Ocean and Bison Dreams

One of my friends is at her vacation home on Cape Cod this week, and I admit to some envy. Closing my eyes, I envision the salty sea’s scent; the rolling tide; seagulls riding the wind, crying out; sand under and around my bare feet.

I am a man of the mountains, of pastoral settings, verdant valleys, woodlands where the trees share their secrets, and crystal streams sing their songs. Yet, I do love the sea for all her charms and mysteries.

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Three years ago, when I took my first road trip at fifty-six years of age, it was only Samwise with me. I had Bill, the VW Beetle convertible. We drove down the east coast to Savannah, cut across the south until we hit the Gulf Coast, and spent time in the desert and the Sierra Nevada. So many memories. One day stands out above the others, though. Before dawn, we visited Sequoia National Park. I was stunned, inspired, and left in awe. It’s strange to say I underestimated giants, but I had. When we departed, we drove with the top down, descending from the highlands to rolling hills, to the orange groves below. Sam’s ears were flapping; his nose rode high to inhale the changing scents.

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After a long, uneventful drive, we made our way west to Santa Barbara. Oh my! Memories of the glistening Pacific, the palm trees—vastly different than the Sequoias, the salt air, the color of that distant and glorious sea; every bit of these makes me sigh. I am there again.

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There is nothing like the sea.

So while I’m thinking of my friend walking Teddy on the beach this morning, before the crowds on the Cape get to be too much, I genuinely am envious.

I wonder when, if ever, the kind of road trips we’ve taken over the last three years will be possible in the future. It’s not prudent or safe as COVID-19 continues to rage like a western wildfire. I no longer trust hotel rooms, and I would not want to subject others to any bit of virus I might have. The way to go is not to flit and fly from one place to the next, day after day. It’s to go and stay at a location, responsibly.

Yesterday, when I decided Emily needed a change of scenery from our hobbit hole after her surgery, we took a ride to get beets and kale at the Grand View Farm Stand in Conway. The crowds were incredible. The backed-up traffic. The throngs of people walking through North Conway village, very few with masks. Every hotel with ‘no vacancy’ signs out. Do folks not realize the seriousness of what we are facing, I wonder. Or is it that they do not care. Is it ignorance or arrogance?

My friend Tracy wears her mask dutifully when out and about. Her husband made fun of her and refused to wear one. It was an “overreaction” on her part. A few weeks ago, the father of a friend of his, the kind of man who was never sick a day in his life, caught the coronavirus. Within a week, he was dead. Tracy’s husband now wears a mask.

While watching couples walking hand-in-hand through the village, there were several where the woman wore a mask, but the man did not.

I’ve come to see the wearing of masks as science and safety over convenience. Of empathy and consideration, over ignorance and selfishness.

My friend Betsi at the West Side Road farm stand chases those with masks away.

“Please,” she tells them, “I don’t want to get sick. And I don’t want you or those I care about to get sick either. Please take this seriously.”

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Emily is recovering nicely. It’s only four days post-surgery, and she is getting back to being herself. Her tail is wagging more; her ears ride higher. She hates her crate, almost as much as I do, but goes in it willingly when asked with respect. When Samwise and I return from morning walks that feel akin to two friends who have had a vital portion of themselves amputated, we are all reunited, and there is joy. Letting her out of her jail, I have to calm Emi down. She wants to jump and lick, frolic, and rub against me in celebration. She so wants to wrestle Samwise.

Four yoga mats help her scoot around our little hobbit hole with ease, even as she continues to hold her right leg up, that it is hard to keep track of her. She follows me everywhere, since the only time she is in her crate is when Samwise and I go walking.

In the backyard, where I only take her so she can urinate and defecate, I realize I do not need her sling to hold her up. But she is leashed. Thank goodness. For this morning, she wanted to take flight! It was a good sign, and the first belly laugh I’ve had in a week.

This rehab will last nearly five months. It will be worth it in the end. But five months is a long time. No wonder I’m dreaming of traveling. Last night I sent a text to an Iowa friend.

“What do you say we all meet up in Colorado when this shit passes over?”

“Any particular part of Colorado?”

Not really. In our two western trips, it’s the one state we’ve not been in, other than a quick early morning visit to Mesa Verde National Park and a night in Durango.

With the pandemic lockdown earlier this year and our current Emily lockdown, I am dreaming of adventure again. Blessed are our memories and imagination.

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Three years ago today, Samwise and I were in the Badlands, hanging out one last time with the bison. We took a back road into the National Park and saw a herd a hundred yards away. We pulled over, got out of Bill, and sat on the side of the road, watching them graze. There were no other humans within at least a mile. For the second time of that trip, bison came to us. Closer and closer they moved as if they did not care we were there. Within a half an hour, they formed a semi-circle close to us. A bull ventured forward, his tongue swishing effortlessly, seeking us out. A good sign, a ranger told me, “Means they are relaxed.” He stuck his tongue out, slowly moved his massive head in our direction, now just feet away. Another ranger told me about this in Montana.

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“It’s one of the ways they smell.”

Closer still.

Both Samwise and I were mesmerized and comfortable by their nearness. The bull lowered his head and then raised it. Snout-to-freaking remarkable-snout, bison and canine touched with the softness of a feather. Two species coming together. Two worlds. A sense of an understanding I’ll never know.

With my health, being what it was, I cried as we left the bison that morning, headed toward home. I knew I might never see them again.

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We saw them in several places last year, taking joy in introducing Emily to their majesty. Once again, Samwise received a kiss. This time, I captured it.

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Yes, thank goodness for memories. Thank goodness for dreams. I hope we Americans can learn to show the same responsibility and patience for this dreadful virus that the three of us are now exercising with Emily’s restructured knee.

Please, everyone, be safe. Try to take care of one another. Wear a mask. It’s a way of being kind. Treat each other as Samwise and the bison do.

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