we were younger then

Friday morning lured us to a destination where water falls like magic, where provolone falls like water, and where moss-dappled history provides safe passage through the mist. It is a place where swimming holes reflect a rich palette of wildflower hues and evergreens, a place with painted ducks and totem fish and even a mystic portal that beckons each and every wanderer to brave another fantastic realm beyond its leafy arches. Friday morning drew us into the depths of one of the area’s greatest treasures and worst-kept secrets.

With every one of our expeditions, Maisie sheds another layer of apprehension. The dog who, only last month, made her inaugural tour of the lakeside with a mix of curiosity and trepidation did not accompany us to the falls. This dog exhibited nothing but courage, eagerness, and the spirit of adventure. The looks on Maisie's face at every scenic stop, at her introduction to the concept of picnic lunch (as well as the tasty morsels of cheese to find their way from Mommy's sandwich to puppy's tongue), these were expressions blazoned with the words: Best Day Ever!

We commenced our hike through the section of woods leading toward the waterfall views from a gorgeous historic bridge, then we backtracked toward the playground and picnic area for our midday repast. There were more discoveries to be made in the opposite direction, but first hydration and sustenance--al fresco style. Bellies full of sandwiches (or dog cookies and a few niblets of cheese in Maisie's case), we resumed our trek, stumbling upon a breathtaking oasis bathed in blues and greens and perfectly mirrored reflections, not only of the surrounding environs but the aquatic birds traversing its placid waters. Somehow the pond seemed not only brighter than it had in the past but bigger, almost endless in its splendor.

In more than two decades of Northwest living, we have explored a multitude of parks and trails, the terrain varying in difficulty from easy hikes to those bordering on the treacherous. There are certainly other trails that exceed the latter, wending along precipitous ledges covered in sliding rocks and gnarled roots, but we maintain a strict policy of avoiding any activity where the most likely outcome is being scraped off the boulders below with a giant spatula. While Maisie’s recent summer expeditions could be classified as beginner hikes, we felt confident she was ready to conquer a slightly more challenging domain. Throughout the woods surrounding the falls, even the level paths tend to be rocky, rugged, and ostensibly eager to trip you up. Some of the hills are so steep, they instantly evoke the legendary streets of San Francisco, minus the asphalt and the charming clang, clang, clang of the trolleys. We descended the first such slope with slow, deliberate steps, and that progressed well enough until we reached the last ten feet or so. At that point, survival--or perhaps only the prevention of sullied hands, apparel, and, well, pride--mandated we form a hybrid human-canine chain: Maisie in the lead, me slowing her momentum with a firm grip on her leash to keep her from tumbling forward, Dennie anchoring me by one hand to keep me from tumbling forward, and all of us trying not to think too hard about what was going to keep Dennie from tumbling into the rest of us. Fortunately, no tumbling of any kind occurred. We arrived at the bottom, pride, apparel, and hands intact and unmarred.

Later, the return journey upward was also a successful one, but it did not end quite as triumphantly. Though no one fell, it’s fair to say that one should never start laughing hysterically whilst hiking up an almost vertical wall of dirt. But I couldn’t help it. People—including us—often remark, “Oh, my dog understands every word I say”. Only other dog lovers (and not all of them, at that) tend to believe this on an almost, if not completely, literal level. When the dog in question apparently proves the veracity of the claim, it's just plain funny. As we approached the bottom of nature’s salute to Bradford Street, Dennie jokingly said to Maisie, “Pull Mommy up the hill now.” Immediately, our girl lowered her center of gravity like an ox hauling a plow and my feet were in motion whether I was ready to make the climb or not. Maisie does not pull especially hard on her leash, not hard enough to heave us forward, not like our hundred-pound, exuberant Great-Pyrenees-Labrador did, so this was not standard behavior for her. As if she’d genuinely comprehended Dennie’s request, Maisie began to pull me up the steep incline. Mind you, I’d rather she hadn’t. I’d never burden her so, but upward she heaved, nonetheless, as committed to this task as she’s always been to guarding the house or watching over the birds and squirrels. There was no convincing her now that she didn’t really need to hoist Mommy up the hill, so I pushed harder to keep up with her, thereby lessening the strain on her, unable to stop my own giggles from turning into a torrent of laughter that escalated with every step forward. By the time we reached the top, I’d been laughing so hard at our dog's presumed understanding and dedication, I could no longer breathe.

NOTE TO SELVES: be careful what we ask of Maisie; she may take it far too seriously.

After hours of navigating the trails, we returned to the picnic area and settled in for a rest, watching the children on the playground, especially the furry ones excitedly ambling by with their people. Though we'd have liked to have stayed longer, the moment had come to drag our weary bones back to the car. We were tired by the time of our departure, it’s true, but utterly fulfilled. It was the kind of day that made us feel wholly carefree and somewhere around five years old again, the kind of day when nature and magic are different words for the very same thing. Saturday, on the other hand, was the kind of day when, at least for a little while, we struggled to believe we had not actually achieved the venerable age of 110. After an uncommonly rigorous hike, stiffened joints and achey muscles greeted us that morning, a stark contrast from the juvenescent vigor we’d experienced on our fabulous Friday. But we were clearly younger then...and, sure enough, we’ll be young again. It’s only a matter of another day off paired with a new destination, and that glorious gift of youth will once more be restored.