The following has been adapted and edited from a journal on May 23, 2020.
I have been visiting one park as often as I can this summer.
Heyburn is the oldest State Park in the Gem State, home to a myriad of natural wonders, from wetlands and lakeshore to dense humid forest.
I asked a ranger where I might find a more secluded trail, and he pointed me up an old fire road to a horse trail.
I’m prepping for a hundred-mile backpacking trip in August, and I’m not nearly in the physical condition to do it. Pushing myself up the narrow, winding pack trail between the trees might help.
Heading west on the fire road, you can still see and hear the lake a quarter mile behind you. Red-wing Blackbird and swallow calls ring clear, unlike the thick chestnut waters of Plummer Creek along the north side of the trail. But between myself and the water’s edge were tall, thin Douglas Fir, dark and overgrown, with no understory. The connecting horse trail leads south, away from the creek, swallowed up in a lush forest.
I stopped paying attention – I had a goal to move fast.
Mainly I paid attention to my feet, dodging roots and rocks as I made my way upward. The forest was a green blur. Only the most remarkable things—bright Phlox flowers, for instance—pulled my focus from the drum of my own boots.
After several miles and a few hundred feet of elevation gain the hill tops-off in an open park, trees apparently social distancing on the sunny ridge.
It didn’t matter to me since I could move even faster on flat ground. But something caught my eye: a brown mass moving through the woods. Could it be a deer? A moose? A bear?
It was a dog on a walk alone.
The slow, boxy brown mutt hobbled on the trail and sat down. I looked around expectantly for the owner. Odd to see a dog off-leash in bear country.
“Where’s your master, doggo?”
She didn’t respond, being a dog and all. No master followed it.
I wanted to continue down the trail and keep my pace. The last hour was hard, fast walking. But it didn’t seem right to leave this dog here if the owner wasn’t nearby. I called aloud but no one answered. One minute became three, became seven, became ten. The dog just sat in the flowers.
an Artist’s Rendition of Old Yeller
At this point, I just had to accept I was not speed walking anymore. I sat down on the grass and waited with ‘ole yeller.
The full beauty of the glen trickled into my senses. The open park extends in all directions, overlooking the forest and the lake below. Park wasn’t even the right word. It was a garden, lush with phlox, balsamroot, and blue-eyed grass flowers. Warm, fragrant, and sunny. I would build a cabin there if I could. Juncos and sparrows clamored in the ponderosas, and a crow chased a sleepy owl from its perch. The whole place was a throng with life and I had just been running past.
I waited an hour, and no humans came by. I took a length of paracord from my pack and fashioned a leash. For better or worse, Old Yeller and I were now in this together.
Sometimes the faster you go, the more you see. But sometimes you gotta try Old Dog speed.
But Old Yeller was slow. I would take off, and she would sit indignantly behind me. The start-stop of catch up was maddening, so finally I gave in, and I took up the sauntering pace of an old dog.
The two of us, bound by happenstance and hunter’s orange paracord, strolled a mile or so to a nearby trailhead, where I found an empty truck and a dog’s water bowl. So I tied up Old Yeller and explained my situation to another ranger who happened to be driving by. She told me she would try to find the owner herself.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. I patted the dog, who seemed pleased to be sitting again, and made my way back to camp.
Sometimes the faster you go, the more you see. But sometimes you gotta try Old Dog speed.