Walking with Waldo

The Rhone River is full!

People don’t take trips.  Trips take people.

-John Steinbeck

One of the items on my “Things to do in Switzerland” list is to visit Lake Como in Italy.  On the best of days, it’s a roughly 5 hr train ride from Sion, so it’s close enough to include a little jaunt to there from here.  Still, it’s far enough that Phyllis and I decide to stay for two nights to give us a good chance at looking around.  We get on the 7 AM bus to Sion and expect that we’ll get into the city of Como sometime just after 2 PM.  However, today is not one of those “best of days.”

Phyllis and I expected there would be some off-route diversions of one kind or another, because the flooding in Valais (the region of the Rhone River) is still going on.  So, it came as no surprise to find out that our route was going to be a little convoluted.  The more or less direct route would be to go from Sion, to Sierre, to Visp to Brig, take a right turn through the Alps, then go to Domodossola, then to Milan and, finally, to the city of Como.  But we’re told that there is no train from Sierre to Visp and that we’ll have to take a bus instead.  The kicker is that we arrive in Brig at the same time as the train to Domodossola leaves.  We’re assured that, even so, it is still doable and we board the train in Sion for Sierre.

The bus ride from Sierre to Visp was pleasant enough and it isn’t long before we’re getting on the train at Visp and off at Brig.  At Brig, we run over to the track where we’re supposed to catch the train to Domodossola and there’s no train.  We ask when the next train will run and we’re told that there is no train because of the flooding.  Back to the ticket office.

Finally, we get tickets to take the train back to Visp, then board another train that goes all the way up to Bern and Zurich, in north central Switzerland, then switch trains to one that will take us to Lugano and then on to Como.  All in all, this almost doubles the time it takes get to Como.  Ah well, this kind of thing seems to be the theme of this trip and we do our best to grab what we can to eat at the stops on the way and take it all in stride.  I have plenty of time to call and check on Waldo once the afternoon hours roll around and he’s doing well.

We get into the San Giovanni train station in Como around 6 PM and walk over to where we’re staying.  I called earlier and told the woman running things there that we’re running late and we had no trouble getting our room.  Travel ordeal over, we now had time to explore a little and get a good Italian meal for dinner.

Lake Como is a glacial lake that lies in the foothills of the Alps in northern Italy.  It has the shape of an inverted “y” and an area of about 56 square miles.  The city of Como lies at the bottom of the lower western most branch.  At some time in my many wanderings through life, I heard, or read (I don’t recall which), that it is and has been for hundreds of years, a popular place to go to get away from the heat of summer that besets points further south, like Rome.  It has long been a special spot for people of wealth and power to go for vacation and has many old large villas and palaces which are now open to the general public.  The lake is bounded by mountains that plunge down into the water at very steep angles and the higher craggy snow-covered peaks of the Alps look down on the lake from not too far away.  Like any beautiful lake anywhere, the shore is studded with towns and houses just about any place where it’s not to steep to build (and in many places that seem like they ought to be).

We explore Como by walking toward the harbor where boats and ferries of various sizes leave to take tourists around the lake.  The streets are narrow, running between buildings of stone, brick and stucco whose architecture is reminiscent of earlier years.  Cars are blocked from driving on some of the streets and traffic is light.  The population of Como is listed at about 489,000, but it has the ambience of something smaller.  There are quite a few people out and strolling through the early evening with us, but it doesn’t feel at all like it’s crowded.  The closer we come to the harbor, the more restaurants and stores we pass and we have no trouble finding a very nice place to eat and I indulge in some superb ossobuco alla milanese.  After dinner, we find a gelateria and I ask for some spumoni ice cream.  They don’t have any, but they promise that tomorrow night, they’ll give me a cup with the chocolate, pistachio and maraschino cherry ice cream that’s in spumoni.  All in all, this has been a very pleasant ending to a long, protracted grueling day of travel.

Tomorrow, we go on a ferry to Bellagio, the so-called “Pearl of Como.”

To be continued…

Phyllis, strolling down the streets of Como.

Musical group setting up for a gig in Sion later in the day.

The ruins of time build mansions in eternity.

-William Blake

I have been lucky enough to travel to many places in the world.  Even though I haven’t been everywhere, I’ve visited enough to come to the belief that anywhere you go, there are many places nearby to visit and experience.  That’s certainly true of the Swiss Alps.  I came here with a mental list of things I wanted to do and I’m open to amend and change that list as opportunities arise.  My brother has been coming here, twice a year, for some 40 years and knows the hotspots pretty well.  But even he has not experienced it all.  For one thing, he’s never been to CERN and it is definitely on my list.

CERN, or Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire (European Organization for Nuclear Research), has existed since the 1950s.  It has the largest particle accelerators in the world, including the large hadron collider where the Higgs boson (or the “God particle”) was found in 2012.  It is a multinational laboratory located a short tram ride from Geneva.  They have some exhibits and tours open to the public and both my brother and I are scientists and hence interested to go check it out.  Phyllis was game enough to come along and we got up early to catch the 6:56 bus down to Sion where we can catch the train to Geneva and then the tram to CERN.

As seems to be the theme for this trip, though, things did not go as planned.  When we got to the train station, we found out that it has been raining enough that the Rhone River is in flood.  The inondation (I love it how there are so many English/French cognates) was severe enough to stop the trains from running in several places in the valley.  That’s not a show-stopper – there are buses to take to cover the gaps, but we decided that we would put off seeing CERN for a couple of days in the hopes that, in a few days, we wouldn’t have to use them.  Instead, we’ll stay in Sion, walk around and explore.

The history of Sion goes back to the stone age.  The town’s name comes from the Latin word, Sedunum, which was used by the Celtic people who lived in the area in the first century BCE (before current era, or BC).  The Romans built a castle and city here in around 40 CE (current era, or AD), but people have lived here since around 6200 BCE.  In the late 6^th century, Sion became the seat of a bishop of the Roman Catholic Church.  In the 13^th century, a castle (now ruins) was built at the top of a steep hill.  This Château (castle) of Tourbillon, and the nearby Château Valère, stand on adjoining hills that dominate the city.  The Château (now Basilica) Valère is a museum and a church (still in use) that houses the oldest still functioning organ in the world.  As we walk along the narrow streets and alleys of Old Sion, these stone buildings look down on us from on high, demanding that we visit.  We decide to comply.

It’s a long steep climb to the top, but we’re rewarded by the walls and history of the Château Tourbillon.  We are gifted with a young woman who serves as guide and fills us in on the long history of the place.  All that’s very interesting, but what I get the most out of visiting these kinds of places is the ambience.  Standing amongst the fallen stones and crumbled walls, it’s not hard to imagine myself being alive and standing in the same spot on the days when all that history took place.  It’s all bathed in fog and shadow, but still, I can pretend, to some extent, that I have traveled through time.

The basilica is impressive as well.  We didn’t know it at the time, but we just missed the organ play during a mass.  Much of the building was closed off to us, but there was enough we could enter that we could get a feeling for the place.  I would like to come back during mass so I can here the old organ play.  Alas, that’s not going to happen this trip.

It’s afternoon before we venture back down the hill.  It’s late enough that I can call the Pooch Hotel and see how Waldo is doing (Sion is six hours later than Boston).  They tell me he’s happy and enjoying the exercise time they provide.  I last talked to them two days ago, but I can’t help but worry about him and wonder how he’s taking his separation from his home.

Besides, I miss the guy…

Bill, Phyllis and myself at the top of the tower of the Château Tourbillon.

A piece of Haute Nendaz.

It’s one thing to be part of an organization.  It’s another thing to be part of a community.

-Travis Kelce

Nendaz is a village of population around 6,800, high up in the Alps just south of Sion, Switzerland and the Rhone Valley.  Haute Nendaz, or “Upper” Nendaz, lies at the bottom of the Tracouet telecabine, a ski lift, at around 4,600 ft above sea level.  During the winter, Haute Nendaz is a ski resort and the architecture, stores, businesses and ambience reflect that.  France is not far to the west (Mont Blanc is within a stone’s throw) and Italy is just over the mountains to the south (Zermatt, where the Matterhorn sits, is a short train trip to the east and south).

As I get up and walk to our third-floor north-facing balcony, I gaze out and down the green-carpeted steep slopes of the mountains, all the way to the valley below, the Rhone River and Sion.  Tall, majestic craggy tors, poking skyward like a jagged sawblade (the product of the African tectonic plate being thrust up against the Eurasian plate) surround us on all sides.  The peaks are still wearing glacial ice and snow, even tough the year is now well into summer and the temperature is around 70℉.  A light breeze toys with my hair and shirt and brings me a lung full of the cleanest mountain air I’ve inhaled in a long time.

It’s quiet up here, this time of year, with little to no traffic on the streets and only a few local denizens strolling the sidewalks.  There are hardy souls who wander up here for hiking, mountain biking and enjoying the summer outdoor life, but not in the crowds that beset the place during ski season.  It has the air of a small, out-of-the-way, forgotten village, tucked away in the hinterlands, regrouping for the onslaught of the tourists coming a few months from now.

Phyllis and I cross the street from where we’re staying and walk into La Brioche, a boulangerie (bakery)/pâtisserie (pastry shop)/café/tea room for a little continental breakfast.  There are two rooms, one with a glass-fronted counter, showing off fresh baked goods like tarts, croissants, various pastries and quiche.  Behind the counter are shelves bearing artisan-baked boules of bread of different types and sizes and, of course, baguettes.  I opt for a slice of quiche, Phyllis chooses a small loaf of multigrain bread, and we walk into the next room.  Here, there is another counter where I order a latte macchiato and Phyllis gets a macchiato decaf with soy milk.  This room is a little larger than the other.  It has a number of tables and we pick one where we sit, nosh and sip at our coffees.

For most of the time, we’re the only ones in the place and the staff are willing for me to practice my stumbling French with them.  We talk about things like where we’re from, how long we’re staying, how long have they lived in the village and such.  It’s all very friendly, laid back and charming.

From there, we walk downhill past the tourist bureau, then uphill on one of the main drags (this is mountain country – everything is uphill and downhill; it’s unavoidable).  We pass bars and restaurants with a few people sitting outside at tables in the fresh air, real estate and rental agencies, ski schools (closed, of course) and shops of various kinds.  All are small, compared to American standards.  No huge department stores or mega corporations with franchises.  I think we Americans have done ourselves a great disservice by trading small businesses in for large corporate venues in the name of efficiency.  We have gotten the short end of the stick with goods that are cheaper in price, but also cheaper in quality.

Soon, we come to our goal: The Coop (they pronounce it something like “cup”).  It’s a grocery store, again small compared to where I shop at home).  There, we buy fresh fruits and vegetables and other things we need.  Across the street and downhill a bit is Migros, another grocery store.  I don’t know how they managed it, but the two stores complement each other, rather than compete with each other.  They offer different goods, and if you can’t find what you want at one, you go to the other.  The entire place feels like a small community.  Something I feel we have lost in the US, in more ways than one.

We take our newly acquired stuff and walk uphill to my brother’s chalet.  We are to meet everyone there and decide then what to do for the day.  I am anxious to call the Pooch Hotel and check on Waldo, but I have to wait until the afternoon because of the six-hour time difference.

Sigh.  If I could bring him here…

I love the mountains…

Morning view, looking out over the Rhone valley from Haute Nendaz.

When things go wrong, I just think: It’s part of the journey.

-Kenny Wallace

Continued from before…

I’m on my way to Geneva via Copenhagen, Denmark, and Phyllis is soon to be on a plane to Geneva via Reykjavik, Iceland.  We got our tickets at different times and are taking different airlines and routes.  I have a longer layover in Copenhagen, some 5 hours, so Phyllis will have to wait for me in Geneva for around an hour and a half before I can get there.  At least, that’s the plan…

Sometime after getting to Copenhagen (at around 7:30 AM local, 1:30 AM Boston time) I get a text from Phyllis.  Her flight was delayed leaving Boston and she got into Reykjavik too late to make her connecting flight to Geneva.  The next flight for Geneva doesn’t leave until tomorrow, so she has to change airlines, go to Copenhagen and then on to Geneva.  Unfortunately, she will not be getting into Copenhagen until after I leave.  More delays.

I get into Geneva at around 2:00 PM and have to wait for Phyllis for seven hours.  When she finally arrives, it’s just before nine PM.  Fortunately, she doesn’t have to go through customs, as she’s coming from Denmark (both Switzerland and Denmark are Schengen countries, so customs is simplified).  I say fortunately because the last train from the airport is leaving in minutes.  We rush to the train station, a few hundred yards from the airport, and do our best to buy the necessary tickets.

The ticket office is closed, but there are ticket machines.  The machines will not take paper money (of which we have ample), but only take coins and credit cards.  US credit cards are supposed to work just fine, but we can’t figure out how to make ours work and we can’t get the tickets.  We rush to the train and find some conductors.  Using what French I can muster, I speak with them and discover that they don’t know anything about the vagaries of the machines.  They go on about their business and, since the train is leaving imminently, we board without tickets.  All we can do is hope we can get it all figured out at the next station, where we have to change trains anyway.  Worst case scenario, if we are asked to, we can buy tickets after we board the train, but we would have to pay quite a bit more.

We get off the train at the main station in Geneva, a few minutes from the airport, and go to the machines.  We still can’t make them work.  A nice lady sees our angst, helps us out and, finally, we are ready to go.  We board the train for Sion, about 2 hours down the tracks, and we’re off.  Now we just have to figure out how to get from Sion to where we’re going, my brother’s Chalet in Haute Nendaz.  That’s about a 45-minute bus ride up some very steep mountains, but the last bus leaves at 9:05 and we aren’t going to get to Sion until almost midnight.  I’m on the phone with my brother and my nephew and they arrange for an Uber to meet us at the train station.  It’s going to cost us 80 Swiss Francs (about 90 USD) but that’s cheaper than a hotel for the night.

Finally, at around 11:30 PM, we arrive in Sion and the Uber guy is waiting for us.  We’re off, over the Rhone River and up the steep, two-lane, serpentine road that takes us up into the ethereal heights of the Alps.  The driver doesn’t speak English, so I get to exercise my French as we talk about where he lives (near Sion), if he skis (for the past 4 or so years) and how things are kind of slow this time of year.  He makes sure I have texted my brother and family because they have phoned him three times and seem nervous.  It’s not long and we’re in the little village of Haute Nendaz.

Man, things are dark this time of night up here.  I can only make out what I can see within the headlight beams and, although I’ve been here a couple of times before, it’s hard to get oriented.  I did give the Uber guy my brother’s address for his GPS, so we won’t get completely lost, but it’s often the case that a GPS will only locate where you are approximately when you’re surrounded by rocky crags out in the boonies.

Finally, sometime after midnight, we meet my brother and nephew, get the key for the place where Phyllis and I are staying (about ¼ mile down the mountain from my brother’s chalet) and Phyllis and I open the door to a most welcome sight – two beds made up for immediate slumber.  We’ve been travelling for a bit more than 36 hours and laying my tired body down and totally relaxing my muscles never felt better.

Getting here was not at all straightforward, but looking back on the trip, now that the angst of uncertainty is done, what happened just added to the adventure of it all.  And that’s the raison d’etre of the whole trip, after all.

As I close my eyes and relax into the sweet oblivion of sleep, my last thoughts are of Waldo.  The twentieth century is a true marvel in many ways.  I remember many trips in the past where it wasn’t possible, but now I can call the place where he’s staying on my cell phone.  I commit to calling as soon as I can.  It will have to be tomorrow afternoon (I have to wait until then because of the 6-hour time difference), but call them I will.

I sure hope he’s okay.

We’re in the mountains now (finally)!

What I’m leaving behind (sigh).

Trials are never permanent.  They are there to teach you, strengthen you, motivate you and help guide you in life.

-Rubyanne

Travel time has arrived!  Waldo and I got up early, I put his stuff together, and dropped him off at the house of the young man who will be watching him.  Waldo seemed happy enough, but confused as to what was going on.  I reassured him as best I could and said goodbye.  Half an hour later, I was back home and doing some last-minute packing.  Phyllis has decided to go as well, but she decided to go too late to get a ticket on the same plane.  We’ll be leaving Boston within a few hours of each other, then meeting up in Geneva.  I have a couple of hours before I have to leave for the airport.

Not an hour passed after that and I got a phone call from Waldo’s sitter.  Waldo went outside the sitter’s house and started digging a hole.  The guy tried to stop him and Waldo nipped him.  He no longer felt comfortable watching Waldo after that, so I jumped back in the car to go pick the dog up.  The bite was superficial and the guy was good enough not to make a big deal about it.  But now I have to find a place for Waldo, last minute, with only three hours before I have to leave for the airport, one week before the fourth of July.

I panicked!  I called Phyllis and both my daughters and we started calling every dog boarding place we could find, veterinarians and anyone else we could think of.  If I can’t find a place for Waldo, I can’t go!  Finally, after making well over thirty unsuccessful phone calls apiece, we found a place that could take him.  It’s not a person’s home, but they do guarantee three to four hours of activity a day.  Not ideal, but, I hope, good enough because we could find no other alternatives.

I grab my stuff and Waldo and get in my daughter’s car.  The plan is to pick up Phyllis, then drop off Waldo on the way to the airport.  Following the GPS, we make it to the “Pooch Hotel.”  Phyllis and my daughter stay in the car and I take Waldo inside.  I let the people in the “Hotel” know what’s been going on and they indeed do have a spot for him to stay for two weeks.  Waldo gives me an uncertain, what’s-going-on? look and seems anxious.  They lead him away and I’m back outside in the car.  Angst plagues me.  Am I doing the right thing?  Do I have a choice, other than cancelling the trip and losing a lot of money?  People are depending on me too, including Phyllis.  Not going is not an option.  All things considered, right or wrong, this was the best choice we could come up with on such short notice.

Off we go to the airport.  Travelling is always an anxious-producing activity for me because I worry about Waldo.  This trip is even worse because I have no experience with the Pooch Hotel.  I’m pretty sure he’ll be okay, or I wouldn’t leave him with them.  Yet, the unknown leaves me with a sense of doubt and hesitancy.  Sigh.  It’s only for two weeks, I keep telling myself.  Waldo’s going to get a lot of attention and treats when I get back, for sure.

We get to the airport and, as I’m walking in the door, I realize that I don’t have my jacket with me.  I usually bring one for the plane, no matter the season, because it can get a little chilly.  I put my passport in one of the pockets so I would be sure to have it with me…  Damn!  No jacket, no passport and I can’t go!  I run back out the door and stop my daughter just a she’s pulling away.  I know where my coat is, but, unfortunately, it is at least a two hour round trip (probably more given the time of day) and there’s no way she can get to where my jacket is, get the thing, and return before the airline desk closes.

So, we call my son-in-law (her husband).  He is going to go by my place, get my jacket and bring it to me (something a little over an hour trip).  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have my apartment building key, my daughter does.  He can get into the apartment once he’s inside the building because it has an electronic key, but he needs a physical key to get into the building.  So, the plan is, he will go to my apartment building and punch buttons on the intercom outside the door until someone lets him in.  He will then get in my apartment and get my jacket.  This, he succeeds in, and soon, he’s on his way to the airport.

I follow his progress on my phone and go out to the road where he will need to drive up so I can grab the coat and get to the airline desk ASAP.  It’s kind of a weird place to stand, so a State Policeman comes up and wants to know what I’m doing.  He understands, somehow keeps from laughing, and leaves me to my devices.  Eventually, my son-in-law drives up, I grab my coat through the passenger side window and I rush up to the airline desk, with 15 minutes to spare.

Dropping off my checked luggage, I make it to security.  I have TSA Precheck, so that’s relatively uneventful and I’m soon on the plane and on my way to Copenhagen, Denmark.  After a 5-hour layover there, I will then have a 2-hour flight to Geneva where I will meet Phyllis.  After that, we will take the train to Sion and then a bus to where we’re staying in Haute Nendaz.   I do my best to relax, although I’m still worried about Waldo.  Things seem to finally be on automatic pilot.

Hah!  I should have known better.

To be continued…

Who I’m going to see – My brother, sister-in-law, my nephew, his wife, Phyllis and myself.

I do love the golden-hued early morning sunlight.

To travel is to live.

-Hans Christian Anderson

A heat wave is forecast to be coming through New England with temperatures approaching 100℉.  Fortunately, the lows are still going to be in the low 70s, so, if we get up early enough, we’ll still be able to get our walk in before it gets too hot.  After that, there are supposed to be some thunderstorms for a few days.  That’s the way things usually go here in the summer.  We get hot humid air for a few days, then a cold front comes through and lifts that moistness up where it condenses into clouds and thunderstorms.  It keeps things green.

I don’t think things are as wet this summer, at least so far, as they were last year.  I notice that the liverwort alongside the trail is not as prolific as it was then and the Japanese clover at my daughter’s house isn’t as robust.  There don’t seem to be as many ferns around either.  I remember last year that the rails on the fences were green with algae and I haven’t seen that yet.  Only a few flowers have been planted at the Covid garden and the poison ivy has only started to overgrow the English ivy on the ivy tree.  It’s amazing to me how much things change from one year to another, if I just pay attention.

Some things remain the same, though.  The Japanese knotweed stands as high and the grass is just as green.  The oaks, sumacs, black walnuts, trees of heaven and aspens are all fully greened out in their leafage.  The flying bugs and mosquitoes are just as bothersome (requiring me to douse exposed skin with bug repellant).  The birds are as vociferous as ever (I saw two owls the other day) and the squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits are plentiful and active (I saw a family of deer and a raccoon crossing the rail-trail today).  Nature seems to like to riff ripples of variations over her baseline display of magical wonder, maybe just to keep us interested.

Other things are not changing very fast.  They’re still pushing the dirt around at the landfill near Fort Meadow Reservoir where there is supposed to be a future park.  I can’t see any reason, yet, to believe that grass will be growing there any time soon; maybe by fall?  The construction at the beginning of the trail is creeping along.  It now stands four stories high, but the outside is still nothing but plywood.  I would think the thing will be built in a few months, but who knows?

Throughout all this, I’m distracted by my trip to Switzerland.  I’m leaving in a few days and will be gone for just over fourteen days.  I am subconsciously trying to cement in memory what the place is like so I can see how much has changed when I return.  It will be interesting to see change happen over a period of a couple of weeks as opposed to every day.

I can’t help but second-guess myself as to why I’m going.  I won’t be doing anything different there than here, except the plane trip to get there and the train rides while there.  I’ll be walking and looking and wondering just like I do here.  I’ll be treading on Mother Earth, and although the geography, fauna and flora will be a bit different, it’s not all that different.  I’ll be exploring different history, architecture and ways of doing things, and I’ll be speaking a different language.  But people are just people, with the same needs and desires and all those differences are just a variation on a theme.  I think the reason I go to all the expense of traveling is that I crave the stimulation that the difference engenders, although it’s not that earthshaking.

And, of course, there’s Waldo.  I’ve found a good place for him to stay, next to a lake with lots of wooded trails to wander down.  The fellow who will be taking care of him has his own dog and will take them out for walks several times a day.  Waldo won’t be going on any 6 mile walks, but given the heat, that may not be such a bad thing anyway.  I am sure Waldo will be well taken care of at Waldo Camp.  I just wish he could tell me about it when we get back together.

I will be talking his ear off on my return.

I am so going to miss Waldo…

Who’s back there?

Discoveries, is not “Eureka!” (I found it!) but “That’s funny…”

-Isaac Asimov

The days cooled off a bit and Waldo and I are walking out on the rail-trail in mid to high sixties weather.  Those temperatures are well within the Waldo operating range.  Even so, he still glances behind us every few seconds as we head out.  It can’t be that he’s doing it because he’s too hot and wants to go home.  It must be that he’s leery of bicycles coming up from behind us.  I do know that he doesn’t like it when they do.  I don’t like it much myself, but, for some reason, he has now developed a real concern about it.  It’s not like his tail is tucked, or anything like that.  He’s just vigilant.  When a bike, or bikes, do come from behind us, he goes off to the side of the trail and sits down.  I never trained him to do that and I certainly don’t discourage him from doing it now.  He has just developed the habit on his own.

The thing I find most curious about it is that he is constantly looking behind us, even when there is nothing there.  Granted, some bicyclists insist on pushing their vehicles to the limit and come up on us fast.  Sometimes at around thirty miles an hour.  Nothing happened to make Waldo suddenly so wary (I would know because I’m with him 24/7), but he is.  Maybe it’s because he knows from experience that bikes will more than likely be there?  I sure wish I could speak Waldo as well as I do French, and that’s a pretty low bar, but I don’t.  The important thing is, he is okay.

I think what’s going on here is that Waldo has detected a pattern.  Warm days of spring, when there’s no precipitation, means that it’s likely there will be bikes on the trail.  I don’t think the fine details of how the number of bikes increases on the weekend matters to him, but I do think his understanding makes room for some variation.  There are days, usually midweek, when we don’t meet any bikes at the beginning of the trail and he seems to relax his vigilance a bit.  He is a smart dog.

Now, if he were human, he might count the number of bikes on each day, note the day of the week, the time of day, the weather and maybe some other variables, then look for a more detailed pattern.  If a pattern were noticed, then he might look for a mathematical formula that produces the same variation of the number of bikes, given the variables involved.  He could then formulate a theory and test it against observation.  Having a theory, confirmed through observation, he might then extrapolate to estimate, on any given day, just how many bikes he is likely to confront on our walks.  He would then have a better idea as to how vigilant to be.

That is how human science is done.  But, of course, doggie science isn’t concerned with that level of detail.  Warm day, morning, no rain = an increased need to watch out for bikes coming up from behind, is plenty good enough.  Confirmed by meeting at least one bike near the beginning of our walk, and his behavior is set for the rest of the walk.  I think the difference on the return trip is that he has more the attitude of “Damn the bikes, full speed ahead!  I wanna go home and chill.”

Now that I think about it, it could be argued that the real intelligence of human beings is that we are really, really good at detecting and defining patterns.  All of science can be thought of as pattern recognition.  We assign numerical values to objects of observation, collect data and look for patterns in the data.  Our real genius is in being able to define mathematical functions that reproduce a pattern in the numbers that corresponds to the patterns of what we observe.  That’s why mathematics is the language of science.  Armed with those functions, we can then predict what is likely to happen.  Having that foresight, we can engineer huge passenger jets, rockets into deep space and foresee the coming debacle of global warming.

Some believe that science searches for truth.  It doesn’t.  If truth is what you want, you need to look into philosophy, or religion.  Science doesn’t ever reveal truth.  It tells you what, when, and to what extent something is likely to happen.  Scientific models, like the atom, protons, electrons, neutrons and so on, are not meant to be the truth, just a useful way of thinking about reality that helps in the formulation of accurate patterns.

Waldo science is much simpler than that.  He can just get enough of a vague idea of the patterns that happen to get a gut feeling of what might happen, and then pay attention in case it does.  He doesn’t need to build planes, or rockets, or worry about global warming.  All that is our bailiwick.

All he needs is a nice walk out in the woods without being bothered by a bicycle.

Damn the bicycles, let’s go!

Waldo is nervous about what’s behind him.

Did you know that there are over 300 words for ‘love’ in canine?

-Gabrielle Zevin

There are a few hot days now.  The forecast is for temps in the high seventies today, so Waldo and I are walking the rail trail in the morning, when it is still in the high sixties to low seventies.  It’s hard to predict how hot it will feel for a given temperature.  Humidity, the amount of wind and the presence of direct sunlight, all play a role.  It’s going to rain tomorrow, and maybe for the next few days, so we don’t want to miss a nice, even if a little warm, day to walk.

We park in our usual spot and Waldo seems somewhat reluctant to leave the car.  I don’t force him and, with just a little encouragement, he’s soon prancing down the trail, sniffing his way along.  But he’s still acting strange.  He lags behind me, instead of going out front to the end of the leash.  He sometimes does that when there are bicycles coming up behind us – he doesn’t like bikes that do that.  I turn to look, but there’s nothing there.  I tug on the leash and force him to walk beside me or in front of me.  He is stopping, turning his head and looking behind us, every few seconds.  I look back that way and see nothing, not even another person.  It’s strange.

I watch Waldo’s body language carefully.  He does not seem to be in any distress.  He’s not laying down in the shade, his tail is not tucked between his legs.  He seems perky enough and doesn’t unduly resist the tug on his leash.  He just seems preoccupied, wary without being anxious.  I’m sure he’s hot, hell, I am, but he doesn’t seem to be distressed about it.  I offer him treats and he comes right up to me, sits and eagerly accepts what’s offered.  I offer him water and he rejects it, pushing his water bottle away with his nose.  His stools are normal and the amount he urinates hasn’t changed.  ‘Tis a puzzle.  Maybe he’s just not in the mood.  I know I’m like that sometimes.

He continues to behave a bit oddly all the way to our turnaround point.  On the way, we pass people and people with other dogs and he is as eager as ever to stop and say hello with vigor.  He does go off to the side of the trail and sniffs around, but not for long, then turns again and looks behind him.  I frequently turn and look back where we’ve been as well.  Maybe he knows something I don’t.  But I can’t see anything that would elicit that behavior.

We get to the turnaround point, reverse our course, and Waldo goes back to the front end of the leash and tugs with a purpose.  This dog wants to get back to the car.  It’s hot, but he’s not seeking out the shade or laying down to rest.  He’s panting with his tongue limply protruding and flopping around, but it is dripping with saliva.  He just goes out front and pulls gently on the leash to encourage me to “come on!”  Waldo is on a mission.

I’ve seen him behave this way when the temps get up to around 78℉, but I also remember him as a puppy walking in 87℉.  That’s clearly too hot for him and I won’t expose him to that again, but the maximum temperature we have during our walk is only 75℉.  Is his reluctance due to the temperature?  It is sunny, but radiation heating should bother me more than him.  He has a coat of fur to keep the sun’s direct heat off his skin; I just have clothes that cover a part of my body.  There’s a slight breeze blowing and the humidity isn’t all that high.  I continue to worry over it as we get back to the car.

Once in the car, Waldo curls up and settles down.  I open up the windows and set the environmental control to 68℉.  Soon, we are both basking in the wafting cool air from the AC vents.  Waldo lays his head down on the console between us and seems more content.

Once home, Waldo makes a beeline to his water bowl and sucks down an appreciable amount.  He then goes out to his throne over his dogdom and stays there, in the sun, apparently unconcerned with the heat.  I can’t get my head around it.

I guess the next thing to try is to leave earlier in the day, when it’s cooler, to see if that makes him any more comfortable.  Fortunately, the next few days are forecast to be cooler and intermittently wetter, so we won’t have to get up predawn.

Balancing getting Waldo out for enough exercise while doing it in weather that’s not too hot for him just might be a problem.  He is getting older (he will be 6 on August 25, about 45 in people years), so that might be playing a role.  Global warming is making things hotter and hotter every year (our forecast is for unusually high temps and wet weather this year).  I am going to have to brush him more often and get rid of some of his winter coat, for sure.  Maybe I should consider going on shorter walks more often, that add up to the same daily distance?  Something to think about.

I do want Waldo to have a good time while we’re out getting our exercise.

And he really doesn’t like the bikes.

Early morning walk.

Bliss is when you have surrendered your worldly self to your inner self.

-Tapan Ghosh

Moss, liver wort and grasses are now all very plump and green.  The low-lying leafy plants, like garlic mustard, lesser celandine, hairy bittercress, and motherwort, are all sporting large leaves and some have flowered.  The many ferns are unfurling their coiled-up branches.  The smaller bushes, like autumn olive, Bradford pear, common milkweed and oriental bittersweet are already in their prime, sporting well developed leaves and some have flowers.  The Japanese knotweed has large leaf-bearing stalks poking up from the well-established root systems of seasons passed.   Even the larger, taller trees, like the oaks, maples, sumacs, black walnuts and so many others, are sporting yellowish to pale green leaflets in their upper branches.  I’ve been watching as spring burgeons forth from the ground upwards – low lying plants maturing first in order to gain unshaded solar radiation before the taller plants can plunge them into shadowed darkness.  It’s, literally, like watching grass grow, but taken in short snippets, then melded together into a memory-movie, the developing season can be compressed like time-lapse photography.

There are more animals out and about as well.  Squirrels and rabbits run here and there, doing their seasonal romping and cavorting.  I even saw a possum slowly waddling across tarmac this morning, crossing the road for why?  The plethora of birdsong has increased in volume and repertoire, and I even heard one Emmy-bird the other day (they migrate and only show up here in late spring).  On warmer days, with temps well into the seventies, bugs are out and buzz around, but not yet the annoying ones, like gnats and mosquitoes.  I’m sure they’re out there, but, because Waldo and I stick, mostly, to the blacktop, I haven’t seen any ticks yet.  Waldo likes to roll around in the fallen leaves and on the grass, as well as wander under the drooping leaves of weeds and bushes, so, in the past, I have often found ticks in his hair as I pet and scratch him.  But I haven’t found any yet this season.  Summer is not far away.

When I’m walking with Waldo, my mind time-shares these thoughts and observations with watching Waldo and enjoying (and sometimes being exasperated) seeing him entertain himself, but I also have other ideas floating around in my head.  I just finished my second novel, Bikerman’s Quest, and all that is in there too.  When doing the writing, my focus is up close and personal, making the whole thing work.  Now that it’s done, I’m looking at it from a distance, encapsulating the story in my eternal search for meaning.

I got the idea for the story one night, about eight years ago, while driving home from work on my Super Glide Custom, Harley Davidson motorcycle.  My mind wanders a bit at those times too.  Motorcycle meditation, I call it.  Anyway, I bumped into the question, “What would life be like if you had absolutely no needs?”  Suppose everything else was the same, you don’t have any “superpowers,” but you don’t need to eat, drink, sleep, breathe or have any other needs?  What if you were invulnerable and immortal as a consequence?  What would such a human life be like?  What would motivate you to do anything?

So, I formulated a plot that made such a thing plausible (with some suspended disbelief on the part of the reader) and let a story unfold to explore just these questions.  I threw my main character into a maelstrom of conflict — fighting with the Russian Mob and taking them down, then trying, and failing to disarm a thermonuclear bomb (I do love a good action/adventure thriller), to test my thoughts about it all.  I think anyone with an open mind will find it entertaining and thought-provoking.  It contains not so much answers as thoughtful questions.  Keep your eyes open here and on social media for the details when I find a publisher.

Anyway, I’m out here on the rail trail with Waldo, with all these thoughts and ideas echoing around in my mind, and it occurs to me.  At this moment, in this place, I have no unmet needs.  I can just let all that hurley-burley go and enjoy what is happening in the here-and-now.  I can inhale the breath of life that Mother Nature wafts towards me and bathe in its awesome beauty.  I can smile and laugh at Waldo doing his Waldo-thing, as he also lives in the moment.  I can “watch” all the thoughts, ideas, impressions and reactions that bounce around in my skull, without getting wrapped up in any drama.  I absolutely have no need to do anything about any of it.

At this time and place, I not only don’t have any unmet needs, or even desires, it’s also easy to imagine that I’m invulnerable, because I am invulnerable to what is likely to happen any time soon.  It’s easy for me to have the mindset that I am immortal as well, at least in the sense that when I think of the foreseeable future, I am alive; I’m not about to cease to exist. That’s very liberating.  I can just walk along, out here in the woods, with my good friend Waldo, and exhilarate in all that life has to offer and feel like I don’t have to do anything about anything.

Can there be a more meaningful existential definition of bliss?

Waldo’s in his own world…

Ther are places where you have to be careful what you say…

Whose woods these are I do not know.

I’m so happy that I’m here, though.

Sunlight bathes us in golden hue

And I can watch the green things grow.

-Riff on “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost

There is one piece of the Bruce Freeman Rail Trail that Waldo and I have not yet walked.  It’s about four miles long and runs from Concord to Sudbury, terminating where the railroad bed crosses the Mass Central Rail Trail.  We could wait until Phyllis is available to join us, or we could walk this one last piece by ourselves and repeat the nine miles from Acton to Sudbury.  We decide on the latter.  Waldo does need his exercise and we’ve been spoiled by, at least occasionally, venturing out into new territory to get it done.

We park at the Lotus Blossom again and head west on the Mass Central Rail Trail.  This will add about 0.6 miles to our roundtrip journey for a total of 8.6 miles.  Not bad at all.  The day is warm, with temps of 63℉ and the skies are sunny and clear.   A light breeze makes it feel a bit coolish, but I get by in shirtsleeves just the same.  Waldo leaves the car and hits the ground in eager anticipation of the trail to come.

The Mass Central Rail Trail is still incomplete where we start and has standing water trapped in deep ruts, but it’s all easy to negotiate.  Waldo isn’t phased at all and has no problem plodding through the gook.  I can avoid the worst of it without collecting too much mud between the waffles of my boot soles.

We cross Union Ave and I know the intersection of the two trails is nearby – somewhere.  I’m on the lookout for a dumpster or garbage can so I can reposit Waldo’s deposit that I’m carrying.  I find one and deviate from our path to get the job done, then rejoin the trail.  After a half mile going further west, I know I’ve missed our goal and turn around.  Sure enough, backtracking about a half mile, there it is.  Pavement meets mud.  I have no idea how I missed it, even if my attention was elsewhere, looking for a repository.  That diversion will make todays walk 9.5 miles long, but that’s still well within parameters.  It’s something we’re used to; we don’t get lost, we just wander a bit.

We turn north and in a short distance pass by a huge nursery – Carvicchio Greenhouses.  Rows upon rows of small pots, holding some green plant or other, lay out in the sunlight, waiting to be planted somewhere else.  The place has many acres and seems to offer a large variety of species.  I’m told they supply landscapers with trees, bushes and flowers.

Less than a half-mile later, we’re crossing a bridge bounded on both sides by a chest high wooden rail fence.  Between the fences is a hurricane gate chained to the wooden rails of the fence.  There is a space between the gate and the fence for Waldo to easily pass, but not me.  There are people on both sides of the gate walking and biking and I see no reason for the gate to be there.  Waldo squeezes through the gap and I climb over the fence, go past the gate, then climb over the fence again on the other side of the gate.  We recognize no obstacles – just speed bumps and go arounds.  We continue on our way.

From now on, until we turn around at North Road, we are in deep forest.  The oaks and maples are still just sticks without leaves, but there are plenty of white pines too.  There are bushes with sprouted leaves and swaths of large green-leafed skunk cabbage or bitter dock (I can’t tell which) in the low swampy places.  Birds are out and singing in the breeze, and even a few bugs, but no mosquitoes.  I find it a happy place.  Forests generally make me feel more peaceful and relaxed.  I know I’m not alone in this.  Some people have suggested that sense of well being is a consequence of species memory – it’s built into our DNA.  Our long-ago arboreal ancestors would find standing trees a sanctuary, a safe place.  It’s proposed that even once our ancestors went from tree to savannah, they still preferred to be near a copse of trees just in case they found themselves chased by a predator.  Whatever the reason, I feel comforted being swaddled in a blanket of Mother Nature.

When we get back to the car, we’re tired.  Even Waldo is anxious to get into the passenger seat and curl up.  Of course, that won’t last long for him.  Some water, dinner and a short rest and he’ll be ready to go again.  Me, I’m done for the day.

But we’ve completed yet another trail.

The trail passes through some beautiful forests.