Walking into the New Year - From My Window

Recently, I entered the woods trail with Wolfgang before sunrise, but far enough into pre-dawn that I could see well enough to navigate safely. It was a chilly but windless day, and the birds weren’t active yet. The only sounds I heard were our feet on the trail, Wolfgang’s leash and collar tags, and a bit of free running water by Alice Creek, still flowing with a few open holes amongst the frozen-over stretches. It is only on such totally windless winter days that you can enjoy the amazing quiet of the woods.

We are so accustomed to three seasons of “leaf talk,” the white noise of billions of leaves moving the rest of the year, that the utter silence is amazing. On a windy day, you can hear creaking and clattering as the few branches that touch rub together; on a sub-zero day, the periodic snaps and pops of freezing wood. But this morning, it was only the sound of six moving feet and some metallic jingling once we were well past the creek.

The conditions were ideal for Wolfgang’s amazing ears. He’d take some steps and then freeze; ears and head up; eyes staring. I froze to listen, too. I watched his body language to try and understand what caught his interest… a squirrel? A deer? Maybe the fisher? Sometimes he’d listen and then lose interest, ready to move; other times it took several requests from me to go onward before he was willing. Sometimes whatever he heard was so fascinating he’d stop after several steps to listen again, and try as I might, I could hear nothing.

I allow the dogs to stop and do extensive sniffing or listening. For them, it is healthy exercise of their God-given nose and ear talents. None of us like being dragged along past interesting things; they are no different. I insist when it is necessary to rush; most times I let the dogs be dogs. They conform to our human expectations almost non-stop; I like to give them some space when I can.

When I finally heard something, it was a vehicle, traveling on the county highway to the north, more than a mile away. Wolf paid it no heed. I felt gratitude to be there, in that spot, enjoying the quiet. Silence is a luxury, something hard to come by in our daily lives, something to be savored, and something I have learned is essential to my mental well-being. I’d have lingered longer, but the cold was penetrating my insulated coveralls. As I often do, I also felt deep appreciation for the two dogs who share our lives. It is because of them I am out and about so early; because of them I stop in the woods just to listen; because of them that I marvel at the talents animals have that far surpass our own.

READER NOTE: I love the emails I get from so many thoughtful readers. One sent a note following the column on my old car. I share a summary, without her name, per her request. “My dearest cousin had a Toyota 4Runner with about 300,000 miles on it and I called it “the deathtrap.” You could hear the tires humming; I think all the insulation that deadens the sound was long gone. She named it “Perfect” and said it was perfect for her; “Perfect” was lettered on the left fender. Unfortunately, the car outlasted my dear cousin, but it lives on with her grandson. She would be so happy to know that Perfect is still going strong!”

I love EVERYTHING about this note. Her cousin’s expression of gratitude to her vehicle; the affectionate teasing of “deathtrap,” and the passing of Perfect to a family member. Thank you for taking the time to write. I am endlessly grateful to the people who write to me; it is an honor to hear from you.

I welcome commentary, alternative viewpoints or ideas at this e-mail address: JanieTMartin@gmail.com