Walking with Waldo

On the Northampton Bikeway.

Most young people find botany a dull study.  So it is, as taught from the textbooks from schools; but study it yourself in the fields and woods, and you will find it a source of perennial delight.

-John Burrows

From Chesterfield, we walked to Williamsburg, population 2,489, 7.1 miles.  Along the way, we left State Route 143 behind and followed Mass Route 9 for about a mile.  The current population of Williamsburg descends from loggers who moved into the area to harvest the hardwood forest that was there in the latter eighteenth century.  The town lies next to the Mill River and is quiet, a nice place to chill.  The walk from Chesterfield was mostly downhill and pleasant as we paralleled Meekin Brook.  The traffic was light and Waldo seemed quite comfortable.

Leaving Williamsburg, we followed Route 9 for about a mile and a half and then took a sharp left turn up a slight incline to the Northampton Bikeway.  It, too, is a rail-trail that once carried trolley-cars from Leeds to Northampton alongside the Mill River.  Once on the bikeway, we are wrapped in arboreal shade and surrounded by New England greenery.  Having spent most of my life in the West, where the countryside is covered in yellows and browns, the place feels idyllic, bathed in so much verdure.  If I let my imagination go and look hard enough, I feel I just might be able to see an elf or a fairy hiding in the underbrush amongst the flowering weeds.  The bikeway is paved and relatively flat.  Some botanist, perhaps with time on his hands due to the Coronavirus, left messages in chalk on the side of the tarmac, informing the passerby of different species of plants.  He points out the presence of Silver Maple, European Elm, Purple Trillium, Swallow Wort, Rosa Rugosa and others.  It revives my faith in humanity to find that there are people out there who indulge in their better nature and leave behind such simple footprints that are so friendly and heartwarming.  On the right, down a steep hill, runs the Mill River, white in places where it flows over stone and boulder.

Waldo is very happy on this leg of our journey.  Far from the stress of sharing the way with large, noisy, stinking, scary mechanical beasts, he trots along, doing his Waldo thing, with sticks in his mouth, taking in all the new olfactory stimulus.  We don’t see very many animals, squirrels and chipmunks, for example, that we’re used to seeing in Marlborough.  Birds are out in force, though, and serenade us as we plod along.

We pass others, but not so many that our social distancing is challenged.  There are a few bikers, and hikers, many wearing masks, others not (we do not as long as we are outside and can maintain our distance).  There are no groups of three or more people and the four of us are not grouped together.  Waldo is out front at the end of his leash and the other three of us are often strung out in a line behind.  Sometimes, two of us are together as we discuss this or that (today, botany), but, mostly, we leave each other to their own experience and assimilation of this gest.

We pass through Leeds, a suburb of Northampton, population 28,726.  There were textile mills along the Mill River in Leeds, including some producing silk.  A dam burst upriver in 1874 which took out many of these mills, though some were rebuilt.  Today, the place is quiet and, I suspect, is mostly a bedroom community for Northampton proper.  The larger part of the city lies next to the Connecticut River to the east.  It is an academic, artistic, music and counterculture hub.  It is the most liberal medium-sized city in the United States.  Sounds like my kind of place.  We are tired, stiff, hot and sweaty when we reach our end point, a Stop and Shop parking lot just a few yards off the Bikeway.  Waldo has his tongue out, panting like a choo-choo train, and seems eager to call it a day.  Another 7.3 miles has passed beneath our boots.

Next time, we cross the Connecticut River and plod on to Amherst.

Leeds, 1865 to 1950s.

Beautiful meadow!

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

-T. S. Elliot

Our P’town-or-bust path winds its way through the Berkshire Mountains, which are more hills than mountains and, at times, alongside the Housatonic River gorge.  As we walk up hill and down, we go through forested country and next to wide swaths of beautiful pastureland.  Christine cares for several rescue horses, cows, chickens, and even a pig.  She doesn’t have much pastureland and she drools whenever we pass a broad, flat, grassy meadow.  “Oh, the moos would love it out here,” she coos with a besmitten leer.  Karen and I roll our eyes and continue on down the road.  Traffic is light and there aren’t many people out and about.  We are mostly left alone, except for the occasional “Hello” as we pass.

When we passed through Dalton, MA, we came across a sign in front of an old brick building that read “Crane Paper Company.”

“Isn’t Crane the sole source of paper for US currency?” said Christine.  It’s a pleasure to walk with such good and interesting people as Christine and Karen – conversations with Waldo tend to be a bit one-sided and mostly in my head.  Christine is very well-read and she was right.  The company bought its first paper mill in 1770 and sold paper to Paul Revere who used it to print the American Colonies’ first paper money.  Today, it makes bank note paper for several other countries as well.  Who’da thunk that the source of all that green is a small town in western Massachusetts?  I find it surprising, and pleasantly so.

The road meanders alongside the Housatonic River.  In hilly places, it rushes over large boulders and down narrow defiles, making that soothing gushing, slapping, gurgling sound that is the basis for many a bedside sound-maker.  The temperature is a good ten degrees cooler and the river is bathed in shadow cast by an enswathing deciduous forest and its undergrowth.  Idyllic in tone, it soothes our tortured step as we plod along.  Waldo, distracted by the many new and interesting smells, noses about here and there, taking it all in.

Now that we are in the more rural parts of western Massachusetts, Waldo is enjoying himself more.  There are fewer cars rushing by, lots of new smells and an abundance of sticks.  Outside of the forested areas, there is less shade than on the Marlborough rail-trail (that runs between Marlborough and Hudson), because the highway is wider, and Waldo drinks a lot more water.  I have to watch him closely and make sure he gets all he needs to drink.  Avoiding the hotter times of the day is going to be essential too.  I can see it coming.

It’s nice to be walking somewhere different.  As much as I like the rail-trail in Marlborough, and I never tire of it, walking somewhere totally new is a welcomed change.  I have to be out walking Waldo anyway, so we might as well change things up a bit.  I never suffer from are-we-there-yet-itis because my walks with Waldo never end.  All Waldo-walks are of the to-be-continued-tomorrow sort.  We soon will be coming to a bike trail (Northampton Bikeway that runs from Haydenville to Northampton) that connects to the Norwottuck Rail-Trail (that runs from Northampton to Belchertown) — it will be nice to be able to follow a path that isn’t next to traffic.  The trail passes through Northampton, crosses the Connecticut River and then continues on to Belchertown.  The Connecticut River has become a waypoint for me because it’s close to where it will take us an hour to drive to where we start instead of two.  Belchertown is near the bottom of the Quabbin Reservoir, which serves as one of the sources of water for Boston, and is close to being in the middle of the state.  We are making slow progress, indeed.

The four of us are on a trek of discovery, doing it the way it used to be done.  On foot.  One step at a time.  Out in the open.  Among the forces of nature.  We walk along, taking in what we’re passing through and soaking up what we can.  We’re spent at the end and, as we drive back to the car we left at the start, I’m always amazed at how far we came.  It didn’t seem that far when we walked it.

And we still have some two hundred and sixty miles to go.

Rail-trail in our near future!

At least Williamsburg is downhill.

I read, I study, I examine, I listen, I reflect, and out of all of this I try to form an idea into which I put as much common sense as I can.

-Marquis de Lafayette

So far, our trek from the New York border to Provincetown (P’town in the vernacular) has taken us 8 miles to Pittsfield (population 42,533), then 6.5 miles to Dalton (population 6,569), 6.8 miles to Peru (population 847), 8 miles to Worthington (population 1,156) and lastly, 5.9 miles to Chesterfield (population 1,222), for a total of 35.2 miles.  Chesterfield’s about fifteen miles or so from Northampton and the Connecticut River.  We are making slow progress.

We’ve been able to do this in cool weather and we’ve picked only dry days to go.  Typically, we would meet up at about 10:30 AM and drive to our starting point, roughly 2 hours away.  We then start our walk around 12:30 to 1 PM.  The days are warming up, though, and we will only be able to do this as long as the days stay cool.  Soon, we will have to get up before dawn so we can finish our walk before it gets much above 75 degrees.  Our next leg is from Chesterfield, MA to Williamsburg, MA, another 6.8 miles down the road and the day we’ve picked for it is forecast to have a high of 70 degrees — a nice temperature to walk up hills.

Waldo is a great walking companion and causes little trouble as we walk along.  I suppose the 75-degree requirement, forcing us to leave in the early hours on hot days, is a nuisance in some ways, but it also makes it more comfortable for everyone and the women go along with it with only a teasing objection.  Christine is an animal person and enjoys having Waldo with us.  Karen is tolerant of Waldo and he stays pretty much to himself, doing his Waldo thing, and gives Karen no reason to object to his presence.

The worst part of each walk is the two-hour drive to our starting point.  Waldo and I take one car and Christine and Karen, the other.  Waldo doesn’t like car rides much and he sits in the passenger seat next to me, squirming and nudging my right arm with his nose, trying to get me to pet him.  He paws me in the chest, to press his point, and nervously licks me, the console and the touch-screen radio, changing the stations often.  I drive along, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Waldo’s back, giving him reassuring rubs and pets (and changing the radio station back to where I want it).  This only stops when we reach our destination.

The two-hour trip back home is exhausting.  Waldo is more chillaxed, spent and lethargic.  But I have to stay awake and alert, even though I, too, am all played out and ready to rest.  At least the radio stays on a single station.  Once we get home, Waldo and I eat, drink and take a well-earned nap.

We’ve been able to arrange each leg of our walk to be 6 to 9 miles long.  It’s interesting that towns in western Massachusetts are right around 6 miles apart, which is close to our comfortable endurance.  But maybe that’s not coincidental.  When these towns were established, walking and horse-powered transportation was the rule and maybe that was a factor in deciding why they are where they are.

We keep our eyes open and, every so often, interesting things reveal themselves.  I remember when we were walking along between Pittsfield and Dalton, Christine stopped and looked at the side of the road.  “I wonder what that means,” she said, staring at a sign which said, “The Lafayette Trail.”

“Maybe Lafayette was involved in some Revolutionary Way battles out this way,” said Karen.

“I’m no expert,” I said, “but I don’t remember any battles out this way.”

“Hmmm,” said Karen.  “Grist for the Google mill.”

Once home, we did look it up.  It turns out that from August 1824 to September 1825, Lafayette, the last surviving Major General of the Revolutionary War, went on a 24 state (the total number of states at the time) farewell tour.  The route we are taking is along the path he took on his way through western Massachusetts.  Known today as state highway Route 143, it is two-laned, paved and very rural.

We are discovering our heritage and the lay of the land as we make our way to P’town.

All it takes is boots on the ground.

Karen and Christine on their way, one step at a time.

And suddenly, the world is green again!

Life is available only in the present moment.  If you abandon the present moment you cannot live the moments of your life deeply.

-Thich Nat Hahn

In just two weeks, the trees all went from baring their skeletons, having only the tiniest of leaves, still mostly in their buds, to being fully verdant.  Oaks, birches, maples, black walnuts, all of them are clothed in verdure.  They are now politically correct and provide privacy for squirrels and many a bird.  I’m hearing Emmy-birds again, back from wherever it is they winter, and the cheeps and whistles of so many others.  All that green makes the world seem smaller, more intimate, and alive — almost as if Mother Nature wants to give you a hug.  It provides welcomed shade on those days when the temperature reaches into the 80s.  The foliage and the wind work together to create a rustling that whispers just loud enough to softly blanket the city noise, all too nearby, but not loud enough to drown out the cheerful chirp of the birds.  The Branch Manager (Waldo) and I are now starting our walks in the early morning to avoid the worst of the unseasonable heat and it’s a great way to start the day.

Social isolation recommendations have been eased, in the sense that some businesses are now reopening, but there is still the requirement of facemasks (when in groups) and six foot or more distancing.  I don’t see much of a change on the rail-trail.  Most of the people I see, I recognize from before and the numbers haven’t increased.  There might even be an inverse relationship, with fewer people walking with us now that there are more options out there, more places people can go to get out of the house.  Some wear masks, many do not (I don’t, but I carry one in my back pocket if I need it).  We all keep our distance and most are cheerful and friendly.  I suspect that any changes are temporary and that there will be another surge in infections, reapplied business closures and the rest.  How could it be otherwise?  The virus is still out there, more of it than there was in March, and it is still as infectious and virulent as ever.  It’s going to be a long summer and fall.

Waldo prances along, nose just above the ground, mouth full of sticks, stopping for an in-depth nose-scan every now and then.  He sometimes wanders off-trail into the greenery, after something I can’t identify, and I have to call him back before he gets all twisted up in the shrubbery.  I shudder to think of how many ticks he’s picking up.  At least he doesn’t leave a pile in there.  If he did, I would have to bushwhack through all that vegetation to retrieve it.  Still, it never ceases to lighten my heart to see his bouncy, tail-wagging, totally engrossed prance down our green tunnel that once was a railroad.   How sad our existence would be if we didn’t have this.  Full quarantine would really suck.

I walk along, mostly 8 meters behind Waldo, at the slow end of the leash, and just let my mind go where it will.  It goes lots of places, but I no longer have daily issues that impact my subconscious mind and leave craters that I feel pressured to fill in.  I no longer have the compulsion to perseverate and mull over what happened in the immediate past in order to reach some kind of resolution that is artificial and temporary, lasting only until the next bump in the road of life.  In its place, I have space to relax into the moment and just pay attention to what it has to offer.  To follow Waldo’s example and sniff the faint odor of damp ground, listen to the birds twitter and the bugs buzz, look, really look, at woody branches sporting their whispering foliage, feel the air as it dances in the small hairs in my skin, and appreciate what is happening right now, in this place.  I reach out with my mind and embrace Mother Nature as she envelops me, drawing me to her bosom.  And that is enough, virus or no virus, lockdown or full freedom, pandemic or not.

And Mother Nature is always there, waiting for me to recognize her as she is.

Sometimes, you just have to chill and take it in.

At Shaker Village, Hancock, MA.

Continued from last week…

If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine.  It’s lethal!

-Paul Coelho

We come across a gas station/convenience store and try to use their restroom, but it’s been closed, due to the virus.  It reminds me of being with my family, crossing the country from New York City to Salt Lake City, Utah, on November 22, 1963.  We were in Pennsylvania and it was getting dark.  The news of Kennedy’s assassination came over the car radio that afternoon and almost everything was closed down.  The signs outside motels were turned off, not because they were full, but because they were afraid.  Finally, we stopped at one and my mom and dad talked the proprietor into letting us spend the night.  There were four of us kids, ages 17 to 8, so that might have helped in the negotiations.  Next day, things improved, but people were still pretty upset and worried about what was going to happen next.  I’m going to have to ask Karen what her memories of the Kennedy assassination are; Christine was around one year old at the time and wouldn’t remember.  It felt to me, in some ways, like now, but the disruption didn’t last nearly as long.

And today, some fifty-seven years later, here we are, walking Waldo down a road that leads to Provincetown, MA in the middle of a coronavirus pandemic.  Life does take some interesting twist and turns.

We continue on down the road and, as we go, we can tell we’re getting closer to Pittsfield because there are more businesses and homes are closer together.  Still no sidewalks.  There aren’t many people we pass, only a handful, and those we do spontaneously keep more than six feet away.  We all know what’s going on, what the recommendations are, and nothing needs to be said about it.  The three of us are a friendly group and seek out conversation as we walk along.  The local denizens all appesr to be quite happy and weathering the viral storm quite well.  We mention we’re walking Waldo to Provincetown and they seem to think us interestingly unusual and wish us luck.  Maybe our ages add a little quirkiness to things too.  You know, a group of old farts thinking that it’s a good idea to walk 300 miles in the middle of a pandemic?  What could go wrong with that?  None we meet seem interested to join us and, to be honest, we don’t ask them to.

After just under four hours, we make it to the Big Y, get in the car we left there and drive to the car we left at the starting point.  It took more time to drive to and from home, about hundred and forty miles and just over two hours away, to the starting point than it did to do our walk.  It was a long day.  Waldo would have preferred the rail-trail, I’m pretty sure, although he is happy just to be out for a walk.

Me?  It feels good to be in the midst of a new adventure, as inconsequential as it is, and the company is good.  I lived with my family in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia for a year and a half when I was twelve and thirteen years old.  That was a formative part of my life and the experience affected me profoundly in many ways, one of which was to permanently spoil me for adventure.  I don’t seem to be able to go for very long without doing some outrageous thing or other (at least as far as some might perceive it) in the spirit of adventure.  This walk is mild, compared to many I’ve been involved in, but adventure it is still.  And I like it.

One of the things I admire and respect about Christine the most is that she is her own woman.  She is no sheep.  Christine decides what she is going to do based on what Christine thinks is valid criteria.  Like me, she is a vagabond in life who follows her own counsel as to where she should step next.

Karen, I know less well, but she also seems to be quite an interesting individual who determines her own path.

Then there is Waldo.  Waldo is a newcomer to this planet, he’s only been here for twenty months, and every second of his life is a new adventure.  Rail-trail or highway, it’s all good.

The four of us make up a pretty offbeat and intrepid group.

Further down the road.

Our intrepid group at the New York border.
Left to right: Karen, me, Christine.
Wait, where’s Waldo?

The key to life is accepting challenges. Once someone stops doing this, he’s dead.

-Bette Davis

Waldo and I are walking on the side of highway 20, a few miles west of Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The temperature is in the mid-fifties and quite comfortable. There aren’t many cars and trucks, but those that pass us whiz by at forty miles an hour plus, making Waldo a little nervous. There are no sidewalks and not much space on the side of the road. Waldo trots along on the shoulder away from the traffic, but close enough to it to make him a little edgy. His tail isn’t tucked, but I can see his anxiety by the fact that he’s not sniffing everything along his path. He is a very good dog and stays safely away from the cars and trucks. It makes me a little nervous too and I keep a close eye on him. I keep him safe.

Two good friends of mine are with us, Christine (age 58) and Karen (age 68). The plan: we are to walk across the length of Massachusetts, from the New York border near Pittsfield, to the tip of Cape Cod at Provincetown. It’s about 300 miles total and we decided to do it in 6 – 10 mile chunks, once or twice or so a week, returning home after each walk. We hope to be done by August or September. Why? I don’t know. Christine came up with the idea and when I heard it, it sounded like an interesting thing to do. Karen was in support of it and there wasn’t any discussion at all about the whys or wherefores. We all just agreed it would a good thing to do and we started making plans. This was at the very beginning of the COVID thing, before the “shutdown,” and as things developed, we decided we could proceed safely, and in compliance, even as the rest of our lives are lived in isolation. (The part of the trek that I write about here happened just before my family got sick. When that happened, we took a little over two-week hiatus to make sure I wouldn’t be surreptitiously passing on the virus because of exposure to my family). It may sound strange, but it feels good to once again have a challenge to overcome. I have, after all, spent my goal-oriented life in deferred gratification, so putting one more obstacle in my way, even if totally arbitrary, makes life feel comfortably familiar. Today, our aim is to trek about 8 miles from the border to a Big Y grocery store in downtown Pittsfield.

It isn’t long and I’ve worked a little bit of a sweat. Waldo is panting pretty good and I give him water from his bottles more frequently than I have to on the rail-trail. Maybe being nervous is making him thirsty. The ground is dry and the going mostly pretty flat. Waldo is having some trouble finding good sticks to carry out here on the highway. Maybe in addition to his nervousness, the car, truck and people smells overpower everything else because Waldo doesn’t seem to be sniffing much at all. He is out front at the forward end of the leash, as usual, leading us along as if he knows where we need to go. Of course, there isn’t a lot of choice…

Most of our walk is rural. We’re clearly on the edge of a town, we pass houses every so often, but it’s pretty sparsely populated. There are no sidewalks and, in many places, the road goes right up to ground that would be difficult to walk on. So, we spend most of our time hoofing it on the edge of the tarmac, on the outside of the solid white line, still at a safe distance from the people who pass us in their metal cocoons. The traffic is nowhere near heavy and we see almost no one outside.

The three of us who can, spend our time talking to each other about whatever comes to mind. We don’t stay six feet away from each other; after all, we ride in the same car at times, but we are careful to maintain the six-foot distance when we meet the rare individual along our way. Our discussions include the Corona virus, some politics (but not too much – there is a lack of consensus among us about many things), personal stories, and anything interesting we come across on our way. It isn’t long and we come to Hancock, home of a Shaker village. The place is empty, because of Covid-19, even though it has been turned into a history museum. The whole countryside is very quiet.

The four of us plod along, the adventure just beginning.

To be continued next week…

We have a long way to go…

Go for a walk? Of course I want to go for a walk. Who cares if its raining?

The great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie, deliberate, contrived and dishonest, but the myth, persistent, persuasive and unrealistic.

-John F. Kennedy

It’s raining. Again. It’s not coming down real hard, but it’s wet enough to soak my socks. I have waterproof walking shoes, but the waterproofness applies only to the soles. There is a fabric top over the toes that allow for my feet to “breathe.” Good thing, because if they didn’t get some airing, I don’t think I could bear to take them off. But it allows the rain to get in and I end up with a squishy gait before too long.

Waldo trots along as if there’s no difference between today and a dry day. The water rolls off his coat, shiny from natural oils, and only very slowly penetrates to his skin. When it does, he does that doggy-shake thing where every square inch of skin waves back and forth like a wash woman shaking out a wet sheet before hanging it out on the clothesline. Now, in my old flabby age, my skin jiggles when I walk, but there is no way I could ever produce the oscillations he does. I don’t understand how it doesn’t give him a headache.

The forecast for this morning was 45% rain. Well, if this is 45% rain, I wonder what the other 55% is. I know, for a fact, that it’s not sunshine, nor snow, nor sleet, nor gloom of night, nor oobleck. It seems just as wet as the 100% rain I’ve been in, but that kind of rain does come down a little harder. But I’ve also driven through a cloudburst where the water was coming down so hard, it was like trying to drive through a waterfall – you couldn’t see the white line in the middle of the road with the windshield wipers going full blast, nor the shoulder of the road. You simply had to stop and wait for the storm to pass. Was that 1,000% rain? 10,000%?

All kidding aside, I really have wondered what it means when the weatherman says, “45% chance of rain.” Does it mean that the weatherman has arthritic joints that tell him it will rain with, um, a 45% likelihood? He makes a guess and he feels 45% sure that it’s right? I know enough about probability and statistics to know that the probability of a certain thing to occur, given that all other alternatives are equally probable, is the number of ways that thing can occur divided by the total number of ways that anything can occur. So, does 45% chance of rain mean that in similar circumstance, it rains 45% of the time? Does it mean that the meteorologist runs a large number of simulations and 45% of them predict that it’ll rain? Does it mean that he runs his simulations and they, on average, show that 45% of the forecast area will experience rain? It turns out, meteorologists use various models, that have taken many decades to design, and measured data to determine the chances that rain will happen somewhere in a large forecast area and determine what percentage of that area will receive any rain at all. They then multiply the two together. So, if there is a 50% chance that it’ll rain somewhere in the forecast area, but only 20% of the entire area will receive rain, then there is a 10% chance of rain. As we all know, it is difficult to predict the weather. Meteorologists are much better at it than they used to be, but still, they can only predict a probability of something happening. There is no certainty.

The same is true of what’s happening in the world today. No one can predict what’s going to happen with the global economy, the number of cases of COVID-19 (the official name of the disease), or the number of deaths that it’ll cause. Our ignorance goes deeper than people are used to. SARS-CoV-2 (the official name of the virus) is new and we really don’t know much about it. The best we can do is make educated guesses based on how similar viruses that we’ve confronted in the past behave. It’s often a “I’m about 45% sure it’ll rain” kind of educated guess. The more accurate statistical guesses like “45% of the forecast area will get rain” will have to wait until scientists have the time to do good, well-designed, controlled studies and discover enough about what’s happening to come up statistical models that will allow them to make a guess like “45% of the forecast area will experience rain.” Until then, we have to treat anecdotal observations as “interesting, but require more rigorous study” and avoid like the plague (no pun intended) the temptation to tout these observations as being strong evidence of this or that. Patience, grasshopper. Patience. And keep in mind that, in the end, we still won’t be able to come up with certainty, just probabilities.

Meanwhile, Waldo and I are out here, in the rain, doing our six miles, getting wet with 100% certainty.

So, are we going or not?

It’s a rainy day on the rail-trail.

COVID-19, are you going to be naughty or nice to me?

-Steven Magee

Zeus is pissing through a sieve and Waldo and I are out on the rail-trail, putting in our daily six miles. It’s chilly, temperature is in the mid-forties, rain is falling in a constant shower and gusts of wind drive the water through my gloves. My hiking shoes are “water-proof,” which means the soles and lower uppers are impermeable to water. To allow breathing, the uppers are covered with a fabric that allows the water to get in. We haven’t been walking for long and my socks are soaked. Waldo is wet, but the rain isn’t so forceful that he’s seeking shelter beneath bushes or trees. He just continues on down the trail, doing his Waldo-thing. I plod along behind, looking forward to getting warm and dry at home when we’re done.

The coronavirus has hit us where it counts. My daughter is a PACU nurse at a local hospital and she figured all along that she would bring it home, no matter how careful she was. However, the devil didn’t come in through that door. Instead, he assaulted them through the window. Her biological father, Adilson, who works as a commercial housekeeper and deemed to be essential, lives with my daughter and her family and brought it home from work. He had troubling symptoms of cough, headache and low-grade temperature that did not qualify him to get tested. His doctor thought he just had a cold. Then Emily and Matty got sick, but this was mild and lasted for only about three days. Adilson got slowly sicker, with worsening cough and higher temperatures. Finally, he could get tested, but the turn-around time would be around five days. Meanwhile my daughter’s husband fell ill and, finally, so did my daughter. Because she is a nurse, she could and did get tested with the results coming in about 24 hours. It was positive. Everyone else’s test came back positive as well, of course.

For the past month, my daughter has been strict about avoiding all but the most fleeting contact with me. She saw the really sick people in the ICU, who are mostly elderly, and she didn’t want me to take the risk of getting this disease. I saw the family on the rail-trail the day before my daughter became ill (remember, the family were told they just had colds), but we kept the six-foot distance prescribed by social isolation. I have not been wearing a mask when out on the trail as I believe that the protection it would offer is negligible compared to the protection that outdoors provides. Up until now, I remain well and out on the daily trek with Waldo.

Emily and Matty, at this point, are healthy, thank God, and very bored. They are now quarantined inside the house and can’t venture out except to retrieve the garbage cans. Video gaming, watching movies and YouTube on their iPads helps some, as does the perpetual sibling squabbling.

Adilson, after about two weeks of being sick, is finally feeling a bit better, although still symptomatic, and talking about going to Walmart. Maybe he’s in denial. He gets the “What part of quarantine don’t you understand?” reaction from the rest of the family and now spends most of his time sprawled on a couch.

My son-in-law is still having some fevers, along with most of the other symptoms, but doesn’t feet as bad as he did a few days ago. He, too, spends his days lying on a couch, watching TV and tactfully avoiding my daughter. At least he’s no longer spending the day in bed.

My daughter is irritable and just wants all this f***ing s**t to stop. The headaches, muscle pain, cough, and the rest has caused a fire breathing demon to possess her. I find this encouraging, as I know, from experience, that when she’s sick it’s only when the demon exorcises itself that I need to worry.

So, we, as a family, have been hit with the plague. But. luckier than all too many, it looks like we’ll weather it just fine. Now, if I can avoid getting sick, or if I do, survive it as well as my daughter’s family, we’ll be okay. This too shall pass.

As will this rain storm. And the cold weather. And whatever else life has to throw at us. Change is the only constant in life.

Waldo and I finish our walk, return home, dry out, warm up and chillax.

Another day, another six miles.

PS As of this posting, the family is fully on the mend and returning to work!

Don’t go toward the light, Waldo!

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.

-Helen Keller

It is a sunny, cloudless, warm day today. Birds sing their joyful tunes in seemingly unending conversation. I wonder, why do humans feel that birdsong is joyful? Does it reflect an interspecies commonality of feeling? The birds don’t get anything out of our feeling that what they are doing is joyful. It isn’t something we learned because something that made us happy occurred after hearing birds sing. I’ve heard birds singing on dismal, grey, low overcast days who sound just as cheery as when it’s bright, warm and sunny. And listening to it always brings me back to the moment.

Waldo is elated, as ever, to be out on the rail-trail. He trots along, nose just above the ground, as if he’s on a vital mission and needs to get somewhere important as soon as possible, then, suddenly, veers off the path into the grass and bushes, pauses, focused on some small piece of nature. Equally as suddenly, he’s back on mission and trotting down the trail, pulling me behind. The entire time, his tail is wagging and I swear he has a grin — at least when he turns so I can see his face instead of his butt.

It’s about sixty degrees out and a few bushes and weeds have flowered. Those flowers weren’t there yesterday. I’ll bet they exploded with the dawn. Other bushes have leafed out with small leaves, but bigger than the ones they tentatively displayed yesterday. Spring is not far away, at least by nature’s calendar, if not by the Gregorian calendar. Still, the trees slumber in cold weather mode with only budded branch tips to show that they too are awakening to the warming weather.

As I walk along, I do a systems check. My legs are strong, my natural gait rapid and determined, my breathing slow and unlabored. My mood is calm and alert, in wonder of all that is life. But I can’t help but ponder if this might not be my last walk with Waldo for a while. The Coronavirus could strike at any minute, making it not only uncomfortable to be out here, but immoral. I don’t fear this so much as dread it, because that would mean that I would have to keep Waldo inside for at least two weeks. If I’m bedridden, it would be damned hard to entertain him by playing ball or keep-away with his tug rope. I could be so sick that I would find it exceedingly hard to get out of bed to clean up the poop and pee that he would have to grace me with. Family would step in and help out, even take Waldo to live with them if I ended up in the hospital, but he does require a lot of exercise and I don’t want to burden them if I can help it. Ah well, all life is struggle. I just need to focus on the beauty around me as I walk with Waldo today. I may not be here tomorrow.

Being over seventy, I am at higher risk of death from the virus than someone who is twenty. This doesn’t frighten me. My life is approaching its end anyway, though that’s probably still years from now, if something like COVID-19 doesn’t take me. Still, death is closer to me than it was when I was twenty. I think about it sometimes and its inevitability seems acceptable. At least now when I’m healthy and still able to walk with Waldo six miles a day. I probably will soil my drawers when the final moment is close. For now, I just soak in the joy of being out here with Waldo, knowing that there are all too few opportunities for this in my future.

I get a lot of joy by watching others enjoy themselves here on the rail-trail as well. The cheery hello as we pass, the friendly tone of voice as a few words are exchanged and the smiles that are revealed in the eyes as well as the lips. It warms my soul to see the smaller kids romp and play as they’re herded down the tarmac by their parents. I laugh inwardly when I see a little girl on her bicycle, followed by her dad jogging behind. “You’re supposed to keep up with your pace car!” I call to him as we pass. He laughs between labored breaths and continues his pursuit.

And, of course, Waldo. He is always so happy to be out here. I can see it in his gait, how he holds his tail, and even in his eye when he turns and gives me that are-you-okay look and the what’s-keeping-you sidelong glance.

And, bring what fate may, that does my heart good.

This is what I call a good day!

Look! This stick has a mouthle! A handle for the mouth!

Your fear is 100% dependent on you for its survival.

-Steve Maraboli

A few weeks ago, Waldo and I were out on the rail-trail, taking our daily six-mile trek.  About a half-mile in, we came across a big old tree that had fallen across the path, taking out the wooden rail fence on its way. We didn’t see it fall and any other trauma it caused had long dissipated.   I suspect the tree was blown over as most of it appeared quite dead – though this can be a little hard to determine in the winter when deciduous trees seem pretty dead anyway. Now, there was a stiff breeze blowing cool air through the foliage, but nothing dramatic. The birds were singing, a squirrel scurried up a tree at our approach, people passed us by without a sideways glance at the stiff, wooden corpse.

I passed Waldo, something that rarely happens and then only when he is stopped by a unyielding stick or a particularly interesting odor. Up ahead lay the tree on its side; one branch hanging horizontally at chest level, vibrating in the breeze. As we approached, Waldo suddenly and emphatically stopped, pulling the leash taut behind me. I tugged a little and turned to see what he was doing. Waldo was rooted to the tarmac, all four legs splayed apart and braced against the ground. He was dug in.

Waldo had a wide-eyed what-the-hell-is-that? expression pasted on his furry face and glared at the dancing branch. “It’s okay, Waldo,” I said in the most reassuring voice I could muster and tugged on the leash.

Nope, uh-uh, no way, not gonna happen, was his response. That thing looks scary!

I went to the trunk and stepped over and tried again.

Waldo stared back at me and jerked at the leash a little, turning his head side to side. He was not convinced.

He seemed to be staring at the threatening branch, so I stepped over the trunk and stood up against it, demonstrating that it offered me no harm. “It’s okay,” I said. “See? It’s nothing to be afraid of.” I then called to him without tugging on the leash.

Waldo stared, then, haltingly, took a step, then another, and finally decided that all was well and followed me over to the tree. We then continued on our way as if nothing happened. Fear evaporated, birdsong ruled and nature returned to being something benign and wonderous. And there was so much to smell and so many sticks that needed transportation.

Most, but not all, of the people we meet on the trail don’t seem to be all that frightened about the Coronavirus. There is probably a selection bias at work here, as if you were afraid, you might not venture outside and expose yourself to contamination. But I don’t think that’s the whole story.

For some of us, fear serves as an alarm. It tells us, “Whoa! Hang on here, tread carefully! Think before you act!” but it doesn’t incapacitate us. We still move forward, if we have decided it is okay to do so, tentatively, haltingly, warily, but inexorably. Our hearts may be pounding, our armpits soaked in sweat, our gait unsteady, but we move forward just the same. We collect information, sometimes by itself scary as hell, process it, estimate risk to benefit ratios, and plan a course of action based on reason, not fear. Reason can reassure, if we have faith in it, and like Waldo, we can step past that fallen tree with its brandishing branch.

We cannot wish this pandemic away, but we don’t need to be consumed by fear or despair either. We need to adjust our behavior, do the rational thing, take what precaution we can, keep calm and carry on. Stay six feet away from other people, wash your hands when you get home, educate yourself on and follow the recommendations of healthcare professionals, but don’t stop enjoying life. Come on out to the rail-trail, a few of you at a time so we can still isolate ourselves, and commune with nature. Say hello to the strangers you pass on the way at a distance, see nature start to come to life after so many weeks of cold and blustery weather. See the leaves start to grow on the tips of the branches, hear the birds in their many different voices as they return to witness the onset of spring. Take a walk, a bike ride, a jog or whatever down the rail-trail and witness life as it about to be sprung.

Waldo will be there, tail wagging, stick[s] in his mouth, pulling me along at the slow end of the leash, and we will be happy to see you.

So many sticks, so little time!