Sprang

Back from a rousing, rollicking hike with my brother. We started out up Old Mountain Road wtih the intent of driving to the parking lot and making our way up the blue trail to the Summit House, the same as we always have.
Instead, I impulsively pulled to the side of the rutted dirt road halfway to the parking area and we began to ascend via the red path, past the cabin maintained by Mount Holyoke College. However, once we reached the open swath of land which traverses the peaks and valleys of the Seven Sisters, the alleyway cleared for the powerlines, we decided to follow it. And so, up and down the rocky, bramble-covered hills we went, over several streams, past four or five conduit towers. Finally, we reached the base of a near vertical slope, the farthest visible from our starting point and our reason for attempting this route. Scattered the extent of this towering obstacle were the rusted-out corpses of abandoned cars, crushed like tin cans, their upholstery replaced by fern and lichen.
We scrambled slowly, desperately up the elevation. We sweated and strained, digging into the copper-colored scree. Surrounded by the wrecks, in t-shirt and cargo pants, clambering over red and black rock amidst weeds and thorns, I felt like a character in some post-apocolyptic film. My brother made for the tree-line and picked his way up the hill. Upon attaining the summit, he proceeded to playfully throw rocks in my direction. One of the above mentioned stones richoceted off a boulder to my right and struck me on the ankle. Smarting duecedly, I pulled myself over some rock formations and also attained the summit.
After reaching the top of that seemingly insurmountable rise, we made our way east toward the Summit House, visible, over several peaks in the distance. We slid down a precipitous wooded decline to a surging stream, and thence back along the red path and finally around to the truck.
All in all a fine adventure.

There is much to discuss since our last encounter, Dear Reader. I will opt to go in reverse chronological order, as that seems the only way I'll remember everything.

Yesterday, the 11th, I participated, with my brother and father, in the 3rd annual Leprechaun Plunge.
For those unfamiliar with the event, it is a drunken, white-trash costumed clusterfuck for charity involving hordes of goofballs running and leaping into the near-freezing Connecticut River.
I feel that such charity events say something negative about the human condition. I am all for car washes and spaghetti suppers and silent auctions. In those, good-hearted folks volunteer their time and energy and then other good-hearted folks give them money in exchange for a service and the money goes to a worthy cause.
I have never quite liked the practice of folks offering to do something difficult so that other folks will donate money to unrelated charities. "Here, if you give money to Habitat for Humanity, I'll run naked through the Mall." "If you're willing to give just twenty bucks to the Salvation Army, I'll ride my bike for fifty miles . . ."
Why not just solicit donations for donations' sake? Why must someone perform some completely separate unwelcome task to persuade people to be generous?
Be that as it may, it was an enjoyable time, and no mistake.
The day was bright and blustery. The event, at Brunelle's Marina was well attended.
I was petrified at the prospect of submerging myself in the icy water.
(I do not do well with the cold. Much though my Nordic ancestors might scoff, my blood runs more for the tropics than the tundra.)
The air was redolent with the familiar mixture of car exhaust, cigar smoke, spilled beer, and charred grilled burgers.
I associate these smells with the sounds of loud, desperate, jocular talk and amatuer marching bands warming up. The brazen horns and jarring drum beats echoing through the clear, crisp air.
To give you some idea as to the extent of my trepidation: I stood in the mass of plungers, clad only in a Speedo, goggles, and sneakers, directly behind the entire South Hadley High School girls' lacrosse team. The girls giggled excitedly, shivering. The spritely teen in front of me shook her head back and forth, her long pony tail tickling my frozen nipples. I was so scared I felt absolutely no stirring of desire. Not even the several toasty swigs of Irish liquid courage from my hip flask lessened my anxiety.
Before I knew what was happening, I was up. My brother tore off first, impetuously, and skipped jauntily to the river. I followed, along with the rest of our group. Adrenaline pumping through me, I didn't notice the cold until I was about thigh deep. Then the icy knives began to work their way in. I took this as my cue to dive. Muscles clenched, eyes riveted on the murky grey water, I plunged headlong into the river. Oddly enough I was more conscious of the silty, swirling sight of the water than the temperature. I sprang up from the drink, shook vigorously, and dove under again. And then it was land-ho again. I skipped, blood coursing with adrenaline and oblivious of the cold, out from the river. I beamed at the assembled spectators, exctiedly slapped my chest and hooted like a gorilla.
Then the cold came over me, slowly. Shivering, I retreated back to the Jameson.

The weather has been truly magnificient as of late. It fills me both with heady anticipation and also with a daunting fear. The warmth and brightness heralds a triumphant Spring and Summer, potentially filled with rousing adventures, sunny days, hikes, cycling, motorcyle rides, beach trips. I want to sit on the benches overlooking the ponds at Mount Holyoke College and sketch landscapes in between feeding the ducks, I want to take my canoe out on the river and spend a whole day rowing north, docking possibly in Greenfield for lunch. I want to drink Summer beers with citrus garnishes and chilled white wine. I want to relax by outdoor fires, breathing in the cool, fragrant night air.
The thrill of these possibilies is mitigated by the knowledge that I have to actually get off my ass and do them. It will require planning and effort on my part and I do not have the greatest track record when it comes to taking chances and making the best of my situation.

Alas. Let come what may.

I cannot sing loudly enough the praises of a new audio book to which I've been listening; Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles, by Kim Newman. It uses the template of the Sherlock Holmes canon, but usesHolmes' nemesis, the wicked Professon James Moriarty, and his henchman, Colonel Sebastian Moran as a twisted mirror image of Holmes and Watson. Moran, like Watson a veteranand newly arrived back home in London, winds up cohabiting with and working for Moriarty, and he narrates the adventures just as Watson did.
The stories are exciting, ribald, raucous romps, told with rich characterization and clever twists. References abound to other Holmes stories and other literature in general, with many famous heroes and villains making cameos.
An absolute treat.
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I feel there is much more I wanted to discuss in this post, but it all has slipped my mind for the moment.

I will touch back soon, however.

My advice to y'all? Try a dip in the river,

Penny for my Thoughts

The sun shines too brightly, the air is too warm, in short, day is far too beautiful for the topic on which I am about to post, but the tale must be told. I am now, moreso than usual, forcing myself to continue to type; this is not coming easily for many reasons. But I feel I must purge, must undergo this catharsis, or have these emotions calcify in my heart.
My dog is dead.
She passed some time ago, two days before my twenty-sixth birthday.
I've avoided making public the knowledge of her death, though I have friends in whom I could confide. They are animal lovers, and dog-people specifically, and would genuinely commiserate with me. But I feel my grief is my own, and I did not want to inconvenience others with it. Moreso, I did not want to share it.
There is another aspect to my reticence: I did not want to gain anything from the sympathy I would receive. I did not want people to be kinder to me than they would otherwise because if the loss. It strikes me that I would be indirectly benefiting from her death.
Now, however, enough time has past and I can look back with some degree of objectivity. This chosen venue proves advantageous, too. It has been so long since my last post I doubt anyone even checks this old wreck anymore. As such, this entry will no doubt remain between myself and the electronic page.
We bought, technically my grandmother bought, Penny, a three-month-old pup, from the MSPCA the summer before I started eighth grade. She was forty-five dollars, discounted to fifteen after we had her spayed. She had two brothers, all black. I wished we could have bought the lot of them. An unlikely blend of beagle and German shepherd, the two lines intermingled more gracefully than one would imagine. We called her Penny because of her coloring, a yellowed copper like a tarnished one-cent coin. In autumn she would blend nearly seamlessly with the fallen leaves.
She was the best dog I've ever had.
I know that's not saying much, as I'd never had a dog of my own before her, and never really taken proper care of, or, shamefully, even more than a passing interest in, the previous family dogs.
She was hard to train, but intelligent, and those two qualities were probably related.
She seemed to like me, though. Once I started school again she followed me, Mary's little lamb-style, several times. She also tore that year's school books to shreds when I made the mistake of leaving a backpack unattended, just in case you think she might have had some reverence fro academia.
When she was only a few months old we took her on a hike to the Summit House on Mount Holyoke. My grandmother protested. She doubted Penny could make it. It was a near thing, her trembling little legs struggling to heave her tiny body over the roots and rocks. But make it she did.
From then on we took her everywhere with us, especially anywhere wooded and wild. She'd bound gazelle-like over branches and logs, tail wagging furiously. We never kept her leashed, no matter how many times she ran away from us, making every hike a frustrated, desperate search.
When I started working, the summer after my sophomore year, I began supporting the dog monetarily as well as with my time and attention.
By the time of her death I was paying all the veteranary bills and buying her top-of-the-line dog food in a vain effort to keep her weight under control. (She'd become sedentary in her later years, and developed arthritis in her back knees).
The morning of her death my stepmother awoke and let her outside. My father stepped into my room and roused me, more tentitavely than the usual bursting, manic wake-up call. He told me abruptly that she was dead.
I walked into the back yard with him and saw her immediately, on her side near the back stairs. She had recently emptied her bowels, her last order of business before keeling over.
I hated myself then, for not being with her at the end. I had had plans of taking her on one last hike. Of cooking her a filet mignon as her last meal, cradling her gently as she faded away.
In truth I hadn't walked her in the past week. I could blame work and school for leaving me no time. I was lazy and thoughtless and callous. It's that simple.
Her death should havecome whilst she was racing through the wilderness. Instead she died in the mud one grey morning, in our backyard, alone.
I failed her at the end.
Even now I come home from work and expect her to be waiting near the door for me. When writing to-do lists I have to stop myself from adding "walk dog." I go on hikes which seem empty without her.
The Sunday after she died, my birthday, my father, brother, and I took Penny on one last hike. Wrapped in warm blankets and snug in a plastic recycling tote, we carried her -- considerably heavier than she was as a bouncing puppy -- to the summit of Mt. Holyoke. We found a quiet spot well off the path, at the top of a stony ridge, and buried her facing east, as the sun rose.
We squabbled and yelled the whole way. At one point I cam close to striking my brother.
After she was interred, though, we were overcome by love for her and for each other. We descended the mountain closer than we had been for some months.
That was her last gift to us.
I'm off on a hike now, and I will think of her as I pass the spot marked on the path from which one would set off in order to find her grave.