May 19, 2013

Today began as the worst of the mornings for the weather. Freezing cold, drizzly, muddy, windy. Pretty much you get the picture. I found myself slogging through deep, heavy, sticky mud, making my shoes feel about 5 lbs heavier each. It was tough to feel inspired. Yesterday I was ready to quit. Today I was walking on. Doing my best. Hoping for a miracle.

I stopped for lunch in a cafe about halfway to my destination. I was planning on a 17 km day, so I still had quite a distance to go as I left the cafe and continued on my way. Although the guidebook showed a flat afternoon ahead, I quickly saw that, once again, there were unexpected hills on the horizon. I wondered how I was going to make it this time. I was spent. Done. With 8 km to go. I lifted my eyes to heaven and said, out loud, "I can't make it over this hill alone. Someone is going to have to help me."

My steps got slower and slower, my stops more and more frequent. The hills were winning and to make it worse, I had no idea how many more there would be on the other side of this big one I was climbing. As I made my way, step by plodding step, I felt rather than heard someone next to me on my left. I looked over and saw, to my surprise, a dog. But not just any dog. My dog. It was Bandit, in his most active youth. He was dirty from being out playing in the mud, his favorite way to be. He looked up at me and tipped his head in the way that only Bandit could do and then he ran ahead.

In his older years, Bandit had hip problems that never curbed his desire to play fetch, but did prevent him from running like the wind after the stick or the ball as he'd done in his youth. I used to love to watch him run. I compared the smoothness of it to the grass waving in the wind. I often wonder if he's up in heaven, playing fetch with God, running as tirelessly and effortlessly as grass in the wind.

Oh how that dog loved to play fetch. Any object would do. A ball. a frisbee. A pine cone. A stick, no matter how big or how small. And he never got tired. We used to have to make him go lay down and take a break.

As he ran ahead, he darted into a field of waving grass, and there he chased after a bird he knew he would never catch, with wild abandon. Running like the wind, as smooth as the ripples of the grass. He came back out onto the road with a stick in his mouth, laying it down in front of some people walking ahead of me, patiently crouched, hoping they'd take the bait. He kept trying, but no one seemed to pay attention. Just passing him by, as if he weren't there. Couldn't they see him? He finally gave up and ran to the top of the hill, turned and looked at me one last time and disappeared down the other side.

As I got to the top of the hill, I searched desperately to see where he'd gone. He was nowhere to be found. The other pilgrims on the trail completely unaffected by his appearance among us. Not finding him there, disappointed, I looked ahead to see the city. My destination. I had made it after all. With a little help from an old friend.