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Category: walking

Summer Day

Summer Day

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Yesterday was the perfect summer day. I thought this even on the way to the dentist, and if you notice it then, the impression must be valid.

The air was weighty and warm and filled with the sound of cicadas. There was no rain (this was key). And the morning held the promise of just enough heat.

In late afternoon, when I was walking Copper in the woods, a couple of big frogs were bellowing from the creek. They plopped in the water as we walked by. The katydids were chirping slowly, as if they could barely be roused from their dreamy, midsummer naps.

Spiders had been busy and webs were strung between the trees like tiny Buddhist prayer flag ropes. When they caught a leaf it waved cheerily in the breeze.

Dancing for Joy

Dancing for Joy

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The rain was coming but hadn’t yet arrived. The clouds were low and there was a bustle in the air. I walked quickly to beat the weather.

Down at the Mall, it was time for packing up. A cleanup crew was taking down the tents and partitions, the props of celebration, and loading them into idling trucks. Tourists in t-shirts were snapping shots of the scaffolded Capitol. All around me was movement and energy.

But the best tableau came later, as I was leaving the office. I glanced down at the expressway, and there, amidst the dust and turmoil, a hard-hatted worker pivoted and jumped on the folded arm of a construction crane.

I stopped and stared, thinking at first that I was seeing things. But no, it was real — and, at 15 or 20 feet above the ground, seemed quite dangerous, too. But danger seemed the last thing on this guy’s mind. To him, the crane was a balance beam, a stage. I felt his joy travel up my spine.

Nearly Dark

Nearly Dark

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A walk after dinner last night, nearly dark.  Bats dart between shadowy trees. A deer munches leaves at the house on the corner. When he sees me he stands still as as a statue. Next door is a little fountain, which makes a pleasant, splashing sound as I get close to home.

I try to figure out which neighbors are on vacation by the placement and pattern of their indoor lights. Then I start to think about the neighbors themselves, their triumphs and their tragedies.

There are a couple of ministers in the neighborhood, one of whom is a friend. He walks his dog late at night, and I’ve often wondered if he blesses the houses as walks by. Or at least offers up a silent prayer.

And that’s what I found myself doing. Not blessing or praying so much as holding these people in my mind as I walked by. Thinking about the woman who lost her husband more than 20 years ago, when her boys were still in elementary and middle school; about the man who had knee replacement last year; about the woman I never see anymore and how ill she looked the last time we said hello.

And these, of course, are just a small sampling of the humanity here. Who knows what stories these houses hold, these peaceful suburban houses.

A Fruitful Walk

A Fruitful Walk

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Over the weekend — dodging raindrops — I strolled over to Franklin Farm, through the meadow, past the pond and along West Ox Road, where I re-entered my neighborhood for the final run home.

There’s a shortcut I take sometimes and as I was angling off the main road I noticed blackberries growing wild beside the path. The community meadow used to be full of berries, and I would brave the prickles and poison ivy every year to glean enough fruit to bake a pie.

This year I had no bag or bucket, only my hand, but I gathered enough berries to dress up the fruit bowl and add a tart flavor to the mix. 

I walk for exercise and reflection; I do not walk to eat. But picking these berries reminded me that there was once a greater purpose to movement, that to stay alive meant being able to pack up and walk to the nearest watering hole or hunting ground.

It was a fruitful walk.

Walking to the Airport

Walking to the Airport

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Yesterday I walked from my office to National Airport. This is not something I thought I would do when I woke up and dressed for work. I wore jeans and sandals for “casual Thursday.” I left my running shoes at home. But I have an old pair of shoes (only one small hole, in the right toe) at the office, so about 3 p.m. I slipped into those, turned off my computer and headed out for the five-mile stroll.

The route to DCA took me down the National Mall, across the 14th Street Bridge and along the Mount Vernon Trail. I was on paths or sidewalks the whole time. I saw tourists, patriots, vendors and cyclists. I heard sirens, jackhammers, street musicians and bike bells.

When I got to Gravelly Point, planes were taking off and landing right overhead, and I could hear a Metro car rattle and a freight train whistle. My walk was part of all the activity around me, was heightened and made whole by it.

A Walker in the West

A Walker in the West

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Back home now with newspaper headlines and Metro commutes, deadlines and responsibilities. Gone are the open road and limitless horizon, the buffalo and prairie dogs, the thin air and snow-covered peaks.

I took almost 800 pictures, my notebook is full of little things I want to remember: Potato Museum and Miss National Teenage Rodeo Queen. Gentian, Indian Paintbrush and other wildflowers spied on a hike. The rocks labeled on the drive through Powder River Pass: Granite Gneiss, Pre Cambrian, three billion years old, Bighorn Dolomite, 450 to 500 million years old.

But what I most remember isn’t in the notebook. It’s the view of Lone Peak from 8,500 feet. It’s the TR Park ridge trail on a perfect summer morning. It’s looking out over a huge emptiness, buttes in the distance, no roads, no cars, nothing but sagebrush and scrub land.

How different it would be to walk in the west. How various the views and insights. Travel, like walking, is a great restorative. Travel and walking — well, that is hard to beat.

Little Walk on the Prairie

Little Walk on the Prairie

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It wasn’t hard to find the Buffalo Gap trail. Just step out of the Buffalo Gap Guest Ranch, walk around the semi parked by the fence and start strolling. You can turn either left or right, the ranch owner, Olie, said. You’ll find 75 miles of trail in either direction.

I didn’t make 75 miles, barely two. But I walked long enough to pick up some ticks and a little sunburn on my shoulders. Long enough to grab some wild sage and rub it between my fingers. Long enough to look around and see grass, grass, grass, and feel a part of that buzzing, blowing world of vegetation.

High Bar

High Bar

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Some walks have a higher bar than others, more is asked of them. This is not because of anything they’ve done wrong. They just have the bad luck to come after a restless night or a crazy morning.

Such was yesterday’s stroll around the Capitol. I left the office a little shell shocked, wanting just to escape, that’s all, the pavement beneath my feet, locomotion.

And that, at first, is what revived me. The rhythm, the pace of the walk. Step begets step, movement triggers movement. Soon you are blocks away from where you started, which is the whole idea, of course. You are strolling by the hotel with its sweeping driveway and its busy taxis pulling in and out, and then by a green park with a bell tower.

The people I passed — and there were many, this is high tourist season in the District — had faces to read and scrutinize, had snippets of conversation to offer, words in the wind. The humidity bore down on us, slowed us and held us up.

I saw a bomb-sniffing dog and a troop of high school students on a field trip. I saw a bounty of day lilies in front of the grotto. A Chinese lady motioned for my help, pointed to the Capitol and asked if it was the Library of Congress. That was one question I could answer. “Look for the fountain,” I said, pointing behind the scaffolded dome.

Wending my way back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop, tried to remember what I’d brought for lunch. Nothing special. But it didn’t matter. I was already full.

The Market Walk

The Market Walk

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It was my first market walk of the season, visiting Reston’s farmer’s market before 9 so I could be fast-walking before 10. The paths are pleasant around Lake Anne, and homes are easy to fantasize about. Lake views, kayaks at the ready, dining and shopping within strolling distance.

But the best part was first milling around the market before the walk, choosing strawberries, zucchini and tomatoes; eying cherries, cabbages and asparagus. Taking the fruit and vegetables to the car and then trotting off down the cool, shady sidewalk.

A quarter-mile down the road I dodged off into the woods, where the path skirts the lake and runs alongside tall marsh grasses. Up a hill, down a hill. Looping back to the plaza and the market, which was in much fuller swing an hour later. All the while thinking of the tomatoes for lunch, the zucchini for dinner and the strawberries for breakfast.

Solace

Solace

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Last evening Copper and I ran down Folkstone Drive, reversed course at Blue Robin Court and returned via the woods trail. The path was still damp from last week’s rains, and I was glad I wore my old tennis shoes.

It didn’t take long for the woods to work its magic, for my shoulders to drop and my breathing to slow, for my pace to adjust to a non-asphalt stride. I thought about the woods of my childhood, building forts, feeling vaguely disobedient, straying too far, staying too long.

I thought about how long the natural world has brought me comfort, a lifetime of solace in the out-of-doors.

It was as if I had always been walking, always been inhaling the fragrance of smooth, clay-packed soil and marshy creek water. The aromas had been closer to my nose then, since my nose had been closer to the ground. But if I inhaled deeply enough, I could smell them still.