Still Life with Woodpecker*

It's a writing day...as is every day between now and our June 1st deadline. But it's also a beautiful day. With spring greening up the backyard I've forsaken my writing room as of late and set up a small table by the window looking out into the backyard. Often Atticus sits on top of the table next to the computer and watches the birds come and go. Or on a pleasant day, like today, the door is left open so he can come and go as he pleases. Since I'm sitting right here he's never out of sight when he goes out.

The open door policy and my temporary writing desk is throwing off a few of the birds who aren't sure what to make of Atti and me being so close to their food. Even the bold woodpeckers are a bit leery about us. But not dear, sweet Amelia, who is used to being around us by now.

These are not the best photos but it gives you an idea of how comfortable she is around Atti and me. The door is open and Atticus is right there while Amelia is on the suet feed above him. She thinks little of coming and going and there are times she'll spend a couple of minutes at the suet feeder and not bother eating. Instead she just looks over at me just two feet away.

The other day I didn't have the suet feeder up yet - I take it down at night because of the bears - but the door was open and she landed on the sill of the window in the door and gave out a squawk. When I hung it up she was the first one in line.

Now many of you might think this is all kind of silly but my father would have loved it. For years his best company were the birds that came to the feeder outside his kitchen window. He'd sit at the kitchen table smoking his cigarettes, having a cup of tea, writing and listening to classical music on the radio. (Other than the cigarettes that's what I'm doing today.) Jack Ryan loved the little interaction he had with the birds and enjoyed when a few were bold enough to come close. He kept a small disposable camera near for such occasions. Boy would have have loved the digital cameras of today!

*A tribute to Tom Robbins.

Atticus Feeling His Inner Bear

Ever since our recent bear encounters with, what we believe is the same fellow, Atticus has had a yearning to hang out with other bears. So, as you might imagine, when we passed these guys on the side of the road we just had to pull over and check them out. Since he's become 'Brother Bear' not sure if you can tell which one he is. He thinks he fits right in!

The fellow who carved these remarkable little bears is Alan Reynolds. In case you are interested his business is called Images In Wood Studio and he lives in Lancaster, New Hampshire. He parks each Saturday in the parking lot between the Irving Station and the Dairy Queen in Glen right down the road from us. If it rains on Saturday, as it did yesterday, he's there on Sundays.

Mother's Day...And It's Snowing

Happy Mother's Day to Sadie and Isabel, our mothers. Both are long gone. But oh, what fun they're having if they are looking down on Atticus and me right now. If it's true that parents want a better life for their children than they had, even if they didn't have a bad life, then they are happy in heaven these days.

It was in the 80s here the other day, but proving that this is indeed spring in the mountains of New England, it's actually snowing out. It's not a settling kind of snow; it's just spitting. Occasionally the pace picks up and it whips across our faces, but it's nothing to be concerned about. Because it is so chilly this morning we have a lot of visitors coming and going this morning. Amelia, already was on the suet feeder, then when Bernard, the male woodpecker, named for one of the characters in Tom Robbins' "Still Life with Woodpecker" showed up at the feeder she flew inside and sat on the window two feet above the love seat where Atticus and I are. Funny bird. And a funny dog. She looked down at us calmly. He looked up at her just as calmly. She comes in so often Atticus is used to her and she's obviously used to us.

I dropped some seeds for the Blue Jays on the stone patio but before they could get to it the She-Munk filled her cheeks. When I was taking her picture I looked up and saw a beautiful new visitor. As a birder I'm ignorant but my The Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America tells me he's a Rose-breasted Grosbeak.

Greetings From Mount Stanton & Mount Pickering

Please don’t tell anyone, but Atticus and I climbed a 4,000-footer this week. As a matter of fact over the past few weeks we’ve climbed several 4,000-footers. We’re just trying to keep it quiet.

You see we have these friends who are obsessed with the mania of collecting 4,000-footers. Like most hikers they set out to climb each of the 48. Then like some of us they took it to the extreme and attempted to do them all in winter. Some of us have even attempted to do them all in one winter. But there are those who go even further. They are obsessed with climbing each of the 48 in all four seasons. Then if the bug really bites them they will try to do them all in each of the 12 months. In a recent column I reported that this is called doing “The Grid”. It used to be only a select group of long time hikers did “The Grid”, and it was mostly by circumstance. They hiked long enough and often enough that one day they looked up and realized they’d done them in each of the 12 months. People thought it was pretty cool when the first guy did it. They also thought it was cool when a handful of others did it, too. But lately, it seems like a lot of people are taking it to the extreme and it’s their goal to finish “The Grid”. A year or two ago I checked out a woman’s hiking blog and while she hadn’t even climbed half of the 48 one time through, she was keeping track of how she was doing on “The Grid”. That’s 576 peaks or 48 peaks 12 times each.

And she’s not the only one. There are many who are equally obsessed these days. It’s a strange phenomenon brought on by the Internet. ‘On-line’ everyone has a chance to be somebody, even if they really are nobody. All they have to do is post their accomplishments and suddenly they are somebody…I guess.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying those obsessed with peak-bagging are wasting their time. They have every right to do what they want to do in these mountains. I’m just saying I was wasting my time when I was doing it. I enjoyed doing the 48 with Atticus. And I enjoyed using the 48 in winter as a fundraising tool, but other than that it didn’t really mean anything to me. Just as getting a patch and a scroll from the Appalachian Mountain Club for hiking the 4000-footers didn’t mean anything – so we didn’t do it. I mean what is Atticus going to do with a patch and scroll? (He’d rather have a cookie.) Walt Whitman had it right when comparing animals to people, and peakbagging hadn’t even been invented yet:

“I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid and self contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.”

If you ever have gone for a walk in the woods with a dog you know it’s a joyous, carefree dance with the earth. There are aromas, places to run and jump, things to look at and other creatures to see. And they look at things as if they’re seeing them for the very first time even if they’ve seen them time and time again.

When a dog is in the woods he is completely aware of the experience. And when he is done he doesn’t go running to write down what he’s just accomplished. They get something to eat and drink and then they lie down and take a nap. They are spent and content.

The best part about a hiking, if you are a dog, I think, is that they get to spend the day playing with us. Well, they are playing at least. To some human hikers the weekly jaunt in the woods has turned into a responsibility. They say, “I need Mount Hale this month.”

“I need”? What happened to fun? They “need” and when they are done they hurry back to their laptop and log on to a hiking site and let the hiking world know what they’ve accomplished. Don’t let anyone fool you. Peakbagging, more often than not, is a solipsistic exercise.

There are three hikers in the Whites I admire more than any of the others I’ve met. They are the antithesis of the ego-driven hiker. And it just so happens Atticus and I met them during our first summer up here and we continue to call them friends. The first is Steve Smith, the owner of the Mountain Wanderer Map & Book Store in Lincoln. Steve’s also an author of several books about the Whites, a columnist in the Mountain Ear, and a blogger. The other two are Ken and Ann Stampfer. Ken’s a photographer whose photos are used in Steve’s books and are sold at the store.

Between the three of them they have more than 50 years of hiking experience and yet each time they venture out into the woods they do so with a sense of wonder. They are the least list-motivated people I know.

Atticus and I have hiked with Ken and Ann several times. While we've never hiked with Steve we had the good fortune of running into him on the Tripyramids one winter day. None of them have been jaded by time. Each trip is still full a joy and a chance for them to renew themselves again and again. But I suspect what keeps them fresh and excited about these mountains is that their motivation comes from within. It's not an external, competitive thing. They've found their peace here and they've discovered how to hold onto it.

I learned a lot from the three of them that first summer and winter. They’d done all the 4,000-footers but they also understand the beauty and charm of places that aren’t quite that high. During the last few years they’ve pointed us in various directions and the results have been memorable.

It is because of the influence of Ann, Ken and Steve that when I was asked to submit an essay for a book about peak experiences in the Whites, I used a story about a journey up little Mount Pemigewasset. After all, it’s not about the size of the mountain that matters. It’s about the experience of getting to the peak.

I am more than happy to let you know that Atticus and I hiked Mount Stanton and Mount Pickering this morning. Neither peak tops out above 2,000 feet. As far as the 4,000-footers we’ve done recently, I’m not talking, although you might be able to get it out of Atticus if you offer him a treat. Then again, he could care less if you know which peaks we do. That’s the best part about him.

(For those of you who are list obsessed, just to drive you a little crazy, we stopped keeping track of the 4,000-footers we have climbed these past four years, but know it's well over 400.)

Our Jackson Beavers

This evening, between writing and more writing, Atticus nudged me away from the desk and we headed over to the beaver pond to sit for a spell. Only one of the industrious fellows was out and about tonight but he gave us some great shots. They really are remarkable creatures and they're so used to us sitting there watching them they don't pay much attention to us.

Amelia

Some of you wrote in about Amelia and the She-Munk. You saw the cute, little coquettish rodent yesterday, but you haven't seen Amelia, until now. In one photo she's at the suet feeder on the door. In the others she's taken her wrong turn and is sitting on the windowsill inside looking out, and looking more than a little flustered at getting lost again.

As you may recall, I named her after Amelia Earhart because of her beauty, her love of flight, but also because of her unfortunate tendency to get lost. A.E. only got lost once (that I know of), unlike my neighborly woodpecker who seems to get lost every third day or so, but it was a tragic 'once'. In honor of A.E., here's a song my dear friend Sarah turned me onto.

These Guys Crack Me Up

My father hated blue jays.

"They're pigs," he said. "They hog all the food and push the smaller birds out of the way."

I can't say as I hate them. I think they're beautiful. But I agree, they are pigs. They do hog all the food. And these guys crack me up the way they gather around together. So much for individuality. They walk alike, squawk alike, they even dress alike. Kind of reminds me of how bikers clump together during Bike Week. (Think if I had a Harley [with a side car for Atticus, of course] I'd be seeking out places where other bikers didn't go. It's the whole freedom thing. And yes, it's kind of like hiking: a few people do the Grid and others blindly follow...so much for hiking your own hike. Okay, that's enough editorializing for tonight.)

Recently someone actually called me a "bad person" because I continue to feed the birds now that the bears are out of hibernation. In the name of compromise I now take the feeders in after the birds are done eating each evening and put them back up in the morning. Besides, I don't see the Shannon Door Pub or the Thompson House Eatery or the JTown Deli closing down because the bears like their respective dumpsters.

But the blue jays have been a problem the last few days and they've been bullying the finches. Not a fair fight. So, once again, in the spirit of compromise, I put some sunflower seeds down for them away from the feeder and now they eat well, as do the finches. Detente.

Now all I to do is teach them a thing or two about individuality. You know, telling them they each need to fly their 'freak flag'. Anyone got an old copy of Richard Bach's Jonathon Livingston Seagull lying around?

The Local Flirt

This is our local flirt. I call her the She-Munk.

Look closely, you'll see her. I say ‘her’ but she may be a he; I'm just too polite to ask. When I go outside she thinks nothing of me and just hangs out. But once Atticus shows up she skitters away like a little school girl giggling out loud. I say 'giggling' because it's obviously a game to her. She's not really afraid of Atticus; I think she just likes to be chased. Once he turns his back on her she pops up again. He looks her way and she's gone again. A simple game of playing hard to get.

This afternoon there was a nice breeze so Atticus and I sat out back for a bit. He and the She-Munk played hide and seek - although Atti is always the one doing the seeking. (I'm going to have to talk to him about that.) It was so nice out I left the back door open when we came back in to my writing room and sat down at my desk. Atticus curled up on his blanket and it was only a minute or so before he fell asleep. A few minutes passed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the She-Munk creeping across the kitchen floor. She gets to the writing room and peers around the corner.

She looks up at me as if to say, "Hey, how's it going?" Then she turns her gaze to Atticus. She's interested in him and wants to make sure he's really asleep. She watches him intently, but calmly for a good thirty seconds. Meanwhile I'm cussing because the camera is in the other room. Atticus lets out a slight snort in his sleep and she jumps up and runs back into the kitchen. A minute later, realizing she's not being chased, she comes back and sits in the doorway and cleans herself. She could care less about me; she's just wants to look presentable once Atti wakes up. (Ah, the story of my life...) She literally sits in the doorway for five minutes until Amelia shows up at the suet feeder hanging on the back door.

I know it's Amelia (and not another bird) because she's taken the wrong turn and is stuck in the house once again. I can't see her but I can hear her frustration. Amelia's beating wings are like an alarm and the little She-Munk skedaddles through the kitchen and into the backyard.

Meanwhile Atticus, now awake, comes with me while I rescue Amelia...once again. He sits in front of the day bed and watches as she flaps her wings in exasperation. I gently place a waste paper basket over her and push it flat against the window. I slide a piece of cardboard over it and carry Amelia outside. Atticus follows. When I slide the cardboard off the top of the waste paper basket she doesn't fly out in a hurry like she did the first couple of times. This, after all, has become old hat for both of us. I decide to sit down and let Atticus look in on Amelia. She looks up at him and both remain calm as their eyes meet. I suggest to Amelia that she may want to invest in a GPS. Looking at Atti she's thinking more of a seeing eye dog. Eventually she takes off and flies back to the dead tree she lives in.

Meanwhile the She-Munk has been watching from the grass. I'm thinking she's a little jealous of Amelia and Atticus and when he doesn't notice her after a while she stands up and says, "Woo Hoo! Big boy, come and get me!” (At least that's what I think she was saying.) Atti gives chase and she giggles all the way to the safety of the cracks in the rock wall. After a few minutes of looking for her and finding only the echo of her taunting giggles he gives up and comes and sits by me again. Then the She-Munk can't help herself so she climbs the tiniest tree right next to us and does a pole dance. I remind Atticus to be ‘gentle’ and he sits next to me watching her just two feet away.

Bored by not being chased she eventually climbs all the way up the little tree until it bends down like you see in cartoons and she lands softly on a rock and giggles before going home.

At her departure Atti looks at me as if to say, “Dames!” I simply shrug and say, “Yep, dames!”

And to think some people actually worry that I have a boring life now that I’m not watching Newburyport politics any longer.

Always Listen To Your Dog

The end of May is only a month away. Why does that matter, you ask? It matters because it's my deadline to have the manuscript for "Following Atticus" into the capable hands of my editor at William Morrow, Cassie Jones.

Now some would think this could be a time of great pressure...and I suppose it is. However, I'm a former newspaperman, and while I only published every two weeks, I still dealt with 24 deadlines a year. There's something in them that makes the blood move a little faster, the brain a bit sharper, the natural talent come flushing forward. There's no more time to over think a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter.

The way I look at it, life is really very simple right now. There's nothing else to do but take walks with Atticus and write. How great is that? And when I've been sitting too long in front of the computer and my back aches and my eyes are a bit out of focus I'm reminded it's time to take a break when I feel Atti's nose pushing up against my leg as if to say, "Hey big buy, let's take a break."

Always listen to your dog. He knows best.

He certainly did this afternoon when his nose touched my leg. So we took a drive down to Lucy Hardware to pick up some more suet and birdseed. Then we took a walk through the woods over to Carter Notch Road. It was too early for the beavers to be out so we just sat by the pond for about 20 minutes. Then we walked down over to Jackson Falls and sat there for a while. That's where these shots were taken.

The falls will always hold a sentimental place in my heart for this is where I did my telephone interviews with Cassie and Seale Ballenger, a V.P. in charge of publicity for William Morrow, before they offered us a contract. (I also interviewed with other folks there too, thanks to the wonders of cell phones.) It was where I was sitting a few days after that when Brian DeFiore, my agent, called to discuss our options when three publishers offered preempts. And it was where I sat listening to him on a Monday evening read off the results of the one day, one bid, blind auction for "Following Atticus".

Those are nice memories to have associated with such a beautiful place. But even if I didn't have those memories I'd still appreciate Jackson Falls. And so today when Atticus and I sat there watching the water rush by I couldn't help but think how lucky we are to live in this town and to be surrounded by the natural resources we have here.

Over the next month, I imagine Atticus and I will be taking plenty of head-clearing walks to the falls for a little relaxation.

The Jackson Beavers

Compared to our life back in Newburyport, we lead a rather simple, but blissful existence these days. One of our simple pleasures here in Jackson is walking to the top of the falls, then taking a right onto Valley Cross Road to the beaver pond. We've seen moose and a bear there in the past, but the beavers are always there. Typically we visit with them during the last two hours of daylight, as we did yesterday. Last year I counted five. So far this year I've only seen three.

They are cute and bold and industrious. They don't mind Atticus and, as in the case of the bear the other day or the bat a little while ago, Atticus is respectful of them. He sits and watches them and they'll swim to within a few feet of the shore. Perhaps that's because from time to time we bring them apples and feed them.

People staying in one of the local inns often come looking for moose and when they don't see one many aren't all that impressed with the beavers and they leave disappointed. I always amazed by this. How often does one get to see beavers up close like this?

Our Morning Visitor: The Bear

Last week, while on a walk in the some local woods, we had a remarkable encounter with a bear. It was one of those fleeting moments that will be with me for the rest of my life.

This morning we had a visitor. I believe it was the same bear - but what do I know? He was right up at our back door with his sharp claws and big snout. At first he sniffed at the bird feeder and then grabbed the suet feeder. He then ambled down off of the raised stone patio as leisurely as if he had just been through the drive thru at McDonald's, his big black behind swaying lazily as he walked. At one point he stopped and looked over his shoulder at us as Atticus and I were now outside and standing on the patio.

Eventually he settled down at the far reaches of our lawn where it meets the woods just above the river. He was relaxed, at ease, and happily munching on the suet after he opened the container. Of course none of this will sit well with Amelia, our wayward woodpecker who is a regular at the suet feeder. (Not to worry, Amelia, we went to Lucy Hardware and picked up another feeder this afternoon.)

Atticus is always Atticus and will always be Atticus. He was excited about saying hello but when I whispered, "Gentle..." to him he settled down and watched. Bear, dog, man. All three of us once again close to each other and yet quite comfortable. No stress. No worries. Nothing but just the thread that connects all of us.

For the second time in two weeks the bear gave us the gift of his company. And once again I looked on Atticus with amazement as he sat and watched the bear. It's in his nature to sit and watch. Not sure many other dogs would do that. But I never doubt that this is exactly what Atticus will always do.

Atticus M. Isn't The Only Finch Here

Jack Ryan was a curious man. He could flirt with the best of them and charm a smile onto the face of the grouchiest cashier in one of Medway's stores, but he wasn't all that friendly to his kids. As my father got older and all of us had moved out of the house he enjoyed our visits, but he was happiest when we didn't stay very long. Like many elderly in New England, in the spring, summer and fall he had the Red Sox and their 162 game season to keep him company. Never underestimate the importance of all those games to people who live on their own. It's like they have friends coming over for a visit and you can count on those very familiar faces always being there. The other visitors my father loved were the birds outside his kitchen window. He'd sit at the table, smoke slowly swirling up in a vine from his cigarette, cup of tea in front of him, and gaze out at the birds that would come to his feeder. He'd done this for years, even when some of us were still living with him. And he always kept a birding book on the window sill.

I turn 49 in two days and I realize more and more just how many of my father's habits I've picked up. He loved to write and to read. He loved the White Mountains and he loved his birds. Out in the world he was quite social, but behind closed doors he was private. Well here I am, sitting her this morning with Atticus, as we look out at the birds at our feeder. Finches. Lots of finches! And there are two regular woodpeckers that feed at the suet hanging from the door.

I call the female woodpecker Amelia, because there are times when I have the door open that she comes to feed on the suet but gets lost in leaving and ends up trapped inside the house and not outside. We've become quite good, Amelia and I, at getting her out of the house. I approach her as she sits on the widow sill looking out to where she wants to get to and I gently place a wastepaper basket over her and tight on the window. Then I slide a piece of cardboard between the glass and the basket and take her outside. The first time I did this she panicked. However, in the subsequent times she's been much calmer. It's as if she knows I'm not going to hurt her. The last time I did it I took the cardboard away from the top so she could fly back to the dead tree she lives in (who said Jackson doesn't have affordable living?), but she just sat there looking up at me. Amelia, as I wrote a friend the other day, either has a horrible sense of direction or she's coming on to me. Not sure which.

On Saturday we had a fresh snowfall that had the birds flocking to our bird feeder outside the kitchen window. Oh, and what a crowd it was! Mostly all of them were different colored finches.

I've yet to perfect the art of catching their wings in flight with my camera but as I sat there taking picture after picture the other day I decided I'd put together a slide show. It's something my father would have loved. Here it is.

April Is Such A Tease.

Lots of blue skies and sunshine lately...and now snow this morning. At least someone is happy about it.

Slide Show: Blue Skies & Sunshine

While telling a friend about the beauty of Jackson, in an email I described the walk we do on the "Jackson Loop" which takes us out Carter Notch Road to Moody Farm Road to Black Mountain Road then back to our house. I thought I'd add a little visual to what I wrote so I brought a camera with me and took some shots highlighting some of the loop. You can see it here.

A Walk in the Woods

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler."

~ Henry David Thoreau

This morning it was only 38 degrees when we started our walk but the sun was already warming the earth. The sky was bright blue and optimistic, without hardly a cloud to be seen, and I longed for something a little different in our morning walk. Instead of taking the little loop, which cuts through the Wentworth Golf Club course, and then loops through the village, or the big loop, which goes all the way up to Black Mountain and takes us two hours, we cut through a cross country ski trail accessible from Mirror Lake Road.

From time to time I think about my friends back in Newburyport and how surprised they were when I gave up my paper, politics and Newburyport herself, to lead this most unusual life. And when I typically think of them is when I enter a forest and leave the light of day behind. For that’s what I did. I chose the enchantment of the forest, the murmuring streams, the clean air, the magic of the mountains, over a more predictable life. And that’s what I felt like this morning, wondering how many friends were stuck in traffic on their way to work back down in Massachusetts while Atticus and I entered the woods.

The forest is just waking up these days, with ambitious green plants poking up through earthen floor and birdsong filling falling like autumn leaves from the branches above. I brought my iPod with me but decided nothing could be more beautiful than the sound of those birds in their springtime chorus. Soon my own breath joined the forest noises as I labored up a steep hill and began to sweat. I stopped to catch my breath and just looked around. The trees were dark and thick but she sky could be seen through the dense branches above and the sun, which by now had risen above the small mountains on the eastern side of Jackson, sent fingers of gold into the darkness.

At that moment I didn’t want to go on. Not for a little while at least. There are such few times that life reminds you how peaceful it can be. How rare and priceless those moments are. There are times in childhood when we are drunk with wonder at the mysteries of a primeval forest, but in adulthood? I know by own experience that I’d lost track of such experiences for decades. I was too busy fitting in with society to remember the magic of my childhood. Luckily, because of this little dog I live with, I regained that period in my life and once I did I didn’t want to let it go again.

There Atticus and I stood, on the side of a hill, on an earthen path, with the song of spring all around us. There was nothing to want or need. We had it all – pure peace.

G. K. Chesterton, an English writer who died 75 years ago, was alive and well this morning. It was Chesterton who wrote: “The only words that ever satisfied me as describing Nature are the terms used in fairy books, ‘charm’, ‘spell’, ‘enchantment’. They express the arbitrariness of the fact and its mystery.”

Well put, G.K., for we were in fairy tale mode. This is exactly what you expect in a forest when you first learn of the fairy tales of old. It’s alive with possibilities and mysteries. Enchantment is the best possible word. And you just never know what will pop out of the woods: a wood elf; hobbit; sprite, or something else.

This morning it was “something else”.

My reverie stopped for a moment at the sound of a snapping twig and with Atticus spinning around on the trail to look up the shoulder of the hill we were on. Eventually it came into view – the biggest bear I’ve ever seen in the mountains. Because it was by itself I figured it was a male.

I stood still and made a gesture to Atticus to be gentle and he sat down next to me and we watched this incredible beast making its way towards us. It ambled slowly down the hill, its huge mass weaving through the trees. Just 10 yards away and slightly above us, it climbed on top of a boulder as if it was posing for us. He didn’t care that we were there. He didn’t even seem to notice us, although I’m positive he did. And we stood transfixed by the sight of him, by the sheer size of him.

Time gets hazy during such moments. Seconds seem to last for minutes; minutes for hours. But no matter how short a time the three of us shared the forest together in close proximity of each other, it is something I knew at that moment that I could never forget.

Lately I’m practicing my gratitude. I start each day with five minutes of meditation about things I’m grateful for in my life. That’s what where my mind went at that moment.

After having been captivated by the by grandeur of the White Mountains but still living in Newburyport and writing The Undertoad, I dreamed of finding a way to sell my paper and make money as a writer while living in the mountains with Atticus. The poet Robert Frost, and his little house in Franconia, often came to mind. He’d write, walk the woods, do some hiking and not worry about money. I considered it a perfect life but it also seemed nothing more than a dream.

The bear looked at us directly and then swung his huge rump around and moved slowly through the trees and out of sight. That’s when it hit me: the life I am leading is the life I dreamed of living. There we were, in the darkest of forests, sharing it with a gigantic bear, feeling the tingle of childhood, the wonder of childhood everywhere around me and when we were done with our walk I was going to head home and work on my book…just as Robert Frost had done all those years ago.

There are moments when you realize that these are indeed the times of your life. This morning was one of them.

From Our Walk This Morning