Chapter 11
THE PATH

When we first bought the land, and from the very first walk up the hill and through the field above on someone else‘s land… someone who lives in NYC and hardly ever comes up to even check on it… in that field was a path, carved out by wildlife, I simply followed across the field to the road bordering it.

I wondered from the beginning as to ‘why this path?’ as it ambled, or rambled. In other words, it wasn’t an efficient straight line from one side to the other, but seemed to lean a bit to the right or left. I could picture a fox as the first beast to trod the path, marking small plants that grew in the field since the last time it was mowed. (A neighbor got permission to cut the hay for his scrawny cows of which we always felt a pang of sorrow for their lack of sufficient food, but that’s another story.)

Foxes like to claim their path. It’s as if they say with a little urine that goes a long way, “these plants that I mark, and any game housed in the nooks and crannies of this land belongs to ME. Therefore, do not touch!” But then, other animals follow their scent to see 'why' the previous animal went this way.

Or maybe it was a deer, stopping here and there ruminating as only a deer can do in the wild, looking for a nutritious bite wherever she can, perhaps sticking to this path as her little Bambi look alike is nestled somewhere in the grass nearby.

So, years go by and I’ve always gone on this path across the field, staying right on it through its bendy inefficient way, until it got lost. First time I lost the path was on a particularly rainy summer, whereas, rather than get my jeans wet on the damp grass bending across the path, I’d go through the woods where no undergrowth to have dripped or otherwise have its moisture rubb off on me.

Then there was an especially hot summer where the comparative coolness of the wood made it my preferred route to and from Cranberry Lake.

Then my husband, knowing what route I used to take through the field, made two straight parallel paths with his ATV, erasing ‘my path’--the old wild meandering one--for a more efficient and direct route. I should have been thankful. I started using one or the other of the two paths made by the wheels of the ATV, and felt something lost, and began seeking out the old well worn narrow path that, through wear, was deeper and more distinct. Then last summer the man who used to mow the grass dumped his cows' manure all over that field, making paths every which way with his manure spreader. I had to more or less play hopscotch between manure piles rather than seek out my path. But recently I realized I missed the meditation of the wild path that went on inside my head each time I walked through that field on that almost extinct path. I missed the meditation. It was to me like the difference of the modern to the old fashioned. I missed my less traveled and more reminiscent trail of the wild.

Now I’m determined to find it again. Sometimes the dogs would somehow just instinctively know the path, I’d think I was on it when following them, only to have them get distracted by the smell of a mouse under the sod, or the fresh trail of a rabbit and they’d go off in a totally different direction. But with or without their help, I’m going to try to find the old deeper path and mark it with ribbon until it gets pressed well into the field again. There is a lot more at stake here than just a way through the field.

I walked that old path with my dog Wendy; then Gayle and Holly; and then just Gayle, until we got English Springer, Millie; then both of them; then just Millie when Gayle died; then Polly and Millie when we got our little beagle basset mix. Then after Millie died; we got a German short hair, Domino, who leaped over that path with the freedom and zest of a wild mustang. He died when killed by a vehicle in Jan. 2003. It was a sad, sad time in our lives, as we loved this dog so very much. But on my path, I think of the good times with Domino leaping through that field each time I walk there. I had to watch those two dogs, Polly and Domino… keep one or the other in check, either through leash or electric collar, as, when I’d turn my back, they’d go off hunting for days. As much as we loved Domino, Polly loved him more, and grieved him as much. But that’s another story. After Domino died, we got Bear, and he would never run off. I never had a dog who was so fixated on me. He stayed on my paths or nearby digging -- his favorite hobby. If he isn’t digging, he’s carrying a big stick. He’s left so many big sticks in that field that I doubt if it could be mowed again until someone goes through picking them up first.

But, now not even the dogs know where the path is, but I’ll see glimpses of it in the melting snow, as the path… the old path… is the last to melt… kind of. Here and there I’ll catch a glimpse, and think I’ll somehow mark the places of the original path, and then maybe I can figure out where to join the missing parts that have grown over. Why? I don’t know. There are actually grants given to colleges to go around taking pictures and asking residents or seeking out historical evidence of just how the countryside has changed. I don’t seek out the purpose of the change, I seek out the old and to stick to the old path. And I still don’t really know why. Maybe when find the old path and keep it for good, I can go back to 1986 when we first bought the land. For the few minutes it takes to go across the field, I can step into the past, and be suddenly be the age I was in 1986, or the age I was when I had the dogs I think about and remember when taking my daily walk. I think it’s worth it just for that to find and keep that old trail.