Walking with Waldo

it’s time for a walk! Let’s go!

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

-Susan Miller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So far, so pretty damn good.

No excuses, now. Let’s go!

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

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

-Karin Gillespie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until the next warming spell and refreeze…

There’s ice out there.

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

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

-Aristotle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just be there…

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

-Thich Nhat Hanh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While doing anything.

…be present wherever you are.

Phyllis on the railroad bridge over I-95.

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

-Hajo Holborn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there will be other days.

Heading west, near the end of our walk.

Walking is good for the soul.

Walking is man’s best medicine.

-Hippocrates

Arctic air has sloshed down from Canada and it’s another really cold day.  It’s cold enough that I have to listen to an internal voice that questions the wisdom of taking Waldo out for a 2+ hour walk.  We’ve walked in worse weather, I tell that voice.  Hell, it’s been almost six years now that Waldo and I have been out walking in the woods almost every day.  That amounts to something like 15,000 miles or about 60% of the circumference of the earth at its equator, roughly five trips from Boston to San Francisco or a little more than four from Boston to Paris.  I’ve worn out six pairs of hiking boots (I wear them until they start to disintegrate).  Waldo and I have strolled through many a town, large and small, and bushwhacked through wooded country you can’t get to without going off road.  We’ve seen scrub pine on Cape Cod and many and old oak and maple further inland.  Our feet have pounded the ground on tarmac, sand and many a root and rock, tramped through swamps and over quite a few hills.  From the western border with New York to the Atlantic Ocean in the east, we’ve wandered and explored.  This is no time to wuss out.

There are so many trails out there in the world.  I never much thought about it until I started walking with Waldo, but there are trails everywhere.  Many are well marked and cared for, and some are little more than a hint of where someone else has passed.  That speaks to just how many people enjoy a good walk.  Before six years ago, I had no idea just how popular walking and hiking are.  I knew a lot of people like to go out for a good jaunt, but not so many.  Waldo and I have never been out walking without meeting someone, somewhere, and in all kinds of weather.  We need to support to our community of fellow intrepid walkers by showing up.  It’s just cold out.  We’re not walking in a hurricane.

Besides, walking is basic to human well-being.  It’s one of the first things we do after we’re born and we don’t stop even when we have the wherewithal to drive, fly or swim.  A long walk improves our cardiovascular health and the strength of our bones and muscles.  It helps us manage our weight, decreases blood pressure and helps lower blood sugar.  Walking a good distance helps us develop good balance and coordination and a strong immune system.  It also reduces stress levels and improves mood, cognition and sleep.  It enhances creativity, improves focus and concentration and even aids in problem solving.  And it keeps Waldo’s frenetic energy at bay.  We gotta get out there, if we can, for our physical and mental well-being.

For me, taking Waldo out for a walk, even someplace we’ve been a thousand times (no exaggeration there) is also a way to get away from everyday concerns.  It puts distance between me and my quotidian problems without having to go very far at all.  When I was doing a lot of flying, I enjoyed looking down at the ground, many thousands of feet below, and feeling like I had, temporarily, escaped the world and its prosaic chains.  Walking in the woods is a lot like that, but cheaper and more available.  Now that I’m retired, I don’t have so many problems anymore, but I still feel the need to take a break from those I do have.

That stream of consciousness gets us to the beginning of the trail.  Now committed, I put my head down and lean into the wind (there are gusts to 30 mph).  I’m all zipped up from below the waist to up over my chin, hood is up and gloves are on.  I purposely push my pace to the point where I’m breathing a bit more than normal so I can work up some body heat.  It isn’t long until my face is numb and my fingers ache a little from the cold.  But my core is nice and toasty and we’re good to go.  Waldo is out front, excitedly rushing about doing his Waldo thing and isn’t bothered by anything other than the need to go.

After a little more than a mile, I’m warm enough that warm blood has gone to my cheeks and hands to dissipate the heat generated by my efforts.  I can now relax into the experience and enjoy what’s around me.  Waldo and I say hello to Willa, a golden retriever we’ve met before, and I give her a treat.  I greet a couple of joggers as they pass.  I watch the wind kick up some dust over the barren field that one day is supposed to be a new town park.  It’s white and looks like steam rising over a hot spring.  I see that Fort Meadow Reservoir is frozen over with a smooth thick sheet of ice.  I feel the strength of my body as I exercise and am grateful that, at almost 76 years old, I’m still able to be out here, doing this.  And enjoying it

And that is the real reason I’m out here.

I can tell by all of the tracks that I’m not alone in thinking so…

Waldo loves balls.

All his life he tried to be a good person.  Many times, however, he failed.  For after all, he was only human.  He wasn’t a dog.

-Charles M. Shulz

Waldo doesn’t seem bothered at all with the cold.  In fact, he seems energized by it.  He’s out-front, pulling at the leash, darting back and forth onto both sides of the trail, sniffing, herding sticks, greeting passersby and, well, just being Waldo.  Maybe it’s because there aren’t as many bikes out here.  Although, surprisingly, there are a few intrepid wheeled souls – even in the snow.  Waldo seems reassured and doesn’t spend nearly so much time stopping and anxiously looking back to where we’ve been.  I’m out here, enjoying nature and the great outdoors, plodding along taking in all that the winter-scape offers and he’s…  Well, he’s being really happy.

There were some subtle changes that happened when I came back from Switzerland.  I was gone for two weeks and, due to circumstances beyond my control, I had to leave him in a kennel.  It was a nice place, as far as kennels go, and they assured me he would have at least three hours a day of exercise.  When I picked him up, he was healthy, happy and didn’t seem at all any the worse for the experience.  I’m sure he wasn’t abused in any way, but, still, it wasn’t home.  Over the ensuing few weeks, I noticed that his attitude changed.

Of course, he was happy to be home and back in his usual routine (even if it initially was limited due to the fact I was struggling with back pain and our rail trail ventures were curtailed).  He became more willing to follow my directions (he still pauses to consider whether he should, but then complies — usually).  He even seeks out my attention more.

He has always done that when he needs something.  Some dogs whine, scratch at the door, or in other ways signal what they need.  Waldo, he seeks my attention, coming over to my chair for pets and pats, then leaves me to figure out what he needs.  Apparently, I’m pretty good at it because he’s not found any reason to change.  Now, he’ll also seek out interaction with me just for the fun of it.  He’ll start playing with my feet while I’m sitting in my easy-chair, paw at my legs, come inside from his dogdom throne on the balcony and just stare at me as if trying to figure out a way to engage in some kind of play.  I’m probably projecting a little anthropomorphization here, but it’s like he had a don’t-know-what-you’ve-got-‘til-you-miss-it moment while he was in the kennel.

Today, while I’m walking along in my own little world, Waldo comes up to my side with a stick in his mouth and nudges my hand with his nose.  I recognize that he wants to play and I try to grab at the stick.  He deftly pulls away at the last moment, foiling my efforts.  He then comes close, the stick well within reach, to tempt me to try again.  I ignore him and he paws at my feet and legs.  I tire of the game of keep-away and I ignore him further.  He grabs the leash with his mouth and starts tugging and stomping at it, trying to get me to play with that somehow or other.  The self-amusement that has sustained him for most of this life is just not enough anymore.  There are times when he really wants to interact with me.

I have a housekeeper that comes over once a month to help me keep the apartment in a livable state.  Waldo really likes her.  Usually, he’s out on his balcony throne when she comes to the building.  He sees her and comes in, frantically whining and staring at the apartment door.  When she gets to the door and I open it, Waldo whines imploringly while wagging his whole behind and approaches her with licks and rubs.  After a while, I feel the need to separate them so she can get her work done.  I tell him to go out onto the balcony and he interrupts his salutations and heads that way.  After a few steps, he pauses and looks back at the housekeeper as if reconsidering.  I tell him again to go to his throne and he goes through the dog-door.  He then turns around and I see a puppy nose sticking through the flap and I melt.  I tell him okay, and he comes back in to finish his greetings.  Damn!  He really listens to me now! It’s as if his experience of my leaving him for two weeks has made him decide that I really am alpha to him!

Except when it come down to who is permitted on his balcony.  That is something we’re still “negotiating” (I get the feeling that’s not the word he would use).  He does not want me out there, growls at me and lets me know in no uncertain terms that it is his place, not mine.  I would let it slide, but there are times when I want and even need to go out there.  There’s no biting, just posturing, and he gets really upset when I persist.  It’s a work in progress.

Waldo’s also getting older and I’m sure that plays a role in his change of behavior toward me.  Whatever the full reasons for it all, I feel that day by day, we are getting happier and closer.

And that’s just, well, special.

And long walks in the snow.

Waldo and people tracks.

Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all.

-Helen Keller

Waldo and I are out on the Assebet River Rail Trail once more.  I’m bundled up in rain pants, parka (with the hood up) and gloves.  It’s a little chilly as we start out (the feel-like temperature is 18℉) and I instinctively hoof-it hard to build up some body heat.  Waldo seems perfectly comfortable in his sable birthday suit and is happily cavorting around, searching for I have no idea what.  It just started snowing and there is a dusting of the white stuff barely covering the blacktop underfoot.  Even so, there are already a set of footprints heading the opposite direction from the way we’re going.  The person who made them is not in sight, but he couldn’t be long gone.

For the moment, we’re out here alone – not a soul in sight.  It’s not snowing hard, but even so, the ever-present city noise is muffled and easily ignored and forgotten.  I can’t see or hear very far.  We’re embedded in a chilly cocoon that makes the universe seem small and intimate.   There are animals around, I can see squirrel and rabbit tracks in the snow, but I can’t hear or see them.  They must have dashed over the ground in a rush to accomplish whatever it was they had to do so they could get back into their cozy hidey-holes ASAP.  No lingering fur balls out here today!  Except Waldo, of course, and he’s not lingering.  We’re making a pretty good pace.

The subjective feeling of cold is a funny thing.  I can remember skiing at the Alta ski resort outside of Salt Lake City, Utah, when it was really cold.  I don’t know what the temperature was, but it was cold enough that my entire mustache was one icicle.  For anyone who hasn’t had that experience, it hurts.  A lot.  I had to cup my hands around my face and blow warm air over my upper lip to melt the ice.  Of course, that was only a temporary solution and needed to be repeated frequently.  Still, I wasn’t feeling cold, just in pain.  Skiing does burn off a lot of energy and the body heat generated is enough to keep you warm if you are at all rationally clothed.  Except on the chair lift where you have to sit still and yet are high up in the arctic breeze.

There have been other times when the temperature was well above freezing and I was shivering and feeling very cold.  Of course, I wasn’t wearing a parka and gloves, but it wasn’t that cold either.  I remember sitting, in shirtsleeves, on the shore of Lake Travis in Austin, Texas, in the spring.  Again, I don’t know what the temperature was, but I was shivering with goose bumps and uncomfortable.  As an experiment, I decided to try to refuse to fight the cold and just let it be.  The shivering stopped, but the cold sensation persisted.  I discovered that there is a physiological sensation of cold (we do have temperature sensors in our skin) and a psychological component.  If you dampen down the part that’s in your head and focus on the sensation of being cold without the need to do something about it, the result is quite interesting.  Of course, it ain’t easy to hang onto that for long.

The same thing is true out here today, on the rail trail, with Waldo.  In fact, the same is true of so many experiences – the thinking of a thing is often much worse than the thing itself.  If I dread the thought of being cold, I am cold.  If I don’t judge the cold and avoid thinking about it (but use intelligence about how I dress) I can really enjoy being out in the world when the temperature dips into the nether regions of the thermometer.  The world is so much different; colors are more subdued and beige; nature is more quiet and calm.  And yet, the universe is still full of potential adventure.  Be intrepid, be bold, I tell myself.  Hold no reservations about venturing out in the winter landscape.  And so, I don’t.

Waldo is having a great time.  He’s chasing sticks, tugging on his leash with his teeth, prancing about, looking for the next thing to smell and generally enjoying himself.  Temperature be damned!  Be like Waldo.

He’s a dog after my own heart.

Or, maybe, I’m learning how to be like Waldo…

Squirrel tracks.

In places, it’s hard to believe that we’re in metropolitan Boston.

Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.

-Anatole France

It’s cold out.  The feel-like temp is around 20℉ and, thankfully, there is little wind.  The skies are mostly cloudy and the humidity is high enough that I can see my breath.  When I’m in a patch of sunlight, it feels kinda toasty (under my parka, with the hood up, and my gloves).  When I’m in the shade, it is cold.  But it’s easy enough to dress for these temps and I’m feeling warm enough.  Dressing for the weather is an art I have mastered pretty well over the many miles and seasons that Waldo and I have walked.  I go to Weather.com, look at the feel-like temperature and wind, and then I’m able to guess pretty well what to wear.

Waldo seems comfortable.  I judge that by his behavior – he’s not shivering and he’s not changing how he engages with the world.  He’s sniffing and trotting around, checking out what’s in front of his nose, and has no hesitation to get out of the car when I open his door.  I also watch what he does at home.  Today, before we left, he was spending most of his time out on his throne, surveilling his dogdom.  He can come in through a dog-door if he’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t, so I’m pretty sure he’s good being out here.

Today, we’re exploring a piece of the Mass Central Rail Trail that runs east from Belmont, about 6 miles, to downtown Boston.  It ends a stone’s throw away from where the USS Constitution is docked.  Old Ironsides is the world’s oldest commissioned warship currently afloat.  She sits at dock for tourists to visit and explore, but is taken out on special occasions. Typically, she stays in Boston Harbor, and only very rarely goes out to sea – the last time was in August 2012, in commemoration of then 200^th anniversary of her victory over Guerriere.  But we’re out here today just for the exploration of the trail and will not visit her.

Phyllis joins us and is as prepared for the cold as I am.  In addition to her parka and hood, she wears an additional jacket and battery warmed gloves.  The two of us have spent many a mile walking in winter cold and are not at all daunted by low temperatures, or even snow (as long as it’s not too deep).  Today, the ground is dry and the snow that fell earlier in the season is all gone.  It’s been a while since Phyllis last walked with us and it is really nice to have her here once again at our sides.

The Belmont end of the trail starts in an area surrounded by businesses.  It runs parallel to the Commuter Rail tracks, but at a distance of a few yards.  Across the street from where it starts, heading west, the old railroad bed is lost to the Commuter Rail tracks and a parking lot.  There are plans to continue the rail trail that way somewhere, but just where they will place it is not obvious – that’s grist to be milled in the future.

We don’t go far and the Commuter Rail is out of sight behind bushes and trees.  I’m amazed at the number of people we pass.  It is cold out here, yet dozens of people, some with dogs, and even bicycles, are leisurely going along just as we are.  Maybe that’s because we’re so close to downtown Boston and its suburbs.  Within a mile or so, we’re in Somerville, and yet we’re not.  Somerville is a city that is densely populated, with houses and businesses cheek to jowl.  But here we are, walking along a paved trail, and the presence of a densely populated city is not obvious.  There are places where it’s clear we’re passing through someone’s back yard, but it feels more like we’re wandering down a country lane.  Then, suddenly, we have to cross Massachusetts Avenue at the Davis Square T station and we’re imbedded in mile after mile, as far as I can see, of bakeries, coffee shops and all the other storefronts that line that street.  Massachusetts Ave is the main thoroughfare through Somerville and it shows.  And then, after only a couple of blocks, we’re back in someone’s backyard.  Both Phyllis and I have spent many years in this part of Boston and we talk about our pasts with a note of awe about how this could be hiding here and we didn’t know it.

Not only are there a number of people out here, there is art.  People, presumably residents, have left sculptures made of discarded stuff alongside the trail.  There are two yellow tall giraffes that have signs that say, “Wiggle My Ears” (they’re so tall, I can’t see how) and a large minimalist sculpture of an elephant that says, “Wiggle My Trunk.”  Phyllis does and, when she does, large gray metal elephant ears waggle back.  I’m pretty sure that when the organizers of this trail formulated the idea, this was the kind of thing they had in mind.  Phyllis and I enjoy the artwork and we talk about it and how it brings people together on the trail.

After a couple of hours, we’re back walking alongside, but safely separated from, the Commuter Rail tracks.  At one point, a train whizzes noisily past us.  A few minutes later, another passes us going the other way.  Waldo seems a bit nervous about it, but doesn’t tuck his tail and carries on.  The area here is industrial and relatively uninteresting.  We walk over the Commuter Rail tracks on a footbridge and we’re in Paul Revere Park.  That’s the end of the trail and a short walk away from where we left a car.  As we get close to the garage, I can just barely make out, over the top and around the back of some tall buildings, the masts of Old Ironsides.  That’s going to have to wait for another trip into town.  Across the Charles River, to my right, are the huge skyscrapers of downtown Boston.  We’re that close.

It’s been a nice walk and I’m happy we did it.

But there’s so much more to explore.

Just ahead, the Charles River and downtown Boston.

Northern most part of the gap.

Archeology is not what you find.  It’s what you find out.

-David Hurst Thomas, Archeologist

Continued from previous blog…

Waldo and I have now walked the entire unimproved gap between the northern and southern section of the Assebet River Rail Trail, except for a small piece, about 0.2 miles long, that runs from the end of the northern part to the river.  We leave Honey Pot Hill Farm and drive the short distance to where that piece starts and heads south.  We drive to where the street crosses the end of the private road that is the last bit of the northern section of the trail and just across the road is a wide spot where there are three cars parked.  It looks like a launching point for boats to be put in the river.

On one side of the parking spot, I can clearly see a well-trod foot trail that runs on the top of what was once the railroad bed.  I see no obvious reason for the path, other than to satisfy the curiosity of explorers like Waldo and I.  The rails that once ran there are long gone, but I can still feel old weather-beaten rotting railroad ties under a blanket of dead leaves.  The walking isn’t difficult and there isn’t much bushwhacking that needs to be done.  There is one spot where the trail dips down toward the water and someone has made a rudimentary footbridge with several ten-foot-long branches, each about six inches in diameter.  Because of our recent drought, the dip is dry and we don’t bother trying to negotiate the bridge.

We get to the river and things are much like the spot on the other side where the railroad bed meets the water.  Nothing is left but a few large stones and a steep slope down to the water.  Across the river, I can clearly see where the other end of the bridge used to be.  I recognize where I stood and looked out to where I now stand.  Our trek is done.  Waldo and I have now walked, as much as we can without swimming, the entire length of what used to be the Marlborough Branch of the Fitchburg Railroad.

I feel a little bit like an archeologist at a dig sight.  I take in all I’ve seen, and what I’ve researched online, and try to paint a mental picture of what it must have been like to ride a train that ran on this roadbed.  A rickety, clanking metal behemoth is pulling several wooden cars along while belting out steam, smoke and lots of noise.  I’m swaying precariously from side to side, lurching forward and backward, on my way to connect to a train that will take me to Boston and points beyond.  Maybe I’m headed to town to do some kind of business or other, or I’m heading out to join the Massachusetts volunteer army to fight Johnny Reb.  I look around me and imagine that the world I’m moving through is still relatively pristine – none of man’s developments, like paved roads, automobiles, so many houses and other buildings, have happened yet.  If Waldo were with me, he’d be on vacation from working a herd of sheep, probably preferring to be doing just that.

Back at the car, I decide to drive to the Honey Pot Hill Farm store and see if anyone there can tell me why they oppose the filling of the gap and completing the entire rail-trail.  The store has loads of apples in bags for sale and pies of various kinds, like apple, “jumbleberry” and pumpkin.  I look around and make a mental note to come back and shop another time.  I then find a woman there who is supposed to know something about the issues and we discuss her take on things for a couple of minutes.

I don’t get her name and I don’t know her relationship to the owners.  She tells me that there are basically two things that keep the orchard from allowing the completion of the trail – theft and liability.  Neither makes much sense to me because the orchard is not fenced in anywhere now and people can come and go as they want.  I can’t see where allowing the few people who would be interested to use the trail would cause a bigger problem of liability or theft than they have right now, but I don’t argue.  I get the feeling that it’s just another case of NIMBYism (Not IN MY Back Yard) and a desire to protect themselves from having their privacy “violated.”  That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me because the orchard is already a place that’s open to the public.  But, maybe, I just don’t understand.

Waldo and I now have an intimate idea of what the entire trail is like.  Even if we can’t walk the entire Assebet River Rail Trail as a continuous, improved path, we do still have plenty we can enjoy.

And we do.

No swimming for Waldo!