The Homeward Path

On this early morning, a thin layer of ice covers the pond. Before breakfast, a crow tests it cautiously. I bundle up for a walk with Barley and we are off for the hollow, the sun illuminating our breath and bringing out the highlights in Barley's golden coat.

We follow our familiar trail at first, but where it forks, we head down a path I haven't been on much since the ice storm of January, 2009. I used to walk this way a lot, with other dogs. Our 2 Yellow Labs knew our trails well. In fact, Baxter had a tremendous instinct for finding her way around the woods. Whenever I got off the path, all I had to say was, "Baxter, we're going home", and she'd take me right back to the trail. It's good to follow a dog who knows the way home. Barley is new to this route, but he is imprinting all this information, and soon will know his way around the woods better than Don and I do.

We wind our way through trees and deadfall, only guessing where the path used to be, until we get to the winterberry trees, which still stand just south and west of the spot where the path used to slope down sharply into the hollow. Deer had bedded under those trees recently, and a well worn deer path follows our old trail from the trees to the hollow.

In the hollow, we stand and listen to the quiet. Barley's breathing is the only sound at first, then there's the beat of wings, and soon songbirds rise from the undergrowth, flying away as we advance. Cardinals flash their crimson feathers, and juncos flare their black and white tails like pleated skirts.

We head for home, Barley running ahead. When I get back to the yard, he's already there waiting for me. At my approach, he stands up, wagging his tail in welcome. It reminds me of another homecoming.

My mother died 3 years ago, and the memory is still fresh, of Mom, in her bed, looking small and frail, her family gathered around her. We held her hands and talked about treasured memories, and sang her favorite hymns. When we got to "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms", she flew away to heaven, following the One who knows the way home. And when she got there, I like to think He stood to greet her.

I am the way...

Jesus/John 14:6

First posted on 12/8/10

Finding Frost Flowers

The day after Thanksgiving, early light revealed a frosty wonderland outside our windows. My stepdaughter and her fiancee were visiting, and the 3 of us, along with Barley, headed to the hollow for a morning hike.  We were in search of frost flowers, those fantastic figures which are formed when foliage forfeit their fluids in the fall.  The moisture is squeezed out of the stem like thin ribbons of taffy and wraps around the plant, creating the beautiful white "flowers".  They are incredibly fragile, and when the air warms, they disappear.

Our trail through the woods had been abandoned for most of the summer, so as not to disturb the ticks, and in the early fall, to make way for hunters.  It was good to be back; the path welcomed us like a pair of well-worn boots.  

We wound our way through the woods, Barley following at our heels, investigating with his nose. At the bottom, where the trail drops into the hollow, we inhaled sharply.  Before us was a wide valley of dried wildflowers clothed in glittering frost.  Barley plunged into the vegetation and we followed, picking our way across the hollow.  It wasn't easy; a small forest of dried weeds and flowers, enriched by summer rains, now reached over our heads, obscuring the trail.  We picked our way across the bottom, over the dry creek bed, trampling out a new path through the frozen scene.  On the opposite hillside, we climbed through tangles of greenbrier and over deadfall from summer storms, finding our way to an old mossy roadbed.  Ahead was a place where Don and I had discovered frost flowers in years past, and we found them there again, clinging to the bases of weeds, like lace-trimmed satin bridal gowns on display in the forest. 

Back in the creek bed, we followed its north fork, exclaiming over ice formations and unique rocks, and pausing to fill our pockets.  In the shadows, the rocks were edged with hoarfrost, as if they had forgotten to shave.

As is often the case, we had gone in search of one thing, and returned home with so much more, Barley with burrs in his hair and an excuse to sleep by the fire, we with rocks and laughter and images stored in our minds of a morning not soon to be forgotten.