The Adventure

"Walk" - a simple word uttered. The dogs jump at the door, that old, creaky, wooden door, at the mere mention of the word. Open mouthed with tongues hanging out of the side, panting and whining with glee, they wait impatiently, watching for the turn of that tarnished golden knob; waiting for an invitation to a world beyond their walls; their second domain. A creak, a gap filled with sunlight shining a ray through the dust; an escape. Full speed, they take off and clear the tiered wrap-around deck in a second. A smirk and a chuckle occupies my mind as they run across the cement driveway, past the standalone basketball hoop, into the yellow-green overgrown field. The foot path through the weeds, worn down over years of journeys, is my guide. The dogs' noses are theirs. To the river with the trussed train bridge they go. The rusted walls of the bridge, hidden from the road which lay a mere 200 yards away, are hidden by the limbs of trees that form a canopy over the water. The dogs wade in, chasing the sticks and twigs I throw, gulping and splashing. The dogs jump out as I call them while climbing up the ledge to the railroad tracks. The smell of tar, like freshly lain blacktop, rises with the heat coming off the rails, the ties, and the rocks with occasional coal sprinkled in. Though the way is straight for miles ahead, and a mile behind, I place my ear to a rail to listen and feel for any hint of vibration of metal scraping metal. Nothing. Rio, my German Shepherd, runs left to right to left to right, following a scent likely left by a beaver or fox, Sniffing, marking, investigating. His top-black coat and tan legs and chest stand out among the grey rocks and green trees blocking the view from the road. Onward he goes. Cheyenne, my beautiful Doberman, shines like wet black ink in the sunlight, a brilliant sheen. She looks back at me to make sure I'm still near; my protector. Rio rejoins and nips at her neck. Onward we go. After nearly a quarter-mile of trying and failing to walk on the rail, we come to my secret; a "hidden" path to the left, down the bank, through the trees and brush, and up the hill on the other side. The weeds have been knocked down over the years, a familiar way. The smell of pine and recent rains Complement the blue sky and shimmering blue-green lake over the ledge, just beyond the brush. A hidden gem; a place of personal tranquility. I watch Chey and Rio trot along, peacefully In a memory I'll cherish for as long as time permits.