Gravel Roads

      The dogs sit up, every time, slipping from silent slumber to restless wonder faster than I can straighten out the wheels.

      Under the truck’s tires gravel grumbles and the pace slows. We weave to miss washed out holes in the road and the air smells different. There’s nobody else around and moose tracks travel the same direction we do.

      The dogs absolutely know this road leads to another adventure.

      Up where we live not all town roads are tarred and logging roads are only maintained while logging is active. The dogs know dirt roads lead to out of the way places and that is where fun always awaits. In the summer it might mean trout fishing or just plain hiking, but come fall it means bird hunting, which is their greatest of all joys.

      It could be a mile in the woods or fifteen miles into a wilderness valley they have never visited before. Either way they will be intensely alert until the truck stops.

Around the net corner there may wait...

      Complacent driving often leads to speeds a little too fast. The tires roll sideways on gravel, as if coasting over ball bearings, sort of floating the truck through a turn. Meeting a pickup truck or moose in a corner snaps me back to the present. The youngest dog sometimes steps from the back up onto the center console and I always scold her.

       Like sentries on the back seat, they stare ahead. If the backseat windows are opened halfway, they’ll stick their heads out. Wouldn’t it be grand if they could tell us all the things they smell? Moose, deer, bear?

     Today it is about trout fishing and we turn down a bumpy cart path to park next to a stream that shall  remain nameless. The dogs will sit on the bank and watch with intensity as the fly floats downstream, just as I do. Maybe it isn’t bird hunting, but they still know it is a hunt.

Maggie watching a large mayfly on a leaf.