There is a yoga routine that many people do in the mornings, called Sun Salutation; it's one's way of stretching in the right manner, mentally preparing oneself for the day, and basically greeting the morning. I'm not a yoga person (yet), but I have my own Sun Salutation--my morning walk. Sometimes I'm joined by my husband, my neighbor Julie, or visiting friends or family; but always I'm with my dog Carly. Wintertime walks are relatively short--2.5 to 3 miles. When spring and summer arrive, however, we do a four-miler nearly every morning. It is a habit which I am now driven to do. My day is all wonky if I don't get my morning walk in--after nearly three years of this, it's a physical, mental, and spiritual need. I'm lucky in that we live in a very walkable neighborhood, which happens to be next to a huge swath of open forest, where we hook into a network of trails that wind for miles through the woods. The entire walk can be done without putting Carly on a leash, which makes it extra special--she gets to run, sniff, and (as you'll see soon) play with the neighborhood dogs. While I get to enjoy nature in all its glory and "see the forest for the trees," Carly on the other hand sees the forest for the sticks. And the sticks, it appears, are in all the wrong places. According to Carly, they must be put in their proper spots.
Things start out innocently enough. The first half-mile is down our road. We greet Denali, who is always happy to see us (probably because we've started giving her a little treat). Sometimes, we meet up with Dakota, another neighbor's Spitz, who crouches down and gets ready to pounce when Carly trots by--they play and romp a bit, and we move on.
Denali
Dakota
At the end of the road, we are generally greeted by what everyone in the 'hood affectionately calls "The Tribe." Max, the redhead, Charlie, the brunette, and Buddy, the blonde. Max and Charlie are from one home, Buddy from another--Buddy is like the neighborhood kid who hangs out at neighbor Charlie and Max's house because he's bored at home. Most of my pictures of them are of their rear ends as they're trotting along, but to give you an idea:
Sometimes, they'll continue on with us for a bit and turn around when they feel like it, making their way home. Other times, they don't bother following at all; or, better yet, they'll come the entire length of our walk. It's up to them and we enjoy the company.
But it's here that we get off the road and onto a trail (some old logging road). Leaving any potential car interactions behind, the dogs are free to roam, and things get interesting. There are almost always new animal tracks along the trail--deer, elk, raccoon, skunk, turkey, coyote, and yes, even bear. We've seen deer, elk, and coyote (that's when the leash comes out), and honestly, I'm glad I haven't seen a raccoon, skunk, or bear. Regardless, knowing they're right here in our neighborhood is pretty cool.
Getting onto the trail
Elk track
Deer track
The Tribe and Us
We push onwards. Sunlight reaches the tops of the trees; it's that true quiet time when the wind hasn't picked up yet, the birds are waking up, and you can hear the crunch of dirt, pine needles, and twigs under your feet as you step along. Just when I think things are perfect, Carly finds a stick that is out of place and must be moved. She grabs it and carries it with her until something tells her to move off trail and find its correct spot. When the correct spot is found, she gently lets go of the stick, putting it in its correct position. The forest then becomes more balanced, and we move on until the next wrongly-placed stick comes along and the process repeats itself.
You'll note that these are not little sticks. No. They are more like mini-logs. Sometimes Carly's mouth is open so wide to take a stick in, when she finally places it in its correct position in the forest she must rotate her jaw back and forth to get it un-cramped before she can get going again. Sacrificing her comfort in the name of designing a better forest, I guess.
I can't tell a good stick from a bad stick. I'll suggest some sticks to Carly that may be out of place by pointing them out or shuffling them a bit with my foot, but alas, no. Only she can determine the true misplaced stick.
So I give up on helping her re-arrange the forest, and concentrate on the visuals. We walk along the Mogollon (prounounced "Moe-ghee-on") Rim, which is actually the southern edge of the Colorado Plateau--the geologic formation that gives us Grand Canyon, Petrified Forest, Zion, Bryce, Arches, Canyonlands, and the Colorado River. The Mogollon Rim stretches for nearly two hundred miles between Williams, AZ and the Arizona's eastern boundary with New Mexico, splitting the state geographically, topographically, and climatically, in half. There's southern Arizona (hot low desert, mesquite bosques, grasslands), the Rim, then northern Arizona (forests, cool weather, snow, and cold high desert). The Rim is where several vegetation types mix--pinyon/juniper habitat mixes with ponderosa pine, which mixes with firs and spruces. The Rim is also where you can get a nice view; these photos don't do it justice.
Atop the Mogollon Rim
View from the Rim
A hardy Alligator Juniper
Further on down the trail, another nice view
We often take the opportunity to explore other paths. One day, we followed an old road down through a meadow, and found ourselves walking through a thicker forest that eventually opened up into a wider, rocky canyon. Bruce's initial reaction upon stumbling across this lovely area was "this is really good mountain lion habitat." Great. I generally don't walk that route by myself with just Carly, but I will if I have Bruce, or Buddy and Charlie, along. Working our way up and out of that canyon one day, Buddy and Charlie flushed a Dusky Grouse (highly unusual at that elevation, they're normally much higher). Things like that make us aware that nature is always full of surprises.
Making our way through the meadow
Reaching the entrance to the canyon
At the canyon bottom--groves of Gambel's oak,
large ponderosa pines, and often, Carly with a stick
When Carly first started carrying and moving sticks, my husband remarked that she is, possibly, the world's finest "feng shui" expert of the forest. I agree. Sometimes the sticks are so out of place, she must carry them for miles. Other sticks just need to be moved a few hundred yards. Yet other sticks don't belong in the forest at all, and must be brought home, or at least as close as possible to the house.
After walking back up through the canyon, we loop back onto our regular trail and go back the way we came, sometimes diverting off onto other game trails--trails made by wandering elk (or more likely, cows and feral horses, which we see regularly).
No humans made this trail--animals did
Carly continues to carry her chosen stick of the day as we approach the end of the forest part of the trail. Trotting back down our road, she is hell-bent on bringing that stick home. Meeting up with Denali or Dakota (or even the Tribe if they didn't walk with us), forget about it. It's Stick Time.
We get comments from our neighbors who often ask if Carly can drop her sticks off at their house, because they'd like the firewood. She ignores them, and instead keeps trotting homeward. When we get to the ditch in front of our neighbor's property, Carly starts slowing down and pondering where her stick should go. Sometimes she brings it all the way home and into our yard. Other times, she drops it off in strategic locations along our neighbor's bar ditch. I don't know if he's ever noticed the growing number of sticks that magically appear along his ditch--if he has, he either doesn't mind, doesn't know it's Carly, or just doesn't really care. He's a nice guy.
At our house, though, at some point, we have to collect the sticks. We have two piles, here's one:
Sometimes, especially during the winter when we're relegated to just walking the roads because the forest is too muddy, snowy, or wet, Carly ends up having moved most of the accessible sticks and she can't find ones to carry. So, we toss the pile of sticks we've amassed into the bed of Bruce's truck, and Bruce drives down the road very slowly while I sit in back and "salt" the road with the sticks--repopulating the forest with misplaced sticks (I know, I'm so mean). I can see Bruce in the driver's seat, shaking his head thinking "I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm a man, dammit, not a slave to this dog." Dream on, buddy. We're both slaves to this dog.
And that's my morning. Can you not see how addicting it is, just knowing that new things await me in the forest--maybe new tracks, maybe another Dusky Grouse; maybe we'll see that pair of nesting Northern Flickers feeding their babies in that one tree. I know when to start listening for Spotted Towhees, and where the Western Tanagers and Plumbeous Vireos generally sing. I know it's really spring when the Western Bluebirds start appearing. I become aware of the rhythm of the seasons. I'll look behind me on occasion to see Carly tagging along, stick in mouth, and I know my Sun Salutation is working. I'm ready for what lies ahead because this morning, I saw beauty, animals, trees, and vistas, despite how obviously messed up the forest is with those darn messy sticks. I'll leave that one highly critical detail up to Carly.
