tottering 'round the bend
On the odd occasion--annually, hourly; who's to say?--it may have been whispered that we Fitzgeralds are tottering 'round the bend. The euphemism has likely been used strictly in jest. Maybe not. 'Tis difficult to ascertain when one is surrounded by perpetually grinning Jack-O-Lanterns who seem to be lit up even when they're not and who are, presently, impatiently inquiring about today's lunch menu. (We don't really feed them--that would be crazy--but it would be fair to say we have no control over their general nosiness or the ravenous yearnings glowing from within.) Had anyone directed this quirky British informality toward us on Sunday, however, they would have been factually correct. Tottering around the bend is precisely how we spent our afternoon: hiking a rugged trail winding along an ancient river, deep within the forest.
Situated in the Cascade Mountains, the trail is a picturesque--if rocky--hike, dampened by the spray of water pounding forcefully against the gleaming boulders and fallen tree trunks in its path, the often violent water gurgling, spitting, rushing over every obstruction. The sound of it was so loud, Dennie and I strained to hear one another unless we were standing side by side, a rare affair on slender trails often bordered on one edge by a sloped and slippery drop-off. Despite its volume, though, the sight, the smell, the sounds of the river only added to the magical feel of this old growth forest. Thick moss draped liked fringed curtains from every shaded tree limb, and a brilliant sun peeked through the overhead canopy, setting ablaze spots of red and yellow, green and orange dangling above the water.
As for Maisie, the roles of Trailblazer, River Dog, Explorer Extraordinaire clearly suit her. With great enthusiasm, she guided us through the forest and along the river, expertly navigating every winding turn, every rock-and-root-gnarled descent, every steep hill and eroded path. Her bushy tail held high, she smiled broadly, urging us on to see more, smell more of this wondrous new-yet-very-old realm, whipping her head from one curiosity to another until she’d flung shimmering white strands of her own slobber over her muzzle. It was a messy misfortune that occurred in perfect synchronicity with the clicking of my camera and the passing of another trio--two humans and their decidedly vocal canine companion. The furry fellow stared back at our Maisie as he sauntered onward, speaking in his own language, albeit with an obviously phony British accent. "Hey, Dad...did you see the pooch with the decorative drool bands across her nose? That one, I daresay, is definitely tottering 'round the bend..."
Well...in one way or a dozen, aren’t we all?