When You Fall From the Path, That’s Also the Path.
There are three spots by my house where I walk the dogs. They vary in wildness. One is a public park with a baseball field and pavilions with barbeque grills which Rocco loves to investigate, in search of all the things he’s not allowed to have, like discarded chicken bones, dropped ice cream or stray potato chips.
The other spot is also a public park but woodsier and slightly less packed with tricky stuff — like young children, bicycles and other dogs.
But the third spot is our longtime favorite. It’s a big hill that feels more like a mountain and has a series of random paths, like veins, running through it. There are dozens and dozens of them. No matter how often the dogs and I walk there, we can still find new ways to go, new stretches of the place to discover.
The paths at the third spot are maintained by a small army of dirt bike riders, hikers and dog walkers like me. Every spring, when the snow has faded, the paths surface and reveal themselves again, like photographic images rising out of a darkroom potion.
The paths are narrow and inelegant; steep and windy and complex. Some are easier to walk than others. We navigate rocks and roots and fallen branches every time. There are hawks and deer and barred owls. A mama bear was spotted there last summer as well, with one of her…
