Old Home Run

I set off this morning on an run at Old Home.

It has rained or drizzled almost constantly since we arrived yesterday. The rain itself has stopped, but the slight impact of misty droplets splatter my face as I came down off the hill and hit the road.

The grass here is green and tall, far taller than I think I've ever seen it (rain in June is not common here). The road I'm running on is the old dirt road which has been here since well before I was born. My parents had it covered in road grindings to keep it from the dust and mud; it crunch crunches under my feet as I running.

The sound of water dripping off the trees times itself with my footsteps as I run. I'm warming up, but not nearly like I do in New Home - it's been a long, long time since I have run in cool weather like this. The sweat beads on my brow a bit; it is certainly not pooling on my back.

A brown bolt hurtles to the sky as a turkey rushes out of the underbrush and takes flight, trying to escape the horrible thudding monster heading down the trail at it. I've apparently frightened him pretty well to have him reach 10-12 feet in the air before he veers away to the right.

Passing him, Neighbor L's dogs hop up along the fence and start barking away as I go by. I'm grateful for the fence - given my speed, it would not even be interesting for them.

I turn onto the main road. I'm on blacktop now so my footsteps no longer crunch; fortunately, the local creek bubbles away down a small green canyon to my left as I run along to keep me company.

Sounds and smells assault me as I run: the smell of tarweed and pine, the songs of birds I don't hear in New Home, the occasional sound of the car as it passes me running in the early morning.

Everything is wet: water running down the trunks of pine and oak and cedar, dripping from leaves and needles, beading on the native grasses. Purple and yellow flowers brighten the light green as I run past, giving thanks for a rainy season they could have never expected as seeds.

I reach the bottom of the hill, where the creek runs under the road, and decide to head back for the second cup of coffee I know awaits me.

Running back is harder for me than running out, because my mind now knows how long it has to go and starts keeping time. It's bad enough running on city streets; it's worse, surrounded by natural beauty I should be enjoying. I still try: the creek now runs to my right and sings as I pass the local sawmill. I can look over now and see the creek running - it's as high as it's ever been, especially this late in the year.

As I turn back off the main road and onto the road grindings, I abandon the creek's cheerful song and re-enter the land of dripping branches. After another alert by Neighbor L's dogs, I run in silence.

Silence here is a powerful drug. You forget what silence is until you come - not the artificial silence of the meditators and the mystics, but the silence of nature as God intended it: filled with the inner workings of creation, void of the sounds people pepper it with the interests of civilization.

As I reach the bottom of the driveway and stop, I notice a local squirrel on a nut hunt. He slowly scurries forward, digs in a hole apparently to find it empty, stands up and looks, and then continues towards me. I stand silently as he stops, looks, scurries and repeats until he has come and made a loop around me, found a nut, and then slowly passes to my left with 3 feet of me, his fluffy gray tail not attached so much as floating as a feather as he continues on his way.

The drizzle has stopped. My coffee awaits.