In Like a Lion

Let's talk about the weather.

Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.

I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.

The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.

I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.

Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.

Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.

Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?

On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.

Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.

Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.

All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.

Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...

...out like a lamb.

So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.

A Dry Spell

Can't think of a single thing to write about. Well, that's not exactly true. I have thought of a few things but the topics were either pretty boring or completely unworkable. Guess you could say it's been a dry spell for me. Or maybe just the winter doldrums. Or possibly some middle-age thingy. So I've decided instead to share some random pictures, on the off chance someone stops by.

Tonka wasn't very excited about the Super Bowl.

Wonder what kind of resources an extraterrestrial might require?

Found these dolls among my childhood things.
Spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out what they were called.
Answer = Kola Kiddles: Luscious Lime, Olivia Orange, Greta Grape

It's been snowing a lot lately. And it's way too cold. Dave does a good job shoveling.

Here's my family. The stick-figure version, that is.

These trees look like they're hugging.

I miss Raven...

That's all for now. Soon as I can think of something interesting to write about, I'll be back...

Urban Orphan

In southern Colorado is a county named Huerfano, a word that means "orphan" in Spanish. About sixty miles north of the New Mexico border off I-25, you can't miss the county's namesake: Huerfano Butte. This lone volcanic plug lies east of the highway among scattered sagebrush and yucca plants. It seems lonely, lost on the prairie, far removed from the lofty peaks to the west.

Another 150 miles north of Huerfano Butte, a busy, bustling street cuts through the heart of downtown Denver. Broadway is home to our finest old hotel and is one block distant from the city's tallest building. As Denver grew, a good number of its original buildings fell victim to progress, demolished to make way for skyscrapers and modern edifices. But there remain many historical places mixed in among the sterile, gleaming towers of glass.

One such place sits near the corner of 20th and Broadway--busy street in front, light rail train station at the rear, three diminutive stories dwarfed by towering luxury condominiums--an urban orphan far removed from its contemporaries.

Using a configuration common at the time, the exterior walls were designed to make best use of space on a wedge-shaped lot. Looking at the building from the rear it seems unremarkable, plain, with three square sides. But standing at the northwest corner, the triangular walls appear much like the pointed end of a large slice of architectural pie.

It may not have a fascinating background chronicled in newspaper archives. Its facade is not likely to be featured in the western history photographic collection at the Denver Public Library. Yet 1980 Broadway has a past I cannot forget.

Some time after my family moved to the Denver area, my grandfather followed to be near his youngest daughter and son. For a while in the early sixties he lived at 1980 Broadway, where we visited him from time to time. A trip to downtown Denver from our quiet suburb was always an adventure. I remember peering out the car window as we passed buildings no more than four or five stories, inconceivable heights to a little girl used to living in a small ranch-style home.

Even now I can close my eyes and be transported back in time to the boarding house where grampa lived.

Through the front door is the lobby and a dark, smoky sitting area with decrepit furniture, upright piano shoved against the staircase wall. The steep staircase heads straight up one side of the building. Grampa's apartment is at the very top of that dark, forbidding stairwell.

Such a tiny living space! The first thing you see is the sofa bed, then a small table and chair in the corner. Turn left into the tiniest kitchen you could ever imagine, and through another doorway is a bathroom with windows that open onto the most incredible part of his apartment: a fire escape!

My brother and I loved to crawl out the window to that fire escape. Mom and dad would visit with grampa while we indulged ourselves in imaginary New York City-type scenarios on the tiny metal balcony, the likes of which we had never seen before.

Grampa came to live with us before he died. Mom told me that he missed his apartment and the city, where he could walk several blocks to Civic Center Park, meet up with other elderly city dwellers, and talk about the old days while playing checkers.

I'm not sure how this particular building managed to survive Denver's march ever forward and upward. Now it hosts a Budget Rent a Car office, where this week we stopped to visit. The two young women working at the counter were friendly and interested to hear stories about a brief period in the building's history. They told us the upstairs rooms are sealed off, unused and in disrepair. We peered up the dark staircase and saw a mess of cracked, peeling plaster and rickety stairs.

Then came the best part of the day. "Did anyone ever tell you if the building is haunted?" one woman asked. She said that one day she was alone but felt a hand on her shoulder. Another time she witnessed her office chair spinning on its own. Both women have discovered cabinet doors in the back office hanging wide open not long after they were closed.

Whether or not you believe in ghosts as I do, the stories are fun to hear. So I told them my grampa's name, Evan, and said next time something happens... and on the off chance it is him... just say hello.

Now when I pass the building, it won't seem so much like an orphan.

Another New Year

We had a nice, quiet New Year's Eve. Friday was the beginning of a much-needed ten-day vacation for me. Dave has been laughing at my countdown of days until freedom. "One more day!" came the sing-song melody on Thursday morning. That night a perfect glass of wine greeted my arrival home from work.

We celebrated the New Year early Friday afternoon with a drink at our favorite local pub. While we were there, Moscow rang in the New Year so we raised a quick toast. Still many hours remained until 2011 came winging around the globe and bumped right up against Mountain Time.

For dinner I made mom's famous "Square Pizza" -- a Thompson family New Year's Eve tradition from way back when. I have modified the pizza to suit my own taste; Dave can hardly wait until the New Year rolls around again to get this special treat.

This is the before picture...

... and here is the finished product, piping hot from the oven.

Because it was cold and I was bored, I posted these pictures on Facebook. Well, I have to tell you, the pizza pictures garnered more comments than any others in my rather extensive library! I suppose all my friends were in similar situations, home and tucked in warm and snuggly for the night, celebrating in a more virtual fashion. Or maybe they just thought that pizza looked lip-smackin' good!

I lapsed into a peaceful slumber around 9 PM. Dave and Tonka were both fast asleep before me. At midnight we all woke to the sound of fireworks. Several of our neighbors just love fireworks. Really, it's almost ridiculous, you might be treated to fireworks on any random day. They are out there right now, shooting off a few extras. Still, I could not believe they were at it for nearly a half hour in that sub-zero weather!

New Year's Day is time to put away the holiday decorations and reclaim the house. Tonka has been through this Christmas decoration chaos once before. Last year he became obsessed with our two stuffed Rudolphs; he even knows the name "Rudolph." We say, "Where's Rudolph?" and Tonka snaps to attention, staring intently in that border collie way at Little Rudolph, smiling down from his lofty perch on the mantelpiece. Big Rudolph was hidden in a corner this year so he didn't get nearly as much of Tonka's attention. But today Tonka managed to get up close and personal (very personal) with Little Rudolph:

Hey! There's that terrorist reindeer!

Maybe I should just be nice. Hello, Rudolph. Hmm, no response.

Let's try a sniff and... I'm getting nothing here either. What's up with this guy?

Oh no! They've joined forces! What to do?

Note to Tonka: The reindeer are safely tucked away in the attic. You can relax now.

Welcome 2011, I'm looking forward to a bigger, better, brighter tomorrow!

In Search of Snow

We went looking for snow yesterday and found plenty in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a free day too, with all kinds of visitors on a warm sunny Christmas Day. Snowshoers, cross country skiers, and other parched Front Range folks like us out hoping to catch a glimpse of that beautiful Colorado snow.


Storm Pass trailhead



Looking towards Bear Lake area from Storm Pass trailhead

Mountains above Bear Lake

A lovely little creek in the snow

The same creek

Whispy clouds overhead

Creek through Moraine Park

Same creek, up close

Snow dog!

Mountains above Moraine Park (big herd of elk way off in the distance--bottom left)

Looking towards Trail Ridge Road

Travelin' man

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

~ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Dear Santa

All I want for Christmas is for someone to please throw my ball.

Thank you. Love, Tonka

Idling in Neutral

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

~ John Lennon

Today we spent some time reflecting on the past year. I asked Dave what he thought of 2010. His response: “Well, it was kind of shitty.”

Can’t argue with that.

It began with good intentions, plans and dreams galore, which kept us preoccupied for the first two months. Then came the news. Like so many others, Dave’s company was struggling and several employees would have to be let go.

Not a pleasing prospect, a still-sour economy coupled with the added hurdle of competing for limited jobs when you’re over fifty.

After we married we chose to live frugally, well below our means, so that we could maintain a debt-free lifestyle and save up for a wonderful retirement, perhaps move to our favorite little mountain town, maybe even a few years earlier than expected. We were well on our way.

But we quickly shifted gears this year, temporarily idling our Bus to the Future in neutral.

All was not lost. Our frugal lifestyle served us well. Dave was able to work part-time for a few months and supplement his unemployment income. The extra time at home allowed him to finish a multitude of projects, the kind you simply don’t have time to accomplish with only two days off each week. We even managed to squeeze in a few fun and relaxing trips around Colorado, making the very best of our new reality.

Tonka was delirious. His favorite person in the whole wide world was home nearly every single day. Together they perfected their ball throwing/catching skills.

I turned to writing, a creative outlet long enjoyed but always in private. Earlier this year I discovered a gleaming online warehouse for my journals. In this virtual space my silly little stories dwell in quiet, unassuming fashion, like so many wallflowers at a raucous digital blog party, afraid to be noticed.

I’ve also been fighting a losing battle with sciatica. Months into the war now--with acupuncture, chiropractic and physical therapy treatments under my belt, orthopedic shoes in the closet, prescription pain pills in the medicine cabinet, a nerve-stimulating machine that I use to perform electric shock therapy on my back--and I still hurt.

Yet we are so grateful for all that we have.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)

Mouse House

When I was a little girl, about age 10, my parents bought a fun Christmas present for me. The Mouse Treehouse was a two-story contraption that included an elevator, a swing, and various treehouse furnishings suitable for a vinyl mouse family.

Mr. and Mrs. Mouse had a set of twins and were dressed in their pajamas. Maybe they were perpetually exhausted after raising two wild and rambunctious babies.

Many years later, while sorting through our family's cedar chest, I discovered a box with a young girl's long-forgotten treasures stashed inside: three thumb-sized dolls with brightly colored hair (orange, purple, green), worn out copies of Black Beauty and Little Women, a plastic statue of Guiseppe Verdi given to me at my one and only piano recital, and Mrs. Mouse. Not sure what happened to Mr. Mouse, the twins, or the treehouse for that matter, but for some reason I could not part with Mrs. Mouse.

So at least I know that somewhere in my past, mice were suitable companions. Not so much any more.

This year we have been fixing up the back yard. Due to the crazy renters behind us and their vicious dogs, we decided to put in a privacy fence. To accomplish this, we had to remove a tall hedge that was overgrown and difficult to manage. We also replaced our worn redwood deck with snazzy composite decking.

Sometime in October, we purchased our usual 40-lb. bag of dog food and stored it in the back of the pantry. Soon it was time to refill the easy-access tub we use for scooping out Tonka's daily meals. When Dave pulled out the bag, little dribbles of dog food followed along behind. He said there was a hole in the bag and slapped a piece of duct tape over it (always the best solution, right?). He figured it was a flaw in the bag; I suspected mice.

A few weeks passed and it came time to fill the tub again. I looked in the pantry and there was dog food strewn all about the floor in the back corner. We pulled out the bag and noticed the duct tape had been gnawed clean through. No question this time. Mice.

Day 1: The mice have been declared enemy combatants. I purchase a set of miniature mousetraps and assign Dave the unenviable task of capturing and removing the tiny interlopers.

Mouse #1 is clever, he manages to remove the bait without setting off the trap. Dave finds the little guy rooting around in the trash can, a Starvin' Marvin looking for something, anything, to replace the missing dog food. Dave quickly snatches up the trash bag and takes off for the dumpster at a nearby school, squirming mouse still inside. Mouse #1 lucked out; that dumpster probably held a veritable feast fit for a rodent king.

Day 2: Mouse #2 and Mouse #3 are sent on a mission to discover the fate of their missing buddy and to bring back dog food. They do not fare as well. Both set off the traps and head straight to mouse heaven. Dave purchases a second set of traps. That evening we both hear unidentifiable noises, probably nothing more than routine, everyday house noises we have learned to ignore. But now it's different, we have become hyper-vigilant. I find myself asking Dave repeatedly, "Did you hear that?"

Day 3: It's early, 4:45 AM. I'm in my comfy recliner drinking coffee, checking emails and fixing to surf the internet when suddenly a movement catches Tonka's eye. He darts across the room toward the laundry area; I immediately call for backup. Dave drags himself out of bed and sets a trap alongside the dryer. Later that day, Mouse #4 suffers the same fate as his two predecessors.

Day 4: This morning I hide in the bedroom with my cup of coffee and the laptop until Dave is ready to get out of bed. The rest of the day is uneventful, quiet. Some might say eerily quiet. After work, Dave consoles me by declaring that since an entire day has passed with no activity, he believes the mice have been vanquished. Later that night, I'm up the hall in the computer room and Dave is watching a sporting event of some sort. Suddenly I hear a loud "Shit!" from the family room. Although I have a somewhat unrestrained potty mouth, Dave rarely curses. This can't be good.

Mouse #5 scoots along the baseboard right next to Dave's chair and zips around the corner into the bathroom. Dave quickly pulls the door shut then returns to leave a trap inside. We work out an alternate plan to perform a live capture with a small bedside trash can, but Mouse #5 has already taken the bait and is snagged in the trap. Unfortunately, he is still alive. Dave takes the trap outside and releases the half-dead mouse over the back fence, into the yard of the renters from hell.

By now Dave is traumatized by all the carnage; he invokes the specter of the 1971 movie Willard. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but I share his concern. Tonka, on the other hand, finds all of this quite amusing and in fact thinks we may have invented a great new sport the entire family can enjoy.

Dave resets the traps in the pantry when along comes Mouse #6. He runs out the door, into the kitchen and under the stove. But how did he get in? Surely there can't be any more mice in the house. We blocked all the holes we know of. It's a mystery.

That night I can hardly sleep. I imagine mice scurrying around the bedroom baseboards, lounging on the living room sofa, smoking cigars and playing poker. It's all gone horribly wrong.

Day 5: Thanksgiving. We will be gone most of the day. Dave checks all the traps; the bait is still intact. Still no sign of Mouse #6.

Day 6: Time to take serious action. Dave contacts a professional pest control service. They perform an inspection, discover the nest, and set additional traps and bait. Apparently one bait includes a form of mouse birth control, to keep them from reproducing excessively. Word on the street is that a breeding pair can produce up to 200 offspring in a few short months. I can assure you, none of that hanky-panky ever occurred in my Mouse Treehouse!

We all agree that removing the back yard hedge disrupted a major mouse habitat. Also, it turns out the new deck was built in a way that allows for easy rodent access through the outside crawlspace door. We will work on securing the perimeter.

In the meantime, we wait. I feel sort of bad for the mice. Well, not really. They are not at all like my special friends from the Mouse Treehouse. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse were so benign, so friendly, smiling faces, cute little pajamas. These fellows are much more sinister.

And they will never end up among my keepsakes.

Oh, and Mouse #6? He's still on the lam...

Right Turn Only

As my mother's birthday approaches, I think of her more than usual. Gone from our world 12 years now, she would have been 86 this coming Monday. I miss her smile, her voice, her scent, her loving touch. The years march on and as the tangible presence of those you have loved and lost begins to fade, the memories become infused with a richness and beauty all their own.

Mom grew up in Waterbury, Connecticut, a proud "Connecticut Yankee." Her father moved the family to New Jersey when mom was a young girl. She missed her beloved Connecticut and disliked living in New Jersey.

For many families in those days, car ownership was a luxury well out of reach. Public transportation was the preferred option, they took trains and subways and buses everywhere they needed to go. Mom was in her twenties before she learned to drive; dad taught her while they were dating. Although she was grateful for the lessons, mom disliked driving nearly as much as she disliked New Jersey.

We moved to Colorado in a black 1952 Chevy Bel Air nicknamed "Old Bessie." Later dad bought a new Chevy pickup truck, his pride and joy. Mom and dad owned numerous vehicles over the years. Here in the West, especially in the suburbs with limited public transportation, a car was definitely a necessity. And even though she now lived in a less populated area, mom still hated driving.

Over time she devised elaborate routes through quiet neighborhoods and around town, routes that ensured she never had to cross a busy street without benefit of a traffic light or four-way stop, never had to make a left turn except at those safe and secure intersections where a turn signal was present.

Dad taught us to drive, mom would have none of it. And even though she was a nervous wreck every time her children drove her somewhere, secretly mom seemed grateful to be relieved of the burden of driving. Eventually I became the family chauffeur.

Unlike mom, I was unafraid of making left-hand turns or darting across lanes of traffic. This is not to say that I am some sort of wild and crazy driver, far from it. But mom could never achieve any real level of comfort in a car driven by anyone, especially in heavy traffic or at high speeds.

So whenever I pulled across a road or turned in front of oncoming traffic, mom would clutch the dashboard and stomp on the invisible passenger's side brake. Occasionally she would make hissing or gasping noises as she quickly drew in her breath. Once the scary traffic hurdles were cleared and we were safely on the other side she would exclaim, "I don't know how you can stand it!"

On days we set aside for shopping or errands, mom recommended routes for me to follow, explicit directions that had received Loretta's Seal of Approval. I usually thanked her for the suggestions, then went whichever way I preferred.

Soon mom's driving behaviors became legendary among friends and family. We laughed at the image of her making perpetual right turns, adding miles to her travels simply to avoid a busy intersection. She didn't care what we thought and was not about to change. Because the reality was that this quirkiness, which seemed downright silly to the rest of us, made driving less stressful for her. And it allowed her to maintain a sense of freedom and mobility for as long as she was able.

After mom's memorial service, a longtime family friend recounted a story. Apparently her mother had taken a trip to a place where she knew the traffic would be awful. So she found a way to get from Point A to Point B by maximizing the use of right turns. They laughed together as her daughter said, "You're pulling a Loretta!"

A couple of weeks ago Dave and I were headed to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants close to home. The normal route has been closed for months due to a bridge reconstruction project. Traffic is horrible on the detours, and here we were heading out during rush hour right into the thick of it. As we drove off, I chuckled a bit while explaining to Dave how he could get to the restaurant and back home using only right turns.

Oh no, I was pulling a Loretta!

Mom would have been so pleased.

Footfalls

Touch the Earth with your feet, lift your face to the sun, breathe the air, listen to the birds and the wind through the trees. See the glory in the creation that surrounds you.

Do you ever listen to the sound of your footsteps? There is a rhythmic thud each of us can call our own. My left foot seems to hit the ground harder than my right; a recent x-ray revealed an unusual skeletal abnormality that confirmed my suspicions.

Our footfalls also take on peculiar tones depending on the surface they touch or the foot coverings we choose. Listen to your feet land on a squeaky hardwood floor, or on a soft padded carpet, or when sporting flip-flops or wet sneakers or a brand-new pair of shoes. Each sound is unique.

How about in the forest?

We were in the Flat Tops Wilderness at the end of September, following narrow trails here and there alongside a beautiful body of water called Trappers Lake, the second largest natural lake in Colorado. It was quite a journey. We often select routes to and from our Colorado destinations not because it is the shortest distance between two points, but rather based on what we hope to see along the way.

Neither of us had been to the Flat Tops Wilderness, and Dave had never seen North Park. We drove to Fort Collins and through Poudre Canyon, a winding road that follows the Cache la Poudre River, the only river in Colorado designated as Wild and Scenic. After what seemed like an eternity twisting first to the left, then to the right, then back again, we finally emerged from the canyon and began the climb to Cameron Pass where we stopped for lunch.

Behind our picnic table, I spied a trail meandering off into the woods and suggested we take a walk after lunch. Apparently this trail is popular with cross-country skiers and snowshoers. Along the trail were high metal poles with directional signs and symbols located about eight feet above ground, which would be just about right if you were tackling this trail in the deep snows of winter.

We passed a rundown old homestead beside the trail and laughed as Tonka attempted to jump a gully, underestimated the distance and fell into a big hole. This dog is fearless; he popped right back up and continued on, giving a look as if to say, "I meant to do that!"

Tonka is a medium sized dog, sturdy, stocky, with boundless enthusiasm. I marvel at his footfalls, the energy he expends as those four paws pound the earth mercilessly. Close your eyes and imagine the sound of a horse galloping on a dirt road. To hear Tonka run is to bear witness to the miniature horse hiding inside this happy little creature.

Colorado's North Park is a vast, open range sprinkled with ranches and teeming with wildlife. We zoomed along through this stretch of country, stopping briefly in the town of Walden before heading over Rabbit Ears Pass towards our new home base: Yampa. In the small town of Oak Creek, we celebrated Dave's birthday with dinner at a cool little restaurant called Shorty's.

A fierce wind woke us in the middle of the night. Outside our window stood two nervous female mule deer, one grazing, the other scanning the perimeter for signs of danger. Surely there were more deer in the darkness beyond the motel lights. We stood in the window watching our silent visitors, whose footfalls would never be heard above the howling wind.

Dawn arrived and we packed the car for the main attraction, a trip along the Flat Tops Trail Scenic Byway. The morning light followed behind as we drove west into the wilderness, stopping at random locations along the way to gaze with reverence at autumn's glorious golden hues.

Finally we made it to Trappers Lake. We did not realize that the forest surrounding the lake had been devastated by wildfire, sparked by a lightning strike eight years ago. The stark, ghostly remains of a burned forest appear sad, forlorn. But look closely. Underneath the charred trees you see new shoots, tiny trees, grasses, groundcover, all making a slow comeback. Eventually a new forest will arise and reclaim the land.

Along the Carhart Trail around Trappers Lake, I mentioned to Dave how I love the sound of footfalls in the forest. He began to stomp his feet loudly with exaggerated steps and we both laughed. Seriously, I do love the sounds.

Natural, soft, whisper quiet steps in the dirt, a muted snap as you land on a narrow tree root grown across the trail, the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet, a gentle sucking sound as the muddiest spot on the trail pulls a foot into its grasp, the hushed murmur of pine needles being crushed into the dirt.

I can hear them still...

See the pictures here: Flat Tops in Autumn