Of all the roads you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.
I saw that saying a while ago, and it stuck with me. I’ve always been the type of person who prefers trails to sidewalks, road trips to plane rides, countryside to cityscapes, rugged to refined.
This weekend we went for a ride way down a slushy, muddy road to my favorite river spot. The river was browner than the last time I saw it from the snowmelt dragging in dirt. There were timber wolf prints heading down to the water, which Daisy sniffed with great interest. I've yet to see a wolf in person, but one of the owners of a backcountry lodge here recently posted this video of a wolf running alongside his truck. The wolves get between five to seven feet long and travel in packs, mostly in search of deer.
We brewed tea with the JetBoil in the bed of the truck, listening to the sound of the river and revelling in the air that, after months of double negative temperatures, felt blissfully warm.
Down on the river I hoped from rock to rock with Daisy never far behind me. She found a particularly nice waterlogged stick and brought it proudly back to the car. She never holds sticks like a normal dog, but instead carries them in her mouth like a cigar.
Back at home, I rolled a giant tree stump in from the woods to use as a side table in our living room and made chunky cinnamon apple cake while listening to the Fleet Foxes. Leisurely baking is the best.
Tomorrow Charlie and I celebrate four years together. We’ve definitely taken the “dirt road” path in life, both literally and metaphorically, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.