Where Shadows Stand

During the daytime in the creek looking up, very near where I decided it might be better to turn around.

With my legs dangling over the nearly vertical ledge, my headlamp could make out the creek’s gray slate bottom fifteen or so feet below.

One more nudge, and I could be in the creek at the speed of gravity. Further, it was nearly vertical—not completely vertical—so, maybe . . .

Should’ve known better.

Knew that coming down this part of the ravine, attempting to join Blaze--my young, ebony coonhound--who was treed about a hundred yards to the northwest, would end in futility. Blaze looked so much like his father, Seth, and in many ways, acted like his father, although the young'un clearly had much more to learn. My fervent desire to encourage his behavior drove the otherwise foolish thoughts of attempting these last few yards to the creek bottom.

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Spent a lot of time by this pool. At times cooling off. Other times just thinking.

But when it comes to matters of the head versus the heart, the surer bet is to go with your head.

With a resigned sigh, I turned and began the steep climb to the ridge. It would take a ~700-yard walk around to finally join Blaze. The whole time, as I made my way to the creek to follow that stream, Blaze never quit treeing. The pup was showing tenacity. All tree hounds require a certain amount of patience awaiting their human companions to join them—with my dogs, an even greater degree is required.

When I finally joined him, Blaze bounced back and forth between three, towering eastern white pines each about ten yards apart.

Was it a young coonhound uncertain which tree a single raccoon had climbed? Or a son, like his father, who “inventoried” the raccoon, and had located a litter of ringtails? It was the right time and place for the latter, but without being able to move completely around the trees on the upper side of the steep embankment, my search for the amber reflection of a raccoon’s eye in my headlight was significantly hampered.

Well, as Dad often says, you gotta believe the hound.

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Approaching the waterfalls and nearing where the ravine ends (or starts, depending on your point of view).

So, I called Blaze off the tree(s), and we walked upstream past several places I fondly recalled from my youth—to include the waterfalls. It was at the falls where Blaze left me, searching for a new track as I continued to follow the water.

Soon, I came to a place sacred, all alone—Seth’s grave.

It wasn’t weariness that anchored this old man in that near-midnight forest but the memory of a hound and companion.

“Got your son with me tonight.” I nodded, watching my headlamp’s beam bounce shadows off the nearby trees and vegetation. “Blaze still has a lot to learn, but he’s got heart. Reckon that’s all anyone can ask.”

I must’ve smiled. I’m sure I did.

“Well, time to go, old friend. Be seeing you.”

I hadn’t gone more than a few yards when I heard Blaze splashing in the creek, then trotting up the hill to rejoin me. As I turned, I saw that young hound stop. For a moment, Blaze stared at his father’s grave. (You always wonder what a hound knows.)

Blaze then turned toward me, tail wagging.

Behind Blaze, there was a shadow.

And there should have been a shadow, but the physics was all wrong.

It was as if Blaze’s shadow refused to lie down, standing on its own--separate but related.

I must’ve been staring hard for some time. I’m sure I was.

Then Blaze took a purposeful step forward to break my reverie. (You always wonder what a hound knows.)

Perhaps it was simply a trick of light and shadow. . . .

Perhaps it was simply memory and a writer’s imagination. . . .

Or maybe a lesson, schooling that there are times--when it comes down to matters of the head versus the heart--it’s better to go with your heart.

Hard sayin’.

“C’mon, Blaze. It’s time we head home.”

And so once more, I walked out of the forests of Painted Post with an ebony hound by my side somewhere in the hinterlands between the past and present.

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The falls during the day.