Tom Ryan's Blog, page 4

My dear Emily is in for a challenge. We three are all in for a drastic new way of life. Most of what makes us happy is gone. At least for five months.

Just days ago, I wrote about how little it takes to make us fill us up. Walking in the woods, slipping into streams, sitting on mountaintops (even the smaller ones) makes us happy. We don’t need more than these simplicities.

Now, we’ll all have to learn to get by with less than any of that.

We’ll come out of this closer when all is said and done. And Emily will be able to fly again.

But gosh, my heart cries for her right now. Of the three of us, I’m the empath. Goodness knows it will do no good for her to see me worried. So, it’s off to war we go.

Together.

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Published on June 23, 2020 08:21

Emily Injures Herself

Good morning.

I’m making this post public because I know that those of you who care about Emily would want to know what I’m about to tell you.

The Divine Ms. Em is an athlete. She flies while running, bounds with ease, cuts sharp angles, ducks low branches, leaps roots and rocks. It is when she’s tongue-out happiest. Occasionally, because of the wear and tear she puts on her legs, she’ll favor one of her front legs for a few hours, but it always comes back to form within a day.

Last week, while setting up her annual appointment with Dr. Rachael Kleidon at North Country Animal Hospital, I let them know her left front leg was bothering her more than usual. Along with the various injections, tick and heartworm medication for Samwise and Emily, I asked them to check out her leg.

The next day, it was fine.

Yesterday, however, she came in from romping out back with Samwise, favoring her right hind leg, not putting any weight on it. We went to bed, hoping it was just more of the same, and we’d wake up to see her bouncy self.

Alas, this morning, she was still gimpy. We drove to Thorne Pond for a short walk, and she moved gingerly, but without complaint. When Samwise chased after a wild winged soul lifting off from the high grass, Emily was right beside him, running without a limp. But once she stopped, the limp returned. Down at the river, Emily wanted to play. I threw stick after stick, and she swam out a good fifteen yards each time, grabbed her prize, and brought it back to me.

It was good to see her smiling and enthusiastic.

I had one more hope: the swimming would help loosen up her joints, and she’d feel better after fifteen minutes in the water.

No such luck.

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Their appointment is this afternoon. With coronavirus complications, no one is allowed in the office. Therefore, I called Rachael a few minutes ago, and we had a lengthy conversation. From my time as an athletic trainer, I understand most injuries can be determined merely through an interview.

We are keeping open minds about what it may be, but we feel like it is most likely a torn ligament. X-rays will tell us more.

If it is as Rachael and I both believe, we’ll go ahead quickly with the surgery. Emily’s recovery will include significant restrictions for a couple of months. No more long summer walks. She’ll need to be on a leash. It will prove a challenge for her, and for Samwise, since our mileage will be brought down to nothing, and replaced by short restrained trips into the backyard.

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If we are to miss time, these are not the worse months to miss. The heat, humidity, and bugs are not enjoyable for any of us. We tolerate, push through, and pray for breezy days. I’ve always said the prime months here in the White Mountains are August through November.

The coronavirus also hits us with another problem. It will be the first surgery I’m not by one of my four-footed friends’ side in the operating room since Atticus had cataract surgery in 2006. Having a close relationship with Rachael and having spent time in operating rooms as a trainer, I’ve always been there throughout operations (and in Atti’s case, chemo treatments) and the recovery. That will not be allowed this time, but I completely understand why.

I will keep you up to date with a post tomorrow.

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Published on June 22, 2020 05:49

Sunday Musings

We’ve just returned from our morning miles, circling the edge of a lake, weaving through woodlands, tracing a river. It’s going to be one of those dreadful, uncomfortably hot days, but they do give birth to the most delicious mornings.

The temperature is already 75 degrees, and it is not yet eight o’clock. With high humidity and dew point, we were treat…

Leaving New Hampshire

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Although none of the three of us enjoys the high heat and humidity of summer, we revel in our dawn walks when the leftover damp cool of the night marries the coming swelter, and the tension creates sultry fragrances.

Light and shadow are contrasted artfully in this first hour of the day. Faint haze diffused the rising yellow glare reflected across the pond.

Black flies and mosquitoes skimmed the air above the still water; fish bobbed up for a leisurely breakfast. Mother merganser and thirteen (thirteen!) offspring moved about like an ameba, shifting, tightening, loosening, but moving in the same direction. I envy them. Their closeness and ease; the awareness of their surroundings; and how the mother is ever watchful, but never panicked. Over the past weeks, we've observed the chicks growing. Some are bolder with maturity.

Their flotilla headed toward four Canada geese who arrived the other day and are in no hurry to leave. A beaver swam in the space between the two groups.

We stopped by a wall of sumac and looked across this calm little universe. I closed my eyes, inhaled, felt my chest expand, held my breath, and mindfully let it free. Moments of stillness. Life in these gentle portions feeds me the rest of the day.

Emily stopped to watch a toad, bent for a closer look, like a curious professor peering over her glasses. She's come a long way. Two years ago, she'd have pawed the poor soul, maybe even picked him up in her mouth. But she too is maturing. It was enough to watch and then go on her way.

Samwise studied a fresh pile of bear scat. He sniffed, then looked about, as if trying to figure which direction the black bear ambled off to.

A few minutes later, both Emily and Samwise spotted a garter snake at the same time. They stepped back, and it stopped gliding. The four of us, all aware of each other, shared a moment. I am happy to report that we did not bother this fellow mortal, for we were the party to go on our way.

I am fond of this gentle approach to the natural world. Samwise and Emily were raised, like Atticus, to be kind, to respect and treat others as they wish to be treated. This lesson was a product of my ignorance of dogs. Instead of training them, I imagined how I wanted to be taught and treated if the roles were reversed. That formed the basis of my relationship with all animals. It continues.

This morning, I read a post by New Hampshire photographer Jim Salge about the dwindling loon population. He wrote: "From the risks of lead and fish hooks to the rise in the eagle population, numbers and nesting success is declining on many lakes. And our Instagram culture isn't helping. Just this week, we heard that loons abandoned a nest because of harassment by drones. Just selfish."

It's heartbreaking what we do to the natural world, just as it is sad what we do to each other. While I continue to hold out hope for personkind, I am continuously reaffirmed in my choice to be a solitary.

Recently, we've seen the peace of our natural areas eroded, and quietude is becoming more challenging to come by. The change has been afoot for years, but the pandemic and the fleeing of well to do refuges to rural gateway communities like ours over the past few months has led to my decision to leave New Hampshire.

Second homes make up fifty-two percent of our valley. We used to see these folks for weekends or a week at a time. But our population has doubled since mid-March. The change has not been a positive one.

There was a time people came to northern New Hampshire to leave their hurry and their angst behind. Alas, in current times, they make sure to bring it with them. It's changed how locals feel about our home. It has awakened me to the state of entitlement too many seem to wear as a badge of honor. We have become Massachusetts North.

Last weekend, while the pandemic continues its constant roll across our country, it was as though no one had been sick. The crowds up here were astounding.

Midweek, late in the afternoon, we pulled into the parking lot at Thorne Pond. Typically, we'd have the place to ourselves. There were eight cars—seven from Massachusetts and one from Rhode Island.

The charm of the White Mountains is dying, and there's no going back. Talking to real estate agents, COVID-19 has convinced many a wealthy out-of-stater to buy property in the area.

I had contemplated moving over toward the Vermont border, but now it's clear that it would not be far enough. Nothing is imminent, but my energy will go into leaving these mountains that gave me a new life after my newspapering days. Where will we go? Someplace where moments of quietude like this morning's are not fleeting.

The middle of Vermont feels right. Yes, there are second homes there, too, but not to the extent we have them in New Hampshire. If not Vermont, we will head west to Montana, Idaho, or Oregon. Although I think I'd miss the lush green hills of northern New England. Yet one never knows.

The pandemic has stirred much within us all. Some are more frightened and holding steadfast to their lives. Others are motivated to move toward a new horizon.

A widowed friend of mine is in his seventies. A year ago, he met another widowed soul. It was like coming home. The pandemic has further motivated them to grab a life by the throat. A few weeks ago, he announced they were moving to the West Coast, starting life anew.

What a thrill it is to see these two growing as individuals and as a couple. Soulmates, who are challenging conventional life.

My favorite poem is Tennyson's Ulysses. This passage reminds me of them.

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

Watching them chase their dreams, fuels mine.

My goal has always been a life of simplicity. We'd found it, but there's now a chance to refine it more, and artfully craft it and not settle.

The environment around us has changed, and now we are about to as well.

In 2016 I was a fifty-five-year-old who defied odds to live beyond my pupu platter of death. I bought some time, but the plan was to find a way to die with dignity.

Next April, I will be a sixty-years old, and I desire to be in a new state by then, in a new home, evolving to find the best way to live with passion.

I want to have what we witnessed in the still hours of Thorne Pond this morning. Staying here will not do that.

*Thank you for reading my words today. This post has been made public, so you can share it with non-followers through various platforms. I would appreciate it if you did.

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Published on June 19, 2020 09:09

Turning Back on Mount Potash

"Lots of people talk to animals. Not very many listen, though. That's the problem."
~ Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh

Early this morning, we set out to climb old friend, Mount Potash, the twin sister of Hedgehog off the Kancamagus Highway. I can't tell you how many times I've been up this scenic peak wit…

Atticus

After walking up Bear Peak this afternoon, I’m sitting on the floor with Emily and Samwise. They’ve finished their dinner, and I’m spending quality time with a Mason Jar of iced green tea. As I type, each of them is looking at me with keen interest. No, they don’t care what I’m writing. It’s time for their bones with the frozen peanut butter. Desert.

W…

Pine Mountain, Then & Now

Good morning.

There’s a sweet perfection to the birdsong and chatter that heralds the coming of the day. Here in the White Mountains, it’s an hour before sunrise, and the grand production has started in earnest. As I age, and bug season up here bothers me more each year, I think of how much I enjoy this music from our backyard or in our woodland walks and say, “Well, at least the birds are happy.” To them, this is a banquet of easy eating.

Sometimes, a bit of perspective helps.

As our world spins seemingly out of control, these early hours mean more to me. I wake before even Samwise in the summer months—he’s our early riser the rest of the year. I stay away from the news of the day, say my prayers, name at least ten things and ten people I’m grateful for, and boil water for tea and oatmeal. It’s in these early beginnings when keeping life simpler comes easy.

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These summer hours help on the trails as well. We often beat the black flies and mosquitoes when it’s in the forties, like today. We also beat the heat and humidity. None of the three of us are into heat. In our first year of hiking, Atticus and I often climbed even when temperatures reached into the nineties with high humidity. Looking back, I ask myself two questions: How did we do that? Why did we do that?

Ego and ignorance, I suppose. All on my part, of course.

I don’t think about those early days in the mountains all that often. The present is enough to keep me grounded. But the other day I was thinking about how Atticus and I went up arduous mountain as often as possible, four or five days a week. We seemed to inhale summits back then. And yet, Samwise, Emily, and I walk more miles each week. On non-hiking days, Atticus and I kept our walks short. A mile each morning seemed like enough—another at sunset.

With my health much more of a consideration and the energy of my two young friends, five miles each morning is the norm, with three more—at least, in the late afternoon.

Now that the access road to the western trailhead of Pine Mountain is open to traffic for the season, we’ve added that four-mile loop hike to our walks. It offers us a change four days a week, now that it is in our rotation.

Up until a year ago, I felt like I’d never hike it again. It lay in fragrant memories as the place I discovered with Atticus; the first mountain I introduced Ken and Ann Stampfer to (after the endless list of peaks they introduced us to), and the mountain I pushed Will up in his cart. It was the mountain Atticus and I turned to for an easier climb when he was going through his exhausting chemo treatments.

Between its twin prominences—Chapel Rock and the main summit—Pine Mountain offers one of the top ten views in the White Mountains. We now scramble up it as often as we do any other walk. How grand it is to feel my heart and lungs and legs working in unison, getting an early morning exertion that leads to breathtaking vistas, and more of this same peace I’m listening to outside my window this morning!

Lately, realizing I want to move out of the Mount Washington Valley, most likely closer to the Vermont border, where there is less traffic and fewer vacation homes, and quiet is not as hard to come by, I pay closer attention to our route, the seven viewpoints we stop at, and tell myself, “One day, this will all be a memory, once again.”

The memories I’m am creating with Samwise and Emily are different than the old days. It has the feel of a new life since, hopefully, we all have a long way to go. In contrast, Pine Mountain was the only peak Will stood atop of, and in the end, when Parkinson’s began drowning Ann, it was one of her last doable climbs; and dearest Atticus, toe amputated and chemo drugs coursing through him—he was not what he once was.

It was also my first climb after heart and kidney failure and stroke and blood clots. Although that was a comeback for me, a return to a sweet memory, I’ve now left that version of myself behind too.

These days, we dance over it all, paying respect to the loved ghosts of my past, with steadfast Samwise leading, except on those mornings when sprightly Emily bounces ahead. There are even days when I lead the way, calling back to my friends to keep up. How is this possible that the old guy gets to lead? (Thank you, greens and beans and grains and fruits.)

It’s poignant how life changes—refreshed with new peers, new chances to love and live. Yet, there will come a day when we won’t live close enough to hike this route. It’s not long enough of a hike to travel to. It makes Pine Mountain perfect for where we live, just twenty minutes away. So, when we do leave here, I’ll now take two volumes of reminiscences to sift through, for when I’m old and grayer.

The three of us do not have ambitions to climb mountains very often. I’m healthier and lighter than any time I was swallowing entire ranges with Atticus, but my perspective is different. Ego has been left behind—for the most part. I embrace the simplicity of a chosen few places where people aren’t. That’s enough for me. That, and our woodland walks next to rivers Emily and Samwise and can play in, and I can wade through.

What do we need to be happy? I think it was Emerson who said, “Enough.”

The three of us have that.

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Published on June 13, 2020 02:36

Samwise on his 4th Anniversary

There are days when it is easy to take Samwise for granted. He’s his own fellow, after all, and does not require much attention. The old soul in him lets me know when he desires to be held, wants to go out, or if the water bowl needs refilling. Other than that, he’s so quiet and still, he blends in with his environment. If you’ve seen us on a book tour, you’ll note that he naps almost the entire time I’m talking.

While Emily is bonded to me, Samwise is bonded to the world before his eyes. You can see evidence of this in most of the photos of the two. Emily usually looks to me, while Samwise has his back to us, surveying a river, the forest, or the mountains rolling off into the distance.

This past weekend marked the fourth anniversary of when six-month-old Samwise came north from Texarkana, Texas, to start his life anew. He’d been on death row with less than twenty-four hours to breathe. He’d been a street dog, and when he was locked up, no one wanted him.

I found out about him eight days after Atticus died in my arms. Virginia Moore, then the extraordinary head of our local shelter, was close to Atticus and was the last person, besides me, to hold him. I was on a drive with Ken and Ann Stampfer when a text from Virginia stopped us all.

“I know it’s probably too early, but there’s a dog down in Texas who has less than a day to live. Do you want him?”

The attached picture was of a young fellow behind bars. He looked forlorn, maybe resigned to his fate, as he stared off into the nothingness. Who knows what he was thinking?

Ann and Ken knew what I was thinking, even as I uttered, “Fuck.”

It was too soon, and I was only three weeks removed from the hospital; lucky to be, as my Aunt Marijane would have said, “able to sit up and take nourishment.”

Samwise Atticus Passaconaway was with me within two weeks.

On our first walk at Thorne Pond, I unhooked his leash. He bounced and frolicked as puppies do, especially when tasting freedom. I can only imagine how infused every one of his senses was in that New Hampshire spring.

He stayed close to me, but ran figure eights, did circles around my slow and unsteady gate. I moved along the path by the river, and he was racing back and forth. At a viewpoint, I said, “Come here, please.” And he did.

“Check out the view.”

At that instant, I knew he was a different fellow. All the springs left his legs, and he stood next to me and gaped. Still, eyes looking from the river up to the ridge and above to Stanton and Pickering, two smaller mountains Atticus and I had hiked often.

I thought of that golden moment this morning when he stood on a boulder on Chapel Rock. He climbs with the assuredness of a goat, even more so than Atticus. He does better at heights and edges than Emily or I do. He stood, letting the wind toss his tawny ears. He stood as if a lion overlooking the Serengeti. Em and I watched him, as we often do, and he stayed that way for a good two minutes.

Four years…

Where have they gone? That’s most likely a third of Samwise’s lifetime. That thought brings sadness, as any dog lover will appreciate.

Four years ago, I did not know how long I was going to live when I agreed to take Samwise in to save his life. For the first time, I understood that a dog I was living with would most likely outlive me.

We muddled through that first year together. Me in mourning for Atticus and for everything else I’d lost. A year passed. Will’s Red Coat was published. On the afternoon of our last book tour event, after it was over, we drove off in Bill, our VW Beetle convertible. For sixty-one days, we took in the country. Down to Savannah, across to El Paso, with stops at the Grand Canyon, Pacific Ocean, Yosemite, the Redwoods, and further north. It was while riding on a curvy Oregon backroad toward Neskowin on the coast that I looked over at Samwise—and it hit me.

I’d felt all my adventures were spent. But there I was, on one more.

Another one of those golden moments that brings a tremble to my heart.

That trip was for Samwise and me what that first summer when Atticus and I hiked the 4,000-footers in eleven weeks had been. An adventure between brothers that tightened the bond.

That instant of recognition brought me back to life a few degrees more than I had been.

Five months later, there was another dog who needed a home. Others that came north from Houston had found homes, but not a wired little dark girl. We went to take photographs with her, hoping that would help find her a home. But when we met “Millie,” I asked if we could take her for a ride. Virginia knew then, I believe. We drove to Thorne Pond, and just as I did with Samwise that first day, I let her off-leash.

Unlike Samwise, Emily was a willful handful. But it’s all been worth it. Yet taking her in, I knew the dynamics would change. She needed a lot of attention.

We are a tightknit pack. Both are more bonded to me than to each other. In all the attention Em needed, it was easy to almost forget about my stoic Samwise. So, I have made efforts through these last two and a half years to give him as much attention as possible.

My health is better these days. Soon, you will come to understand why I made the changes I did. Suffice it to say it is important to me to always be here for my two friends. And yet, I still carry a piece of paper with me, in case my heart gives out again, or I have another stroke or one of the times I pass out on the trail I do not wake up, and it lets whoever finds me know where to bring Samwise and Emily.

That place is a loving home with friends who adore Samwise and Emily. I’ve often said that Samwise will be fine without me. But I’m not entirely sold on that. Perhaps I only mention it to make myself feel better.

For now, all I know is that we three are to live as purposefully and mindfully in the present as we do. Watching my magnificent friend stand in that wind and look out over forests of mysteries this morning, I realize I was meant to live so that he would too. And that is another bond between us.

That’s the joy in watching Sam and Em go about their days, for they truly do live. And so do I.

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Published on June 08, 2020 12:49

You Can Still Subscribe

I was not sure how today was going to go when I offered three options for subscription. One was to keep your free subscription (if you’ve received this, you have it). This will see to it that you get anywhere between one and three free posts delivered to your email each month.

The second option is to sign up for twelve posts a month. This costs $7 a month, or $70 a year.

The third option, WHICH IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE, included the twelve posts a month, and three pieces of mail sent to you monthly—two of them handwritten. The response was so overwhelming, I had to shut it off. I expected that maybe ten people would sign up for option three, but it flooded that number! I realized I would not be able to keep up with everyone with personal mail. I apologize.

The good news is that you can still follow along, see our vivid photographs of the mountains, Samwise, and Emily (and occasionally, me). And you can still subscribe to receive posts delivered directly to your email address.

Thank you for the rousing response. I am blown away!

PS: You can also send a gift subscription to a friend.

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Published on June 06, 2020 13:59

Letters Home

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Good day, everyone.

If you are reading this email, it means you’ve subscribed to my online journal. Thank you for being one of the 7,000 (and growing) readers to have followed me here.

Most of you come from my Following Atticus Facebook page. It’s been quite a popular place over the last nine years. Alas, Facebook has changed much in that time, and I’m lucky if five percent of you see my posts now. It’s beyond frustrating.

This is my chance to get back to basics. Before social media existed, I wrote the popular “The Adventures of Tom & Atticus” blog. It became the seeds that grew into the New York Times bestseller, “Following Atticus.”

I began the Facebook page on the urging of a kind marketing professional at William Morrow Books as a way to promote our story. It grew beyond my wildest imagination to the point where we had more than 230,000 followers. Alas, most never saw our posts. On a good day, five percent did.

At first, the page was a great connection between author and reader. Eventually, the numbers grew, but the readership of my books did not. I have longed to rekindle that connection with those looking for more than just photos of cute dogs. I have wanted to get back into reaching those who read. (Don’t worry, there will still be photos here of Samwise and Emily here.)

This is why I’ve invited you to join me.

The basis of my better writing has always been letters. Two weeks before the first draft of “Following Atticus” was due, I tossed it in the trash. It was not me. The writing was mechanical. Not the least bit heartfelt. To get those three hundred pages done, I decided to write each chapter as a letter to a grandchild I didn’t have. Yep, I made up Johnny and Becky and wrote them letters about a most incredible fellow named Atticus M. Finch.

If you open up to the prologue of “Following Atticus,” you’ll note that I began the book with an actual letter I’d written to my father.

Letters offer me an intimacy with those I am reaching out to. It’s writing to one person at a time. My best blog posts and Facebook posts have started that way—like letters to friends.

Each morning, I sit down and pen several letters a day. It’s the cornerstone of my peaceful life. I find it soul-centering.

The Facebook attention span did not always mix well with my writing. More often than not, over the last couple of years, I deleted half of the posts. I wanted a better way.

This is that way.

I’m going back to basics, back to where I once began writing about my life in the mountains.

I’m offering three options where my posts are delivered directly to your email inbox. You get to decide how often you wish to hear from me.

Option 1: Two free posts per month. You’re all currently signed up for this.

Option 2: Twelve posts per month. This option is $7/month or $70/year.

OPTION 3 HAS BEEN MAXED OUT AND IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE.

The basis of all of this is to let me re-connect with those I value most—my readers. And it allows you to decide how often you wish to hear from me.

Paid subscribers can read all posts on the blog by going through the archives. Then again, they’ll also be sent to your email. Those who chose the first option don’t have to pay anything, but you’ll still be sent a couple of posts each month. Consider them letters or the basis of a new chapter for my next book.

Thanks for being here.