Golden Retrievals
By Mark Doty
Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh
joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then
I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you never can bring back,
or else you’re off in some fog concerning
—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,
a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.
Showing posts with label hiking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hiking. Show all posts
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Friday, January 9, 2009
Wanderlust
When I graduated from college, I had all sorts of dreams. Among them was the urge to see the world--maybe not as big as George Bailey’s in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” but strong nonetheless.
I had already seen much of the country, courtesy of my parents, who dragged their children from state to state during vacations from attraction to attraction. I’m not complaining--I saw the Badlands, the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, Carlsbad Caverns, Yellowstone, the Smokey Mountains, a bit of Mexico and Canada, and a host of other wonderful sights. I loved it--though I thought we should settle and soak in each sight, rather than cramming as many as possible into a few vacation weeks, only to enjoy the pictures later.
I wanted to hike the entire Appalachian Trail, to canoe the Mississippi, to sail the St. Lawrence, to cross the Rocky Mountains, to climb Machu Picchu. I didn’t want to do this alone, however. I shared my vision with several adventurous friends, but one by one, they all had new jobs, new girlfriends, new living situations or various other new circumstances that would stand in the way of such untrammeled endeavors. So, after a lot of conversation and investigation, my expeditions, one by one, were replaced by those closer to home.
Well, I have lived in the middle of the Green Mountains of Vermont, and now live a few hours from the Adirondack Mountains. At home, I’m surrounded by beautiful countryside, with beautiful hiking, skiing, and kayaking opportunities just minutes away. My wish to soak it in has become a life. Instead of going somewhere to see nature, I live with it. And when I desperately need a walk in the country just to clear my head, I only have to go outside.
I now have friends who want to wander, if not in the same way, at least to seek greener grass. I think about it, and I certainly appreciate all the wonderful sights to see, and all the wonderful things to potentially do in life.
But except for someone to share it with, I’m content.
Writer
I had already seen much of the country, courtesy of my parents, who dragged their children from state to state during vacations from attraction to attraction. I’m not complaining--I saw the Badlands, the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, Carlsbad Caverns, Yellowstone, the Smokey Mountains, a bit of Mexico and Canada, and a host of other wonderful sights. I loved it--though I thought we should settle and soak in each sight, rather than cramming as many as possible into a few vacation weeks, only to enjoy the pictures later.
I wanted to hike the entire Appalachian Trail, to canoe the Mississippi, to sail the St. Lawrence, to cross the Rocky Mountains, to climb Machu Picchu. I didn’t want to do this alone, however. I shared my vision with several adventurous friends, but one by one, they all had new jobs, new girlfriends, new living situations or various other new circumstances that would stand in the way of such untrammeled endeavors. So, after a lot of conversation and investigation, my expeditions, one by one, were replaced by those closer to home.
Well, I have lived in the middle of the Green Mountains of Vermont, and now live a few hours from the Adirondack Mountains. At home, I’m surrounded by beautiful countryside, with beautiful hiking, skiing, and kayaking opportunities just minutes away. My wish to soak it in has become a life. Instead of going somewhere to see nature, I live with it. And when I desperately need a walk in the country just to clear my head, I only have to go outside.
I now have friends who want to wander, if not in the same way, at least to seek greener grass. I think about it, and I certainly appreciate all the wonderful sights to see, and all the wonderful things to potentially do in life.
But except for someone to share it with, I’m content.
Writer
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Where to Meet Single Men
While I struggle with finishing the school term, and while I’ve briefly started other posts, I thought I’d fire off this one.
Meeting people in the course of our busy lives has become preposterously difficult. The fear of sexual harassment accusations, for example, has bizarrely overshadowed fear of STDs, eliminating (or at least complicating) all those work place alliances—with work where we spend most of our time.
The Internet and the local paper, in theory, with their dating service opportunities, should help, right? However, people offer only a line or two of information in their quest for a match (?????), and, well—people lie.
Many, many books purport to address and solve this conundrum, but they’re rarely even remotely helpful. [Most book sales, incidentally, are for self-help books—and only 5% of those books get read.]
But if you want to meet responsible single guys, go to the laundromat Sunday morning. I’m quite serious.
No moms struggling alone with screaming kids. No partiers hungover from Saturday night. Just guys getting things done.
And you can tell a lot about a guy. Does he needlessly park across three spaces like an asshole? Does he hold doors to help out others? Does he help keep the machines clean, throw out his trash?
I’ve heard that guys should take aerobic classes and women should take karate classes to meet members of their opposite gender. Those approaches all are pricey, however, and further, pretending to have interests you don’t really have doesn’t much help. I’ve heard talk of the grocery store, too—but doesn’t that just seem a little creepy? [Hey, nice melons! Or hey, nice beans!] Or hang out at a church—where mostly couples and their children participate (and a definite problem for atheists). Other organizations can be prohibitive for other reasons—hiking clubs typically ban dogs, for example, a problem for dog owners who would never hike without their dogs.
Sunday morning laundry. Trust me.
Write
Meeting people in the course of our busy lives has become preposterously difficult. The fear of sexual harassment accusations, for example, has bizarrely overshadowed fear of STDs, eliminating (or at least complicating) all those work place alliances—with work where we spend most of our time.
The Internet and the local paper, in theory, with their dating service opportunities, should help, right? However, people offer only a line or two of information in their quest for a match (?????), and, well—people lie.
Many, many books purport to address and solve this conundrum, but they’re rarely even remotely helpful. [Most book sales, incidentally, are for self-help books—and only 5% of those books get read.]
But if you want to meet responsible single guys, go to the laundromat Sunday morning. I’m quite serious.
No moms struggling alone with screaming kids. No partiers hungover from Saturday night. Just guys getting things done.
And you can tell a lot about a guy. Does he needlessly park across three spaces like an asshole? Does he hold doors to help out others? Does he help keep the machines clean, throw out his trash?
I’ve heard that guys should take aerobic classes and women should take karate classes to meet members of their opposite gender. Those approaches all are pricey, however, and further, pretending to have interests you don’t really have doesn’t much help. I’ve heard talk of the grocery store, too—but doesn’t that just seem a little creepy? [Hey, nice melons! Or hey, nice beans!] Or hang out at a church—where mostly couples and their children participate (and a definite problem for atheists). Other organizations can be prohibitive for other reasons—hiking clubs typically ban dogs, for example, a problem for dog owners who would never hike without their dogs.
Sunday morning laundry. Trust me.
Write
Friday, January 4, 2008
Skis, Snowshoes and Snowmen
A few weeks ago, we finally got enough snow for cross-country skiing. I was elated—especially with a husky, this is my premiere recreational/exercise activity during the winter months. So I headed out to the ski trails behind Colgate—around three miles of trails through a beautiful, wooded area.
Laying a trail is a lot of work—slow, plodding, tiring, not a lot of fun. However, once done, I and others could enjoy it for weeks. Colgate even has a large sign at the entrance to the trails, politely asking people to walk and snowshoe to the side of the ski tracks, not in them. After all, these trails are as wide as roads, so missing the ski tracks isn’t hard. Further, skiers even try to promote this by making tracks along the side of the trail, leaving plenty of room.
Well, this didn’t take long. Day two, snowshoers had ventured up part of the trail, and yep, stomped out the ski tracks. This turns a stable, smooth ski path into a flat, then icy, uncontrollable, dangerous mess. Why? Snowshoeing is difficult work under any conditions—what’s the point of ruining the ski trails?
Day three, the hikers did their due. Now, certainly walking in the ski trail is easily than hoofing through snow—and it also makes post-holes all along the track, completely destroying it.
Day four, snowmobiles. Motorized vehicles aren’t allowed on these trails, but that doesn’t stop them. Even so, with a trail the size of a road, with one narrow ski track off to the side, you’d think a snowmobile could maneuver around this. Guess not.
And for all the considerate snowshoers and hikers and snowmobilers, it takes one asshole. And so next, when the weather warmed, and when it was impossible to cut new tracks, what would have been a nice set of tracks, nice and contained, resistant to melting temperatures for a while, was now an icy mess impossible to navigate in the deeper areas, and a wet, muddy mess in the shallow areas. Wonderful. Fuck you very much.
I went running along the canal instead, but this was also an icy mess. I could have ice-skated probably, as the ice was beautifully smooth, but I’ve fallen through ice once before and don’t wish to repeat the experience—I’d rather wait for a few days of very cold weather first.
Last week we got a Nor’easter, so I went to Stoney Pond to start over. No, it’s not immune to snowshoers or hikers (although generally safe from snowmobiles), not as many people go there during the holidays—except a few other skiers and their dogs. This works well—we reinforce each other’s tracks, and while dogs will run in the tracks, they don’t weigh as much and spread that weight over four feet. Even deer, although they make deeper holes, make small ones and curiously not that many, just here and there.
Day two—a few snowshoers and hikers, but not too much damage yet. Down by the lake, though, some people had built a snowman—nice job of it, too. Shanti (my husky) saw it ¼ mile away—and barked and barked and barked and barked. This was successful—that snowman stayed right where he was, making no sudden moves and coming no closer. We made a wide circle around it. Next day, no barking—but she sniffed that thing up and down, round and round, a through examination.
Writer
Laying a trail is a lot of work—slow, plodding, tiring, not a lot of fun. However, once done, I and others could enjoy it for weeks. Colgate even has a large sign at the entrance to the trails, politely asking people to walk and snowshoe to the side of the ski tracks, not in them. After all, these trails are as wide as roads, so missing the ski tracks isn’t hard. Further, skiers even try to promote this by making tracks along the side of the trail, leaving plenty of room.
Well, this didn’t take long. Day two, snowshoers had ventured up part of the trail, and yep, stomped out the ski tracks. This turns a stable, smooth ski path into a flat, then icy, uncontrollable, dangerous mess. Why? Snowshoeing is difficult work under any conditions—what’s the point of ruining the ski trails?
Day three, the hikers did their due. Now, certainly walking in the ski trail is easily than hoofing through snow—and it also makes post-holes all along the track, completely destroying it.
Day four, snowmobiles. Motorized vehicles aren’t allowed on these trails, but that doesn’t stop them. Even so, with a trail the size of a road, with one narrow ski track off to the side, you’d think a snowmobile could maneuver around this. Guess not.
And for all the considerate snowshoers and hikers and snowmobilers, it takes one asshole. And so next, when the weather warmed, and when it was impossible to cut new tracks, what would have been a nice set of tracks, nice and contained, resistant to melting temperatures for a while, was now an icy mess impossible to navigate in the deeper areas, and a wet, muddy mess in the shallow areas. Wonderful. Fuck you very much.
I went running along the canal instead, but this was also an icy mess. I could have ice-skated probably, as the ice was beautifully smooth, but I’ve fallen through ice once before and don’t wish to repeat the experience—I’d rather wait for a few days of very cold weather first.
Last week we got a Nor’easter, so I went to Stoney Pond to start over. No, it’s not immune to snowshoers or hikers (although generally safe from snowmobiles), not as many people go there during the holidays—except a few other skiers and their dogs. This works well—we reinforce each other’s tracks, and while dogs will run in the tracks, they don’t weigh as much and spread that weight over four feet. Even deer, although they make deeper holes, make small ones and curiously not that many, just here and there.
Day two—a few snowshoers and hikers, but not too much damage yet. Down by the lake, though, some people had built a snowman—nice job of it, too. Shanti (my husky) saw it ¼ mile away—and barked and barked and barked and barked. This was successful—that snowman stayed right where he was, making no sudden moves and coming no closer. We made a wide circle around it. Next day, no barking—but she sniffed that thing up and down, round and round, a through examination.
Writer
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Two Images
While I frantically struggle to get back on my feet (and get back to constructing longer, more frequent and thoughtful posts), let me share two very different pictures.
A week or so ago, I turned onto the dirt road that leads to the state land trails Shanti and I walk/run/ski generally every day. This Saturday morning, however, I faced around three dozen people, ages about 30-60, walking along, blocking the road. Some went to one side, sort of, some to the other side, sort of, and others just looked, then returned to their cell phones or other "business," remaining in the middle of the road, completely uncaring that they were blocking access. I drove slowly, and I'm glad I did, as another walker stepped immediately in front of my car.
Hmmm.
Two days ago, on my way to work, I saw a deer bounding across a field--not at all unusually (I see this several times daily). This time, however, I saw what at first I thought was a dog, then realized was a coyote. Our would-be preditor had no chance of catching the deer, and clearly was already tired from trying, but still, an interesting picture.
Writer
A week or so ago, I turned onto the dirt road that leads to the state land trails Shanti and I walk/run/ski generally every day. This Saturday morning, however, I faced around three dozen people, ages about 30-60, walking along, blocking the road. Some went to one side, sort of, some to the other side, sort of, and others just looked, then returned to their cell phones or other "business," remaining in the middle of the road, completely uncaring that they were blocking access. I drove slowly, and I'm glad I did, as another walker stepped immediately in front of my car.
Hmmm.
Two days ago, on my way to work, I saw a deer bounding across a field--not at all unusually (I see this several times daily). This time, however, I saw what at first I thought was a dog, then realized was a coyote. Our would-be preditor had no chance of catching the deer, and clearly was already tired from trying, but still, an interesting picture.
Writer
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Mike and Jake
I’m in hell.
I’m exhausted, and I have yet to complete a week packed morning to night with classes, meetings, and rehearsals. Add to that mounds of papers to grade, survey data to compile and evaluate, text adoptions to make, online course to complete and post, midterms to complete, promotions binder to complete—all within the next two weeks. How can I do this? Yet somehow I have to do it—all of it.
Let alone that I’m already ignoring SEVERAL pressing issues at home, from garden to lawn to trees to winterizing to cleaning to home repair to financial paperwork—not to mention relaxing or having fun. Sleep and eating habits aren’t good, I’m tense all the time, and the catherine saga (new readers—see old posts; old readers—updates coming eventually) continues on its ever complicated path. I even pushed a doctor’s appointment this month back to January—I just don’t want to deal with it until I have a little time. And let alone writing and reading projects.
So I had to force myself to go to Stoney Pond with Shanti. Not much of a run, really, just to let her get out.
“Hey! Sorry!” I hear. A black lab comes racing down the trail.
“We’re fine!” I call back. Everything canine looks like nothing more than play.
“Oh! Shanti, is it?” calls a man running around the trail’s bend.
“Yup!” Now I remember—Mike and his dog Jake. Shanti and I have come across them before.
I let Shanti loose to run, knowing they dogs will stay around us.
I don’t have time to talk—but I welcome it. We discuss dogs, past and present, hunters, campers, bicycling and dogs, cross-country skiing, deer, storms and trees, sticks and dogs, training—and more, until the darkening skies and threatening storms get us to pick up and move along, work awaiting. Our dogs, calm after a good, friendly workout, obey our quiet commands immediately and cheerfully, their romp just what they needed.
It’s what I needed as well. Time for a good night’s sleep, and early tomorrow, back to work.
Writer
I’m exhausted, and I have yet to complete a week packed morning to night with classes, meetings, and rehearsals. Add to that mounds of papers to grade, survey data to compile and evaluate, text adoptions to make, online course to complete and post, midterms to complete, promotions binder to complete—all within the next two weeks. How can I do this? Yet somehow I have to do it—all of it.
Let alone that I’m already ignoring SEVERAL pressing issues at home, from garden to lawn to trees to winterizing to cleaning to home repair to financial paperwork—not to mention relaxing or having fun. Sleep and eating habits aren’t good, I’m tense all the time, and the catherine saga (new readers—see old posts; old readers—updates coming eventually) continues on its ever complicated path. I even pushed a doctor’s appointment this month back to January—I just don’t want to deal with it until I have a little time. And let alone writing and reading projects.
So I had to force myself to go to Stoney Pond with Shanti. Not much of a run, really, just to let her get out.
“Hey! Sorry!” I hear. A black lab comes racing down the trail.
“We’re fine!” I call back. Everything canine looks like nothing more than play.
“Oh! Shanti, is it?” calls a man running around the trail’s bend.
“Yup!” Now I remember—Mike and his dog Jake. Shanti and I have come across them before.
I let Shanti loose to run, knowing they dogs will stay around us.
I don’t have time to talk—but I welcome it. We discuss dogs, past and present, hunters, campers, bicycling and dogs, cross-country skiing, deer, storms and trees, sticks and dogs, training—and more, until the darkening skies and threatening storms get us to pick up and move along, work awaiting. Our dogs, calm after a good, friendly workout, obey our quiet commands immediately and cheerfully, their romp just what they needed.
It’s what I needed as well. Time for a good night’s sleep, and early tomorrow, back to work.
Writer
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Shanti and the Siberians
Well.
Slept in today (over the top stress), so my “morning” run started not long before noon. Wasn’t much of a “run” either. Slow jog, perhaps? But Shanti, my husky mix, was glad to go either way.
Anyway—on the way to the state forest trails, we passed a small group of people with horse trailers. The horses had apparently finished their stroll around the trails, literally pooped out (alas for other users), and the owners were sitting in resin chairs, imbibing. They certainly carried their weight, barely squeezing into the chairs.
Later, I met these same people on the trail—with two Siberian Huskies, one a little heavy, with one blue eye and one brown, the other just over Shanti’s size, with two blue eyes.
Surprise.
Shanti normally lunges ahead, all friendly, ready to play hard with any dog(s) she sees, usually so enthusiastically that the other dogs get defensive or just want her to leave. In this case, however, although she was still happy and ready to play, she was almost deferential. The other huskies, clearly not used to the activity perhaps commonly pursued (they were both wearing “gentle leaders” over their noses along with their leashes), were nonplused. They not only didn’t mind Shanti’s advances, they simply treated them as “hello.”
Lots of sniffing and tail wagging ensued, but nothing like the typical morass we face when meeting other dogs. I’m confused by this, but I could see this was important, so we lingered.
The heavy people noticed it too, especially when their dogs coddled up to my hand, their faces pressed against me. “She never does that with strangers!” remarked the owners.
I guess Shanti just met her kind. I hope one day I do as well.
Writer
Slept in today (over the top stress), so my “morning” run started not long before noon. Wasn’t much of a “run” either. Slow jog, perhaps? But Shanti, my husky mix, was glad to go either way.
Anyway—on the way to the state forest trails, we passed a small group of people with horse trailers. The horses had apparently finished their stroll around the trails, literally pooped out (alas for other users), and the owners were sitting in resin chairs, imbibing. They certainly carried their weight, barely squeezing into the chairs.
Later, I met these same people on the trail—with two Siberian Huskies, one a little heavy, with one blue eye and one brown, the other just over Shanti’s size, with two blue eyes.
Surprise.
Shanti normally lunges ahead, all friendly, ready to play hard with any dog(s) she sees, usually so enthusiastically that the other dogs get defensive or just want her to leave. In this case, however, although she was still happy and ready to play, she was almost deferential. The other huskies, clearly not used to the activity perhaps commonly pursued (they were both wearing “gentle leaders” over their noses along with their leashes), were nonplused. They not only didn’t mind Shanti’s advances, they simply treated them as “hello.”
Lots of sniffing and tail wagging ensued, but nothing like the typical morass we face when meeting other dogs. I’m confused by this, but I could see this was important, so we lingered.
The heavy people noticed it too, especially when their dogs coddled up to my hand, their faces pressed against me. “She never does that with strangers!” remarked the owners.
I guess Shanti just met her kind. I hope one day I do as well.
Writer
Friday, September 28, 2007
TV Sports
I’ve never really understood the allure of watching sports on television.
I do have some fond memories of watching the ABC Wide World of Sports each week with my dad--mostly I wanted to see the poor ski jumper wipe out again, “the agony of defeat” indeed. We also watched stock car racing quite a bit--but as neither of these pastimes survived my passage into adulthood, I suspect I was mostly interested just because these were Dad’s passions.
I’ve also enjoying watching TV sports at times, primarily the Winter Olympics--downhill skiing and ice skating especially. Summer Olympics not so much, except for gymnastics. Tennis can be interesting, watching from above, noting the chess like strategy of the shots, striving to move an opponent to a difficult position. At the same time, it’s never been something I made a point to watch. From time to time I’ve followed baseball, but each time I’ve quickly fallen away.
TV just doesn’t capture the real skill of the players. Once, visiting a friend in Chicago, I went to a Cubs game. We sat just over the dugout and watched a relief pitcher casually warming up. Nice, slow, relaxed toss--and the ball goes flying like a rocket in a straight line several dozen feet, neatly into the catcher’s glove. Amazing. Those outfield catches and double plays? A ball shooting like lightning hundreds of feet in perfectly straight lines in must a second. These are professional athletes. You don’t get that perspective on TV.
So I’m just not the stereotypical sports fan, sitting in a Lazy Boy with chips and beer, proclaiming “We’re #1!” I’d rather get out and be active myself.
Football just seems to be wait, wait, wait, line up, run into each other for a second, fall down. Basketball means endlessly running up and down a court. Hockey seems to be furiously skating around, hitting each other with sticks whenever possible. Boxing just seems brutal.
I can at least understand why others might want to watch these, but other TV sports mystify me completely. Golf, for example--walking, teeing, looking up the course, addressing the ball, a swing, then watching sky sky sky sky sky, bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce. Repeat. Or fishing. It’s a guy or two in a boat casting line into the water. What’s to see for half an hour?
At the same time, I’ve watched engaging movies about all of these sports--even on the small screen. What’s the difference? Of course, movies can spend more time setting up effective filming angles, and of course, feature a carefully crafted, scripted story. Regular sports fans, engrossed in a team’s fortunes, probably see more of a story.
Or perhaps I’m just a loner who prefers quiet time to think. I’d rather hike in the mountains than walk around a golf course, explore the waterways in a kayak than sit in a canoe with rod and reel.
Or maybe I just like a good story.
Writer
I do have some fond memories of watching the ABC Wide World of Sports each week with my dad--mostly I wanted to see the poor ski jumper wipe out again, “the agony of defeat” indeed. We also watched stock car racing quite a bit--but as neither of these pastimes survived my passage into adulthood, I suspect I was mostly interested just because these were Dad’s passions.
I’ve also enjoying watching TV sports at times, primarily the Winter Olympics--downhill skiing and ice skating especially. Summer Olympics not so much, except for gymnastics. Tennis can be interesting, watching from above, noting the chess like strategy of the shots, striving to move an opponent to a difficult position. At the same time, it’s never been something I made a point to watch. From time to time I’ve followed baseball, but each time I’ve quickly fallen away.
TV just doesn’t capture the real skill of the players. Once, visiting a friend in Chicago, I went to a Cubs game. We sat just over the dugout and watched a relief pitcher casually warming up. Nice, slow, relaxed toss--and the ball goes flying like a rocket in a straight line several dozen feet, neatly into the catcher’s glove. Amazing. Those outfield catches and double plays? A ball shooting like lightning hundreds of feet in perfectly straight lines in must a second. These are professional athletes. You don’t get that perspective on TV.
So I’m just not the stereotypical sports fan, sitting in a Lazy Boy with chips and beer, proclaiming “We’re #1!” I’d rather get out and be active myself.
Football just seems to be wait, wait, wait, line up, run into each other for a second, fall down. Basketball means endlessly running up and down a court. Hockey seems to be furiously skating around, hitting each other with sticks whenever possible. Boxing just seems brutal.
I can at least understand why others might want to watch these, but other TV sports mystify me completely. Golf, for example--walking, teeing, looking up the course, addressing the ball, a swing, then watching sky sky sky sky sky, bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce. Repeat. Or fishing. It’s a guy or two in a boat casting line into the water. What’s to see for half an hour?
At the same time, I’ve watched engaging movies about all of these sports--even on the small screen. What’s the difference? Of course, movies can spend more time setting up effective filming angles, and of course, feature a carefully crafted, scripted story. Regular sports fans, engrossed in a team’s fortunes, probably see more of a story.
Or perhaps I’m just a loner who prefers quiet time to think. I’d rather hike in the mountains than walk around a golf course, explore the waterways in a kayak than sit in a canoe with rod and reel.
Or maybe I just like a good story.
Writer
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Game
Twenty some years ago, when I was finally able to move to the country, I was fascinated by all the sights I loved so much, especially sighting wildlife: “Oh look! A deer!” “Look! Wild turkeys!” “A fox!” “Raccoons!” and so forth. I’m still glad for the change, but long since this has moved to “Would you get your damn ass out of the road?! I’ve got to get to work!!” A few days ago, I had to stop for four coyote pups considering negotiating the road, the “leader” poised with one paw raised (OK, I admit—this was wicked awesome cute).
Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.
Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s thunderstorm ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.
But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.
I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.
For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.
Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.
Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.
Writer
Perhaps due to the warm weather, 2007 has been The Year of the Chipmunk. They’ve everywhere. Increases in a species aren’t unusual per se—voles have made steady incursions into my and my neighbors’ property—but this is a sudden surge. I could understand this on my own property, as I have a few thousand spruce trees, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started seeing chipmunks running across the driveway carrying pine cones larger than the chipmunks themselves—all those pine nuts! I couldn’t help but think of Chip ‘n’ Dale, Disney’s acorn throwing tree dwellers. These creatures, however, aren’t limited to my trees. Stoney Pond, where my dog Shanti and I run daily, has them lined up as if in some chipmunk suburbia. All during the fifteen minute trip down the road to the Pond, kamikaze chipmunks dash from the comparative safety of the side of the road across the road in front of the car—usually about 12-20 feet in front. Their boldness extends beyond motor vehicles, apparently—yesterday I saw one dash across the road with a sparrow RIGHT on his tail, showing the reckless critter what’s what.
Indeed, perhaps the warm weather IS the answer, since after last night’s thunderstorm ushered in much cooler air, I haven’t seen a chipmunk all day—not at home, not on the road, and not on the trails around Stoney Pond. We did come across a gray squirrel, but as they are much faster than chipmunks, even Shanti only watched as it escaped, leaving the safety of its hiding place to run across the trail and take to the trees on the other side.
But squirrels are not the only denizens of the forest, and as I ran up the curving trail, before I noticed any game was afoot, Shanti launched toward whatever it was with such force that her rush on the 26’ retractable leashed jerked me suddenly forward, wrenching my ankle (already nursing an inflamed ligament from a similar injury a few months back) as my foot sharply turned against a small stump in the path. My run abruptly interrupted, I exploded into spontaneous, improvised oratory, considerably more colorful and forceful than, “Oh, gosh golly gee wiz. That really hurts! You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do things like that. Could you perhaps refrain from such practices in the future? I’m truly in a lot of pain here…” Uncontrite, but realizing the jig was up, Shanti lay down, waiting for me to get over it, while I struggled over whether I should continue or just limp back to the car.
I continued, slowly, after issuing the firm command “Back!” Shanti dutifully trotted behind—immediately behind, so close she was stepping on my heels. “BACK!” I barked, in no mood for indulgence, and Shanti eased off a bit—until a few yards later, when she rushed past me toward a fluttering quail. I again extemporized a flurry of provocative prose. Shanti, realizing maybe she had pushed this a bit too far, lay down again. The quail twittered from a short distance away. The run—or slow jog, I should say—resumed, this time with Shanti dutifully behind, behaving.
For a while, that is. After some minutes of peace, Shanti noted that this “run” wasn’t very exciting, and resorted to one of her best tricks—get a stick. Trashing that stick from side to side, running about my heels to get my attention, inviting me to play, always eventually wins me over, and so, as usual, I grabbed the stick and held it at shoulder height—one of her favorite games. She jumps up to wrest the stick from my grasp, beat it up a bit, then come back for more. This game does have the distinct advantage of eventually tiring her out a bit—but it’s also her ticket for once again running in front, and, as usual, the ploy proved successful. We continued the run peacefully, me lost in my thoughts and plans for the work day, Shanti making the rounds of all known dwelling places of both bird and chipmunk.
Then the geese. Shanti and I, both veteran forest roamers, pad along quietly (at least when I’m not practicing invective monologues), and since many other visitors are absent on less than balmy days, we not infrequently surprise game of one sort or another. While the geese are usually alert, even adult geese can be caught off their guard (as Shanti learned as a puppy, unfortunately), and this morning, for the second time this week, we surprised a few families, sending them waddling off for the water at far too slow a pace (the goslings can’t yet fly). Thankfully, I saw them first. Adult geese can be quite intimidating, but Shanti doesn’t know the meaning of the word (literally—beyond my moods and signals, I’ve never seen her read at all). I held her at bay while her would be prey escaped to the pond.
Back in the car, we headed home. Still no chipmunks. A deer ran across the road.
Writer
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Why I Hate Sports
I didn’t have an older brother, and my dad was working while going to night school, so I never really learned how to play catch or whatever else young boys supposedly learn about sports. Consequently, when I entered school, my male classmates did the only thing sensible to another child—they ridiculed me, making sure I’d be alienated.
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
Gym class was worse. First, I had to change in front of other boys, then spend an hour wearing shorts. They made fun of my knees (nothing wrong with them, but I didn’t know that). The “class” consisted of little more than playing Dodge Ball, or, more properly named, Slam Anyone You Can as Hard as You Can, and the more timid the target, the better. Gee—I didn’t prosper (someone should adjust the rules to allow points for the force of the tag). Sometimes we had to climb ropes—no instruction, just a drill sergeant gym teacher screaming while students helplessly swing. Other times, we practiced on spring boards or on the horse—the purpose still escapes me.
In fifth grade, when my dad was transferred, I got to enjoy going to a new school where no one knew me. What fun. Talk about bully target! I was regularly attacked on the mile long walk home by either Claus or Robelard. I spent a lot of time on my back while someone sat on me. Even my friend Mike seemed to enjoy this pastime. I didn’t. I DID learn a lot about squirming, but I wanted as much distance from these tormentors as possible.
Looking for something more fun, I pestered my parents for a bike. Our old home had been far out in the country on a highway, but now we lived in a suburb! My parents relented—although my mother wouldn’t let my sisters or me ride in the street until we could prove we had enough control to ride around the yard without wavering handlebars. What a fascist.
I rode everywhere—for hours and hours. I rode to Mike’s house. I rode to explore the surrounding countryside. I rode across town to the village library—I loved to read. A few years later, after pestering my parents again for private music lessons (which I later learned were secretly subsidized by my grandmother), I rode to the next town for music lessons. When my Boy Scout troop proposed a 50 mile bicycle trip, my fellow scout Terry and I practiced by taking several such trips (or at least as close to them as our understanding of the maps allowed).
My parents loved to camp. Every vacation, and several weekends, we headed for forest campgrounds, where I learned to climb trees—sometimes climbing 60-80 feet (I fell once, hitting several branches on the way down—getting the wind knocked out of you is wicked awesome scary, especially when you don’t understand what’s happening). “Why don’t you shinny up the trees?” asked the fascist, noticing my choice of trees with low hanging limbs. Well! I wasn’t going to let HER win! I practiced and practiced on my many long walks on forest trails, and in time, I could climb any tree strong enough to support my weight—and quickly, too. Take that, Mom!
I took another look at that gym rope. It DID look like fun, just not with the drill sergeant “helping.” I snuck into the gym from time to time to practice—no spotter. Before long, I could reach the top! The next time we did this in class, my gym teacher just looked at me in disbelief. [OK, I misplaced the fascist label.]
Sixth grade featured the class going outside from time to time to play softball. I, of course, was always chosen last, and stuck far in the outfield, I was mainly bored. One day, a batter hit a foul far to the right of first base. Well, someone had to retrieve the ball, so I headed over and caught it. My team mates went wild, rushed over, and carried me back to school—I had just, unwittingly, won us the game. A few months later, when Robelard was terrorizing me over recess, suddenly he was pulled off me—a dozen of my classmates, who had watched this all year, decided enough was enough, sharing their insights with Robelard. The bullying stopped.
In Junior High School (another new school), I briefly flirted with joining the wrestling team. One of my favorite teachers, Mr. Neufang, was the coach, our school excelled in wrestling, I liked what little I had learned about it in Gym, and I also learned something about the sport—when a new bully targeted me, the new kid who couldn’t throw an effective punch, I rushed in close and pinned the stunned attacker to the ground. A nice change—but ill fated. The school nurse/doctor had to approve us before we could join a sports term, and thus, they discovered I had a heart murmur. Before I could continue, I would need to see my own doctor and get written permission. Scared the hell out of me.
My family doctor, a wonderful man who let kids feed lollypops to his very fat dog, was not concerned. My heart murmur was congenital, not a news bulletin—and, as he explained, could very well heal (it did). “You’re not going to have a career in professional football,” he jokingly explained, “Or run up mountains” (he was wrong about that one), “But you’re fine, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t join the wrestling team.” Weeks had passed, however, and I was frustrated. “I’ve decided not to make the commitment,” I explained to him as I quit the team. “OK,” he accepted, “But you do know that you’ll have to make a commitment to whatever you decide to pursue?”
I nodded. I don’t know if he believed me, but I did understand (hey, how many people remember the name of their seventh grade teacher?). Another favorite teacher in eighth grade, Mr. Wiltze, coached the track team, and I considered it, but I had just had enough.
I still rode my bike everywhere. I rode to the next town just to have an awkward conversation with Lisa, who I thought of as my girlfriend. I met the Woodruff twins on my travels, two very gregarious boys who welcomed me into their almost non-stop basketball game—and given their popularity, other participants just learned to live with my poor skills.
High School changed things. I decided I wanted to be a professional musician, I needed lessons from professional symphony musicians, and my parents (thanks, Grandma!) eventually acquiesced. “I’d like to do this piece for NYSSMA (a state music competition),” I told my teacher, indicating the Mozart flute concerto in D. “Well, to do that,” my teacher explained, trying to discourage the choice, “you’ll need to practice 3-4 hours a day.” I missed the discouragement. I had chosen my commitment, and much to the amazement of teacher and parents alike, I practiced 3-4 hours a day.
This is not a light thing. The strain on fingers alone is extreme (when I move a finger even slightly, you can see the tendons ripple up my arm). The breath control involved in mastering wind instruments (I added bassoon to hedge my bets) at a professional level is extreme—I got up at 5 a.m. each day to run five miles before breakfast (the average person at rest breathes 12-16 times a minute—I breathe 2-3 times). I didn’t have time for sports—although a musician girl friend got me into tennis and ice skating.
I continued with Boy Scouts, enjoying the down time, just having fun. I learned to swim quite well, started mile long swims, and took lifesaving lessons from an instructor who would practically drown any student giving her the slightest opening (I’m not exaggerating). I learned to canoe quite well, including how to right a capsized canoe in the middle of a lake while fully clothed. (This proved fun when, at a camp party as an adult, I took off like a rocket in a canoe across the lake. My shepherd mix, concerned she might be left behind, took off after me. As motor boats were racing about the lake, this was dangerous, so I pulled my 90 lb. dog into the canoe without capsizing it. People were impressed. I was drenched.)
College offered me my only fun taste of sports. My housemates organized a weekly baseball game, and I tagged along. Much to my surprise, though, I wasn’t stuck in the outfield, and I wasn’t buried in the lineup. My teammates took a close look at available skills. “OK, he can’t hit far—but he always gets a hit,” they noticed, so they had me bat first. First! That’s because they also noticed I could run. So, I hit the ball, the infield jogged over for an easy out, turned to throw—and found I was already comfortably settled on first base, unpacking, ordering room service. They shook their heads. From there, they had to constantly watch me, the lead runner, as our stronger hitters batted me in. We scored a lot of runs.
The field was equally fun, for once. I wasn’t stuck in the outfield—I could catch, but I still threw like a girl, so unless I caught the hit, I wasn’t much use. Well—where do you put a guy who can’t throw but can always catch (as long as you didn’t Dodge Ball me)? I became our First Baseman. We won a lot of games.
That, though, was the last of my interest in sports. Today, I just have little time. When I can free a day or two, I go hiking in the mountains. Every day, depending on the weather, to exercise my dog and to keep in shape, I either run or cross-country ski for an hour or two along forest trails with my dog. Sometimes I’ll take off for a day in my kayak. But I just don’t have time for sports.
Writer
Monday, June 11, 2007
How to Train a Husky
My shepherd mix died about five years ago just short of age 16—my constant companion, hiking buddy, best friend. Girl friends were jealous of this dog. I knew I’d get another dog, but I was in no hurry. Hiking alone wasn’t much fun, but I wanted to wait for just the right one.
My vet knew this, and when another client had a litter of husky mixes (husky and lab), she hooked us up. I thought for a few weeks. I went to see the only pup left—the smallest of the lot, a ball of short but thick white fur. “What do you know about huskies?” I asked the vet tech. “The only thing about huskies,” she replied, “When they see a squirrel or something, they just take after it.” Understatement of the century. “About how big will she get?” I asked the vet. “Oh, probably around 48 lbs.” Nice call—today she’s 48.2 lbs.
This was a small dog for me, and I wasn’t sure—but the owners eventually talked me into it. I named her Shanti, which means “peace,” and comes from a Hindu sutra:
Lead us from the unreal to the real
From darkness into light
From death to immortality
Shanti shanti
Banshee would have been a more accurate choice. She’s a V12 engine in a Chevette—incredibly fast, and far stronger than the shepherd mix twice her size. Well, I’ve always been a good trainer, I thought. No problem.
I set up a puppy area in the kitchen, a safe place for her when I was at work, by blocking the hallway with a 4’ high piece of plywood. She took one look and effortlessly sailed over the counter through the open area into the living room. OK. I puppy-proofed as much as possible, and left her the run of the place, ignoring her yips as I left for work. When I came home, she was lying outside—she had managed to break an outside door. I fixed it as much as possible, placing a 4x8 sheet of plywood in front. When I returned, she was inside—and the place looked like a cyclone had hit it. The day after that, she was outside again—went through a window. When the weekend hit, I decided to try short trips to calm her separation anxiety—15 or 20 minute trips to the store. On one, she toppled a wooden bookcase and reduced it to toothpicks. I’m not exaggerating. On another—she went through another window.
OK. Outdoor dog, at least when I’m not home. Since she was such a good jumper—and digger—I knew my fence would never hold her. I built a lean-to/doghouse, bought some hay, plenty of waterproof toys, and got her a 20’ lead of vinyl covered aerial cable--just long enough to give her some room and some shade without getting tangled around the trees. That is, until she tore the lower branches off the trees. I also learned to regularly inspect the cables—she broke a few and went on a neighborhood spree for hours.
Now comes the husky game—ask any husky owner. You get just so close—and at the last moment the dog dodges. Huskies can do this for hours, and they’re very good at it. You literally can never catch them. And they love it. Kind of a challenge for training.
“OK,” I figured. “I’ll lure her with food.” Not so fast. Huskies don’t overeat, the vet tells me, and food isn’t much of a motivator for them. Even when it sort of is…back to that “ever so close” game before that husky dodge. She knows this means the end of the romp. The only hope is to get someone else to call and grab her (huskies are very friendly)—until she figured that one out too.
Once you’ve got the dog by the collar—new problem. Immediately she’s on her hind legs, paws around your arm. I remembered my dad describing this behavior in sled dogs after his trip to Alaska. OK, fine—on your hind legs then. Not so fast. She’d just flip over on her back.
I was always the person people turned to for training advice. I’d never even owned a leash before. My last dog had been calmly heeling beside me at six months. But I was out of my league. I needed help. I asked the vet to recommend a trainer.
Training involved mostly me learning how people train a dog with leash and choke collar, and Shanti wanting to run over and play with the other dogs. I did manage to accomplish a few things—pulling up on the leash to get her to sit, for example—but to a husky, once you’ve done something like “sit,” it’s done, and now it’s time to get on with life, not just sit there. I learned to snap the leash to get her to stop pulling—OK, to lessen the problem of her pulling--but mostly I managed to teach her only that I wanted her to do these things, to recognize them…not necessarily do them.
I expressed my frustration to the trainer, pointing out the virtues of my last dog’s training, that we had been a team. “Look,” he said. “You had an exceptional dog. Now you have a normal dog.” “She listens to you,” pointed out the vet. “She’s half husky,” added her colleague. “She’s that much closer to wild. You’re doing fine.”
At six months, she was due for spaying. This meant she would have to stay inside afterwards for a few days until the incision healed; lying outside was out of the question. I was also supposed to keep her quiet. “How am I going to do that?” I asked the vet. “Well…relatively quiet.” OK. I bought a large metal dog crate and set it up in the kitchen. I picked her up from the vet as late as I could—she was yelping and yelping in the kennel when I got there, and had been all day. She was calm when I was home, but she definitely didn’t like the crate idea when I left for work in the morning.
When I came home, she was outside the crate. She had banged and banged against the door until the latch lifted enough to let her out. Then she trashed the place again. The next morning, I secured the latch. She was outside the crate when I got home—she had banged and banged against the collapsible crate until one wall caved. And she trashed the place. I secured every joint of the crate with wire. She ripped the bars from the welding and bent them back to make a hole and escape. Yes, I’m serious. I decided to risk the chance of infection outdoors.
Then I noticed something—she stood and waited at the open front door. She always does, until I say “OK.” This I could work with. Mainly I wanted to be sure I could control her as a full grown dog, so I invented a game. “Play!” I shout, and she goes nuts, jumping and slashing at my gloves (she plays very, very rough). Then “Enough,” and she sits, watching and waiting for the next “Play!” “Enough.” “Play!” “Enough.” She’s very good about it.
Hiking is another matter. I’d love if she could just run and run, but she’s so fast that she’s gone in a flash. Usually, I just count on a dog to stay nearby to train it for hiking. Trouble is, together with her speed, she has an excellent nose. When I tried to trick her by walking off the trail (to get her to stick closer next time), I just found she could follow my trail at a dead run—including right angle turns. What do you do when her position is “I AM right with you. You’re five miles that way—I can smell you.”? Add to this that she loves people and especially other dogs and will follow them for miles until she finally decides she’s done and comes back (and in the meantime I’ve no idea where she is). I turned to the Internet and the book store. What do professional husky owners do? I soon found my answer, absolutely consistent from source to source: never let a husky loose.
Getting her to leave game alone also proved impossible. Once she sees it, she’s completely and immediately focused on nothing else, and takes off as if fired from a gun—even on her leash. I use the heavy duty 26’ retractable leashes rated for large dogs. She breaks one every few months. Miraculously, she comes right back when I call her. Most puppies will look crestfallen when scolded, but she always just looked at me, sometimes yipping some version of “What? Come on—what’s the problem? That was the third squirrel, damn it. We HAD it man, we HAD it! What’s wrong with you?” I settled for minimizing pulling—but I still have to continually repeat this, and I get a nasty jolt to wrist, shoulder, elbow, ankle, knee, and so forth regularly. Sometimes I have her walk behind me, but since she walks RIGHT behind me, no clearance at all, I usually give up (heeling doesn’t work well on narrow trails).
In the car, she’s always in the way when I get in, but jumps to the back the moment I start the engine. She now comes when I call her for our morning run, instead of standing, stretching her back legs, stretching her front legs—and lying down again. And not in a circle anymore, then only to do the husky dodge. In a straight line. Right to me. I swear (one friend and lifelong husky owner can’t quite believe it). When cars go by while we’re walking down a stretch of road to the trails, she automatically heels, watching me for the “OK.” Truly. And today she comfortably roams the yard on a 60’ lead (which still needs regular inspection for impending breaks)--without terrorizing the trees.
The most unique training was the cross-country skiing. I always had to wait for my shepherd mix to catch up, but Shanti feels only “About time you moved your ass. Best you can do?” Good, but how to keep her on a leash while my hands are occupied with ski poles? I finally hit upon wrapping a short, metal chain leash around my waist, outside my coat, threaded through the handle of the retractable leash. This also allows the leash handle to travel around me when Shanti runs back and forth, instead of wrapping the cord around me. (I used to use my belt, but she kept breaking them and ripping open my coat when she abruptly took off after game.) This works reasonably well—until we come across another dog.
The other problem is pulling—sounds like fun, but it’s often dangerous, depending on the terrain (I ski in the forest) and the conditions (like when hikers or snowshoers have packed the ski trail into a flat field of ice instead of walking in a separate, parallel trail). If another dog is ahead, she knows it, and suddenly we take off. If you see snowplow marks on a flat ski trail and wonder how that happened—that’s me. So the most important command for skiing is “Back!” You do NOT want to go skiing down a curving, forested hill with a husky pulling you faster in random directions while you’re fighting for control—or trying to slow down. Again, she follows IMMEDIATELY behind, but I’ll take it.
So how DO you train a husky? Lots of time, lots of patience, a healthy supply of Icy Hot, Mineral Ice or Tiger Balm, and plenty of ibuprofen.
Writer
My vet knew this, and when another client had a litter of husky mixes (husky and lab), she hooked us up. I thought for a few weeks. I went to see the only pup left—the smallest of the lot, a ball of short but thick white fur. “What do you know about huskies?” I asked the vet tech. “The only thing about huskies,” she replied, “When they see a squirrel or something, they just take after it.” Understatement of the century. “About how big will she get?” I asked the vet. “Oh, probably around 48 lbs.” Nice call—today she’s 48.2 lbs.
This was a small dog for me, and I wasn’t sure—but the owners eventually talked me into it. I named her Shanti, which means “peace,” and comes from a Hindu sutra:
Lead us from the unreal to the real
From darkness into light
From death to immortality
Shanti shanti
Banshee would have been a more accurate choice. She’s a V12 engine in a Chevette—incredibly fast, and far stronger than the shepherd mix twice her size. Well, I’ve always been a good trainer, I thought. No problem.
I set up a puppy area in the kitchen, a safe place for her when I was at work, by blocking the hallway with a 4’ high piece of plywood. She took one look and effortlessly sailed over the counter through the open area into the living room. OK. I puppy-proofed as much as possible, and left her the run of the place, ignoring her yips as I left for work. When I came home, she was lying outside—she had managed to break an outside door. I fixed it as much as possible, placing a 4x8 sheet of plywood in front. When I returned, she was inside—and the place looked like a cyclone had hit it. The day after that, she was outside again—went through a window. When the weekend hit, I decided to try short trips to calm her separation anxiety—15 or 20 minute trips to the store. On one, she toppled a wooden bookcase and reduced it to toothpicks. I’m not exaggerating. On another—she went through another window.
OK. Outdoor dog, at least when I’m not home. Since she was such a good jumper—and digger—I knew my fence would never hold her. I built a lean-to/doghouse, bought some hay, plenty of waterproof toys, and got her a 20’ lead of vinyl covered aerial cable--just long enough to give her some room and some shade without getting tangled around the trees. That is, until she tore the lower branches off the trees. I also learned to regularly inspect the cables—she broke a few and went on a neighborhood spree for hours.
Now comes the husky game—ask any husky owner. You get just so close—and at the last moment the dog dodges. Huskies can do this for hours, and they’re very good at it. You literally can never catch them. And they love it. Kind of a challenge for training.
“OK,” I figured. “I’ll lure her with food.” Not so fast. Huskies don’t overeat, the vet tells me, and food isn’t much of a motivator for them. Even when it sort of is…back to that “ever so close” game before that husky dodge. She knows this means the end of the romp. The only hope is to get someone else to call and grab her (huskies are very friendly)—until she figured that one out too.
Once you’ve got the dog by the collar—new problem. Immediately she’s on her hind legs, paws around your arm. I remembered my dad describing this behavior in sled dogs after his trip to Alaska. OK, fine—on your hind legs then. Not so fast. She’d just flip over on her back.
I was always the person people turned to for training advice. I’d never even owned a leash before. My last dog had been calmly heeling beside me at six months. But I was out of my league. I needed help. I asked the vet to recommend a trainer.
Training involved mostly me learning how people train a dog with leash and choke collar, and Shanti wanting to run over and play with the other dogs. I did manage to accomplish a few things—pulling up on the leash to get her to sit, for example—but to a husky, once you’ve done something like “sit,” it’s done, and now it’s time to get on with life, not just sit there. I learned to snap the leash to get her to stop pulling—OK, to lessen the problem of her pulling--but mostly I managed to teach her only that I wanted her to do these things, to recognize them…not necessarily do them.
I expressed my frustration to the trainer, pointing out the virtues of my last dog’s training, that we had been a team. “Look,” he said. “You had an exceptional dog. Now you have a normal dog.” “She listens to you,” pointed out the vet. “She’s half husky,” added her colleague. “She’s that much closer to wild. You’re doing fine.”
At six months, she was due for spaying. This meant she would have to stay inside afterwards for a few days until the incision healed; lying outside was out of the question. I was also supposed to keep her quiet. “How am I going to do that?” I asked the vet. “Well…relatively quiet.” OK. I bought a large metal dog crate and set it up in the kitchen. I picked her up from the vet as late as I could—she was yelping and yelping in the kennel when I got there, and had been all day. She was calm when I was home, but she definitely didn’t like the crate idea when I left for work in the morning.
When I came home, she was outside the crate. She had banged and banged against the door until the latch lifted enough to let her out. Then she trashed the place again. The next morning, I secured the latch. She was outside the crate when I got home—she had banged and banged against the collapsible crate until one wall caved. And she trashed the place. I secured every joint of the crate with wire. She ripped the bars from the welding and bent them back to make a hole and escape. Yes, I’m serious. I decided to risk the chance of infection outdoors.
Then I noticed something—she stood and waited at the open front door. She always does, until I say “OK.” This I could work with. Mainly I wanted to be sure I could control her as a full grown dog, so I invented a game. “Play!” I shout, and she goes nuts, jumping and slashing at my gloves (she plays very, very rough). Then “Enough,” and she sits, watching and waiting for the next “Play!” “Enough.” “Play!” “Enough.” She’s very good about it.
Hiking is another matter. I’d love if she could just run and run, but she’s so fast that she’s gone in a flash. Usually, I just count on a dog to stay nearby to train it for hiking. Trouble is, together with her speed, she has an excellent nose. When I tried to trick her by walking off the trail (to get her to stick closer next time), I just found she could follow my trail at a dead run—including right angle turns. What do you do when her position is “I AM right with you. You’re five miles that way—I can smell you.”? Add to this that she loves people and especially other dogs and will follow them for miles until she finally decides she’s done and comes back (and in the meantime I’ve no idea where she is). I turned to the Internet and the book store. What do professional husky owners do? I soon found my answer, absolutely consistent from source to source: never let a husky loose.
Getting her to leave game alone also proved impossible. Once she sees it, she’s completely and immediately focused on nothing else, and takes off as if fired from a gun—even on her leash. I use the heavy duty 26’ retractable leashes rated for large dogs. She breaks one every few months. Miraculously, she comes right back when I call her. Most puppies will look crestfallen when scolded, but she always just looked at me, sometimes yipping some version of “What? Come on—what’s the problem? That was the third squirrel, damn it. We HAD it man, we HAD it! What’s wrong with you?” I settled for minimizing pulling—but I still have to continually repeat this, and I get a nasty jolt to wrist, shoulder, elbow, ankle, knee, and so forth regularly. Sometimes I have her walk behind me, but since she walks RIGHT behind me, no clearance at all, I usually give up (heeling doesn’t work well on narrow trails).
In the car, she’s always in the way when I get in, but jumps to the back the moment I start the engine. She now comes when I call her for our morning run, instead of standing, stretching her back legs, stretching her front legs—and lying down again. And not in a circle anymore, then only to do the husky dodge. In a straight line. Right to me. I swear (one friend and lifelong husky owner can’t quite believe it). When cars go by while we’re walking down a stretch of road to the trails, she automatically heels, watching me for the “OK.” Truly. And today she comfortably roams the yard on a 60’ lead (which still needs regular inspection for impending breaks)--without terrorizing the trees.
The most unique training was the cross-country skiing. I always had to wait for my shepherd mix to catch up, but Shanti feels only “About time you moved your ass. Best you can do?” Good, but how to keep her on a leash while my hands are occupied with ski poles? I finally hit upon wrapping a short, metal chain leash around my waist, outside my coat, threaded through the handle of the retractable leash. This also allows the leash handle to travel around me when Shanti runs back and forth, instead of wrapping the cord around me. (I used to use my belt, but she kept breaking them and ripping open my coat when she abruptly took off after game.) This works reasonably well—until we come across another dog.
The other problem is pulling—sounds like fun, but it’s often dangerous, depending on the terrain (I ski in the forest) and the conditions (like when hikers or snowshoers have packed the ski trail into a flat field of ice instead of walking in a separate, parallel trail). If another dog is ahead, she knows it, and suddenly we take off. If you see snowplow marks on a flat ski trail and wonder how that happened—that’s me. So the most important command for skiing is “Back!” You do NOT want to go skiing down a curving, forested hill with a husky pulling you faster in random directions while you’re fighting for control—or trying to slow down. Again, she follows IMMEDIATELY behind, but I’ll take it.
So how DO you train a husky? Lots of time, lots of patience, a healthy supply of Icy Hot, Mineral Ice or Tiger Balm, and plenty of ibuprofen.
Writer
Friday, May 18, 2007
Scrrunch
Scrunch. Scrrunch. Scarrrunth.
“Just great,” I thought, awakened by the sound of tractor-trailer tires on gravel. “Here I’ve hiked into the mountains to escape into nature, and I STILL can’t get away from the noise of traffic.” Then I realized I was at least 5-6 miles from the nearest highway. I had driven five hours to the High Peaks, then down the long road to the Adirondack Log, then hiked an hour up to a lean-to by Marcy Dam, the first leg of a two week backpacking trip with my shepherd mix, Sasha.
Scrunch. Scrrunth. I sat up.
Sasha was sitting as erect as could be, her back pressed against me, stiff as possible while every part of her body trembled slightly, her attention focused intently ahead.
Scrrunch. Scarrunthh!
The night was cloudy, no light at all. Still, through the complete dark of the forest, the sky was lighter above the trees where the land sloped down toward the dam. Against that backdrop, bit by bit, I watched a large, dark shape slowly pull itself up one of the trees suspending my food. [Backpackers bag their food and tie it suspended between two trees, at least 15 feet from the ground and from either tree, to protect it from persistent woodland creatures, like raccoons and—bears.]
Scrunch. With every pull of the bear, my dog’s alert, staring head abruptly inched up another angle. Scrunth—another inch. Scrunth—another head adjustment. Scrunch. Scarrunthh!
The bear had reached the line suspending the food. A moment passed while the bear realized it couldn’t reach the bag, and let out a low grumble.
Scrunch. Scrrunth.
The bear headed down, my dog’s attention fixed, her head abruptly adjusting to each change in the bear’s position.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Lower and lower—bear and dog’s head.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Having reached the bottom of the tree, the bear placed its back feet on the ground. My dog responded. So softly I could barely hear her, throat just two feet from my ears, Sasha let out a long, low “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruff.” There. I barked. Now YOU do something.
I did. Looking around for a few pots to bang together to startle bear, I reminded myself that startled bears take off in whatever direction they’re pointed, so be careful before startling. But how was I going to manage that in the dark, when I could see little more than a large, ominous shape?
I needn’t have worried, since knowing it wasn’t going to get our food, the bear simply walked away, down the path toward Marcy Dam. Once the adrenaline finally settled, I settled down to sleep—my dog still sharply on the watch.
The next morning, I packed our gear (including Sasha’s doggie backpack—hey, why should I carry HER food for two weeks?), and we set off on the first full day of our trip, climbing Mt. Marcy. To do so, we first had to head down past Marcy Dam. The previous day, while filling water bottles at the spring there, I noticed three college age hikers in the dam-side lean-to, their food hung in bags from the edge of the lean-to. After making small talk, I suggested they might want to hang the food suspended between two trees, according to custom, and explained why. “Nah,” they confidently responded. “The bear isn’t going to come up to us here in the lean-to, with the fire going.” This morning, apparently they were wrong—bits of paper, plastic, food wrappers and similar debris littered the ground surrounding the lean-to for a few hundred feet in every direction. The hikers had vacated the premises.
The forest rangers report that bears learn very quickly—a single experience is enough. Around Eighth Lake State Park, bears cruise campers’ cars, looking inside for coolers, peeling open promising prospects like opening a can. of Spam.
A former housemate and I at the time looked into hiking in Montana, and consequently requested information about hiking in bear country. The brochure did, indeed, share grizzly facts. “Do not run from a grizzly—you have no chance of outrunning a grizzly.” “Do not try to climb a tree to escape a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent climbers.” “Do not try to swim from a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent swimmers.” Sobering, no? Reminds me of a Gary Larson cartoon showing two bears polishing off the bones of a few hikers. “I love it when they play dead,” reads the caption. “No running or nothing!”
Bears go out of their way to avoid humans. One nature show claimed that hikers probably frequently came close to bears but never saw them. To prove the point, a camera watched a trail while indeed, bears crossed the hikers’ path, unnoticed. After hundreds and hundreds of hours hiking in the mountains, I’ve only once seen a bear cross my path—and then only briefly as it vanished before my eyes, like ball players walking into the corn in “Field of Dreams.” [Luckily I saw the bear before Sasha did, and quickly called her safely to my side.]
Hikers in grizzly country are asked to store food in bear proof canisters. The issue is that just one careless hiker teaches bears that backpack equals dinner—not a happy situation for hikers (or, ultimately, the bears). The same nature show featured footage of a grizzly bating around such a container, knowing it held food, unable to reach it. My housemate and I didn’t go hiking in Montana after all. He met the woman who would become his wife. They went. I went on this backpacking trip with Sasha.
Hikers in the high peaks joke that the raccoons and the bears are in cahoots—the bears through the raccoons up into the air at the food, and the raccoons untie the bag and throw it to the ground. Some days, it’s a tempting explanation.
On the other side of Marcy, at the base of Mt. Colden, lies a relatively large flat piece of ground, an attractive and popular place for backpackers to camp. The trees are scored with claw marks, as the bears have learned to claw through the ropes suspending the food bags.
Writer
“Just great,” I thought, awakened by the sound of tractor-trailer tires on gravel. “Here I’ve hiked into the mountains to escape into nature, and I STILL can’t get away from the noise of traffic.” Then I realized I was at least 5-6 miles from the nearest highway. I had driven five hours to the High Peaks, then down the long road to the Adirondack Log, then hiked an hour up to a lean-to by Marcy Dam, the first leg of a two week backpacking trip with my shepherd mix, Sasha.
Scrunch. Scrrunth. I sat up.
Sasha was sitting as erect as could be, her back pressed against me, stiff as possible while every part of her body trembled slightly, her attention focused intently ahead.
Scrrunch. Scarrunthh!
The night was cloudy, no light at all. Still, through the complete dark of the forest, the sky was lighter above the trees where the land sloped down toward the dam. Against that backdrop, bit by bit, I watched a large, dark shape slowly pull itself up one of the trees suspending my food. [Backpackers bag their food and tie it suspended between two trees, at least 15 feet from the ground and from either tree, to protect it from persistent woodland creatures, like raccoons and—bears.]
Scrunch. With every pull of the bear, my dog’s alert, staring head abruptly inched up another angle. Scrunth—another inch. Scrunth—another head adjustment. Scrunch. Scarrunthh!
The bear had reached the line suspending the food. A moment passed while the bear realized it couldn’t reach the bag, and let out a low grumble.
Scrunch. Scrrunth.
The bear headed down, my dog’s attention fixed, her head abruptly adjusting to each change in the bear’s position.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Lower and lower—bear and dog’s head.
Scrunch. Scrunthh.
Having reached the bottom of the tree, the bear placed its back feet on the ground. My dog responded. So softly I could barely hear her, throat just two feet from my ears, Sasha let out a long, low “grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruff.” There. I barked. Now YOU do something.
I did. Looking around for a few pots to bang together to startle bear, I reminded myself that startled bears take off in whatever direction they’re pointed, so be careful before startling. But how was I going to manage that in the dark, when I could see little more than a large, ominous shape?
I needn’t have worried, since knowing it wasn’t going to get our food, the bear simply walked away, down the path toward Marcy Dam. Once the adrenaline finally settled, I settled down to sleep—my dog still sharply on the watch.
The next morning, I packed our gear (including Sasha’s doggie backpack—hey, why should I carry HER food for two weeks?), and we set off on the first full day of our trip, climbing Mt. Marcy. To do so, we first had to head down past Marcy Dam. The previous day, while filling water bottles at the spring there, I noticed three college age hikers in the dam-side lean-to, their food hung in bags from the edge of the lean-to. After making small talk, I suggested they might want to hang the food suspended between two trees, according to custom, and explained why. “Nah,” they confidently responded. “The bear isn’t going to come up to us here in the lean-to, with the fire going.” This morning, apparently they were wrong—bits of paper, plastic, food wrappers and similar debris littered the ground surrounding the lean-to for a few hundred feet in every direction. The hikers had vacated the premises.
The forest rangers report that bears learn very quickly—a single experience is enough. Around Eighth Lake State Park, bears cruise campers’ cars, looking inside for coolers, peeling open promising prospects like opening a can. of Spam.
A former housemate and I at the time looked into hiking in Montana, and consequently requested information about hiking in bear country. The brochure did, indeed, share grizzly facts. “Do not run from a grizzly—you have no chance of outrunning a grizzly.” “Do not try to climb a tree to escape a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent climbers.” “Do not try to swim from a grizzly—grizzly bears are excellent swimmers.” Sobering, no? Reminds me of a Gary Larson cartoon showing two bears polishing off the bones of a few hikers. “I love it when they play dead,” reads the caption. “No running or nothing!”
Bears go out of their way to avoid humans. One nature show claimed that hikers probably frequently came close to bears but never saw them. To prove the point, a camera watched a trail while indeed, bears crossed the hikers’ path, unnoticed. After hundreds and hundreds of hours hiking in the mountains, I’ve only once seen a bear cross my path—and then only briefly as it vanished before my eyes, like ball players walking into the corn in “Field of Dreams.” [Luckily I saw the bear before Sasha did, and quickly called her safely to my side.]
Hikers in grizzly country are asked to store food in bear proof canisters. The issue is that just one careless hiker teaches bears that backpack equals dinner—not a happy situation for hikers (or, ultimately, the bears). The same nature show featured footage of a grizzly bating around such a container, knowing it held food, unable to reach it. My housemate and I didn’t go hiking in Montana after all. He met the woman who would become his wife. They went. I went on this backpacking trip with Sasha.
Hikers in the high peaks joke that the raccoons and the bears are in cahoots—the bears through the raccoons up into the air at the food, and the raccoons untie the bag and throw it to the ground. Some days, it’s a tempting explanation.
On the other side of Marcy, at the base of Mt. Colden, lies a relatively large flat piece of ground, an attractive and popular place for backpackers to camp. The trees are scored with claw marks, as the bears have learned to claw through the ropes suspending the food bags.
Writer
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Rewards of Rain
Everyday I take my dog down to the trails around Stony Pond for an hour or so, where I run or ski, depending on the weather. Much of the time we’re left to the geese, ducks and beavers, but now that the weather has turned sunny and warm, people regularly camp there, enjoying the peace and beauty of nature by building large fires, blaring radios and drinking lots of beer—often leaving the bottles and cans littered behind them the next morning, the remains of the fires still smoldering.
A family goes fishing, and crowds around the battery-powered TV they’ve brought, watching sitcoms. We pass a young woman on horseback, talking on her cell phone. Getting away from just some of it all, apparently.
During deer season, hunters park their campers here, choosing to hunt by walking the well-worn foot paths around the pond, waiting for the deer to give themselves up, rather than traveling into the woods where the deer live, coming out at night by the hundreds to graze in the fields. It’s just easier, I guess, near the comfort of the camper.
Leaving the comfort of the noise, the truck cabins, the telecommunications and the sunny weather has its rewards. One rainy spring morning, for instance, my dog found a fawn hiding just around a tree trunk (we apparently surprised the doe)—just about 18” long. When I investigated, the fawn bellowed (damn, those things have lungs!) and wobbled to its feet—it could just barely stand—and bellowed again. It was the cutest little creature—head far too large for its body, legs far too skinny—the usual “I’m small now but I’ll soon grow big” syndrome we recognize in puppies of large breeds. I quickly led my dog away, leaving the youngster to the unseen doe, but those few precious moments remain a happy memory.
Before I moved to the country, I regularly escaped on weekends to the Adirondacks, especially to hike in the High Peaks region—Giant, Marcy, Wright Peak, and other mountains in the Lake Placid/Keene Valley area. One Saturday, desperately needing to get away and clear my head, I decided to ignore the rainy weather and climb Algonquin Peak, the second highest point in New York State and doable within a day (the drive there and the climb). Of course, climbing in a drizzle means walking in a dense, gray fog, and today was no exception. I saw none of the spectacular views—I could barely see twenty feet ahead, just following the trail (and my dog) as trees continually emerged from the mist. This became a real problem when I reached the tree line, nervously trusting my dog’s nose to find the trail, now just rock, trees gone, using the occasional cairns as confirmation rather than guides as intended. I started to worry about finding the trail down again, when the fog started to clear a bit. As I climbed higher, I saw why, and scrambled to the summit—we had climbed above the clouds, and were now standing in bright sunshine on an island of rock surrounded by a fluffy white carpet stretching across the sky in every direction. It remains to this day perhaps the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m recommending climbing the High Peaks alone in the rain—on another occasion, an excursion up Mt. Colden, I got turned around in the fog and wandered about for a few scary hours before finding the proper trail again. I forced myself to stop and change into fresh, dry polypropylene underwear and wool clothing. Freshly dressed, warm and dry, I started shivering nonstop—I had been in the initial phase of hypothermia, the first sign of which is poor judgment. (Ironically, I had stopped to change only to ensure that doing so would be a habit in case I ever did get hypothermia. “Ah,” I noted to myself, “THAT’S why I have that ‘make it a habit’ rule.”) I hurried down the mountain to a lean-to, built a fire, laid out my thermal pad and sleeping bag, and prepared a warm dinner. Crisis averted, but lesson learned—almost the very hard way.
Back home, away from the spectacular views and the dangers of the mountains, rain can certainly be a nuisance, turning the clay soil into a soggy, muddy mess for days at a time, making dry feet impossible unless I keep a pair of socks and shoes in the car. In the spring, I don't even try for clean clothes, as a single splash will muddy my pants. But at the same time, relaxing in a lawn chair, watching the birds dart through the tree branches, taking in the fresh scent, listening to the sound of rain on my shed’s aluminum roof, catching up on some reading–this is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Not counting when my wet, muddy dog rushes into my lap.
Writer
A family goes fishing, and crowds around the battery-powered TV they’ve brought, watching sitcoms. We pass a young woman on horseback, talking on her cell phone. Getting away from just some of it all, apparently.
During deer season, hunters park their campers here, choosing to hunt by walking the well-worn foot paths around the pond, waiting for the deer to give themselves up, rather than traveling into the woods where the deer live, coming out at night by the hundreds to graze in the fields. It’s just easier, I guess, near the comfort of the camper.
Leaving the comfort of the noise, the truck cabins, the telecommunications and the sunny weather has its rewards. One rainy spring morning, for instance, my dog found a fawn hiding just around a tree trunk (we apparently surprised the doe)—just about 18” long. When I investigated, the fawn bellowed (damn, those things have lungs!) and wobbled to its feet—it could just barely stand—and bellowed again. It was the cutest little creature—head far too large for its body, legs far too skinny—the usual “I’m small now but I’ll soon grow big” syndrome we recognize in puppies of large breeds. I quickly led my dog away, leaving the youngster to the unseen doe, but those few precious moments remain a happy memory.
Before I moved to the country, I regularly escaped on weekends to the Adirondacks, especially to hike in the High Peaks region—Giant, Marcy, Wright Peak, and other mountains in the Lake Placid/Keene Valley area. One Saturday, desperately needing to get away and clear my head, I decided to ignore the rainy weather and climb Algonquin Peak, the second highest point in New York State and doable within a day (the drive there and the climb). Of course, climbing in a drizzle means walking in a dense, gray fog, and today was no exception. I saw none of the spectacular views—I could barely see twenty feet ahead, just following the trail (and my dog) as trees continually emerged from the mist. This became a real problem when I reached the tree line, nervously trusting my dog’s nose to find the trail, now just rock, trees gone, using the occasional cairns as confirmation rather than guides as intended. I started to worry about finding the trail down again, when the fog started to clear a bit. As I climbed higher, I saw why, and scrambled to the summit—we had climbed above the clouds, and were now standing in bright sunshine on an island of rock surrounded by a fluffy white carpet stretching across the sky in every direction. It remains to this day perhaps the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
Not that I’m recommending climbing the High Peaks alone in the rain—on another occasion, an excursion up Mt. Colden, I got turned around in the fog and wandered about for a few scary hours before finding the proper trail again. I forced myself to stop and change into fresh, dry polypropylene underwear and wool clothing. Freshly dressed, warm and dry, I started shivering nonstop—I had been in the initial phase of hypothermia, the first sign of which is poor judgment. (Ironically, I had stopped to change only to ensure that doing so would be a habit in case I ever did get hypothermia. “Ah,” I noted to myself, “THAT’S why I have that ‘make it a habit’ rule.”) I hurried down the mountain to a lean-to, built a fire, laid out my thermal pad and sleeping bag, and prepared a warm dinner. Crisis averted, but lesson learned—almost the very hard way.
Back home, away from the spectacular views and the dangers of the mountains, rain can certainly be a nuisance, turning the clay soil into a soggy, muddy mess for days at a time, making dry feet impossible unless I keep a pair of socks and shoes in the car. In the spring, I don't even try for clean clothes, as a single splash will muddy my pants. But at the same time, relaxing in a lawn chair, watching the birds dart through the tree branches, taking in the fresh scent, listening to the sound of rain on my shed’s aluminum roof, catching up on some reading–this is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Not counting when my wet, muddy dog rushes into my lap.
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