Sense_of_Place – Page 3

HOLLY FLOWERS

My neighbor has a row of holly trees along the sidewalk in front of this house. He maintains them well, They are not over trimmed, and that particular part of my walk has a pleasant wilderness-feel to it. The ground beneath the trees is thick with a flowering ground cover. The hollies and the undergrowth give comfort and cover to many birds and a variety of wildlife.

I see the birds flying in and out. Sometimes to rest. Other times I imagine to nest, sometimes to nest. A red Cardinal, and the charcoal and orange Eastern Towhee, sit at the tops and make their song resonant throughout the neighborhood.

As I walk past, I may hear a rustle in the undergrowth and be surprised by a chipmunk as it darts out on some important errand. Or in the early morning if I look out my window, I may see a fox using this as a path where he can remain covered while watching the neighborhood – or perhaps looking for that self-important chipmunk.

The hollies themselves enclose a small dogwood that is trying to grow up and out from beneath their branches. The dogwood looks healthy and is trying to push its way up. It had numerous white blossoms this Spring which is a good sign for its future. It will be interesting to see how it continues in its relationship with its covering neighbors.

The showy dogwood flowers have had their time and are now gone. Lying quietly behind what had been the showy branches is a small green-hued flower of the American Holly.

I get in close to see it the tiny blossoms. The buds and the blossoms lie in a profusion at the tips of the branches. They are well guarded by the holy’s spike-tipped leaves. In their time the blossoms will fade, and its petals drop, and then it will fruit in the Fall and Winter into the deep crimson berries of the American Holly.

These trees have always held an attraction for me. And a certain amount of fear. There are many hollies, and all have the shiny leaves with spiny points. Some may be soft and flexible. Some are as hard and stiff as a sheet of steel with long sharp needle-like thorns That when a leaf falls to the ground and dries out they are a terror to a barefoot boy in rural North Carolina.

I have many memories of that rural yard. There was a peach tree that gave few peaches and those it did produce attracted multitudes of wasps. And up the dirt road to the highway were the old pear trees which presented glorious, hard, sweet pears. But those fruits if allowed to lie on the ground became a magnet to yellow-jackets and bees of all kinds. And what child, not me or my brother or my cousins, could resist the chance of finding a recently fallen pear lying in the golden autumn afternoon, would not risk the buzz and perhaps sting of the insects searching for that sweet, sticky nectar, and make a dash to grasp the prize and to come out with the fruit and perhaps a much respected wound from the enemy, to seek comfort while sharing bites of their hard won prize.

Now, years later, I hazard a closer inspection of the holly flowers. There simplicity is stark. Their grouping is like that of a family staying close to each other for comfort – and fun. Even in their tight grouping I cannot detect a scent. And the threat of even the softer thorns of this variety does not allow me to get too close.

As we approach Summer and look towards Autumn, these flowers may fade, but they will remain, as do the pears, and the thorns, and the laughter of years long gone. And all this is brought back to me by a group of tiny, little flowers.

On the Patio

These days, as all of us either choose not to do – or perhaps we cannot do, I no longer go out to hike some federal lands. I haven’t been out there for nearly two months. It was a long drive, but it was a drive that I enjoyed.

But right now it’s a drive that I really don’t need to take. Plus, I can walk in my neighborhood.

I can also go out onto my patio. Many of us have a deck or a balcony or a small patio which enables us to have a place to step out-of-doors.

I can escape. In years past I have done this from an apartment that had no balcony. I would pull a chair up to a window and look out at what I could see. I would put myself out beyond what I could see in front of me. I would imagine standing on a distant shore or a far away mountain top. Sometimes I would close my eyes to do this. Other times I would sit there with my eyes wide open and plan my trip down the stairs, out onto the street, and then out onto the open highway to take me to this place in my mind.

But yesterday I sat on my patio.

It was a sunny afternoon. The sun was high in the sky, and hot. I have set up a support for a beach umbrella so I can sit in its shade. Periodically I got up and walked around the greenery that we had placed in the center of the patio. A tree had stood there when we first moved in. Unfortunately, the tree was old and passed away, and we had to have it cut down. But we preserved the place and use it for flower pots and greenery.

When the Hostas bloom and the tall spikes of close-packed flowers emerge, the spot is alive with bees. And chipmunks run out onto the patio from under the cover of the broad leaves to look at me and then dash back into the shade of the leaves. They live under the rotted stump.

But yesterday it was quiet. I relaxed in the shade of my old umbrella and thought of far off places that I remember from easier times. Yes, it is an escape. And it’s a good one. It helps me look forward to a better future. A future where I can get out and go places that I have been before and to other places I haven’t been. I can look out over vistas where bear and elk roam. I can see a sea shore where the sand is hot and the waves carry the tide in and then allow it to retreat.

I look up at my umbrella. I remember backpacking it onto the beach where we would camp and wait for the sun to set and the stars to come out. The umbrella reminds me of that place. I can smell the ocean. I can hear the bubble of our pot on the small camp stove as I prepared some rice or some chicken or some other simple meal.

Later, I would carry our plates and the pot to the edge of the surf and scour them out with sand. The leftover bits of food washed away to be eaten by the sea birds and the tiny crabs Then back to my chair to sit down and look out at an unbelievable field of bright stars.

I would just sit and imagine.

JS+I

A New Hike

This week I did not go out to the hills of Virginia for a hike.

I didn’t go out the week before either.

Instead I went for a morning walk to a nearby city park.

Why the shift? Social distancing. Closure of state parks. The Corona Virus.

This virus is changing our lives.

I miss my hikes into the deep woods. But my walks in the neighborhood give me a new appreciation of the work my neighbors put into their yards. I’m not talking about grass being green. I am talking about the joy of standing on a sidewalk and looking at the arrays of azaleas that have burst open in their vibrant colors. I am talking about the vegetables gardens that peek around from the back of their houses or more prominently placed in the side or front yards in order to get better sun. I am talking about the joy I see in my neighbors’ faces as they see the joy in my own face at the beauty provided by their labor.

Let’s be real. A rough-barked Persimmon tree growing on the margin of a field of uncut hay has a stark beauty all its own. I know of the fruit I may find there in the Fall. There is wonder in the ancient Pear tree growing on the edge of a parking lot where a house stood 200 years ago. The tree may only have a few seasons left but in the Spring it blossoms, and in the Fall it still produces several hard, sweet pears. In summer the Chinaberry trees that line the old lanes provide their sweet fruit for me and the birds that usually get them first.

But here in our neighborhood, my pleasure in being outside is immediate. I see the daffodils growing nearly wild in more than one yard. I know that they will be gone soon, but they will be replaced by the later blooms of the flowering trees. I would see many of these same trees deep in the woods on my walks in past Springs. I have written about the pale green blossoms of the small Dogwoods that turn to a blazing white deep in the soon-to-be-shadowed depths of the hardwood forest.

These old places where I walk are like old friends. I know them well in all seasons. And likewise they know me. But now the sidewalks in my neighborhood are becoming my friends again. I had walked them when I was recovering from an illness two decades ago. I know the slender, twisted branches of the Quince bushes with their delicate pink blooms. There are several of these along my walk up to the park. I know the shade of Linden trees that are planted in the park at the end of these urban paths.

These places, the present and the past, all have a place in my mind. I derive pleasure in thinking about the old, and from walking the new. And when I get back home, I can relive those walks in the forest paths of years ago by telling tales of those paths. And the tales of today’s walk in the neighborhood? I can tell those stories as well, as together we build a sense of place for these, our shared sidewalks.

And there are the birds as well.

BRIDGE

During this “Winter-Without-Snow” I have taken advantage of the record-setting weather to wander fields and forest lanes which I would not usually go onto. Many of these places are not available to me Spring through Fall when the hay is growing and the ticks are more active. Right now, the hay has been cut and most insects are dormant due to their season .

Last week I went to what was for me an unexplored field surrounded by woods. I intended to walk the perimeter which was two miles around its full circuit. When I added in my excursions into the woods surrounding the field, my walk was a very pleasant three miles – and maybe a bit more. As I walked the edges of the field, I would walk down into the surrounding woods to look at some item that had caught my eye. Perhaps it was an old bottle reflecting the sun, or a particularly interesting shape of a tree, or a stand of bushes full of bright red winter-berries.

I was drawn further into the woods by a stream that flowed near the edge of the woods. The rains of the week before had mostly drained out of the hilly woods surrounding the field. The stream was flowing quietly. It carried a sparkling brightness in the filtered sunlight and was worth exploration. The woods were not dark like northern coniferous forests full of evergreens. This was a bright, southern mixed hardwood forest of bare branches and filtered sunlight. The branches, bare of leaves, allowed the sunlight to penetrate through what in summer is a darkening canopy and brighten the area below. It was bright and inviting so I directed my trek along the course of the stream.

It was easy to tell that the stream would sometimes run high and fast as the banks of the stream were steep and without much growth. Further up the hill into the forest I could see something that stretched across the stream. When I got to it, I found it was an abandoned foot-bridge. But it was not a bridge that could be used. It was missing boards. A few were in place, but other dangled above the narrow stream. Only one of the natural-timber cross-pieces was still in place, spanning the stream to the opposite bank. No animal other than a raccoon or a mouse would be able to cross it easily.

Once in times past, the bridge had spanned the stream. It went from one place to another. It had lain at some point further up the stream. Then a day of heavy rain and high water, perhaps in a hurricane, had lifted the bridge and pushed it to this current spot. On my side of the stream the bridge was open. On the opposite bank the timber span ended at the base of a large tree.

Even though the bridge could not now be crossed, it still caused me to wonder. What is on the other side? I could easily see the other side just across the small gully; the distance was less than 30 feet. But if I could have walked across the bridge, what would I actually see? I would see the same trees on that far bank that I could see from my current spot. But on that far side I would be able to reach out and touch those trees. I would experience that distant shore.

I have never seen a bridge that I did not want to cross in order to touch the other side.

And that has made all the difference. (1)

Borrowing the closing from Robert Frost’s, The Road Not Taken.

Stone Artifact – The Road Back

Continued from earlier article, “The Road Out”

When we last left our heroes they had made the trek out to the edge of the marsh and they were sitting on the shell bed next to the river.

The shells in the shell bed were mainly oyster shells that had been bleached white by the sun. The river was a tidal river so the banks were completely over-washed at high tide and the shells would be tumbled and top shells replaced by others. If I dug down seven inches there were only other bleached shells. There was no mud base perhaps until much deeper. The shells were often exposed to the sun so all the shells in these top several inches were bleached white. The oysters shells were large most of them over six inches in length and some might have even reached a foot in length. Mixed in with the oyster shells were other shells of snails and small bivalves that lived in the marsh grasses and in the mud. And there were other stranger items as well.

I stood up and walked to the end of the 30 feet or so of bleached shells to where the bank sloped down into the marsh. I walked back, shuffling my feet to move the shells around so I could see what might be buried in the shells. I knew if I went along the edge of the island causeway from the mainland I would find items dumped to make the road bed, old broken plates, odd items of military accoutrements, and other scrap metal and rubble.

As I shuffled through the bank I overturned something that was brick red, but not brick shaped. I picked it up and examined it. It was a handle from a clay pot made of red mud from some upstream clay bed. It was obviously a handle and still attached to it was a small piece of the jug that it once supported. The shape and thickness of the handle had strengthened and protected the handle from whatever fate broke the pot. On the handle there remained some of the old glaze that had overlaid the pot after its firing. It was a bright yet translucent yellow, like the sunrise over the marsh on a hot summer day.

I put the handle in my pocket and continued my search. I picked up a few of the snail shells and looked at their design and the coloration of the seams of the shell as they spiraled up from the opening to its peak. I dropped these small shells back onto the shell bed. They clattered as they hit and bounced to a standstill, caught in the cups of the larger shells. I picked up a large canine tooth from some creature. I looked it over and slipped it into my pocket.

Then as I pushed shells away with my foot I uncovered what I initially thought was a spear point. I was amazed at my good fortune, and I picked it up. It was about eight inches long. One end tapered to a point and other was broken off exposing the stone from which it had been made. I looked around to see if there might be other pieces lying among the shells. I did not see any. I looked back at my find and considered what it might be. The shape was certainly like a spear point but the item was nearly ¾ of an inch thick, and made of a soft stone. The soft stone had been likely been worked into a tool shape long ago. But what tool and for what purpose?

Liking my new treasure, I slipped it into my pocket along with the brick-red handle. My dog was still lying on the shell bed patiently waiting for me to be ready to move on to our next adventure. But first we had to re-cross the marsh. We stepped onto the boards. I turned and I took a final look back at the shell bed and the dark river flowing swiftly past. Then I turned back to our task of getting back to shore.

I kept those treasures for years. But all except the tooth are now gone. I can recall their shape and their feel in my hand. But I am no longer sure of what happened to them. I think I gave the handle to a friend who collected old bits of pottery. The fashioned stone artifact stay with me for long time. I would find it in a drawer periodically and take it out and wonder at it. I finally came to the conclusion that it was some sort of tool for planting and cultivating crops in ancient times. It might have been used for digging or a seed drill for planting seed. Its pointed end was rounded from years of digging in the soil, or being twisted in the earth to make a seed hole, or dragged through the loose top soil to make a small trench. But I have lost that old treasure.

It came back to my mind when I read an article about a man in North Carolina who had found a similar item. He had talked with people at a museum and they concluded it was a hand adz. It was also probably used in agriculture. A sketch of my memory of my stone artifact is sketched below.

I never recrossed the marsh to search for more treasures. But I have continued to pick up odds and ends when I walk along a river shore, or in the woods, and I pick items up and wonder what they might have been and who was the person that used them when they walked this same way.

The article mentioned may be found at: https://www.charlotteobserver.com/news/local/article238425048.html

Stone Artifact – The Road Out

When I was younger my family lived at Parris Island, South Carolina. Its in the area of the Palmetto State that’s known as the “low country”. Its low in the sense that it is covered with the marshes of the coastal tidal rivers. Islands large and small dot the landscape and at high tides are surrounded by the brackish water. The area is rich in teeming aquatic life. The banks of the rivers are marsh and sulfur rich mud. Marshes grasses and snails and tiny “fiddler” crabs fill the marsh area along with many other creatures. On my river, the area between the flowing water and these marshes were lined with empty oyster shells. These shell banks were wide and deep. If you dug down there were just more shells. All were bleached white by the South Carolina sun. Today, when I look at those rivers on Google Earth I see the same brackish water and the banks still have some white borders but it’s hard to tell if they are the shell banks that I recall.

At this time in my youth these shell banks were my goal. I wondered what treasures might lie there among the bleached oyster shells. But between me and those banks lay a hundred yards of marsh mud. The mud would support a fiddler crab, but if I set my foot on it I would sink up to my knees in the soft “pluff mud.” At the same time I was rewarded for my effort with the stench of rotten eggs/sulfur from small air pockets formed beneath the surface of the mud from the processes involved in the decay of organic matter. It was a truly distinctive odor.

Neither my dog or I liked the smell, but we were drawn to the marsh and the distant river bank. We had tried to slog our way out but it was exhausting for both of us. With each step I would have to full my foot free of the sticky, smelly mud only to sink back up to my knee with the next step. My dog would be up to his chest with all four legs stuck in the mud, but together we gamily slogged on. But we were not to make it. I had to lift my dog out of the mud and together get back to the solid land beyond the marsh grasses. I clearly remember the reception we got at home when we arrived dirty and smelling of the mud. We had to clean up in the back yard with the hose.

There had to be a better way. After much thought I came up with a plan using boards that I could find washed up in the marsh. Using several boards, I could build a walk-way that I could move with me out over the mud to the white shoreline beside the river. It required that I move the boards with me. I would place the first board and walking along it place the second board at the end. Then I would stand on the second board and pick up the board I have just left. I would carry that board to the end of the second board I was walking on and place it into position. I repeated this process over and over. It took me half an hour to cross 100 yards of sucking mud and reach the shell banks next to the river.

My dog would walk on the planks as well -sometimes. A couple of time he jumped into the mud to investigate something, and I had to pull him out. This was no mean feat as he was a full-grown pointer, and I was just in my twelfth year.

I was difficult work, including a few slips of my own. But we made it. ¹

We stepped out onto the shell bed. The shells shifted and crunched with each step. We had made it to the river. The brown swiftly flowing water was only a few feet away. As I walked towards it, the shells would shift and slid into the muddy water.

I stood and gazed out across the river and savored my success. Then I sat on the shell bed and looked out across the broad river. My dog sat down next to me.

To Be Continued in a follow-on article, “The Road Back.”

1-Years later I would read Larry Niven’s science fiction stories and his Tales of Known Space, which included a planet of this name. I would recall my walk across the Mud.

Forest Triptych

There are three main levels in a forest. There is the base or ground level on which you enter the forest. There is the mid-level of the tree trunks and undergrowth of bushes, vines, and immature trees. And upper most there is the canopy of leaves.

At this time of year when I enter the forest, even on a well-trodden path, with every step there is a rustling of leaves beneath my feet. If there is a breeze up, there may be the quiet fall of the last leaves as they leave their summer perch in the trees and drift to the base, the floor of the forest. The loss of the leaves allows the distant drumming and raucous call of the Pileated Woodpecker to be heard through out the forest. At the edge of the forest where there is an old Pear tree, there is the drone of wasps as they fly around the rotting fruit as it lies on the ground. And if you are there in the rain there is the wandering, light sound of the rain drops as they fall from the lofty canopy onto the forest floor with its cover of leaves. The path into the forest is covered in leaves from Oak and Ash and Poplar and from the unnamed multitude of lower elevation eastern hardwoods. The leaves scatter with a slight rattle as I walk the path under the trees.

The forest takes on a different smell in the Fall. The Summer is more dry as the heat of the day evaporates the moisture and dries out the leaf litter and other detritus on the forest floor. In the Fall the forest may be wetter as the moisture is not evaporated as quickly because of coolness of the season. The pears by the forest entrance lend a heavy sweetness. The leaves as they give up their moisture give an earthy odor to the air. The sap in the trees is being drawn down into the roots. As it goes down the Poplar and Tulip trees do not give the same Summer richness in the forest. The Fall is a time of rest and decay which give rise to the new forests of Springs and Summers yet to come.

During the Fall, the canopy and the understory and on the forest floor each have a wash of a multitude of colors. The canopies of the various trees carry a new palate of color as it is lit from above by the sun and viewed from below. In Fall with its cooler temperatures and shorter days, the tree’s process of photosynthesis slows and then stops. The leaves no longer take up carbon dioxide from the air, nor release oxygen. The leaves no longer are making the sugars necessary for the tree to grow. As a factory, the tree is shutting down; it will restart in the Spring. Now the chlorophyll which gives the leaves their green color and which is the driver for photosynthesis, breaks down, and other pigments are revealed. The carotene and the xanthophyll which will give the leaves their red, to orange, to yellow colors are revealed. Walking below the multi-hued canopy on a sunny day is like walking inside a kaleidoscope. Colors that no one knows the names of (1) are thrown into the air.

All of these speak to the coming of Winter, and to the promise of Spring.

1. Wasn’t Born to Follow – The Byrds, https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=wasn%27t+born+to+follow+easy+rider&view=detail&mid=48DFAEA971D863977A6948DFAEA971D863977A69&FORM=VIRE

Shot with the song in Easy Rider (1969) is at Sunset Crater National Monument, Arizona

On the Beach

There was always a boat on the Neuse River. The first one I knew was my Grandfather’s boat. I remember when he built it down on the beach. I got into the paint pots, and after being cleaned with turpentine my mother rubbed my hands with mayonnaise to replenish the moisture. It was a rowboat of a heavy work boat design. It was big and wide with lots of seating. We used it for crabbing on the hottest days ever.

Then there was the SunFish, a sailboat. My brother and I spent many a day in that boat out on the wide portions of the Neuse. The only thing that would bring us in was when we saw our Mother waving a towel for us to come in to dinner. If we were in good position for the wind we could cover those two miles in 15 minutes. And then we would sit down to a home cooked meal with vegetables from our garden.

Years later my daughter and I would take the SunFish out far into the river. My son would row out, and in the middle of that old stream we would jump in and swim.

The next boat is the one pictured. My father bought it when he was deployed to Norway for a NATO exercise. He bought it in Norway. It was large row boat, but light for its size. It had two sets of oar locks for rowers fore and aft. We could have taken this boat out on the ocean. The waves on the Neuse can be pretty big, and sometimes my father and I had to work hard at our oars to bring the boat safely in. Other times, I would row across the river with our dog as my passenger. We would cross the river and explore the open pine forests on the far side. We spent hours in those woods.

This would be our last boat.

But my Uncle George next door across the gully had an aluminum row boat. He had it for a long time. He would sometimes put a small Evinrude on the back and tow Elizabeth and me on our inflatable (they were canvas then) raft. We got mouths-full of gasoline, exhaust smoke, and oily water as that engine charged along. It was great fun. And later, in that boat, I would teach my son and daughter to row. The oars we used had come to that boat from my Grandfather’s rowboat modeled on flat-bottom Core Sound boats. I wonder where those oars are now?

We finally had to pull the old Norwegian boat out of the water. We had patched and caulked it as best we could, but over several decades the wood had broken down. We kept it on blocks for a couple of years and would talk about trying to get it back in the water.

But it was not to be.

We burned it on the beach. It seemed appropriate. I still have a couple of the lead rivets from its hull.

All those days out rowing in sun and in rain and in gales, they were tremendous days. I still will go down to a nearby lake and rent a boat for a morning’s rowing. Its always terrific, especially in the Fall when the trees along the bank are covered in red and gold. On a cold morning even when the lake is calm no one else will be out. I have the world to myself. And I give an extra pull on the oars and feel the boat surge through the water.

Shadow of a Song –

Earlier this year, I had the opportunity to drive across the country. I was going from the east coast to central New Mexico. I intended to take advantage of the time on the road and see as many sights as I could.

The trip was in the Spring. There is not a better time of year to travel. Its cooler, and we would not be running into the larger summer crowds. I have made the drive several times before, but by different routes. I always enjoy it. This is a beautiful country, full of beautiful people most of whom are happy to tell you the best place to eat, the best routes, and the sights in their state not to miss. When traveling, the old adage, “You can draw more flies with honey than with vinegar,” is excellent advice. People are friendly. And I believe they are more than willing to help someone who asks them a question. Especially about their hometown. It all has to do with Sense of Place. The people you meet are at home, and are generally proud of their home, and are happy to brag about it.

When I am traveling this far I like to stop and see the country, and what better places to go and see than our National Parks. We decided to first go to Arizona and see the Grand Canyon; we would circle back to New Mexico. I had been to the Grand Canyon twice before, but it is always worth the trip. The first time I saw it was in 1971 on my way to California. but I drove past Winslow, Arizona without a thought (1). At that time, I had not heard of The Eagles or any of their music, so going past Winslow made no difference to me. I was heading to California for duty in the Navy.

However, during the early 1970s in southern California I heard numerous songs by the Eagles. They fit a shift I was making in what I listened to on the radio. So when I first heard the song “Take it Easy” (2) by The Eagles, like many people, I was hooked. It had a bit of a country feel to it, but I felt it to be more of a folk ballad of missed opportunity. And it fit my life.

When I drove back east from California in 1974, I went past Winslow again. But this time when I saw the sign for the turnoff, I started singing the song, but I zoomed past heading east on I-40. I would stop sometime in the future.

It would be 45 years before I came to Winslow again. In 2019, after seeing the Grand Canyon, we had turned around and were heading east to Albuquerque. The Grand Canyon had been a terrific extension of our trip (3).

This time I would go into Winslow and see what there was to see. Maybe I would find that corner and stop, and take it easy.

In 1999 the City of Winslow had selected the corner of Second St. & Kinsley Ave. as an appropriate place to erect a statue and to create a mural of the scene that reflects the story of the song. I was glad to see the statue and mural and to know that others had an attachment to the song and the story it told.

The morning was cool so after we visited the statue and mural we crossed the street for a cup of coffee and a sweet roll. When we came out we walked around for a while and then went past the statue on the corner on the way to our car.

I saw several people around the statue and the mural. I was happy to see others had come out to pay homage to their youth. We were grey beards all.

“Lighten up while you still can
Don’t even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
And take it easy.”

(1). I did stop at the Meteor Crater and then got back on the road heading west. I wrote about my experience in my post of 27 January 2019, “Meteor Crater”.

(2). Lyrics of “Take it Easy” may be found at, https://www.lyricsfreak.com/e/eagles/take+it+easy_20044576.html .

(3). You can read my post about that experience in my article of 18 March, “Grand Canyon – Sweet”.

The City has an annual festival centered on the song. Information about the festival may be found at; https://winslowarizona.org/event/annual-standin-on-the-corner-festival/ .

Doggie, Doggie

Not everything outside is pleasant. Some of the unpleasant things are just nature’s way, like mosquitoes, angry wasps, and poison ivy. These can be often be avoided by an informed hiker who watches where they step and is careful in what they do.

But some unpleasantness on the trail is – well – caused by our fellow hikers.

It’s all about sharing the trail.

Today it often seems that sharing the trail is not just with fellow hikers but with their dogs as well.

Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs. I have lived with several at different times. They were a wonderful addition to my life, and I miss them. They were a delight. And I hope when they met other people at home, or on the trail, or at the beach, or in the neighborhood that they (and I ) were courteous to my neighbors and to their dogs and other pets.

Today however there seem to be more dogs than ever. You see them with their owners in stores (including food stores which I think in most areas is against local ordnances), you see them in restaurants, and in the neighborhoods. Thankfully, the days of letting dogs run loose is far behind us. Most often when I see a dog it is on a leash as most should be when out in public. The leash enables better control and can keep the dog safe.

In order to be courteous, the first of the two major things for a dog and owner is to know where they are allowed and where they are not allowed. If you are not sure, ask. Ask the store manager if you can bring your dog inside. Ask the restaurant owner if you can have your dog with you at the table. And read the signs in public parks.

The second major thing is to make sure your dog is trained in how to act around other people and their pets. This is huge! No one wants a dog to jump on them – even in a friendly manner. No one wants their dog to be attacked or otherwise intimidated by another dog. And dogs like to be trained. It gives them a sense of pride. And its not hard. It takes a certain level of commitment by the owner to ensure their dog knows not to pull on the lease, and knows how to sit and stay, and how to be quiet.

In my walks and hikes I have seen extremely bad examples of dogs with absolutely no training who are basically wild and often aggressive. And I have often seen dogs that are exceptionally well trained and basically are at peace with their surroundings. In these later cases the dog, and the owner, and I are all glad to share the trail.

One last thing, and this is totally to the owners. Sure, you dog has to “go”. We all get that. And thank you to the vast percentage of folks who clean up after their dogs. But after you have cleaned it up – PLEASE take it with you. Most National Parks no longer have trash receptacles. You are expected to take your waste with you when you go. And this includes those little plastic bags of dog waste. No one is going to come behind you and pick it up. Please put it in your car and take it home and dispose of it there. No one wants to have to start a nice walk in the woods with the sight of waste bags all around the trail head.

Pick it up. Pack it out. Share the trail.