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1-03-2007 Jim Atwell What a feat! When I talk about the hike's length, I don't undercut the drama by admitting we stretched it across most of a week. Mike's wife Barbara would set us on the trail each morning and, in the late afternoon, pick us up, 15 miles down the Way. She'd then drive us home to showers, supper, and a good night's sleep before hauling us to the previous day's stopping point. That's an effete sort of hiking, I know; but cut us some slack! We were both desk jockeys, middle-aged college administrators. To us, the trek seemed heroic, and still does. In fact, more so now. For we've been telling stories about it ever since, and certain elaborations have crept in. Michael, for instance, still dines out on his account of a violent windstorm that ripped the pants of my yellow rain suit (dry-rotted, it turned out) right off my legs. I had to finish the day's hike in a sort of yellow plastic kilt. When we stumbled out of driving rain and into a village pub for lunch, Mike claims my bizarre appearance made all the regulars pay up and leave. He also claims that on another day's afternoon I gave him an American high-energy bar that, once eaten, began dehydrating every part of his body. "I felt my tongue sticking to my teeth, and my eyeballs were being drawn into my skull! Then I read the warning on the label that James' ‘health bar' must only be consumed with at least a full quart of water. Trusting my friend, I had accepted and eaten something that almost mummified me!" Of course when I tell stories of the hike, I don't exaggerate like that. But the hike did give me one grand story, especially for dog lovers. A decade ago, I shared part of it with you in a column; now, as a New Year's gift, let me lay out the full story. If you have a dog, you'll love it. Early on our hike's last afternoon, about an hour before we stumbled through some brambles and found the English Channel, Mike and I were lost deep in some woods. Mike's fault, of course. The official South Downs guidebook closely describes the trail from east to west, but Mike had insisted that we start at the west end and walk east. "Best way," he said with British finality. "Keeps wind and weather behind us." Well, I thought, it's his country ... But that reversal of route meant every description in the guidebook had to be read and then translated backwards: "Turn north at the waymark post, climb the stile on your right, and take the northeast turning" now meant, while walking southwest, watch for a stile on your left, climb it, then turn south and watch for a waymark sign. Translating worked pretty well till that last day, when legs got leaden and heads muzzy. Somehow we took east for west, or maybe right for left, and ended up sitting on a log in a clearing, trying to puzzle out where we were. Then out of a small path stepped a bent figure that bobbled towards us. I stared at the bushy white sideburns and deerstalker cap, and was carried back 50 years. "Good Lord, it's Mr. Bluster!" I whispered to Mike, who reacted blankly. Well, he couldn't have known Howdy Doody's fellow marionette, and how much this elderly man's gait matched that of the puppet old man: walking stick dangling from left hand, forearms swinging freely from raised elbows, feet seemingly lifted by strings tied to the knees. The elderly gent was squired by a beautiful old English setter, which now walked amiably over to our log. Mr. Bluster followed and, as is often British custom with strangers, addressed us through the dog. "Well, well, Roddy, you have to make a nuisance of yourself, don't you?" he scolded gently. "Why you're no nuisance, old fellow!" said Michael, stroking the dog's handsome head. "But perhaps you or your master can tell us the way to the Channel." "Ah!" said the dog's master, ruddy face suddenly bright with interest. "Of course we can, Roddy, can't we!" All polite pretense then dissolved, and he began speaking to us directly. Or, better, blurting. For he was, you see, a man befuddled by a dozen routes he could describe. And so he began outlining all of them - at once. "With respect, sir," interrupted Mike politely, "we were hoping to go via Cliff End." "Ah!" said the man again, suddenly relieved of all the alternatives. He beamed excitedly. "It's down the path I've just come!" And to point the way, he pivoted his heavy walking stick up from the ground. Without his realizing it, it struck his old setter hard, right under the jaw. That lovely animal had been sitting serenely at his side, eyes half shut, gazing meditatively into the distance. The blow made an audible crack, wood against bone, and the dog's head snapped back sharply. I gasped. What now? But while his master nattered on, the dog slowly lowered his head, shook it slightly. Then, I swear with a sigh, he resumed gazing into the distance. By now the excited old man had accepted Mike's thanks with barrages of "Tut, tut!" and "Delighted, my man!" and "Safe journey!" Then, Blusterlike, he tottered away, arms flapping loosely, feet lifting weightlessly. Rising slowly from his haunches, the grizzled old dog gave a yawn, perhaps to ease his jaw, and then trotted stiffly to catch up with his master. "That poor old setter!" said Mike fervently. "I'll wager he endures things like that every day." We watched them go slowly down the path, side by side. The man had no idea of what the dog had suffered. And forgiven. Read about Jim Atwell's new book, "From Fly Creek-- Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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