Train

Wingdale, 5 pm. Stepping off of Route 22, my legs have turned to goat and pull me high above the road onto a flat heavy with maple and aspen leaves. The found beer from two miles back is popped open. The cold yellow beer goes into my titanium cup and my bag forgives me for the additional twelve ounces I've added so late in the day. The train out of Wassaic offers up a whistle through the leaves that remain in the valley below, and I know Alex Dunn is on his way to see his father for the weekend. He is a young boy of eight, and he is from a similar seed, from a similar plant, no longer native to here but yet extremely native.

The table is covered with the tools of my nomadic ways. It is show-and-tell, but I am not sure if I am showing Alex or if I am reminding my mind how blessed I am.


Normally I prefer microbrew beer and consider myself a happy lightweight, but considering the cold, the miles, and the delight in the gift, this Coors beer has ample favor for my dry mouth and I sip it slowly.


Things become human while on the trail and I talk to everything. My bamboo spoon hid out in its rifle pocket. Overlooking it until I begban to search anew, I was amazed at how heartbroken I was to think that my dear traveling companion had gone the way of my bamboo spatula. When I was in Maine, the spatula decided to skip out, right after making a plate full of pancakes, preferring to chill in the forest of Maine for the winter. The spoon? Now we're losing family. Not an occasion for its use goes by without my eyes taking in the simplest beauty of the burn lines, brass tacks, small beads, and the simple plum of silver that hangs from the handle. I puttered on these decorations one rainy afternoon for a few mindless hours, and I've never regretted a minute. I find the spoon and regain my pulse.

Tonight I'm on a natural step of a high hill above the road. It is a simple dinner of Swiss oats, and nuts and seeds mixed with water. I add a spoonful of high-grade maple syrup and a Kashi seven-grain bar, and it's all thrown into the titanium cup. After giving thanks and feeling thankful, I eat the smooth perfection but all the while I am having happy fantasies of pancakes in the morning with ice water from the spring I stumbled upon right next to camp.