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Rainy days are best because we are alone in the woods. The beech grove is shaped like a cupped palm and tilts towards the stream. Normally a placid progression of water, today Gravel Run swells well beyond the banks, churning and muddy. I question my judgment but move forward anyway.
One of the dogs veers too close and slips down the bank, legs spinning as the water flows around him. He is stuck, his liquid eyes beseeching. I haul him out by his harness, careful to counterbalance his weight with mine. He spends the rest of the walk warning our other dog away from the water with growls and nips.
The forest wears the grays, browns, and blacks of sodden wood, broken here and there by green, satiated moss. It springs from the buttressed trunks in wild abandon, and I can’t resist running my hand along one particularly luxuriant expanse. If I were to grab a bunch and squeeze, water would flow like a second rainfall. I leave it on the tree.
Other than occasional birdsong echoing through the wet forest, the animals are quiet. It’s not the rain that keeps them in: it’s us and daytime. In the sodden edges along the stream we see fresh tracks of deer, raccoon, and squirrel. Everyone has to eat, regardless of the weather.
By the time my jacket is soaked through and the bottoms of my jeans are caked in mud, I’m ready to turn around. We are a soggy party. The dogs’ ears are flattened against the drops and the fringe of their tails drips with each slow wag. A quote runs through my mind: “The longest life is short.” There isn’t a day to waste inside.
Jenny Houghton
Assistant Director
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