Snow everywhere. Well, almost…
Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts,
— Oliver Windell Holmes, Sr.
It is warm out today. 76℉! I’m walking in shirtsleeves with no tee shirt and sweating. Waldo is panting and somewhat uncomfortable. When it gets much hotter than today, he wanders off into the shade under a bush off-trail and lies down. He’s not doing that now, but his tongue is lolling limply to one side and dripping. I keep a close eye on him to make sure he’s not overheating, but he’s doing okay.
The snow is rapidly disappearing, even the deep drifts thrown up by snowplows. The plowed part of the rail trail is almost denuded down to the tarmac, with only a few skimpy patches of slush left behind. But once we get to Hudson, the trail is still completely awash in a damp slippery, but still white, thick carpet of snow. It’s cooler here, above the still frozen ground and in the shade of tall oaks, maples and pine. Waldo seems to appreciate that. So do I.
Just as we get to the snowy part, we come across a snow-shovel’s-width track from the tunnel toward downtown Hudson. I can see the person who created it, still shoveling away, about ¼-mile ahead. As I get closer, I see it’s a jogger that is well known to Waldo and I. We’ve been passing him nearly daily for almost as long as we’ve been coming out here. Waldo gives him a tail-wagging greeting and I say, “Hello, nice job.”
“I’m done, for today,” he says, with a heavy sigh.
“This snow is wet, heavy and deep,” I say.
“Tell me about it,” he says and he plants the shovel upright in untouched snow. “I’m just tired of not being able to run here.”
“I don’t think it’s going to last much longer – not in these temperatures,” I say.
“I know. I’m just tired of waiting.”
“Well,” I say, “thank you for your efforts. It is making the walking easier today.” We continue on, going back to the narrow, beaten and snowy path.
By the time I get to the 3.0 marker spot, I decide that it’s now or never. The next time we come here, the marker may be exposed. That would mean that the damned snow has defeated me and kept the marker hidden throughout the winter. I can’t have that, so I start kicking at the snow and ice at the expected place. It’s tough, but I’m able to get close to the tarmac after some hard work. Then, there, right where I thought it would be, is the curve of the number “3”, under about ½-inch of clear ice. I expose the entire “3.0,” still under the ice I’m unable to remove, and make a gratified sigh. Hah! I’ve done it!
Over the past few months, I have now exposed each and every mile marker on the rail trail that nature has buried. I feel validated. I have now proven to myself that I know this trail, after all this time, exquisitely. I know it’s silly, but I feel like I can legitimately call this path through the woods my own. Not in a proprietary way, but in the biblical sense – I have proven that I am so very intimately familiar with it.
Heading back with a sense of accomplishment that has eluded me until now, I pay attention to the other landmarks I’ve gotten to know so well. The English ivy tree, still as green as ever, the boulders on the embankment that mark where, approximately, it is 1 5/8 of a mile to the end of the trail, the Covid Garden and the Marlborough Rock Garden, are just a few. Yep, this is my rail trail.
I wonder if Waldo feels the way I do. He certainly has the concept of ownership. It’s an undeniable fact that he knows he owns the balcony and the front passenger seat of his car, because he defends them so vigorously. But out here, he accepts and encourages others to share this piece of Mother Nature, greeting each and every passerby with wags of his tail and doggy kisses. The ownership I’m talking about is of a different hue altogether. Most importantly, and without a doubt, Waldo knows the place intimately as much as I do.
Soon, now that the snow is disappearing, we’ll be exploring other New England trails. But we will always return here on a regular basis.
Because it is home.
Damn! There it is!