In the Weston woods.
We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
-Carson McCullers
That Waldo and I have to go for walks is a given. Where we go is somewhat flexible. Usually, that choice is driven by convenience – our rail trail is within a very short distance and easy to get to. The bits of the Mass Central Rail Trail we have yet to trod are not too far away, most are within an hour’s drive, but the travel time does add to the length of the walking day. Now that it’s spring and the temperatures are a bit higher, we don’t have to be constrained by choosing only those paths that we know have been plowed. The nicer weather opens up opportunities to plod down many a nearby path that we have explored in the past – some more interesting than others.
It’s not that either Waldo or I get bored by the rail trail. It’s ours; we own it. No two walks are ever the same and, if you keep your senses alive, there’s always something new to tickle your wonder. But, still, there is this subliminal pressure that builds up over time, especially over the winter months, urging us to go where no Waldo has ever been before. To explore the unknown. A wanderlust pointing in the direction of new horizons. Can one say that he has truly wandered if his path does not lead to places not yet reconnoitered? I think not.
In this springtime of iffy walking conditions, where one has to contend with seasonal muddy ground and intimidating swamps, it might be the better part of valor to delay many walks until the April showers have done their duty and the terra is a bit more firma. I really do try to avoid coming home with a swamp-dog, whenever possible. I can get pretty mud and pond-scum encrusted too, you know. This is the season when Waldo and I opt for familiar, yet not known in the biblical sense, paths nearby and likely, from previous experience, to be easily navigable. It doesn’t expiate the winter’s cabin fever completely, but it does ameliorate it a bit.
All this is in preamble to explain that today. Waldo and I are out walking with Phyllis in the woods, and around the reservoir, near her home in Weston. We’ve walked this with her before, but it has been a while. Part of our walk, led by Phyllis, who knows the way well, is on the small lanes and byways that wend their way through the residential community. Part is in the woods and part circles a fenced-in reservoir. We start out on a street that feeds several mansions that are truly worthy of the name. There’s a lot of money here. The day is warmish, with temps in the mid-fifties, the skies are partly cloudy and the wind is blocked by the many trees.
Soon, we hang a right and are swallowed by trees, bushes and weeds – or at least what’s left of them in their still-hibernating condition. This is relatively low, wet ground, evidenced by the presence of eastern red cedar and hemlock that love damper ground. True as that may be, our path is free of mud and puddles, as expected. The undergrowth is dense enough that we are effectively blocked from the sights and sounds of the city. We pass no one here. Phyllis says that during the lockdown, many people took to these woods to get away from their cloisters. But today, those same people are elsewhere. These woods have been relatively empty since people felt more comfortable to mingle in public places. They know not what they miss. Waldo, though, enjoys the lack of bicycles and is having a great time exploring around without worrying about them.
We pass through a cemetery and cross a road to another patch of woods. As we follow the path, there is a sturdy, black hurricane fence on our left that surrounds and protects the reservoir. Phyllis says that she has dreamt, for a long time now, of scaling the fence on a dark, hot moonlit night and going skinny dipping in the alluring waters. I think the idea appeals mostly for its shock value, but there is a bit of a randy minx under that white hair, I think. She sighs and admits that it might not be that easy to get a 77-year old body over the head-high barrier, but I volunteer to help on some upcoming July or August night. Some things really do belong on a bucket list.
People are allowed to let their dogs go off-leash around the reservoir. Many may no longer feel the need to be out in the woods, but people with dogs do. We pass a few unencumbered canines, romping and enjoying themselves immensely. I keep Waldo on leash, but he doesn’t seem the least bit restricted by it. It’s some 26 feet long, which gives him a lot of freedom and me some control. It’s not that he is likely to get into trouble on his own. I’m just fearful of what might happen without my ability to intervene. I should probably chillout a bit, but I can’t overcome the worry.
On the way back, we do cross some unavoidable muddy puddles, but nothing that are deep enough, with strategic foot placement, to put mud above the soles of my boots or turn Waldo’s white feet black. It’s been a good walk and the added variety has spiced up our everyday need to roam. There is still that persistent itch, that’s slowly becoming a burn, for something more venturous.
But that will come soon…
Next to the Weston Reservoir.