“We met where we’d always met, before our world tumbled into chaos, driving from opposite sides of the state to reclaim the tiny table against the wall, in a scuffed corner between the coffee pot, bread rack and row of plastic covered diner stools. We owned the joint, I guess, at about 9 am. It was good to see him. We eventually got around to the subject at hand. “So ... where should we go?”. I’m not sure who said it first. We both seemed to think it, at the same time. “Smith Road?” I parried. “We might be able to get close, either to where we saw the moose beds up on the ridge, or down to the swamp where Jim used to run his beagles”. It was a throw-away, because digression from this idea, was sure to follow. “Buddy died,” he said, suddenly. “Since they didn’t have children, I guess, he was it.”. We instinctively gave Buddy a moment of silence. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s going on up by old Elliot’s place”, he continued, after a respectful pause. “He died too, didn’t he,” I countered. “I regret, I never got to interview him in time,” replied the Old Ridgerunner. I nodded, and poked at my raspberry danish, moving it an inch to the right, then, to the left. It was his treat, somehow thrilling, though I’d bought about a million myself over the past year, on my way to gardening jobs. This small lesson on what makes life worth living, did not go past me. I ripped off a healthy chunk, and sunk my teeth in, doing my best to catch the syrupy overflow. “How about the beaver pond”, he continued. I knew it was likely to end here. “Let’s go”, I said, grabbing my coffee for the inch left, now cold in a paper cup, but somehow, ritualistically tied to our explorations. The muddy West Road was worse than I’d expected. A UPS truck waited patiently for us to ford the deep, rutted central portion, clearing the way for him to gun across without fear of crushing us. As we turned left on Chateauguay Road & followed the river south, things were not looking good for travel. “If we can’t do this in a 4WD truck, well...” I murmured, and gave it some gas. Gaining elevation, and entering into the shade of the narrowing forest road, the mud seemed more firm. “We’re okay,” he said. And It felt good to believe in someone again, rely on their prognostication, and not be so totally responsible for bad decisions. Again, my appreciation burbled into a giddy kind of joy. Thank you, I said to myself, as the steering wheel yanked us hard toward the precipitous cliff edge, and we both laughed. “Remember when you fled the truck that time, and made me drive it alone?” he quipped. Not my proudest moment. “I still have a few valid phobias” I replied. “Knowing when to bail and let a guy do something reckless alone, is one of my super powers”, I continued. We both reflected on this, pondering the untruth of it. “My courage failed me, I feel ashamed I did that to you “ I finally admitted. We were almost at the end of the plowed part of the town highway. We approached our usual pull off, a dirt patch before the bridge. Some huge machinery, mostly logging skidders, loomed ominously, taking up almost all the parking space.The ten feet left next to a steep embankment looked possibly doable, but not great. The snow pack, according to the village standards we had just left, was in excess, by a few feet. “I brought cheese”, he said. We stood by the truck and pondered the snow shoe option. “Nah,” he said. “We won’t need ‘em”. This is what I love most and hate most about partnership. But, again, he was right. “You’re always right, “ I said, after a couple hours of trudging. We seemed to have passed through some kind to time portal. All our attempts to find the landmarks we knew, the Johnson boys camp. the AT trail head, the rock with plaque, honoring someone’s parents. All of this, and more was unknowable, under so much snow. In place of any familiarity, were coyote tracks, and the large, ungainly divots of a Bigfoot. An occasional train sound, that was only wind. The endless bends, that always reminded us of being closer to the pond, than we really were. Literally, this went on for hours. But, we didn’t much care. When finally, upon arrival to the stillness of the iced over, snowed in beaver pond, we stopped to reassess our bearings, in the context of what we remembered. Reiman peak, the sketchy overland route to Bridgewater, the nearly obscured turnaround,, where deaths had been recorded, from teen drinking and of natural causes, in a pickup. The calm, cold air breathing nothing, the strange guard rail installed by the forest service, for no apparent reason. We perched our backsides onto the metal. “I mixed this up, special” he said., as we pondered the bullet ridden skeleton of a sign, no longer instructive of anything. “Equal parts chaga, sap, maple syrup & Wild Turkey. I thought you’d like it”. This, with cheese and, as it turned out, crackers, made for a fine lunch. I never pack anything, never thinking I’m going far. I always figure I can last, out there. Why, I’m not sure, because it’s not realistic. This, again, is what friends, and allies who have your back, are good for, at bare minimum. They see you, and love you, for the dreamer you are. They pack the provisions you will need, that you have forgotten.”
