walk on the shoulder of the street and, pretty soon, we come across a spot where the raw railroad bed takes off and heads to the right. Now we have to make a decision.  Follow the railroad, or the street.

I’m worried that if we follow the railroad bed, we might come across the private property and be blocked from continuing, which would mean we would have to backtrack.  There’s nothing particularly wrong with that, except it would add uncomfortable miles to what is already a long trek.   We’ve walked longer, but we were in better shape then.  So, we decide to stick to the streets until we pick up the northern part of the rail-trail, roughly 3.5 miles ahead.

From Hudson, we pass into Stow.  The streets here are all narrow and wind around as if they were paved over cow paths.  As we walk along, we pass by New England history – old homes bearing plaques with family names and dates in the early nineteenth century.  Much of this land was, at that time, used for agriculture and most of the trees were cut down.  Then more fertile arable land was found out west and farming moved there.  Over the last hundred years or so, up to 80% of the trees now growing in New England were planted to reforest the area.  Oak tree trunks will grow somewhere around 0.2 inches in diameter per year, so after a hundred years, their trunks will be about 20 inches, or just shy of 2 feet wide.  Almost all of the trees we pass are smaller than that, so, even though we pass homes that were built in 1822, few, if any, of the trees we see were alive then.

A little over halfway to our destination, the street we’re following goes through an apple orchard.  It’s fairly large, as far as we can see, and stretches out on both sides of the road.  This is country out here, about 30 miles east to Boston and 25 miles south to Worcester.  Even without the orchard, homes are widely spaced and separated by forest and undergrowth (and somewhere off to our right, the overgrown railroad bed).  There are many idyllic spots where it’s easy to imagine spending leisurely hours, peacefully communing with the natural world.

We come to the southern end of the northern part of the trail heading north and, across the street from there, I can see the continuing part of the unimproved railroad bed heading south.  I mention to Christine, “I wonder how far you can go down thataway…”

“Oh, it dead-ends in an orchard down a ways,” says a passerby.  “They won’t let you cross their property.”

Damn.  A street passes through the middle of the orchard, where cars go freely.  What additional harm could people out for a walk do?  Ah, well…  Maybe Waldo and I will walk as much of it as we can some other time, when we’re not walking so far, just to see what it’s like.

We continue on our way, on paved rail-trail, for another 3.4 miles, passing through Maynard and then into Acton where our car is parked. Waldo and I have been on that portion of the trail before and it’s familiar.  The total distance we walked is 12.7 miles.  We’re not used to this distance and both Christine and I are sore and tired. Waldo, not so much.  But he is quite a bit younger than we are.

It was nice seeing the country the trail passes through in toto. It kind of adds additional context to our walks, even if we can’t follow the railroad the whole way.

We have plenty of beautiful places to meander.

The upper Assabet River is broad and flows gently east.

We’re back!

Allow your dog to take you for a walk every day.  It’s good for the body and it’s good for the soul.

-Eckhart Tolle

We’re back on the rail-trail.  I went to see my physiatrist who thought my problem stemmed from bilateral low-back facet-joint arthritis that showed up on the MRI.  So, I bellied up to the bar for some “Old Man’s Best Friend,” shots of cortisone with a lidocaine chaser.  Worked like a charm.  The pain is almost gone and I have nearly as much mobility as I did before the pain started.  I can even put my socks on without much fuss!

Waldo is very happy.  A soon as we hit the tarmac, he’s off on both sides of the path, tail up in the air and wagging, searching for whatever is there.  He has sticks to herd, people and dogs to meet and all of nature to explore.  He loves our sojourns into the woods as much as I do.  He burns off much of his pent-up puppy energy, drags me along and gives me the exercise I need too.  Often, I’m in my own world, thinking about this or that, looking at the trees and other flora, listening for birds, or whatever, and he’s sniffing around, rolling in the snow and dragging around whatever sticks he feels are worth the effort.  But, even so, it’s a shared joy, these walks.  We both know the other is there, and periodically, we check in with each other with an offered treat, an effort to tempt with a stick or a chunk of ice, or, even more often, just a backward glance.  It’s truly something that bonds us together as friends and a family.

Waldo has come a long way from his hell-bent-for-leather puppy days.  He now readily sits and waits at street intersections until I tell him it’s okay to cross.  When I want him to cross over to the other side of the trail, because a bicycle is coming, for example, I tell him, “This way!” and he looks back at me and complies.  Sometimes I fumble with the leash handle and drop it.  He knows that something happened, stops and looks back to see what’s going on, instead of running off at full speed because he knows he’s free to do it.  He waits for me to catch up, pick up the handle and then we’re off again.  He, usually, comes when he’s called and, if whatever he has in his mouth isn’t too tempting, will comply when I say, “Drop it!”, or “Leave it!”  These changes haven’t happened because of “training,” per se.  They are emblematic of and resulting from the two of us meshing our lives together.

We share a life’s rhythm on and off the trail.  Waldo is very sensitive to routine.  When it gets to be ten o’clock at night or after, he’s ready for bed.  Sometimes he lies down near me, waiting for me to finish writing, reading, watching TV, or whatever I’m doing, until he finally gives up and goes to bed.  During the day, if I go into the bathroom to comb my hair, brush my teeth, or perform some other out of the ordinary task, he automatically goes and lays down in his crate without my saying anything, rightfully assuming I’m going out without him and will want to put him in jail.  During the day, our routine is variable, but we usually go for walks around the property about 5:30 PM, 7:30 PM and 9:30 PM.   He somehow knows when those times arrive and comes in from the balcony to nudge me on our way when they do.

Out here in the woods, what we share is a love of being outside in nature.  We enjoy the fresh air, the views of growing wild things, seeing the vistas of rolling hills, peaceful lakes and idyllic pastures.  Listening to the different bird calls, watching squirrels as they romp and play, catching the rare sight of a fox, or a deer, or a soaring hawk wheeling high above the treetops, are all things we enjoy.  I’m sure that Waldo doesn’t think about these things the same way I do, but I’m also sure we both love being swaddled in the ambience of Gaia.

These daily walks in Mother Nature have become a routine that we both look forward to and miss when we can’t enjoy them.  They take up a major part of our days and are the longest time we spend together.  If I were to describe what my life is composed of these days, I would say it is walking with Waldo, and also some other stuff.

And I’m the better for it.

The COVID garden says, “Hi!”

Snow over the balcony.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

-Khalil Gibran

The day unfolds in slo-mo.  Even the large puffy snowflakes, on the other side of our glass slider, drift down as if only reluctantly heading Earthward.  They float on a path that makes a thirty degree slant with the ground, like snow in a wind-driven blizzard, only there is hardly any breeze at all.  In the background, the sassafras trees just outside my door accumulate the stuff on downy barren branches.  Waldo is going in and out through his dog-door as if to say, “Come on!  Let’s get this day going.  I’ve got sticks to herd!”  How he finds sticks under the snow, I don’t know, but he does.  Alas, puppy, that’s not going to happen on the rail-trail today.

It’s not the weather, you know.  Hell, Waldo and I have been out there in worse weather than this.  And enjoyed it.  No, it’s not the weather.  Sigh.  Over the past week, I’ve been struggling with back pain – again.

It’s not the same pain that put us off the trail for two months this summer.  This one is new.  I was pain free, then I bent over to take my boots off and, wham!  My lower back went into excruciating spasm.  I could feel the muscles bind up on the left and then the tightness spread all the way across my low back.  The pain went from zero to eight within a second.  And, although it does vary a bit, it has not gone away.  Most movement makes the cramps worse, so when I walk, it’s in short, halting steps, accompanied by grunts, groans, and expletives.  My face is all pinched up in a wince as the pain crescendos in stabbing thrusts (all the barking, howling and teeth-baring grimacing must be some subliminally generated magical incantation because it makes the pain more endurable).  But I have a dog, so not walking is not an option.  It’s either that or get down on my hands and knees and clean up the mess he can’t avoid making because we didn’t go out and walk.  Not a good option at all.

Waldo must be frustrated because I have to take baby steps as we walk, so I don’t throw my back out even worse, or, God forbid, slip on the ice and go down in a screaming wail of pain.  At my age, the rule is, never go down unless you have a plan about how you’re going to get back up and I have none right now.  I still have to bend over to pick up the cylindrical brownies Waldo leaves behind, but I’ve figured out a way that, in slo-mo, involves bending at the knees and minimizes the curvature of my low back.  Waldo, while I’m sure he doesn’t understand what’s up, is kind and doesn’t add to the danger of the perilous icy path we tread by tugging at the leash.  He just wanders at the end of his twenty-eight-foot tether, sniffing and stalking sticks.

Mornings are the worst.  You ever try to put on a pair of socks without bending your back?  Can’t be done.  The best I can do is hold my breath, grit my teeth, stick the open end of a sock over the big toe, then pull it slowly over the other toes, up the foot and then to the ankle.  It takes a while…  Dancing around on one foot while trying to stick a foot into undershorts, or a pant leg, is no treat either.  But, eventually, I get ‘er done because, after all, the dog simply has to go out.

The back is a weak point in the design of bipedal animals, you know.  It really wasn’t designed well at all.  It evolved from something created for fish that would allow them to shake their tails for propulsion.  Then some animal decided to grow legs and walk on land.  At first it, was on four legs with the back held horizontal.  Okay, not too bad – all it had to support was some muscles and guts that hung on it like clothes on a line.  But then some idiot decided to stand upright so his forepaws could evolve into hands.  Now the back has to support the entire weight of the body vertically, along its entire length.  It simply was not designed to do that well.  Add to that the fact that if you’re upright, you gotta bend over all the time to do almost anything and… well, you see the problem.

This year, for me, has been one for learning how to deal with pain.  Pain is God’s way of letting us know we’re alive.  It’s not punishment and it’s not something any of us can completely avoid.  It’s just something, like the rest of life, we have to cope with.  And it’s not the pain itself that is the difficult part.  What’s worse is how we respond to the pain.  I can overlook the disgusting aspects of picking up dog poop, or, worse, cleaning it up when it’s as runny as water and spread all over the floor, and I can overlook the discomfort of having significant pain – more or less.  It’s just something that is.  There’s no reason to perseverate about it, just get on with life, you know?  But it does slow me down.

And, damn it, it keeps us off the rail-trail.  Sigh.

Sorry, buddy. No rail-trail today.

There are other people on the rail trail.

It would seem from this fact, that man is naturally a wild animal, and that when taken from the woods, he is never happy in his natural state, ’till he returns to them again.

-Benjamin Rush

The past few days have been warm, for February, with temps up into the low sixties. Winds in the low teens have kept it from being shirtsleeve weather, but, still, it has been pleasant.  I’ve had to bring out Waldo’s water bottles, so he can get a refreshing drink before we finish walking.  When it’s cold, I don’t bring them, because he’s not thirsty and he refuses to drink.  Today, he is and he doesn’t.  I start out a little chilled in my light jacket, but before we finish, I’ve worked up a sweat and unzip the thing.  It’s that kind of ‘tween day when it pays to dress in layers.

Most of nature is still hibernating, waiting for the longer days of spring.  There are a few plants with swollen buds, but none that have started to show tiny nascent leaves.  The deciduous trees are still in a state of deep slumber, with their spindly bones reaching skyward.  The English ivy on the dead oak is still green, but the garlic mustard has disappeared — I don’t know why.  There is evidence of many other kinds of vines — thick, seemingly dead, stems wind around the tree-trunks next to the trail, but there is no green on them.  That won’t come until somewhat later.

It occurs to me that the forest is an entire community of plants — trees, vines, bushes, mosses, ferns, grasses and so on, that, when not in a winter’s sleep, communicate with each other, through the air and through their roots.  They even share nutrients among themselves.  Somehow, and science is only beginning to understand the details, they coexist and help one another.  Generally speaking, although there are exceptions, they are friendly to each other.

People, out here in the woods, are also friendly to each other – for the most part.  Usually, the people Waldo and I meet on the trail are personable and eager to interact.  Waldo, of course, is eager to meet nearly everyone and is seldom rejected.  If I offer a, “Hello. How are you?” most are ready with a “Good.  How are you?”, in response.  There are some who don’t want to be disturbed and just ignore my overtures, but they are few in number.  If the mood strikes me and I stop and attempt to enter into short conversation, about dogs, or the weather, or the trees, more often than not, people will readily stop and exchange a few amicable words.  It’s not quite so friendly in town, especially in big cities, but out here, things are very genial.

In cities, like Los Angeles or New York, people aren’t nearly as easygoing.  If you pass by someone on the sidewalk, turn and say, “Hello,” if you aren’t completely ignored, you’d likely see them move away from you, as if to avoid an unpleasant interaction.  I can understand that, because, in the megapolises of the world, people are more focused on where they aren’t – where they are bound and what they have yet to do.  They’re on a mission.  Stopping and exchanging pleasantries interrupts their progress.  I suppose, too, there might be a sense of alarm in this kind of interaction as it is more likely that you’ll meet people who are out to take advantage of you in one way or another.  People out here in the woods, though, are here, mostly, to get away from all that and enjoy, simply, a nice walk in nature.  They feel less threatened and more eager, not to interrupt, but to share their good times.

There are differences, too, in what part of the world you are strolling through town.  On a trip to Melbourne, Australia, my father and I met people who, in response to a simple greeting, would turn, face us and say, “Hello,” pleasantly, then continue on their way.  Auckland, New Zealand, was special.  There, people consistently stopped, faced us, said, “Hello,” and then entered into interesting conversation, eager to interact.

Many of those who Waldo and I meet on the rail-trail are like those my father and I met in New Zealand.  Maybe, it’s just that, on the trail, people are relaxed and have no pressing agenda nudging them along, causing them to avoid any interaction that might deviate them from their purpose.  Maybe, people in New Zealand are more laid back and spend more time smelling the roses than those in many of the bigger cities of the world.  In the same way, people on the rail-trail are relaxed and here, not as a means to some important end just down the way, but solely to take some time out to just be where they are.  Maybe, people on the rail-trail, and New Zealand, interact socially simply because they have taken time off from their busy lives to go for a walk.  That respite provides enough space for all kinds of interactions they usually don’t have time for.

I wonder if there are differences in how plants interact in the forests of the world.  There certainly are places that have a healthier, happier feel to them.  I think the trees around Waldo and I have a stressed, contented feel to them.  Stressed because they are so close to the poisons and intrusions of the nearby city, but contented because they have reached some kind of equilibrium that allows them to grow and prolifically refoliate every spring – year after year.

Whatever the case, Waldo and I, and those we pass, are happy to be here.

Waldo on his way to say, “Hello.”

Downtown Hudson

Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.

-Helen Keller

Today, Christine and I decide to walk the entire length of the southern portion of the Assabet River Rail Trail – 10.5 miles round trip.  We’ve done it before, but, with my pinched nerve and Christine’s life responsibilities, it’s been a while.  About a year or so ago, we went on 12 and even 16-mile treks, but now we’re somewhat out of shape.  Christine is very active with her farm responsibilities, caring for and feeding horses, cows, chickens, dogs, cats and even a macaw and a cockatoo, so she’s pretty healthy, but she hasn’t walked any great distance recently.  Spring is coming and we plan on getting back into it and this is the first step of our preparation.  Phyllis is tied up with other things, for the moment, but we do hope that she’ll be able to join us, at least on occasion, as well.  Waldo is willing, nay, eager, needless to say.  He, of course, is in great shape – youth does have its advantages.

The day is a little on the chilly side, with temps in the low to mid-forties, but easy to dress for.  These are the temperatures Waldo really enjoys, what with his sable birthday suit, so we’re all comfortable.  After going ape from meeting Christine again, after such a long time (it’s been a few months), Waldo assumes his rightful position out front and we’re off.  The three of us fall into a comfortable and familiar routine right away – Christine and I talk about whatever comes to mind, as our feet go forth on autopilot, and Waldo’s out doing his Waldo thing.

Christine and I keep in touch by text and phone calls, so there’s not much catching up to do.  Instead, we like to discuss arcane stuff, like what kind of ham antennas we should put up (we’re both amateur radio operators), stuff that I’ve become interested in (like complex system analysis and emergence), current events (like the war in Ukraine), botany (we both like to pay attention to the life that surrounds us), the aches and pains of old age (Christine is in her early sixties) and anything else that pops into our heads. The litany of topics is as boundless as the human experience and we never run out of things to ponder.

Some time ago, I noticed that when I’m out with other people, I don’t get as sore as when it’s just Waldo and me.  The only explanation for that I can come up with is that my posture changes when I’m with others.  If I’m alone, I’m hunched up against the cold, or walking with head down, gazing at the ground without focus, or assuming a slouching gait as I plod along behind Waldo.  I have to consciously adjust my posture – shoulders back, chest out, head up, to correct for that.  When I’m out walking and talking, I’m no longer stumbling and mumbling and I’m engaged with eyes on the horizon, chest inflated to provide the fuel for gab, and chin up to direct the noise toward whomever I’m with.  I don’t have to consciously pay attention to my posture, it just happens.  Add to that the pleasant company and enjoyable interaction company provides and, given the choice, I will not walk alone.  However, because of the distance Waldo and I go, few will take me up on an invitation to join us.  Christine and Phyllis are special, indeed.

After a bit more than an hour, we come to a part of the trail we don’t often see – Hudson and its environs.  We cross over the Assabet River on what was once a railroad bridge, and walk next to an old brick building that has been converted to a restaurant and still has an elevated siding, running next to a no-longer-used loading dock.  At the end of the siding, there are iron rails still affixed to a wooden trestle that runs out toward the river and stops, 30 feet above the bank.  Then, across a busy street, we’re behind downtown Hudson on a meridian strip.  Soon, we parallel the Assabet River where it runs shallow and around an island on one side of Main Street.  A gaggle of geese and two swans are paddling in the water and hanging out on the riverbanks.  On the other side of the road is a cemetery and a small car dealership.  One of the really enjoyable things about these walks is the constant change in scenery as we progress down the path.  I’m sure that Waldo is constantly entertained by the variety of things to smell and types of sticks to herd.

Within another mile, we’re at the end of this part of the trail.  There’s a parking lot to the right and, continuing on in the same direction as we’ve been walking, the roadbed, ensnarled in weeds and bushes, continues on for another hundred yards or so before it runs into a highway.  Beyond that, there is no longer any evidence that a train ever came this way.  I procure a promise from Christine that, soon, we will do the entire trail, 12.5 miles from downtown Marlborough, to the commuter rail station in South Acton, including the 4 mile gap, from where we are now, to the northern portion of the trail.

But, for now, we turn around and head back the way we came.

Christine and I analyzing the meaning of human existence and Waldo stalking his sticks.

Less than 1 mile from downtown Hudson.

I didn’t do it…

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

-Percy Bysshe Shelley

A polar vortex dropped down out of Canada and sat on us.  But it’s not sitting still.  It blows and blusters with sustained winds of up to 24 mph and gusts twice that.  I’ve been colder before, but it was high in the mountains, at 10,000 feet, or at 19,341 feet (atop Kilimanjaro), not at 450 feet in Massachusetts.  The air temperature is touching the low double digits below zero, and with all that wind, the effective temperature is as cold as -32℉.  Cold enough so my fingers are aching after walking Waldo for just ten minutes, even though they’re buried deep in thick winter gloves.  My forehead, nose and chin are numb and icicles are growing and tugging on my mustache.  Although Waldo prances around as we walk, without showing any evidence of distress, when we’re home, he’s in and out on the balcony and doesn’t stay outside for long.  We haven’t gone on the rail-trail for the two days now, it’s so cold, but we still have to go out for tank-emptying walks several times a day.

It’s not the woods, the grounds are manicured, but walking around the complex is still pleasant.  There are different kinds of plants around, many of which were planted here and not wild.  There are squirrels, mice, rabbits, birds and even the occasional groundhog and opossum (none of which are out and about today!).  The buildings are spaced far apart and the landscapers who care for the place keep things green (except the flowers and red trees) and trimmed, making short, but not too short, walks pleasant all year round.  Its biggest drawback is that we can’t go for long walks without going ‘round and ‘round and ‘round.  But that’s not an issue today.   There is just no way I’m going to take Waldo out in these temperatures for a two and a half hour walk on our usual jaunt.

Waldo takes to the lower level of activity pretty well.  He doesn’t get all the exercise he needs and is a bit restless, but he still enjoys being outside, if only for a few minutes, sniffing around, moving sticks here and there and meeting the other souls and their pets out doing the doggy duty.  His tail is up and wagging and he’s engaged in what’s going on around him.  He’s had to put up with worse, for longer, like when the pinched nerve in my back made it impossible for us to walk very far.  But as long as I “embrace the suck” in this cold and take him out when he asks, he does okay.  And he doesn’t ask often, maybe every couple of hours or so – thank God for the balcony!  He’s content to be in and out there in between our walks.

It feels strange to be so cold when there is so little snow about.  It was warm enough, since the last snowstorm, that most of it melted before the bitter cold swooped down from the arctic.  There are still some icy patches of white, where the snow was piled up in drifts, either by man or wind, but they aren’t many or deep.

Waldo and I like to chase around icy chunks of the snow, when we can find some, that were packed tight by plows and pushed to the side.  It’s kind of a soccer thing we do.  I kick some down the trail, bits of snow and ice flying off from the impact of my toe, and Waldo chases after it and tries to get a bite on it.  Each kick, and subsequent bounce and slide, shrinks the thing and eventually it’s small enough for Waldo to carry it around in his mouth.  Then the game is over and Waldo eats what’s left with crunching enthusiasm.  Today, when we do find a chunk, it’s welded hard to the ground and going nowhere without an acetylene torch to separate it from its bonds.  To be honest, I’m not all that eager to do anything to delay our return to the warmth and coziness waiting for us anyway, but Waldo does like to play.

Soon, we’re back inside and I put a looped video of a fire burning in a hearth on the TV.  It comes with sounds of popping and crackling, just like the real thing, and I swear it helps me warm up.  I even light a balsam fir scented candle, for odor-effect, to complete the ambience.   Waldo is in and out, but he does it without letting any of the cold air in.  After a bit of a rest, when Waldo isn’t outside, we kick around his giggle ball for a while, or I pull out the laser pointer and he chases after the little red dot.  As I write this, he’s curled up on his bed, chewing on a bone.

Tomorrow, the forecast is for weather in the high forties!  After two days in confinement, it’s gonna be great to be back in the woods again.

Maybe we’ll even do the full 10.5 miles of the rail-trail instead of our usual six…

Look what I found!

At one time, this was a mortarless stone bridge over the railroad.

Plaque commemorating the bridge.

Instead of the scream of a fish hawk scaring the fishes, is heard the whistle of the steam-engine, arousing a country to its progress.

-Henry David Thoreau

The weather warmed, providing temperatures into the high forties.  Waldo and I are out on our daily trek and it’s a pleasant walk now — I only have to wear a jacket and a ski cap to be comfortable.  These balmy days are ideal for Waldo — not cold at all and not warm enough that he needs water along the way.  Apparently, things have softened enough for others, besides the regulars, to appear here.  Though there still aren’t as many people out on the trail as there are in the spring and summer, there are more than the handful of brave souls who venture out in wintery conditions.  Mother Nature sleeps on and doesn’t seem to be confused by the early warming trend, though (with the notable exceptions I’ve mentioned before in other posts).  The oaks, maples, birches and the other deciduous trees are naked and bony and the weeds have withered and dried up into delicate sticks, as all wait for the real spring yet to come.

As we trek along, Waldo deviates from his perpetual search for the ultimate stick and, looking for pets and pats, saunters up to a gentleman sitting on a bench.  The bench is located at an overlook where Fort Meadow Reservoir and the abutting community can be enjoyed in all their beauty.  Large houses are ensconced on the distant shore, almost to the water’s edge, and one can almost imagine them to belong to a small community on the Maine coast – except there aren’t any boats in the water.  We strike up a conversation, as Waldo gets what he sees as his due, and the man tells me about some Marlborough history I wasn’t aware of.  We don’t talk for long, since Waldo and I still have some miles to walk, and we say goodbye and go on our way.  The conversation does make me think about the rail-trail’s past, though.

Today, Marlborough has a population of 41,793, according to the 2020 census, and is home to a plethora of businesses, including Raytheon, Hewlett-Packard, AMD, Boston Scientific, AT&T, Apple Inc, Lucent Technologies and many others.  The Assabet River Rail Trail is a conversion of the abandoned Marlborough branch of the Fitchburg Railroad.  The trail was originally envisioned to run through Marlborough, Hudson, Stow, Maynard and Acton on the old railroad bed, but, to date, has a 4.0 mile gap that doesn’t even have a recognizable bed to follow.  The gap starts in northern Hudson, 5.25 miles from the southern terminus in downtown Marlborough, and runs to the beginning of the northern 3.4 mile piece that goes to the South Acton MBTA train station.  The Acton station lies along the commuter line that connects Fitchburg to Boston at North Station.

The railroad that gave birth to the rail-trail was built over a six-year period, from 1849 to 1855.  It provided both passenger and freight service for the five towns mentioned above.  The freight included shoes and boots, a major product of Marlborough (population then 2,941) in 1850.  In 1851, Henry David Thoreau walked along the tracks on his way to Lake Boon, which lies near the southern end of the northern part of the trail, so it even has some literary fame!

Passenger service dried up over a period of 28 years, from 1930 to 1958, but freight service continued until the 1960s.  The conversion to a rail-trail started in 2003 and the southern portion was completed in 2005 (the northern part began in 2013 and was finished in 2016), so the path is relatively new.  All the rails have disappeared (just this year, I witnessed the last piece being pulled out of the ground while Ash Street was being repaved), but there are still many signs of its previous existence.  Besides the roadbed itself, there are loading docks, the occasional remnant of a siding, railroad bridges and a few odd bits of quarried stone, sticking up out of the ground, that once served some, now unidentifiable, purpose.

As Waldo winds his way down the path, doing his Waldo thing, I imagine what it was like riding in a passenger car behind a steam locomotive running over this same ground.  I pretend I’m alongside blue-clad Civil War soldiers riding the train to Acton, then connecting on to Boston, on their way to battle.  Or I’m sitting among World War I doughboys, in khaki uniforms, taking the train to Boston, then on to a troop ship bound for that European conflict.  Perhaps my fellow travelers are young people, in casual dress, on their way into the big city for a shopping spree.  Businessmen are here, dressed in suits, going back and forth to ply their trade.  Mothers and daughters, wearing their best dresses, are going to visit friends and family.  Each of us are sitting on a wooden bench, sweating in the summer heat without air conditioning, or freezing in the winter cold with inadequate heat from a small stove in the front of the railcar.  Always, we’re swaying back and forth and jolting about as the train crawls to multiple stops along the way.  The smoke from the coal-fired boilers lays dark gray above and to the sides of the train and burned-out cinders float in through the windows, cracks and crannies to be lodged in everyone’s hair and clothing and freckle our faces with a black, gritty residue.  The smell of burning coal, creosote, spent steam and machinery oil is unignorable, much more intense than the mild odor of jet fuel in today’s airports.  The creaking and banging of the iron wheels on the iron rails and the rattling of the wagons being pulled around curves and over the gaps in the rails, add to the loud chug-chugging of the locomotive, making it impossible to carry on a normal conversation.  A fine adventure, indeed.

Back in the here and now, Waldo and I walk, instead of ride, down the same path.  Still no air conditioning or adequate heat, but we’re comfortable enough.  The scenery we observe now was much different back in the heyday of the railroad – even the trees we see didn’t exist then.  It’s a lot quieter these days without all the hubbub of a steam locomotive.  But despite all the differences, the path is the same, and it’s still a good place to venture.  And I don’t think Thoreau, walking along the tracks, could appreciate it any more than Waldo and I do, some 172 years later.  We love this place.

We’ve made it our own.

At one time, a railroad bridge over the Assabet River.

Plaque commemorating the river bridge.