My Dance With Mother Nature

And walking has become rather an adventure. And an obsession.

If I can't get to the State Park, I take to the high school track. If the track is closed for some dumb school event (What? I'm a tax payer! I own this place!) I have a neighborhood loop that gets the job done. If there is a soaking rain, I manage a few miles on the treadmill, albeit swearing like a sailor the entire time. Even a great playlist on my iPod won't cure the sheer boredom that comes from running in place. And does nothing to clear my head of murderous thoughts, if that is the case.

I have had many an adventure along the trails.

I have helped a lady rescue a cat living in a tree after having been dumped there by a family. (You need a license to fish but anyone can own a cat. Some people are just born assholes.) The fishermen and local park dwellers were feeding and caring for her, but she was too scared most of the time to come out of a tree that extended over the creek, where she perched herself, fortunately with a significant amount of fat, in the crotch of the tree. I worried myself sick the night there was a storm with gale-force winds imagining her clinging to the branches for dear life and wondering where her People were. Hil and I made frequent trips to feed and brush her, give her fresh water and dose her with flea treatment. She purred and rubbed her face on our hands each time in appreciation. She's since been taken in by the couple that lives in the whimsical, moss-covered purple cottage by the park gates. They call her Momma. She'll come to the window to see us if we tap on the glass.

I have ventured onto the creek beach to take a photo only to inadvertently step on a snake who turned out to be just as unhappy about it as I was. That line our mothers tell us about it being more afraid of you? Total crap. I screamed my head off and went into a flop sweat. It hissed and picked a fight. Then I ran like a girl. (Yes, ran. Breaking my own rules. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Grossly underperforming sports bra be damned.)

I have found that if you do have to walk in the soaking rain, because perhaps you are at a point in the woods where you are just as far in as you are out and turning back does not help, a State Park provided doggy doo bag will protect your precious iPhone from the elements while you dodge lightning bolts and falling trees. And I have found that the next day, when your good sneaks are still drying (and smelling putrid) and you have to wear those gimmicky sneaks with the curved bottoms that women across America were convinced would tone all of our butts and we'd all be prancing around with Jennifer Aniston's ass in no time, that is not the day to go for broke and attain your first eleven mile day on the hills and trails. Unless you have a masseuse on stand-by.

I have seen turkey vultures, fawns, ground hogs, bullfrogs, chipmunks, blue herons, woodpeckers, and an occasional fox on my adventures, most of which have been kind enough to pose for pictures, some of which have been brave enough to come close enough to touch, and all of which have been fascinating to see alive and in their own element as opposed to on the BBC Earth channel. Did you know how big woodpeckers are? No wonder you can hear them pecking for miles. Bigger than a breadbox, I assure you.

I have learned that a frog taking refuge in a public restroom can be a very scary thing when you are vulnerably seated on the throne. I have learned that a port-o-potty in the woods remains fit for public use for less than one full calendar day. I can't explain how things get the way they do. Bears have a better option.

But nothing beats the kook I met just recently who scared the bejeezus out of me. Even more so than the snake.