![]() Made our mid-winter pilgrimage alone for the first time in eight years, following that icy creek caught in the season’s bitter grip in that hollow of soul and mem’ry. Your son had tried to join me --the cold caused the latch to stick-- as he burst through the gate to stand proudly by my side as you had once, throughout the years. (Blaze looks so much like you.) Slowly returned him to his kennel, an understanding reflected in his eyes upon hearing a simple reason: Some paths we must walk alone. ![]() Never had the trek been so treacherous, negotiating that glacial creek, bent on one purpose: reach the falls. The desire to return? Not so much. Partway, my walking stick snapped made brittle in the frosted air. Left half that oaken staff behind. Perhaps coincidence to some. More symbolism to others, knowing that it was Painted Post, after all. Finally reached those frozen falls, now an odd, gray-translucent mix. There, in that frigid, biting air in that cold, indifferent ice, caught the mem’ry of a small pup, who’d become an exceptional hound. And in that bright, wintered sunlight, an epiphany; the magic in this ancient forest could be found by looking heavenward. Made our mid-winter journey in a hollow with two meanings in the angry cold, following that frozen stream to realize that I’d never been alone, all along.
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