If she took a hike every day of her life, would it be enough? When you hike you learn something new every time; something new about Nature, something new from Science, something novel about people – maybe even something new about yourself.
Better yet, hiking is something you can do alone, solitary, at a proper physical distance during times of quarantine.
It was the seventh day after implementation of proper social distancing in Durango, Colorado. Not the seventh day after discovery of Coronavirus, not the seventh day after cessation of hand-shaking. No one had been shaking hands for two weeks. But it was the seventh day since library and public places closure. It was also a Sunday. and recreators were out in force – albeit, maintaining a six to ten foot social distance between parties – often even persons in the same group.
Blue sky and wispy cirrus clouds were overhead. She had walked a good three miles at a fast pace in the best combination of places; beside running water, through trees and grasses and other vegetation and rocks. She had nodded and waved to passersby from a safe physical distance and tried not to breathe – neither out nor in – when others came too close. She was a good person and always, always tried to obey the rules. And the rules of this beautiful day? Look around you. Breathe deep. Enjoy nature. Be grateful to have landed in this wonderful place. Be at peace. Be healthful. Be restored. Once or twice she pulled out her phone to snap a picture. She wanted to remember. She wanted a record of what Nature whispered.
A guttural bray split the silence some 100 yards behind her. Again it honked, loud, forced, like an angry human deliberately trying to disrupt the stillness and beauty with a manufactured cough. Or did someone need help? She turned.
Have you ever heard the cry of a wild animal in distress? It is an awful bellow. More blood-curdling than the midnight call of a fox on the tail of its prey. She was once awakened in the middle of the night by just such a cry from a rabbit fatally harassed by neighbor dogs. This wild animal was twenty times bigger than a rabbit and ten times louder and whatever this animal was, it was being pursued downriver by another large mammal. The two mammals emerged around the bend like overgrown children playing crack-the-whip, for the animal in pursuit had attached itself to the hindquarters of a doe in flight. Both were kicking and swimming for dear life.
If there was one safety rule she knew, it was not to interfere with nature. She watched. She made sure she was in a protected place behind a tree. Those animals, now only 30 yards away down a riverbank, might separate and escape up the bank, straight at her at any moment. She took out her camera and focused on the harsh realities of nature taking course in the water. Suddenly, two young women appeared around the bend; one at river level in hasty and desperate pursuit of her dog, which turned out to be the pursuing mammal; the other, fifteen feet away at trail level. “What are you doing?” yelled the near woman. “Are you recording this? Delete it right now! Don’t you dare post that!”
She looked up from her phone in surprise, “This is important,” she said mildly.
“No! No it’s not important,” spat the young woman, “put your camera away.”
On the rocky river beach another scene unfolded. Miraculously, the first young woman got hold of her dog, separated and leashed him, handed him over to a seasoned canine owner amongst the bystanders and returned to check on the doe. Meanwhile, a fisherman from upstream had waded quickly through the current and, sportsman that he was, proceeded to do his best to get the doe to solid ground. Others ran to find phone numbers and contact wildlife officials. Someone murmured about fines leveled at dog owners when wildlife is injured.
Feeling not very helpful, she turned and continued her final mile on the trek home. Saddened by Nature. Disappointed by irrational humans. Uplifted by the beautiful day. How she wished she had that fisherman’s rescue on tape. It reminded her of a positive video she once saw online. But alas, though the video button glowed red through the entire incident, the record button was never engaged.