Hey, How About a Walk?

About a week ago, Murphy (my Aussie-Schnauzer best friend) and I were off on our morning walk through the winding roads of our mountain neighborhood. It's visual, auditory, physical, and often inspirational. So I made some notes, hoping that I might be able to recreate our daily stroll and take you along with us.

It's quiet at seven in the morning in our small community of homes set far enough apart for privacy but close enough for neighbors to bond with a commitment to a rural lifestyle. Our house is on a corner – across the street from an empty lot that an eccentric woman from California's coast keeps decorated with NO TRESPASSING signs pinned to cedar trees until time, weather, and trespassers remove them. About a block down a hill is a footpath through a thick pine forest that leads to a gleaming lake – but requires a steep climb home. So Murphy and I wander up the street to walk a loop of about two miles, gently uphill, and then back down to home. Since it's early, I'm confident we won't meet with any traffic.

Cars are parked near homes designed for mountain living – steep roofs for snow, big windows and yards hosting tools and equipment like snowblowers, small tractors, wood splitters, and trailers for hauling brush and downed limbs. Neatly stacked wood piles wait for winter. Pickup trucks, camping trailers, and boats are ready for a long summer.

We turn right, up the loop that leads us past familiar homes, each reflecting owners who sacrifice the amusements of the city in favor of Mother Nature's simple offerings. Ponderosa, cedars, and fir trees stand tall like sentinels, protecting homes and hosting birds with morning songs as background for our daily walk.

I occasionally try to make conversation with a couple of species – loudly mocking their calls with my own whistle. There is one small bird that, I swear, answers me. Crows and ravens boldly fly close overhead, cutting through the air with an audible whisper of wings. They land on power lines high overhead, watch us, and shout out garbled 'Caws.' I answer them, hoping no humans are listening.

It's early summer, and wildflowers bloom like colorful blankets hugging the road. No one manages these seasonal gardens. They're random gifts of passing time that make our route a changing tapestry of colors. Up here, Mother Nature favors purple, gold, and crimson flowers, all wrapped in lush green leaves. The sky is blue with a satin luster, and the early morning sun sends bright flashes of light through blue-green branches reaching up to where heaven ought to be. The air clean and cool, like a drink from a mountain stream.

On occasion, we meet other neighbors. There's a young man who often walks the circle accompanied by his shepherd dog that's followed by his lanky black cat. The cat keeps pace, meanders just a bit off the path but always returns home with them. We exchange friendly greetings, and I reign in my little Murphy, who would like to get more personal with the cat.

Occasionally, neighbors stop and chat with us as if we're old friends, though we've never actually met. We stand in the middle of the road and exchange stories as if we've known each other for years. Because living up here means we share something in common – like the brutal winter that's just passed, or the ever-present threat of wildfires over the summer, or irritation at drivers who go too darn fast through our neighborhoods. (This criticism is usually leveled at the 'elite' folks who own homes in a nearby gated community, mistaking our street for their long, personal driveway).

Murphy and I don't talk as we round another bend and trudge up the steepest part of our walk. At the top of the hill, we check out a corner house that's uncharacteristic up here. A few vehicles not in running condition, kids play equipment in various states of broken, heaps of wood and materials from some project - either planned or abandoned - and old tires piled in a heap.

We head downhill, thrilled to see the log truck parked at home and not yet on a run to haul and deliver trees from the fierce fire that, a couple years ago, forced our community to evacuate. The family name is proudly displayed on the door of the massive cab – Musholt Trucking. The young father who commands this rig up and down the mountains is a second-generation rig driver. He's proud of his profession – one that's threatened by time and change. Each weekend, he cleans and polishes the massive cab that's the color of marigolds. It gleams like a piece of silver and gold jewelry. He tells me he'll be kept busy for a long time, hauling logs salvage from the fire that swept over 346 square miles of our county. So he drives loaded with blackened, full-length logs piled on two linked trailers from our mountains to mills in Northern California. He complains about new trucking laws and environmental changes being demanded by state regulators. Changes that threaten family tradition and an honored way of life.

Murphy likes this section of our walk because just beyond the grand golden truck is a fine two-story, elegant brick home with a lawn of green grass (a rarity up here). But Murphy is more interested in the four-legged boarders on this property. It's owned by a retired couple – a former grocer and his wife, once a school teacher who's made it her mission to rescue stray cats. Of course, it's the sight of those cats crossing the street to dine at the couples' backyard hostel that excites Murphy. The population of cats varies according to season, but it's never less than ten and often many more. Murphy loves them all equally.

We pass several vacation properties – many grander than our occupied homes. They sit silently empty under towering pines, curtains drawn. I wonder if a house can get lonely.

We're getting close to home, and we see a neighbor approaching with her exceptional dog. He's an Alaskan Husky - huge, gentle, enthusiastic, and beautiful. The dog’s 'mom'’ tries to control him, but he weighs more than her and has the strength of a bull. She grasps his leash and stumbles after him. He's interested in Murphy and genuinely likes small dogs. Murphy, on the other hand, is ready to charge. I pick him up and apologize for his bad judgment.

Exactly one house away from ours, I drop the leash and let Murphy race to our front door, a black and white blur of fur dashing for his breakfast kibble. At the door, I stop and wave toward the empty street, though I know you've been with us the entire journey. We thank you for your company.

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Some of you have been with me long enough to know how much we love where we live – as this week's column shows. But it is the start of a farewell as we sell our beloved shelter in the pines and move a bit further down the mountain for my husband's work at the State Capitol. It's hard to say goodbye to such a beautiful environment where nature is always in charge. But change can cause growth and discovery, and I'm committed to a new, late-in-life adventure And to those of you who share my blog - extra appreciation! You can see more of my work on my Website and send me your thoughts at darby@darbypatterson.com.

Check out my 4.5 Star Mystery Novel - The Song of Jackass Creek!