The Walk

Hello and welcome to a sunny, last Saturday of the month here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is April 26th.

Last night, the Fourth Grader and I slipped out for an adventurous and invigorating walk through the country and across a farmer's field in the delicious twilight hours before sunset. Ever since the days started getting longer, I haven't wasted a moment of sunshine. At our house, our affinity for spring is unanimous, as we run outside to enjoy the fresh air, melting ice, rising rivers, and frog song. This is the sweet spot of spring, when the bugs have yet to return and a bareness of nature lingers, beckoning us to go out and explore before it all bursts into bloom and bounty.

"Do you want to tromp across the field?" I asked the Fourth Grader. There was no hesitation in his leap into the short stalks of last year's crop. The ground was soft, yet firm enough to hold a boot. We trotted a bit as we chatted, angling across the field, a red stop sign on the other side, our compass holding course.

"Poop. Poop. Poop," I said, as we passed each patch of deer droppings. "Why are you saying that?" he asked. Because I felt like a deer, too, hopping through this field enjoying its vastness. Because it makes me feel alive and connected to nature.

"Your sister and I trekked across this stretch last winter. It was icy and crunchy and took us a lot longer." "How long?" "About forty minutes." "How long will it take US?" "Oh, half that for sure. Maybe less."

I saw two stones the size of my palm. "You know, kids used to pick rocks every spring," I said, remembering my mom's rockpicking stories of her youth. "A buck a rock." Truthfully, I had no idea how much kids used to get paid for picking rocks when my parents were kids, but it sounded good. "Would you be willing to pick rocks for a buck?" I asked. "I'd be willing to do anything for money," he answered.

"Look! A line!" the Fourth Grader shouted. "Mom! Look!" I wrested my eyes from the five-foot range in front of my feet and looked up. Taking in the wider view and horizon beyond, I watched my son hop and dance along a straight thin line that ran the length of the field. I recognized wide parallel tracks of tractors, and narrower bands made by trucks and rangers. I saw the singular squiggle of a well-trodden animal "highway." And, lastly, our own impromptu trek, barely perceptible in the evident crossings of life's traffic.

When we reached the other side of the field, we took to the dirt road and headed back home by way of civilization. In the distance, we saw two figures and a little dog. In time, our evening walks aligned. We chatted a bit with the grandmother and grandson, our sense of acquaintance expanding into neighborly. The dog emitted a protective bark before accepting our presence. The ever-darkening sky racing us, we resumed our brisk pace, adding intermittent spurts of jogging until we came home tired, yet happy.