It’s a cool morning in late August. The morning dew on the grass sheds golden sparkles as it dampens our shoes. My granddaughter and I head out for our “sunrise walk” even though the sun arose almost an hour ago. Getting out of the house is as equally fraught for the aged as it is for the very young. My granddaughter skips ahead, her new pink butterfly net a swinging extension of her arm. We hope to catch a butterfly or three and snap pics for her summer nature journal.
We’ve taken this journey, out the back door of the cabin and across the meadow to the forest beyond and the old hunting trails carved by my grandfather and uncles. Perhaps that is why I was caught off guard by events that morning. We were heading to a marshy spot in the woods where we’d been tracking the growth of swamp milkweed.
Trapped in the cabin by heavy rainstorms for the past few dews, this golden morning is especially welcome. A sharp cry echoes through the forest and I hurry down the trail to catch up. I am looking far ahead and so I miss it, just as my granddaughter had, until I am charging down a gulley cut across the trail by water, slipping, sliding, shrieking myself until I land in a muddy heap amidst scrub and rocks left behind by the rushing storm water. There, just to my left, I spy a ladybug rain boot without a foot and I hear my granddaughter’s whimpers of pain. I take a mental inventory of my body and finding no broken bones or life-threatening injuries I heave myself into a sitting position, made that much more difficult by the extra rolls around my middle. I once again reaffirm my commitment to less ice cream and more exercise. I spit, but the woodsy flavor of mulchy leaves remains in my mouth.
My granddaughter is sprawled ten feet further down the muddy culvert, her whimpers fading into quiet sniffles, or is that snuffles? My head whips around to spy a porcupine shuffling along the opposite edge, its nose deep in leafy mulch.
“Shayla,” I call softly to my granddaughter. I watch as she lifts her face and my heart breaks to see how the joy of five minutes ago is replaced by tears. I put my finger to my lips then motion to the porcupine. Her eyes widen in wonder as she sits up to get a better view. I pull out my phone to snap a picture then gingerly stand. I scoop up Shayla’s errant boot and scramble over to her. Together we survey the landscape. There is no easy way back up the muddy sides so after Shayla hops back into her boots we scramble down the washout trail left by the storm water to a rushing creek. There we spy an old hunting platform across the water; its platform reaching above the trees into the sunshine. We hop across the shallow water, climb the ladder, lay ourselves out flat and turn our faces to the sun.
“Gramma?”
“Yes, Shayla.”
“Instead of butterflies, we caught an adventure on today’s walk, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Shayla.”