A late walk through the woods, along the lake, over the bridge, and back to where I started from.
No question what time of year it is. If the leaves didn’t clue me in …
the peg-legged skeleton pirate did.
But there are still patches of green, remnants of summer left behind.
When I need ballast and rhythm, when I require that steady beat, there is usually one composer I turn to — J.S. Bach. I cue up the Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 because it has the peppy piccolo trumpet I once heard can pop the blood vessels of its players, so high are its notes, so forcefully must one blow to make them sound.
But also because, like its confreres, No. 2 has a steady walking bass line, the solid quarter notes perfect for pacing one’s self, for staying in line, for moving along.
Although now associated with rock or jazz, the walking bass line has long-ago origins. Some theorists consider Bach its early master. And while this is important for musicians to know, it’s equally essential for walkers. We need a beat that will pulse all the way down into our metatarsal bones.
Although the trumpet notes of Bach’s Brandenburg No. 2 dance around on high, underneath them is the dependable meter of the walking bass. It’s a winning combination: the flourishes of the former, the steadiness of the latter. Together, they keep me going.
(Can’t imagine walking very far with this bass!)
A quiet walk on a cloudy day. A rarity here, and I savored it, strolling through the dim light, noticing how still it was, how few sounds I heard. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.
The pavement was damp from weekend rains and wet leaves slicked the path. There were twigs and small sticks, too. It was as if the woods had been partying and had yet to clean up after itself.
This morning I wake to more rain. I’m hoping it will stop later so I can take a walk. If I’m lucky it will be still and cloudy again.
Plants are parched. Streams are struggling. Some might say it’s time to water. I say … it’s time to cross a creek on stepping stones.
I was thinking of a stretch of the Cross County Trail close to my house (though not close enough to walk to, of course), which has thwarted me before because of an almost submerged stone crossing.
Yesterday the water level was low enough to make the crossing easy. And that single detail opened up a world of forest and creek and pasture. Plus one of my favorite sections of the trail, which skirts a bamboo-fringed pond.
Just as low tide reveals a wealth of sea life, shells and sand dollars, low water offers up paths for trekking, vistas for gazing. In other words, possibilities.
Yesterday I found the trail I was looking for. It was tucked away in a corner of the county that adjoins the Fairfax County Parkway and its monolithic soundproof walls.
The path featured several fair-weather stream crossings, but nothing that could scoot below or hang above all that parkway asphalt, as impassable as a raging river.
There was a tunnel under a lesser road, though, a dark enclosure that paralleled a stream. I took that — despite the warning.
Sometimes you have to walk on the wild side. Even in the suburbs.
Yesterday I hiked off in search of a trail I’d heard about over the weekend. It was a path I thought I knew, but after reaching it, I quickly discovered it was just a short cut-through route.
A waste of time? Not really. One good thing about living somewhere a while is knowing approximately where you are, even when you’re turned around.
I knew that if I backtracked up a little hillock I would find a street that connected me with an entire trail system, one that would take me home.
Ninety minutes later, I was relaxing in the hammock.
The wind has changed, the humidity has dropped, and I’m about to take a walk in a long-sleeved t-shirt. I may even pull my hands up into the sleeves.
Our September heat wave looks to be at least temporarily in abeyance.
The best part: open windows.
The last time I strolled any distance was on the streets of Edinburgh. Covid has kept me down and given my feet something they’ve been wanting for months — a break.
But the break is over, feet. You’re on the line again, or, more to the point, you’re on the road again. This morning I woke up early and strong enough to tackle the neighborhood loop.
Yes, it will be 101 today, but at 7 a.m. it was a comfortable. 73. I walked and walked.
It felt terrific.
(Pedestrians on the Royal Mile.)
Adventurous Scots who love to walk enjoy what they call “bagging a munro.” A munro is any peak over 3,000 feet. According to Sir Hugh Munro (1856-1919), there are 283 of them.
And according to the Visit Scotland website, there are more than 6,000 people who’ve hiked them all.
Today we got almost halfway up the tallest Munro — Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles. It was raining when we started but soon cleared up. This was good for many reasons, including the fact that the rocks in our path had dried out when we made our way down, making them slightly less slippery.
We certainly didn’t bag a Munro today. But we almost half-bagged one.
The West Highland Way is a 95-mile walking path that runs through some of the most spectacular scenery on the planet. We walked eight miles of it today.
Along the way, we met fellow travelers: a young woman from Germany who raved about the distillery in Oban (where we head tomorrow), a family whose members hail from Canada and Holland but who originally came from Scotland, a couple who lives only 90 minutes away from us in West Virginia but who came here to hike the entire trail … and many more folks.
Foot travel invites friendships and confidences. It’s the original mode of transportation, and as you might expect, I think it’s the best.
