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Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 3 comments

October 07, 2025

Unimproved, but walkable.

 

Exploration is really the essence of the human spirit.

-Frank Borman

 

A paved piece of the Mass Central Rail Trail, starting in Wayland, ends where it crosses the Assebet River Rail Trail, in Hudson.  The continuation of the railroad bed from there, still outlined with rusted steel rails, goes on, but it’s overgrown a bit.  In the past, Waldo and I bushwhacked from that trail-crossing into downtown Hudson (about a mile or so).  It’s going to be fairly cool today, with highs in the low 70s, so I decided we should return to Hudson, where we left off, and see if we can continue the trek all the way to Berlin, a distance of about 5 miles.  The maps list the route that we will follow as “Protected/Unimproved.”

Today, Hudson has a population of around 20,000.  It was once a part of Marlborough (population 42,000, as of 2024) and became a separate town in 1866.  The railroad that ran from Marlborough to Hudson (north/south) was built just 11 years prior.  The Central Mass Railroad (running east/west) was started in 1870 and completed all the way to Northampton in 1887.  Berlin was the next stop west on the Central Mass RR from Hudson.  So, all this happened right around the time of the Civil War (1861 – 1865), or shortly thereafter.

There is spotty evidence of the old railroad bed in the town of Hudson, but because of the construction of streets, parking lots and buildings of various sorts, it can be hard to follow.  Railroads, like as not, run in straight lines, so when I find evidence of the old right-of-way, then lose it, all I have to do is keep going in the same direction until it reappears.  When it does, it usually is overgrown with weeds and small-bole trees.

I have no idea why, but Waldo loves bushwhacking.  He charges up ahead, as if he knows exactly where we’re going, which is usually pretty obvious, at full trot.  When he makes an error, his leash gets all tangled up in the tree trunks and weeds.  It’s a pain for me when that happens, but, hey, he’s having a lot of fun.  So, I accept the consequences and give him his head until I have to redirect him and untangle the mess.

Once out of town, the railroad bed is mostly easy to find.  But it is not necessarily easy to follow.  There are six different scenarios.  First, the way is clear and has a well-trodden path to follow (it happens, but not all that often).  Then there are times when the path is obvious, but overgrown with small trees and weeds that makes the trek a bit of a slog, but it’s not that bad. Third, there are times when it becomes a real pain to fight through all the foliage, but Waldo and I are intrepid.  There are also times when the way is overgrown enough that I have to question whether or not it’s worth the effort.  Usually, when that happens, there is no easy way to leave the railroad bed, so it’s continue on to see if it gets better (which it almost always eventually does) or backtrack.  Backtracking is something I would only do as a last resort and we successfully avoid that.  Then there are places where it is clear that I really don’t want to go in there without a machete (I don’t have one) and I look for streets, parking lots or other paths I can more easily walk on, that run, more or less, parallel.  Finally, there are places where the railroad bed, along with the rails, just stop and I can’t see where they used to run on.  So, again, it’s find some other way to go until we can get back on the path.  Between Hudson and I-495, we confront all these.

I-495 is approximately halfway on our route.  It was built in 1957 and the last train to Berlin ran in 1958.  So, there is a tunnel that was built over the old railroad and it’s easy to walk through.  Just before we get to I-495, the going goes from impossible (we had to leave the railroad bed and walk around it) to a slog (once we got back on it).  Then, just as I-495 comes into sight, things turn into an easy walk, with a cleared roadbed and a well-used footpath.  It continues on as a pleasant way to go until we cross Sawyer Hill Road in Berlin (around a mile or so further), then it becomes a never-walked, real pain with not just weeds, but thorn bushes and swampy areas to navigate.  So, the nice path starts at the I-495 overpass, that is really hard to get to from the east, and runs west to a country road that has nothing else around it.  The trail, literally, starts nowhere and goes to nowhere.  Why in the world would anyone choose that length of old railroad bed to keep clear and walk on?  Curious.

The last bit we have to walk runs from Sawyer Hill Road to Highland Street, Berlin (population 3,500).  The town (such as it is) is just to our south and we leave the train tracks and take to the streets and highways to get back to our car in Hudson.  The going isn’t as hard, but it’s difficult because we have to go along Rte 62, which is a two-lane highway with fast moving traffic.  There are no sidewalks and the shoulder is narrow (sometimes less than a foot wide).  I keep Waldo on a very tight leash and we finally make it safely back to Hudson and our car.  I’m sure Waldo doesn’t have nearly as much fun walking alongside the highway, but by that time, we’re both just thinking of getting back to the car and home.  It’s been an interesting walk, but we’ve had enough.  For now.

Next leg of the trek is from Berlin to Clinton.  It, too, is about five miles long and is listed as “unimproved.”  That’s a term that I now know can mean just about anything.

Except paved.

 

End of the day’s walk, at the I-495 overpass.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

September 30, 2025

Trail starts out pleasant enough.

 

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who do what they say they will do, and those who say they will do it.

-Vince Lombardi

 

Today, I decide to fill another gap in the Mass Central Rail Trail.  This piece is close to Boston and runs about 2 miles, the same distance as the last gap.  It’s to the east from where we live, whereas the last one was to the west.  Still, it’s a good hour’s drive to get to where we start.  However, the forecast is for temps in the 60s to low 70s, so we don’t have to leave at an ungodly hour.

I’ve been putting off this piece of trail because most of where we have to go, if we follow where the original railroad bed ran, will make us walk close by the actively used tracks for the Fitchburg Line of the MBTA Commuter Rail.  We could go on nearby streets, in a serpentine path, to cover the same distance, but where’s the adventure in that?

The railroad right-of-way is quite wide, allowing for 2 sets of tracks.  Having seen both ends of our path, I know there is plenty of space to avoid getting too close to any trains that go by.  The tracks lay on top of a ridge of gravel, though, and I can only guess how walkable it will be too far off the rails.   I’m also a little nervous because I don’t suppose the MBTA wants us there and they may make a stink when they find us strolling near rapidly moving trains.  The Commuter Rail does go pretty fast.  I don’t think it’s at all dangerous, or I wouldn’t bring Waldo (and what would then be the purpose of being there at all?), but you know how uptight people can be, especially when they think there are potential liability issues.  But this isn’t the first time I’ve operated on the principal that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.  Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say it’s more expedient, not better.  Anyway, you can see that I am a little ambivalent about it.

Our journey begins at one end of a strip of tarmac that serves as parking spaces for a set of commercial buildings that run alongside the tracks.  Phyllis, Waldo and I were there late last fall, when the weeds and leaves were all gone.  I saw, then, what looked like a broad footpath that continued on past the end of the asphalt, going along what I was convinced was the original railroad bed.  Today, at first, I couldn’t find it.  There’s a solid wall of foliage that starts where the blacktop stops.  But when I get close, I see, beyond the weeds, there is a narrow, dusty footpath, running on a dike, through a natural arbor of tall Japanese knotweed.  As soon as Waldo sees it, he’s out on point at the far end of his leash and we’re off.

We don’t go a quarter-mile and the path turns to the north, where we don’t want to go, and to the south, to the railroad tracks.  Just as we get there, still up on the dike, I hear a train bell dinging.  Waldo and I stop and wait until its source, a slow-moving train, rounds a curve and comes into view.  It’s going away from Boston, toward Fitchburg, and accelerating.  There’s a diesel engine out in front and five passenger cars behind.  Waldo isn’t bothered by it at all.  It’s not as if that big noisy thing was a bicycle, after all.  I wave and walk down to the tracks after it is gone.  From here on, we will be near, but not too close, to the rails.

The walking isn’t hard for either Waldo or myself.  We can easily maintain a good pace at the bottom of the ridge of gravel, a good fifteen feet from the rails.  Much further away than that, though, and there are plenty of weeds that would make our walk a real slog.  Waldo is very nonchalant about it all, sniffing and exploring his way along as if it makes perfect sense that we should be here.  Knowing us, it does.

In about a half-mile, we come to Waverly Station.  That explains all the dinging and the slow pace of the train.  There is only one person at the station, waiting for the train going into Boston.  I call out, “Hello!” and we continue on our way.  The waiting passenger-to-be ignores us, absorbed in a book.

We pass one more station, Belmont, before we get to the end of today’s walk.  All in all, three trains pass us, two going to Fitchburg and one to Boston.  They all have the locomotive on the end of the train facing away from Boston, so the train going to Boston looks like it’s going in reverse.  But diesel locomotives don’t really have a front and a back end and why turn something as huge as a train around if you don’t have to?

We are also passed by a pickup truck modified with wheels that allow it to travel on the rails, and some kind of big machine that is spraying some sort of liquid off to the other side of the tracks.  I wave to them all and the guy operating the sprayer waves back.  I guess I was worried about nothing from the railroad crew.

We did get some guff, but not from the railroad.  Waldo and I walk along a driveway, where we turn around to go back to the car, and a guy in a pickup drives by and yells at us, saying that we’re on private property.  “Cool down!” I call back.  “We’re just walking.”  Nothing more is said and we continue on our way without further ado.

Before too long, we get back to our car and head home.  All said and done, it was just another walk on the rail trail.

And one more gap to receive a checkmark.

 

But then we have to walk alongside railroad tracks and trains.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

September 23, 2025

Off to the left, the forest opens up and there is a large farm.

 

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

-Buddha

 

Finally, we have a day that is cool enough, for long enough, that Waldo and I can venture a bit farther afield, without getting up before dawn, and walk for a couple of hours and not get baked.  I decide to head over to Rutland, where we last walked on the Mass Central Rail Trail, and close a gap we haven’t yet walked.  This gap is about 2.2 miles long, runs along a couple of highways, and ends on a piece that we, with Christine, walked some time ago.  It’s just Waldo and me this time, so we have to do a round trip, totaling 4.4 miles.  The starting point is a 45-minute drive away, so it’s around 8 AM when we start out.  Across the road from where we begin, the old railroad bed continues, but immediately disappears into the weeds.  Waldo and I have certainly bushwhacked our way along unimproved paths in the past, but not today.  We stay alongside the road.

As soon as we leave the car, Waldo is out front at the end of the leash.  When we go to a new place to walk, he gets excited and forgets to be hypervigilant about bikes.  Even though cars go faster, and make more noise, he doesn’t seem to be worried about them as much as he is about their smaller, quieter, slower cousins.  And there are quite a few cars that pass us, traveling at 40 miles an hour or more.  There is no sidewalk out here in the boonies and the shoulder is marked by a solid white line.  Waldo keeps to the outside of the line and often in the grass and gravel beyond the tarmac.  He doesn’t pull at the leash, like he used to as a puppy, but he does take as much leash from the retractable handle as he can.  He’s having a good time.

I spent a good portion of my life living in semiarid places, like the western United States and the high plateaus of East Africa.  The predominant colors in those places are pastel yellows, beiges, and tans.  There is some green, of course, but it doesn’t dominate.  Here, in New England, things are so very green.  As I walk down the highway, it’s like I’m walking through an emerald tunnel.  I don’t know what the origin of the emotion is, but it makes me feel subtly secure, satisfied and enlivened.  Some have speculated that sylvan landscapes of grassy fields alongside blue lakes surrounded by deep green forests, generally appeal to people because of RNA memory that has passed down from generation to generation since our distant ancestors lived in trees.  Whatever the source of the feeling, I do notice its subliminal message.

We don’t go more than, at most, a half-mile, and, off to our left, the green tunnel opens up into a large cultivated field.  What was a sylvan landscape has morphed into a big farm, growing corn and hay.  The corn is not yet mature enough to harvest and the hay has been cut and raked, but still needs to be bucked and baled.  In the distance are large well-kept barns and silos.  There are no tractors, or balers, or other farm equipment in sight.  It’s as if the farmer has taken the day off.  It’s a good day for that, for sure.  At the near edge of the fields is a stand of tightly packed, new-growth, staghorn sumac.  The plants are so densely jammed together that I can’t help but think they were planted there by human intent.  I can’t imagine what that intent was, though.

As we walk along, I see tree leaves whose shape I don’t recognize.  I pull out my phone and speciate them as I notice them.  There are shagbark hickory, European beech and white ash that are not denizens of the Assebet River Rail Trail.  One of the hickory trees is more than 150 years old, as evidenced by its diameter of over 30 inches.  On average, trees grow about 0.2 inches per year in diameter, so something that big has been there a long time.  I wonder if it was planted when the place was settled, back in the late 1700s to early 1800s.  There is history there, for sure.

There isn’t a whole lot of birdsong today, for some reason.  I do hear a distinctive whistle, though, so I pull out my trusty phone and bring up the Merlin app (isn’t the twenty-first century wonderful?).  It identifies what I hear as a bluejay tune.  So, I now can identify Emmy birds (catbirds), cardinals and bluejays by their distinctive lilts.  Of course, there are others that are better known, like the caw of crows, the hoot of owls and the high-pitched scree of a red-tailed hawk soaring on high.

The more I learn, the more I’m drawn into the experience of living, surrounded by Mother Nature.  And that’s the point.  It’s not to know about biology, botany, or ornithology.  The goal is to try to notice what’s going on as I walk along, to become engaged with nature and the present.  The speciation of trees, the identification of birds and the learning of how nature works is just a trick to draw my attention out into the world and what’s going on in the present moment – the only place where the human condition touches reality.  Events in the past have already occurred and the future isn’t here yet.

“Now” is the only time when anything is happening.

 

Passing through the outskirts of town.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

September 16, 2025

It’s still fairly dark out as we start.

 

Say what you will about aging, it’s still the only way to have old friends.

-Robert Breault

 

Today, Waldo and I had a predawn start to our walk.  We woke up at 4 AM, had a quick breakfast, then we were out the door and in the car.  Phyllis is meeting us in the Lotus Blossom restaurant parking lot at about 5:30 AM, so we can finish by 8, when the temperature is forecast to be 73℉.  Waldo and I got to the parking lot a little early and we’re outside, waiting for Phyllis to drive up.  It’s still dark out and there is next to no traffic.  I don’t know how he knows, but Waldo is out on the sidewalk, wagging his butt, as Phyllis’s headlights approach down the street.  As soon as she parks, he greets her with a torrent of ardent sniffs and licks, then, in true border-collie fashion, walks away with a been-there-done-that attitude.  The sun isn’t scheduled to rise until 5:55, so there’s just a hint of a pastel peach dawn to the east, and the suggestion of a pale blue sky above us, as we start out on the Mass Central Rail Trail.

It’s been a while since we’ve been on the Mass Central Rail Trail, or the Bruce Freeman Trail.  This piece of the MCRT is one that is not yet quite finished.  Construction has been going on for the past couple of years and we have walked it before, even though it wasn’t paved.  Now, it has a first coat of tarmac, but there’s more work to be done.  Even so, the going is easy and we quickly walk the 0.2 mile, or so, distance to the intersection with the Bruce Freeman Trail.  The BFT was finished and fully opened this spring and we want to see what it’s like now that it’s, finally done.

The intersection of the two trails has a small roundabout, with bare ground in the middle.  There used to be a small train station just to the northwest of the intersection, but that is now long gone.  Off in the weeds, to the northeast of the roundabout, is the “X” section of rails that was the intersection of the two railroads.  The MCRT runs, more or less, east-west from Boston to Northampton, Mass.  The BFT runs from Framingham, to our south, north to Lowell, MA.  We turn right and head north, with the idea of seeing what the finished trail is like.

As we walk along, the world turns lighter and Mother Nature’s colors become more vibrant.  We are soon in thick forest, surrounded by old-growth stands of maple, oak and white pine.  After a good half-hour, the sun finally broaches the horizon and we are bathed in the long shadows of early morning.  Emmy birds are out and about and I carry on a short conversation with one.  I don’t hear any cardinal-song, but I know cardinals are out in the foliage somewhere; they’re just not talking right now.  Waldo is out front at the end of the leash and not continuously stopping to look behind us as he is wont to do when there are bikes around.  There are bikes out here, I think he’s just excited to be on a walk in a place different from our usual haunt and, while not ignoring them, he’s too interested in the new countryside to fret about them.

The trail itself is different from the last time we were here.  The fences that attempted (and failed) to block adventurous people from exploring the unfinished trail are gone.  The tarmac is thicker and more solid, there are rail fences on the sides, here and there, and there are granite posts, every half-mile or so.  The posts display the history of the place.  Some describe how the railroad was built.  Others note how the railroad was run, talking about signal lights and whistle posts.  There is a large sign showing a map of the MCRT and BFT, along with some historical facts of the town of Sudbury.  The icing has been put on the cake from the last time we were here.

Phyllis is leaving on an 8-week trip to five different countries in Africa in less than two weeks.  We talk a lot about her plans and my past experiences there.  Among the countries she’s visiting are Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Zimbabwe and South Africa.  This will be the first time she’s been to the second largest continent in the world and she’s quite excited.  Africa is someplace she’s wanted to visit for a good part of her life.  This is her fourth attempt to scratch that itch – the other trips had to be canceled before they could become reality, for various reasons.  It would take an act of God to stop her this time.  She’s running out of time, you know.

All too soon, we turn around and head back to the Lotus Blossom.  It’s been a really nice 6-mile walk and we successfully beat the heat.  Waldo got to sniff new smells and Phyllis and I got to reconnect and experience the finished BFT.  She won’t be back until toward the end of October, but by then, things will be cooler and we’ll be able to take longer walks.

And there’ll be plenty of time for her tell me about her African adventures.

 

It’s really nice to be walking with Phyllis again.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

September 09, 2025

The grounds where we live provide Waldo and me some great places to walk.

The grounds where we live provide Waldo and me some great places to walk.

 

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.

-Helen Keller

 

Waldo and I woke at 6 AM this morning.  Every night, I look at the forecast and pick the latest time we can leave the next day for our walk and finish before it gets hotter than about 74℉.  We need a three-hour window to get up, get dressed and finish our six miles, and this summer, that’s meant getting up pretty early.  Lately, we’ve been able get out of bed as late as 7 AM, but today, it’s going to be a bit hotter a bit earlier, so we had to get up at 6.  4 AM sucks, but 6 isn’t too bad.  Usually.  This morning, I got up and put on my socks, so it was for real.

I was feeling a bit tired, but nothing abnormal for that time of day.  I was all set, except for putting on my boots, to head out the door.  Waldo was lying on the floor, waiting patiently for me to get my act together.  Suddenly, I felt a little sleepier than normal.  That’s very unusual for me.  Once the juices get flowing, I’m good to go.  But I had the urge to nap, not walk.  The forecast says the next few days are going to be 4 AM walks, or none at all, but, even so, I caved and decided to put off our trek for another day.  Still, the dog has got to get out and do his business, so out we went.  The plan morphed into doing our half-mile poop and pee loop, then come back home, have some breakfast, then hit the recliner for a couple-hour nap.

Once outdoors, I heard an Emmy bird, hiding somewhere in the foliage in her catbird seat.  We talked a bit, as Waldo lifted his leg on the bushes, then, having said whatever it was that needed saying, we moved on.  I can speak Emmy bird well enough that I can sometimes induce one to flit down to a perch near me, or land on the ground not far away.   Once seeing that I wear a very peculiar set of feathers, and I have a companion who is a… predator, they take then off and go back into hiding.  However, I don’t understand the language at all and I have no idea what’s being said.  This morning, the bird does not show itself and, after exchanging a few bon mots, we move on toward the pooping grounds.

The other day, while we were out on the rail trail, a gorgeous red cardinal flew right in front of me, across our path.  I pulled out my phone and searched for an audio of cardinal birdsong.  Hearing that, I listened carefully to the woods.  It wasn’t long before I heard a cardinal off in the bushes, making the same song.  It’s a whistle, sliding from a low to high tone, repeated three or four times.  I did my best to imitate it and the bird answered.  This morning, when I heard cardinal-speak, I answered as best I could.  Like the Emmy bird, the cardinal, who I couldn’t see, answered and we spoke for awhile.  About something or other.  Like is often the case with human interactions, what was said was not so important as the expression of the desire to interact.

Moving on, Waldo and I rounded the corner of a building and saw an elderly woman sitting on the ground, just outside the back door to the building, with her legs folded under her.  I asked if she was okay and she said she tripped on the bottom step and couldn’t get up.  She said that her wrists were a bit sore, especially the right, but otherwise, she was fine.  I told her I understood completely and that I made it a practice to do my best not to go down without a solid plan about how I would get back up.  But, hey, shit happens.

Obviously, I needed to help her get up.  But first, I needed to figure out what I was going to do with Waldo.  I told him to stay, locked the retractable reel of his leash so it wouldn’t retract and set the reel on the ground.  I was pretty sure that if Waldo did wander off, he wouldn’t go far.  As a puppy, that was a worry.  These days, not so much.

There was no one else around, so, with the woman’s consent (I did mention that I am a retired doctor, she said she is a retired nurse), I got behind her, put my hands under her armpits and lifted.  She was a short woman, but large.  We got her onto her knees, but I couldn’t lift her all the way up without changing my position.  So, I leaned over some more, changed my grip by running my arms around her upper chest and, grasping my hands together, I tried again.  Lifting and leaning backward, doing my best not to join her on the ground, I finally got her onto her feet.  She was good to go and refused further help.  On the way to church when she fell, she continued on and went around the corner of building.

I turned to look at Waldo.  The leash reel had not moved an inch.  Anyone else watching might have been amused seeing two old farts wrestling around on the ground, but not Waldo.  During the whole episode, he just stood there, watching.  He gave me a “Are you done?” look and, as I picked up my end of the leash and unlocked the reel, he continued on his way as if this kind of thing happens all the time.  What a great companion.

You see, adventure is out there, even right next to home on a short half-mile jaunt around the neighborhood.

You just have to be open to it.

 

There’s even some funky foliage, like this tree that looks like a crucifix.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

September 02, 2025

Waldo doesn’t spend much time ruminating, as far as I can tell.

 

There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want.

-Bill Waterson

 

It feels so good to be out walking in 60℉ weather.  Finally, Waldo and I can put in our 6 miles and finish while the temperature is still in the low 70s.  Later on in the day, it’s in the low 80s, but by then, we’re inside, chillaxin’.

Apparently, there are quite a few others who feel the same way, because we are not alone.  Many of the people and dogs we meet are fellow rail-trail denizens who we are used to meeting later on in the day when things are a bit cooler.  That’s not universal – not everyone makes an effort to beat the heat.  I’ve driven by the trail when the temps are in the low 90s and seen intrepid beshorted and beteeshirted people out here walking the tarmac.  It would be my guess, though, that they’re not going six miles.  The wisdom is that people can’t spend very long working in temperatures higher than 90℉.  At those temps, humans need to rest and cool down a bit or they get heat stroke.  It makes me wonder how southern plantation slaves survived in the cotton fields.

Nothing much has changed since the last blog, except the Canadian geese are nowhere to be seen.  But high summer is like that.  Like midwinter, things are changing, but only slowly — every day is very much like every other day.  In summer, the trees are fully foliated, the weeds are tall and densely packed and the world is soaked in green.  That only changes at the pace that grass grows.  In the winter, day after day after day, the trees remain barren, the ground is covered in snow and ice and the landscape is painted in dull shades of gray.  Oh, there are days, in the summer, when it rains, times when the wind blows in a gale, and weeks of the sun bludgeoning heat down mercilessly.  And in the winter, there are periods of frigid, icy temperatures that would freeze the soul and snow storms that bury the world in a thick icy blanket.  But in both cases, all that is just background noise to the slowly evolving seasons

In the spring and fall, things can change noticeably from one day to the next.  In just a few days, you can see the vernal leaves on the trees spring forth from tiny buds to light green babies, then to jade-colored, mature fully photosynthesizing organs.  Six months or so later, in the fall, you can see those same leaves, from day to day, give up their verdure in beautiful patterns of red and yellow, then end up as a soft crunchy carpet covering the ground everywhere.  In the spring, I like to follow the different rates of maturation of the different plants – which ones are the first and last to be fully leafed out, for example.  In the fall, it’s interesting to watch the growing patterns of color amid the still green trees and think about the causes.  Things change with a rapidity that makes it easy to notice and follow.

It occurs to me that my life is like that.  For months on end, every day was very much like every other day.  I would wake up every morning, roll out of bed and then go about the business of living.  Then, sometimes after many years, something would change.  I would start school, or get a new job, or get married, buy a new house, or have children.  The world would be a different kind of place for a while, then routine would set in, along with a certain amount of monotony.  Finally, the kids grow up, they have their own lives, the empty house is sold and I retire.  After that, like midsummer and winter, very little changes.  Oh, I go on trips and write books that get published, enjoy watching my kids and grandkids lives taking form and shape, but most of my life is set.  There no more grand schemes of career planning, no more tall hurdles to leap over.

It’s a quiet time of life, retirement.  A lot of time is spent on maintenance, just taking care of what’s required to live in twentieth-century America.  The older you get, the more that means medical appointments for this and that minor inconvenience of having a body that is slowly wearing out.  Everything else has a tendency to be entertainment.  Stuff like traveling, writing and even exploring.  It’s just a way of filling what time you have left.

I don’t find that at all depressing.  It’s just quiet.  Like going for a walk with Waldo on the rail trail.  The frenetic energy of a working life is gone, but life is still fulfilling.  It’s full of love, caring and sharing.  And I have plenty of time to revel in the magic of life in all of its countless facets.

And wonder about all that is.

 

I do think he wonders what I’m doing, though.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

August 26, 2025

Uprooted common burdock.

 

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born.  The odd uneven time.

-Sylvia Plath

 

It finally got cool enough that Waldo and I can go walking without getting up at 4 AM.  We did get out of bed at 6, which is still plenty early in my estimation, but at least the sun was up.  The temperature is a nice 60℉ and it’s a bit muggy.  There’s a light breeze, but even so, the air is hazy due to smoke from wildfires in Canada.  I can’t smell the smoke, like I have in the past, but I can definitely see it.

The common burdock is putting up flowers and tiny nascent burr balls on 4-foot-high stalks.  As I’ve blogged previously, I’m at war with the stuff.  In the fall, these things turn into small maces whose business ends assault Waldo’s fur and my peace of mind.  Once in his fur, the damn things are really hard to extract and they come in bunches of 6 to 10.  And they’re out there, threatening to attack, for weeks.  Last year, I had enough and I uprooted every one I could find.  This year, I’m starting early.  As I walk along, I look for those stalks (not all burdock plants have them).  When I find one, I grab it, near where it comes out of the ground, with both hands, and lean back with all my weight.  If I can’t get it out, I smash it down next to the ground and try again the next day.  So far this year, the score is Byron — 6, Waldo’s fur – 0, and burdock – 0.  This morning, I pulled out the last one I could find.  So far.

The presence of the burdock stalks is only one sign that summer is past its midpoint.  The sun is rising noticeably later and setting earlier.  Acorns and black walnut fruits are appearing on the ground.  The Japanese knotweed is leaving its tiny, not so tenacious, burrs in Waldo’s fur (for reasons I don’t understand, he likes to walk under whatever weeds are out there, picking up bits of flowers, sticks, burrs and probably ticks).  The grass on the new park above Fort Meadow Reservoir is green and long (it has even been mowed once).  The Emmy birds have not migrated south yet, but they aren’t nearly as vociferous as they were in the spring and early summer.

As we pass the athletic field belonging to the Assebet Valley Regional Vocational Technical High School, I notice two Canadian geese lounging on the manicured lawn.  Now that is really odd.  It can’t be a sign of a waning summer, geese don’t migrate south until late September into October.  As I write this, it’s still early August.  These guys should be up in Northern Canada making little baby goslings, not down here.  I wonder what kind of insult humanity has perpetrated on Mother Nature that made these geese wander so far south so soon.  I can’t imagine they’re on their way to their winter nesting grounds in the southern US and northern Mexico.  It’s still too damn hot.  Maybe they’re escaping the wildfires that are raging up in Canada right now?

The bugs this year haven’t been all that bad.  In the past, on a day like this, I have been beset by intrusive mosquitoes, intent on doing a little blood-letting.   There are some gnats that buzz about, making themselves a nuisance, but no mosquitoes.  It’s been wet enough that there are ponds, pools and puddles on both sides of the trail that can spawn a plethora of the little monsters, yet there are none.  Their absence can’t be due to summer nearing middle age, it’s still way too early for the buggers to pack it in for the year; something else must be going on.  Eastern Equine Encephalitis was detected here in the spring and they sprayed for mosquitoes back then to get that under control, maybe it was more effective than I could have hoped.

Waldo has been a bit off his feed for the past month or so.  I’m not sure why, but I’m thinking it’s because of the heat.  There have been days when he hasn’t eaten breakfast until midafternoon.  That isn’t like him.  He’s a very good eater.  I’m thinking it might be the heat because, now that it’s a bit cooler, he’s eating better.  At it’s worst, I could always prime the puppy by putting a treat on top pf his food to get him started.  He then eats the whole bowl full of kibble.  So, I’m not that worried about him.  Maybe his eating better is just another sign that summer is past its prime.

There are definite signs that summer is on its way out and some signs that may be unrelated.  Either way, I enjoy wondering about how things change and evolve over time.  Soon, I’m hoping, it’ll be cool enough that Waldo and I can once again wander further afield and accomplish some of the goals I have for us.  Notably, I want to finish the Mass Central Rail Trail and start the Mid State Trail.  It’s just not possible now, in this heat.  Then, before too long, it’ll be freezing outside.

And we’ll be wishing for just a bit of warmth.

 

The enemy.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

August 19, 2025

The trail is full of life.

 

There is an opposite to déjà vu.  They call it jamais vu.  It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first.  Everybody is always a stranger.  Nothing is ever familiar.

-Chuck Palahniuk

 

It’s been over six years that Waldo and I have been out here walking on the Assabet River Rail Trail.  We have tread on this tarmac nearly daily, thousands of times (no exaggeration).  The cumulative distance we’ve walked here is close to 14,000 miles, six miles at a time.  That’s roughly 4.5 trips from Boston to LA, more than half of the distance around the Earth at the equator.  I have worn out six pairs of boots, and God knows how many pairs of socks.   We know every bend in the trail, the names of most of the weeds by its side and have a personal relationship with a few of the trees.  Wherever we are, I can tell you how far it is to either end of the trail, in both miles and minutes (walking at our pace).  I carry on conversations with some of the birds and I’m even friendly with some of the rocks.  Waldo and I, we know this trail well.

To quote Geoffrey Chaucer (not, of course, an exact quote, as he wrote in old English), “familiarity breeds contempt.”   One might think that, after all those thousands of miles, walking on our trail has become monotonous.  That it has somehow become boring.  This is not so.  Oh, we both love going new places and seeing and smelling new things, but we don’t tire of our usual jaunt either.  As I’ve mentioned in these blogs before, things are always changing out here; no two walks are ever the same.  That change might be at the pace that grass grows, but it’s there, if you look for it.

More than that, even after all this time, there are still parts of nature that I haven’t noticed before.  There are weeds I haven’t speciated yet, insects I haven’t identified and birds I haven’t been able to connect with their song.  In addition, each tiny part of nature has its own story to tell.  Stories that are written in its zoology, botany and biochemistry.  Fascinating details like the geophysics of the rocks and the physics and astronomy of the changing seasons.  I’d never be able to grasp it all, even if I knew every branch and pebble.

William Blake wrote,

To see the world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

It’s not just the size of the palette that’s used to paint what is all around us that’s worth noticing.  Each stroke of the brush has in itself a near infinite variety of nuance, science and beauty.  An entire lifetime could be spent just paying attention to the smallest of details, the tiniest seed on the ground, and one would still never run out of new things to experience.

So, no, Waldo and I, despite how much we love to explore the unknown and look and smell in places we’ve never been, we never tire of being out here on our trail.  Waldo snuffs about and searches for that new delicate and finely finessed bit of pee-mail that he hasn’t sniffed before.  I look around and wonder at the variety and detail of life that surrounds us.

Today, Waldo is trotting down the trail, sniffing at fence posts and weeds.  He walks under the bushes and rolls in the grass.  He picks up sticks, carries them for a while, then leaves them wherever they fall.  He lifts his leg and leaves messages for whatever dog follows where we’ve been.  The entire time, his step is lively and his tail is wagging.  There is not the slightest suggestion of ennui in his behavior.

As for me, I’m noticing that the size and distribution of the plants alongside the trail is different this year.  There is the ever present hardy Japanese knotweed, as always, but there are also other plants that aren’t so numerous, or large – and some that aren’t as prevalent as in the past.  The moss and liverwort that was so healthy and plump in the past, is present, but short and flat.  Then there’s the common burdock.  That’s the stuff that has large burr balls, when it goes to seed, that get caught in Waldo’s fur with a grip that’s hard to break.  The wetter-than-normal spring must have provided conditions that caused it to spread like rabbits.  Last fall, I pulled up all the burdock I could find.  This year, there’s even more of it around.  I need to proactively uproot what I can before it goes to seed and ends up in Waldo’s coat.  Sigh.  That’s making me feel something, alright.

And it’s not a sense of monotony or boredom.

 

The trail is always beautiful.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

August 12, 2025

Waldo in the king-cab, behind the front seats.

 

A bend in the road is not the end of the road… unless you fail to make the turn.

-Helen Keller

 

Road trip!

Christine loves peaches.  The peaches she loves the most are from Smithsburg, MD, 431 miles from where she lives in Holden, MA.  That’s about an eight-hour drive, each direction, including stops along the way.  She adores those peaches as much as I do flying aerobatics.  So, once a year, for I don’t remember how many years, we, including Waldo, pile into her pickup early in the morning and head south.   Waldo and I go along to keep her company and make sure she doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel.  We also go because I really love the sweet and juicy corn they grow at the orchard.  I’m not much of a peach fan, but, man, that corn they grow is good.  Christine offsets the cost of the trip by selling cases of peaches to friends and locals here in Massachusetts.  I usually come back with a couple dozen ears of corn for myself and family and the pickup is loaded with up to 70 cases of peaches.  With all those peaches, Christine has to call ahead a few days so they’re ready for us when we get there.  Today is the day we pick them up.

Waldo and I get up at 3:30 and stumble through our morning routine.  Waldo drinks a bowl of water, but doesn’t touch his kibble.  He’s been off his feed a bit recently.  I don’t know if it’s because of the heat, or there’s something in the water that he insists on drinking instead of the water I give him — something that upsets his stomach.  His preferred quaff comes from A/C condensation that drips onto his throne on the balcony (the idiot also prefers puddles of water along the trail to what’s in his water bottles).   So, I pack a couple of meals of kibble with his dinner bowl and two bottles of trekking water (the water I bring for Waldo when we go on our long walks).  I fix myself a quick and meager breakfast and we’re off.

We arrive at Christine’s house at 5:15 and we’re packed in the truck and gone by 5:30.  The truck is a king cab and Waldo lies down in the space behind the front seats.   He has plenty of space, but he’s not happy about being back there, instead of in the passenger seat next to me.  Christine knows that we need to stop every few hours so Waldo can get out, stretch his legs a bit, and empty any tanks that might need it.  So, the trip is planned around stopping for gas, then, later, grabbing some snacks at a grocery store along the way.  We do this by entering “nearby gas stations,” or “nearby grocery stores” in Google.  Technology has taken a lot of adventure out road trips, but it has made it more convenient, and it allows us to easily double task when we stop for Waldo.

Most of the trip is on freeways, something else I didn’t have as a kid.  Alas, no more Burma Shave signs planted next to endless two-lane roads.   It does make the trip a bit dull and monotonous, but it’s faster than the winding highways and byways we used to have to travel.  To fill in the time, Christine and I discuss politics and problems of the world.  We also google words that come up, from various sources, like “epicene,” (which means “effeminate”).  Waldo lies quietly in back with only an occasional stir to shift his position, oblivious and uncaring about our conversation up front.

When we stop, I open the back door and Waldo is eager to get out and go.  He’s pulling at the leash, trying to run he knows not where – it doesn’t matter, he’s just gotta go!   We explore the immediate environs and follow whatever patch of grass we can find amongst all the tarmac.  Waldo pees a bit and drinks some water, but refuses the food I offer him.  Then we’re back in the truck and on the road.

As we near our destination, we pass through the Catoctin Mountain National Recreation area, operated by the National Park Service.  The road is a two-lane winding byway with a gentle grade that runs through spectacularly green forested hills.  Every time I pass through it, I can’t help but feel it would be a really nice place to camp and hike.  Alas, we never have time to stop and explore because we need to get our load and head back home so we can compete our trip before midnight.  Maybe one day.

Once we get to the orchard, Waldo and I get out and walk amongst the trees and crops while the truck gets loaded.  It’s a bit muggy, but not terribly hot this year.  We walk around about a mile or so and then get back in the truck.  Waldo is still not eating.   We get on the road to home.

On the way back, it occurs to us that we really don’t know anything about Catoctin, so I google it.  Lo and behold, this is where Camp David, the presidential retreat, is!  It’s nowhere in sight and there aren’t any signs that point to it, probably for security reasons, but it’s right there on the map!  How many times have we passed through here and we never knew that!  It makes me wonder how much else about my immediate surroundings I’m oblivious to.

We stop at a Five Guys in Harrisburg and get hamburgers.  I put out Waldo’s kibble and he turns up his nose at it.   Literally.  He uses his nose to try to upend his dish.  But I know my doggy and I prime his eating pump by putting a French fry on top of his food (he loves French fries).  He empties his bowl and we’re back on our way.

We get back to Christine’s place just a few minutes after 9.  Waldo and I are back home by 10 PM.  16 ½ hours on the road, 18 ½ hours since we got up.  We are beat.  But Christine has her peaches and I have my corn.  This wasn’t our usual kind of trip, but Waldo and I did get out of our normal routine and saw, with both eyes and nose, parts of the world that are a bit different.

And variety is the spice of life.

 

Exploring the orchard and crops.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments

August 05, 2025

Eastern horizon over the Fort Meadow Reservoir…

 

When I woke up this morning, my girlfriend asked me, ‘Did you sleep good?’  I said, ‘No, I made a few mistakes.’

-Steven Wright

 

I am not now, have never been, nor is it likely that I will ever be, a morning person.  My genetically determined biorhythms just aren’t built that way.  Recent studies have shown that early risers have certain bits of Neanderthal DNA, bits I must not have.  I’m a dyed in the wool night owl and can’t help it.  The troglodytes among us might feel the urge to jump out of bed and catch the first rays of sunlight, but I’m more driven to stay up until after midnight to putter around, not because I can’t go to sleep, but because I’m not yet compelled to call it a day.

If push comes to shove, and there is a damn good reason for it, I can get up before dawn.  I’ve forced myself out of bed many times when I had to – because of work or I needed to fly early in the day, for example.  But I don’t like it.  I find the trick is to get up right away, as soon as the alarm goes off, and not give in to the impulse to have that argument with myself, that has only one possible outcome, about whether or not I really want to get up.  Once up, momentum can usually carry me on to do whatever it is that got me up.

Waldo isn’t much different.  But, then, there is no possibility that any of his ancestors were Neanderthals.  Yesterday, we tried to get up and failed.  I got so far as to swing my legs to dangle over the edge of the bed.  Waldo was startled by this and rose from his bed and left his crate.  He gave me a what’s-going-on kinda look, decided I was most certainly nuts, turned around and went back to bed, plopping down with an audible thud.  That was it for me.  I swung back around and lay down, blaming our lack of success on the dog.

But this can’t continue.  It’s too damned hot out there during most of the day, but not all day long.  It’s coolest just before, to just after, the sun rises.  After that short window of opportunity, it’s just too sweltering to be out walking six miles.  So, today, at 4 Am, when the alarm went off, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of socks.  Waldo raised his head, looked at me and, once he saw the socks, knew this was the real deal.  He ever so slowly rose and slunk to the bedroom door where he lay down waited for me.  Once I stood, my biological juices were flowing well enough that all systems were in the green and I was good to go.  Shortly thereafter, I was dressed and we were out the door.

It was dark as we started out.  Not black as the dark side of the moon, but dim enough that it was hard to see without artificial sources of light.  The sky above us was a uniform dark turquoise from the pending dawn, but down on the ground, everything was in various pale shades of gray.  The local birds and squirrels were quiet and not yet stirring to begin their day.  The temperature was 72℉, as it would remain throughout our walk, but man, it was humid.  Within a half-mile the exposed parts of my skin were covered in a thick sheen of sweat and my shirt was soaked with the stuff.  Waldo’s tongue was dangling from his jaws and whipping about as he panted down the trail.

To watch him go, you’d think Waldo had a full night of sleep, instead of only four hours.  That’s how he’s built.  It’s either full speed ahead, or crash and burn (but not for long).  I’m doing well too, as, from prior experience, I knew I would be.  Drowsiness still lingered at the edges of my awareness, but I didn’t need to exert any effort to keep it there.  My body, old as it is, was plugging along without complaint, functioning as it was designed to.  No creaks or grinds, rattles or thuds.

When we passed the Fort Meadow Reservoir and the new park (whose lawn is now green with grass), there was a pastel peach-colored sky off to the east just above the horizon.  A few minutes later, as we continued on, the sun was fully up, but still low in the sky and blissfully hidden behind the trees that line the trail.  Long early morning shadows were cast across our path that remained for the rest of our trek.  When we finished, it was 7 AM and the day was just beginning.

You know, I think I like an early morning walk better that than going after sunset.  The colors of first light are golden, compared to the oranges of last light.  Mother Nature is just waking, and doing so with a growing, cheerful lilt, instead of settling in with a slowly softening quiet.  But it is easier to get to the trail at night than it is before the sun comes up.

Once again at home, Waldo sucked down a bowl full of water, then fell onto his side and lay there, recuperating.  I got my own tall glass of refrigerator-cooled water and retired to my recliner.  A long, well-earned and welcome nap was now in order.

When indulged in, delayed gratification can be sweet.

 

… On the trail 40 minutes later.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
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