A Meeting in the Forest

Saw the vehicle parked off that lonely backroad, nestled between the tall hills of oak and hemlock. So I pulled over to find a young man with ancient eyes, just sitting in his vehicle. All alone.

We rolled down our trucks' windows at the same time.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Oh,"--he began with a tired, un-assured nod--"I was just sittin' here, sir. In the quiet. In the peace."

Could understand that as we sat there--not but a couple three dozen feet from that quiet stream and a small bridge I knew so very well. It was Painted Post, after all.

"I own this land," I said. "Just makin' sure no one was dumpin'."

"Saw some trash about," he replied. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Not your doin', young'un."

He motioned toward the back of my truck. "I see your dog box, sir. Beagles or hounds?"

"Coonhounds."

He smiled for the first time. Suspect it was the first time in a long time. "I own a 15-inch beagle and a black and tan."

"Can the hound tree a raccoon?"

"Not sure. Never took her out," he replied. "She's more of a pet. I just like hounds."

Reckon I understood that, too.

His smile faded some as we sat there--three yards and two generations apart--but something told me that spark was still there.

"Well, young'un,"--I nodded slowly--"you can stay here just as long as you like. As long as you need to."
His eyes filled with gratitude. "Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that."

"My pleasure."

I rolled up my window and drove up that forested road, leaving behind a young man whose name I never got.
But I think I know.


Photo credit: Brendalyn Crance

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