Today is National Dog Day...so I offer this story: A Trip To My Old Dog’s Favorite Campground On Sunday August 19, 2008, our small backcountry tour of three four wheel drive vehicles pulled into the remnants of the old mining camp of Masonic on the way to the more infamous town of Bodie. While the group checked out the ghosts of the miners and the broken down buildings, I silently slipped down a familiar tree lined road, to a clearing near a wide open meadow. As I trudged down the path, I had a strange feeling that I was not alone, and it didn’t take me long to realize that my faithful trail dog, Jake, who I had put down two days and a month before was tromping beside me, his ears flopping with the light breeze and his tail wagging behind him. Poor Little Jake was as a spunky as he was nearly 15 years ago when we first found the site, and I knew that God was treating him well. At the clearing we came across the rock campfire where the four of us had camped, Roger, myself, Poor Little Jake & Big Dog Jessie. I caught my breathe from the altitude and the emotion that filled me upon reaching the site. Jake’s infamous log was still gone, and no other had replaced it. I ceased the moment, away from our group, to pull down my denim shorts and squat on the spot where the log had sat that Poor Little Jake had first lifted his leg upon. It just seemed appropriate to do, and I had to rid my bladder of the coffee from breakfast anyway. Business taken care of, I stood up and looked around me. The aspens were rustling with the wind nearby, and a bird was whistling with their leafy whisper. The meadow, brown from long dry summer days, looked much like it did when Jake and his sister had followed Roger to the old Ranger mine in the distance, and I swore I could see the two of them running through it together one more time. I rubbed my eyes to focus and to wipe the tears that started to flow. Alas, it was my imagination, and neither dog were there at all. I stood there between the campfire ring and meadow and said a prayer for canine companions now gone. As I turned to go, the tears flowed more, and I couldn’t bear it. Suddenly across the meadow came a bird - a kestrel, or a prairie falcon, a small bird of prey for sure. It swooped down close enough where I could almost touch it, and squaked at me. I remembered my friend Pam, and the falcon that flew over before her grave and that of her two boys was lowered into the ground, and remembered all of the times she came to me at crucial times in my life as a that falcon. But this wasn’t Pam, it couldn’t be…and my heart started beating with excitement. By the time I realized the smaller type falcon was my shepherd/lab Jake letting me know he was ok, another bird just like it followed and did the same thing. I was laughing and crying now. It was Big Dog Jessie, and the spirits of my trail dogs were letting me know they were fine and dandy enjoying one of their favorite old romping grounds together once again. The two birds perched somewhere in the surrounding aspen and brush singing calls back and forth to each other and to me. I listened for several minutes, and took comfort in it all, but realized the rest of the group was probably wondering what had happened to me. Sure enough, Roger’s voice called to me from the hand held ham radio in my pocket, and I assured him I was ok, and I’d work my way back to him. I could hardly bare to leave the old Masonic campsite, and say goodbye to my dogs for perhaps the last time. I took a few steps towards the road then paused and looked back. To my amazement one of the small falcons flew out of the trees and right over my head crying again. As it took off over the meadow and beyond, the other darted out and did the same and I was comforted it by it all. I knew my old dogs were young and free spirits again in the form of those birds, and I had no doubt that I would see them again in another meadow or mountain another time. And all was well as I headed back to the vehicles and my fellow ghost town explorers.
Posted on: Mon, 26 Aug 2013 15:57:06 +0000
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