New Year’s Day 2015

Afternoon sun over a marsh. 01/01/2015.

Afternoon sun over a marsh. 01/01/2015.

We lost our dog Daisy a week ago. She was nearly fourteen and had to be put down. Cancer had invaded her mouth and shoulder. That’s the extent of what we knew after the vet took some x-rays and did some blood tests. Then there was what we suspected: Daisy was likely full of the dreaded disease. To spare her further pain and humiliation, and to preserve her dignity, we put Daisy down. Never an easy decision. But something that needed doing. Today, New Year’s Day 2015, the first New Year’s Day in over a decade that Daisy isn’t with us, I dress for winter, let Jimi Hendrix, our miniature Dachshund out the door, call for Kramer, Daisy’s one-time garage mate and aging chocolate Labrador, and release Kena, our energetic black Lab from her plastic crate. The dogs and I follow our ice covered driveway from the house to the nearest woodland trail, a path I cut years ago, and begin a winter walk in celebration of the new year.

The woods are empty. We flush no grouse, chase no deer from their beds, and encounter no chickadees on our quiet walk through meager snow. It’s utterly quiet. Even the icy surface of Fish Lake, unseen behind a mile of aspen, pine, balsam, and scrub to the south of our land, lacks the usual hubbub of snowmobilers and ice fisherman racing across its frozen surface on their noisy machines. Jimi, always on the hunt for squirrels and rabbits (prey that Daisy was always keen to track as well) scurries hither and yon but never raises his voice, never catches the scent of a varmint to excite his pea-sized brain. Kramer is content, in his old age and on infirm hips, to waddle behind me. Kena bounds ahead,nose to the ground snuffling for partridge but finds nothing of interest. She is abundantly gleeful, obviously happy to be out of her plastic crate and on the move even if there are no birds to flush.

It’s mild. Not really warm, not really cold. It’s an afternoon walk, one of life’s simple pleasures enhanced not by wildlife or the thrill of skis against new snow or eagles soaring overhead, but by sun and still air and quiet and solitude. At the junction of the trail I’m on and the black waters of the Cloquet River, at the intersection where I will turn towards home, I stop and watch water on its inexorable path towards the sea. Most times, when I come upon this scene, there are white and black Whistlers, Canadian ducks who overwinter on the Cloquet, bobbing in the slow moving current. There are no ducks on the water today and none take flight against the cloudless winter sky.

Kena.

Kena.

I make a detour to check on our neighbors’ cabins. These are not the palatial mansions one sees in magazines celebrating “lake living” and the joys of Minnesota but one-room shacks hugging the banks of the river. The structures are old, in various states of disrepair, rarely used, susceptible to flooding, and targets for kids with bad intentions. Every now and again, when I am out and about on one of my strolls, I’ll swing by the cabins just to ensure that no mischief is at hand. Nothing is amiss and I cross a short passage of trees, where I have yet to cut a trail, before emerging on our hayfield. Across the silent field, a pasture that once nurtured some long dead farmer’s cows, our home, as white as the surrounding snow, looms against the azure sky of late afternoon. Orange reflects from the westward facing windows of the house, the image of the sun setting behind me replicated by glass.  The four of us walk towards the house. There is no wind, no sound, save the snuffle of dog noses and the crunch of boots against snow, as we make our way towards warmth.

Kramer.

Kramer.

The dogs and I do nothing exceptional, and encounter nothing remarkable during our short walk. But I am refreshed. A new year has begun. I am looking forward to seeing what it brings.

Peace.

Mark

New Year's Day, 2015.

New Year’s Day, 2015.

About Mark

I'm a reformed lawyer and author.
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