A Walk Around the Block​

Issue 14

            My wife, Lynn, and our two teenage children are all in the living room. It is a rare occurrence when we are all in the house at the same time on a Saturday. Usually the kids (if I still call them “kids” at their age) are occupied with friends and other activities.
            Lynn, and my kids are what I live for. They are my greatest and only joy in life. My kids are my accomplishments in life of any real value. As for Lynn, she came to me all by herself. She is the reason I keep on breathing.
            Since the kids are here and have nowhere to go until this evening, Lynn decides to make it a family afternoon and I enthusiastically agree. I look outside the patio door that leads to our garden. I enjoy seeing the summer flowers in full bloom, roses, hollyhocks, hydrangea, and more.
            We all pitch in to make a platter of sandwiches for lunch accompanied by home-made potato and egg salad. It is all very good and I eat my fill.
            It is my custom to take a solitary walk after a meal to digest my food and to work up an appetite for dessert, if that is on the menu.
            After lunch, I excuse myself, put on a long-sleeved sun shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, a water bottle, and my accustomed Swiss army jackknife (the habits of Boy Scouts never desert me), and I step out the front door, wearing hiking boots because I usually walk along the muddy bank of a stream and woods that runs in an easement behind houses a block away. This is my regular nature fix and the closest thing I get to spirituality these days.
            I walk using a metal walking pole that telescopes from long to short and has a sharp tip on the end to dig into the ground. It looks very much like a ski pole. I have it set to a comfortable height. It is not necessary, but it makes my walk a little easier.
            Free from people, computer screens, streaming movies, and all the distractions of modern life, I am able to shut the world away and think while I walk. The only electronic contrivance I keep with me is my cell phone, and everyone knows not to call me when I am walking unless it is an emergency.  
            And so, I walk, and I think, but the thinking worries me because my thoughts have been increasingly dark for quite some time now. I have a life insurance policy, but I have been stumped by one thing. It will not pay if you do it yourself. It has to look like an accident in every respect.
            Ever since I hit forty, I haven’t been able to see any future, just the same thing for the next twenty-five years until I retire on my 401K. What kind of life is that? What kind of life is that for my wife and kids? Even now, I can’t afford to send the kids to college. No, this is the only way. People may be sad, but they will get over it.
            I walk down a gentle slope to the end of the block and turn the corner so that my house is no longer visible. I continue thinking about my life. All the pleasures in my life consist of Lynn and our kids. I know that should be enough for me, and that I have much to be grateful for in those relationships, but it seems lacking somehow and thus the dark thoughts.
            My job has become just another job with no satisfaction. It is also a dead-end. I have no way to move up in the organization. All I have to look forward to at work is more of the same.
            I have no real friends. Those I used to have stopped seeing ages ago. I am a poor friend now. I don’t put in the work to maintain relationships.
            I just don’t know what to do with my life. I seem to be treading water, waiting for the next big thing to come along, but secretly, I know that there is no “big thing” on my horizon. Little by little I have grown more depressed about my circumstances in life until the dark thoughts manifested themselves. The fact that my life is nearly half over has hit me hard.
            I stop for a moment. It is hot out, and I begin to wipe the sweat off my brow. I close my eyes to do so. When I open them, there is hard-packed sand mixed with dirt at my feet, the sidewalk lost its pavement. It has turned into a broad, well-worn trail through a desolate wilderness, a desert. Quite startled by this, I turn my head to look behind me. That, too, has transformed into desert.
            My heart begins to race, I feel I am short of breath and a little dizzy. “What happened?” I think. “Where am I? How did I get here? What’s going on? Am I dreaming?” My mind struggles to accept this new reality.
            It sounds silly, but the first thing I do is pull out my cell phone from my pocket. My hands are shaking. I check to see how many bars I have. There are none. Still, I try calling home. Of course, there is no service. I get nothing. I feel a knot in my stomach.
            I turn it off to save the battery and think to myself, “That was silly.” Then I close my eyes for a moment, hoping I will return to my familiar world. When I open them, I find that I am still in the desert. I begin to hyperventilate. “Breathe,” I tell myself, “Control your breath and control your mind.” I begin to breathe intentionally, deep in and slowly out while relaxing.
            I stand there for a few moments, lost in shock as I look around.
            There is no sign of civilization. The road, sidewalk, houses, trees, lawns, everything has turned into desert in the time it took to wipe my brow. It seems there is no going back, returning to the comfort and safety of my house.
            I see a number of saguaro, prickly pear, and barrel cactuses. There are others, but these are the ones I recognize and are most prominent. There is also a lot of scrub brush and calf-high, brown grass, except for the trail. The trail is a clear lane through the desert with nothing growing on it. From visiting my adult daughter and her family who live near Phoenix, AZ, I recognize this as the Sonoran Desert, but there is no sign of civilization.
            I know I have to be very careful. Rattlesnakes and scorpions occupy this desert in large numbers. One sting of a scorpion, and I will be out of commission for days, and with no water, I will probably die. One bite by a rattler and I will definitely die.
            As I stand, subsumed in disbelief, looking up the trail in the direction I seem to be going, I try to fight off panic. I hear a voice behind me say, “Well… you really did it this time!”
            I whip around to see who spoke to me, and I see a coyote standing on the trail behind me. “Surely not…” I think in complete disbelief.
            Then the coyote speaks again. “Yes, I am really speaking to you. You are not going crazy, or at least, no crazier than you already are.”
            I have so many questions. “What is going on? Where am I? Where is my house?”
            “Calm down. You have to take this as dispassionately as your problem-solving brain can do. You solve problems for your clients. Solve this one for yourself.”
            On top of everything, I am now having a conversation with an animal. Can this situation get any more bizarre? I ask the only question that is really on my mind, “How can I get back home?”
            “That is a little difficult,” the coyote responds.
            ​“Where am I and how do I get back to where I was?”
            “That’s two questions. The first is a little difficult to answer and is immaterial. You are here. That’s the reality you have to deal with, so you had better suck it up. The second question is not so difficult. All you have to do is follow this trail and it will eventually take you back to where you were.”
            “What do you mean by ‘eventually?’”
            “It may take a few days.”
            “My wife will be frantic! She won’t know where I have disappeared to!”
            “That’s the least of your problems. You have to find a way back to your life.”
            How did this happen? Where am I (other than in a desert?) Has something happened to me? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?”
            ​The coyote simply says, “For now, you are in a desert, that’s your reality. In answer to your other questions, no, no, and no. Now if you want to get out of here, keep on the trail.”
            I come to my senses and start walking. It is the only thing I can think of doing, and so I do it. We proceed to walk side by side on the trail, quietly, while I am lost in thought. So many questions. Too many questions. I don’t have the answers and the coyote is not forthcoming with answers on that subject.  He just keeps reiterating that to get back to where I was, I have to stay on the trail, which makes sense. There is no other way to go.
            “It’s the easiest and surest way. Stick to the well-worn trail where it is easy to walk and your life will return to normal.”
            Normal. Is that what I want? Do I want to return to normal? That’s a little like a rocket launch when people pronounce, “All systems are nominal.” That never sounded good to me. I always thought they should say, “All systems are good,” or better yet, “Everything is looking great!”
            I’m not sure I want to return to “normal.” Deep inside, I want “Great!”
            The trail seems to go straight with an occasional dodge to avoid a particularly large rock. We are going uphill and the trail is becoming increasingly steep. I look ahead and the trail leads towards the top of a low mountain, perhaps two thousand feet tall.
            “The mountain top, is that where we are headed?” I ask the coyote.
            “Yes, the trail runs along the top of that mountain ridge. You are also safer up there because there are fewer predators and you can see for quite a distance in two directions.”
            After a bit, the trail begins to switchback up to the steepest part of the mountain.
            Without warning I hear a rattle, characteristic of a rattlesnake. I have heard that noise before. I easily remember it. I freeze in my tracks. The coyote runs past me and begins quickly darting in and out near the snake, just out of the snake’s striking range. I can see the snake is quickly getting tired. At the end, the snake makes one last, exhausted lunge. The coyote uses his paws to pin the snake to the ground, then bites his head off. The coyote turns to me and says, “I just saved your life. Would you wait a bit while I eat this snake?” and without waiting for an answer, he begins eating.
            I stand and watch the coyote devour the rattler. Then he turns back to me, licking his chops saying, “That was a good lunch.”
            I ask the coyote more questions, but he doesn’t give me any additional information. All he says is, “Stay on the trail. There’s bound to be something familiar up ahead.”
            “How do you know?” I ask.
            “Why else would someone create this trail unless it leads somewhere? Don’t worry. I won’t leave you and I will keep you safe just like I did with the rattler.”
            We walk in silence. The coyote is not much one for conversation. He tends to keep his own counsel, even though I have many questions, all he gives me are curt evasions.
            After a long while, I say to him, “I have been trying to ration my water, but I am almost out now, due to the heat. Is there any water on this trail?”
            The coyote pauses, and says, “I will show you a desert survival trick. Select a barrel cactus.”
            I pick one close to the trail.
            “Now, thrust the pointed end of your walking pole into the cactus about halfway up.”
            I do as I am told.
            He continues, “Do the same around the entire cactus about two inches apart. Be sure to thrust your pole all the way into the center of the cactus.”
            Once again, I do what he says, going all the way around the barrel cactus until I return to the spot where I started. “Now what?” I ask.
            The coyote responds, “You’ve perforated the cactus through to the middle. Thrust your pole into it near the top and pry it open. You will have to use some muscle.”
            I do it and the top of the cactus splits off where I perforated and falls to the ground.”
            “Now,” the coyote continues, “Have you got anything on you to scoop out the pulp?”
            “Yes! I have a jack knife!” I kneel down and use the knife blade to cut out chunks of pulp. I smile because it is the first time I have used my jackknife in years. “What do I do with this?”
            “Squeeze the liquid into your water bottle.”
            I squeeze the pulp hard, and a trickle of clear liquid runs into my water bottle. I repeat this until the bottle is filled. Then I squeeze some on my face. I take off my hat for a moment and squeeze some on the top of my head and then replace the hat. The liquid is warm, but it still feels good.
            I drink some from my bottle and spit out the first sip. “Is it supposed to be this bitter?” I ask the coyote.
            “Yes, it is very bitter, and a little ascitic, but it will keep you hydrated and that will keep you alive. Just don’t drink a whole lot at one time or it will upset your stomach. Sip, don’t gulp!” The coyote goes to the open cactus and pulls out some pulp with his teeth, chews the liquid out of it and spits out the remainder.
            Near the top of the mountain, we confront a field of large rocks blocking the way. I look this way and that, but there doesn’t seem to be a way around them. Assuming the trail continues beyond the rocks. We have no choice but to continue strait over them.
            In hopes that the coyote knows of an alternate way I ask him, “What do we do now?”
            He replies, “We have to go through.”
            I telescope the segments of my pole together and make it as short as possible which is about two feet long. There is a strap on the outermost segment of the pole that allows me to sling it over my shoulder. I look at the rocks and then begin to make my ascent.
            The coyote jumps from one rock to another with ease, but it is hard going for me. I don’t have his agility. I climb, moving slowly and carefully from foot hold to hand hold. It takes me a while, and my muscles strain. “Damnit!” I say aloud but softly to myself. The going is tough, I think, “I am really out of shape. I have to join a gym when I get back home.” In time I find myself standing on the top of the mountain ridge, feeling very proud of what I have done.
            I look around for a continuation of the trail, but there doesn’t seem to be anything. I ask the coyote “I can’t find the trail. Do you know where it is?”
            “Your guess is as good as mine.” He replies. “but when you find the trail, stick to it for your dear life. That is the only hope you have.”
            “That’s just great.” I intone sarcastically. “You are supposed to be my guide!”
            I look over the side of the ridge opposite the rock field. There is no sign of a trail or switchback leading up to the summit from that side. “The trail must run along the ridge,” I say to the coyote.
            “You go that way, and I will go this way, and whoever finds a trail yells out for the other to join them,” replies the coyote.
            We part ways, but it isn’t too long before I see the trail open ahead of me. I holler for the coyote, but I hear no answer. I turn around and go in his direction, twisting and turning to avoid cacti but I cannot find any sign of the coyote. I yell and yell. I look over both sides of the ridge and yell some more, but I can’t find him. He seems to have disappeared as suddenly as he first appeared.
            Night is falling, and I have to find a good place to bed down. I refill my water bottle. I am standing on the ridge near where the coyote and I parted ways. I am not on the trail, and I hesitate to try finding it at night. In the dark I could easily lose myself and in the process, get myself killed. I can start back on the trail in the morning. I think the safest place for me to stay is on the rocks. It is away from crawling insects, and hopefully nocturnal predators.
            I find a spot between two boulders and try to sleep but I can’t. I look up in the sky to see the moonrise. It is a waxing gibbous, nearly full, which means that without obstruction it should shed a good deal of light for me to see by, at least for the next few hours.
            In time, I finally fall into a restless sleep.
            I am sleeping but not sleeping at the same time. I am in some form of twilight sleep, only semi-conscious when the first light of dawn awakens me.
            I stand up and stretch. Rocks do not make for a good mattress, and an even worse pillow, but at least I am still alive. What few dreams I had were of Lynn and the kids and how I miss them. I also dreamed of my boss at work and how desperately I want to leave there. I dreamed of this and that about my life, and most of them were not pleasant dreams. They were nightmares.
            “Rise and shine!” I hear a sweet soprano voice above me on top of the ridge.
            I struggle to get my wits about me. I look up and see a bobcat on the ridge and think, “If a coyote can speak to me, then why not a bobcat? Could things get any stranger?” 
            I ask, “Who are you?”
            “We can talk over breakfast. Come on up here and let’s get you something to eat.”
            The prospect of food sounds good to me. I entertain visions of pancakes, eggs, and sausage, but I know that was not what she is talking about.
            I take a sip of the foul-tasting liquid in my water bottle and climb back to the top of the ridge.
            “Pick a prickly pear cactus.” She instructs.
            I choose one.
            “Flatten one of the pads down to the ground by stepping on it and then use your knife to separate it from the body of the plant.”
            I do as I am instructed and think, “This had better be worth it.”
            “Use your knife to cut off the big needles. Then cut out the eyes and the small needles. Trim the edges of the pad. Be careful because there may be small needles there.”
            It takes me over half an hour to be thorough during which I chat with the bobcat. “What business do you have with me?”
            “I am your sister, your children’s hidden mother. I am your secret wife and lover. I am your true guide.”
            “You are speaking in riddles. I don’t understand.”
            “They are your own riddles. There is no need to understand them. Just let them be. Accept that I am here to help you. I have always been with you. It’s just that you haven’t been listening lately, and the consequences are so grave that you and I have ended up here.”
            “Well, you can help me find the coyote who was supposed to be my guide.”
            “What kind of guide was he?”
            “He saved me from a rattlesnake.”
            “No, he didn’t. He ate lunch and had a drink on your bill!”
            Looking around to get my bearings I say, “I have to find the trail.”
            “What for?”
            “Because that is the only way out of here.”
            “How do you know?”
            “Because that’s what the coyote told me.”
            “Where did he say the trail would lead?”
            “He said it would get me back home.”
            “Think carefully. What were the exact words he used?”
            I take a moment to think, then I respond, “He never said it would take me home. He said it would take me back to where I was.”
            “So let me get this straight. The coyote told you to follow a trail that you were already standing on and that you had already decided to continue walking on because it was clear and an easy place to go. Is that right?”
            “Yes, I suppose so.” I respond a little sheepishly.
            “Are you getting anywhere on this trail?”
            “Not yet. It seems to go on forever. I suppose I could be out here for days.”
            “The coyote told you to follow the trail and return to where you are. Where are you?”
            “In the middle of the damned desert, that’s where I am!”
            “Who made the trail?”
            “How should I know?”
            “What if I said that you made the trail, all by yourself? You have walked in the same place over and over that in time it became a broad trail.”
            “But I have never been here before. How could I have made a trail?”
            “You have been on this same route day-by-day, year-by-year. You walk that route every day of your life until all that is left is a broad trail of hard packed sand and soil. What if I ask you, ‘Where does this trail lead?’”
            My heart sinks, “If it is my trail, then I suppose it leads nowhere.”
            “Are you satisfied with where the trail is leading you?”
            I am embarrassed to say, but I blurt it out anyway, “No, but what other choice do I have?”
            “You always have choice, unless you give your free will over to another person. You may not like the consequences, but you always have a choice.”
            By then I had finished prepping the cactus. I ask the bobcat, “What do I do now?”
            “Just pick it up and take a bite!”
            She is sure perkier than the coyote, and a whole lot more fun to be with. I pick up the prepared cactus pad like a sandwich and take a cautious nibble. “It’s not bad! Kind of tart, and crisp. It’s good!”
            “That’s breakfast. I thought you might like it.”
            Not having had dinner the night before, I was famished, so I ate it quickly, greedily. Then I said, “Thank you. Now I have to get back on the trail,” though I feet less convinced that the trail was the right way to go after my conversation with the bobcat.
            “Do you really want to return to your old life? What if I told you there is a better way?” the bobcat asks.
            “What would that be?”
            “Come to the edge of the ridge and look down into the valley. What do you see?”
            I look, and at first I am not sure what I am looking for, or what I am looking at. All I see is a whole lot of desert. Then, my gaze settles on the distance, against the next ridge. I finally see it and say, “There is a line of trees down the far side of the valley.”
            “What does that mean?”
            “There must be fresh water, and it’s a line of trees so it must be flowing!”
            “Isn’t that where you would rather go?”
            The prospect of fresh water and a respite from the oppressive heat motivate me to say “Yes, absolutely. How do I get there?”
            “It won’t be easy. You have to leave the trail and take some risks.”
            “Please help me. Tell me how.”
            “First, you have to find a good place to climb down off this ridge without killing yourself on a cactus or a fall.”
            I walk up and down the ridge a little and look around and eventually see a crevice running down the side of the mountain. I call to the bobcat, “Here’s a way. It is a steep climb down, but I think I can do it so long as I am careful.”
            “Then give it a go!” she urges.
            I sling my walking stick behind my back again and begin the down climb. I recall from my youth when I used to do rock climbing that often down climbing is worse, more precarious, than climbing up.
            I slip a few times resulting in nasty scrapes and one large gash in my side. At one point I slide down a particularly steep portion and land hard on a rock outcrop. When I continue, I can feel my side. It hurts, leading me to think that I might have fractured a rib.
            It takes some time to work my way down the crevice to where I can begin walking down steep, but solid ground rather than downclimbing.
            By the time I reach the valley floor, it is noon and I need to eat and refill my water bottle, so I take a break. My bobcat (somewhere along the line, I began thinking of her as my bobcat) remained with me the entire journey, encouraging me on. As I start on another prickly pear for lunch, she excuses herself and goes off for her own lunch. She returns quickly with a jackrabbit long before I have cut the needles off the cactus..
            “Here, I brought this for you. This is your lunch, if you want it.”
            “What about your lunch?”
            “Don’t worry about me. I found a quail and that was good enough.”
            Remembering some of my boy scout tricks and improvising, I make a fire, skin and roast the jackrabbit. After the cactus, this fresh meat tastes very good.
            Between my bites and chewing she asks, “How do you feel right now? I mean, how do you feel going off trail and heading toward fresh water?”
            “I feel good. Somehow, getting off that trail and climbing down that crevice made me feel better than I have felt in a long time. I have a goal, and I’m not wasting time blindly following a trail that may go nowhere for all I know.”
            “What about the bumps and scrapes, and the fractured rib?”
            “Oh, those will go away.”
            “Do you feel in charge of things now?”
            I pause to think, then say, “Yeah, actually, I do. It’s a good feeling. I just haven’t felt this way for a long time.”
            “What do you want to do?”
            “Now that you mention it, Lynn and I used to keep a bucket list, but we let it slip away slowly since the kids were born. Eventually, we stopped even looking at it. Lynn and I always talked about joining together and creating our own firm so we would be our own bosses.”
            “And your dark thinking, what does that solve?”
            I am taken aback. I have never spoken a word to anyone about that. Can she read my mind? In any case, she asked the question and I respond. “Those thoughts aren’t real. I would never do such a thing. They are just idle fantasies.”
            “Are they? Or are they getting closer to reality with each passing day?”
            I am embarrassed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
            “So be it, but you were thinking those thoughts while you were walking down the street. Ask yourself, ‘have I had any thoughts like that since I left the trail?’”
            I ponder, and I realize that I hadn’t. It would be so easy to die by accident out here, but I am trying my hardest to survive. Why?”
            “You ready to go?” she asks.
            We continue walking across the valley floor. She talks incessantly. She is clearly an extrovert whereas I keep pretty much to myself, especially around strangers. Lynn has always been the extrovert in the family.
            I dodge cacti here and there as we walk a circuitous route across the valley. It’s not more than a few miles, but the going is slow. By early evening, we arrive. I have to be careful to negotiate the large thorns of the mesquite trees along the bank of what turns out to be a wide stream. I use my pole to brush aside tree limbs and make my way to the edge of the stream. When I reach the water, I empty the rancid liquid from my bottle and fill it with clear, fresh water.
            I see my bobcat standing at the shore of the water, drinking with one eye watching me. I am so hot that I take off my hat and wade into the middle of the water. It is shallow, only coming up to my knees. Then I close my eyes and lay down on my back to cool down.
            I feel the cool water wash over me and I think, “Now I know. I know what to do to save myself and my family. I just wish I wasn’t trapped in the desert. How long will this last?” Then I notice. The dark thoughts have been washed from my mind by the cool water.
            I open my eyes and I am no longer in the desert. I am laying on my back in the stream that runs behind the houses one block from where I started this journey in the first place.
            I climb out of the stream and yell, “Yippee! Home at last!” Then I notice that I have a splitting headache. I reach up and feel my head. When I look at my hand I see that it is full of blood. I look down at the stream and see a protruding rock with blood on it. “I must have slipped and hit my head on that rock. That would explain everything, or would it?”
            I am on the verge of dismissing the entire experience, chalking it up to a nasty fall and concussion, but then I think twice. No matter how the experience was caused, it was very real. The lessons I learned were true. I gained a lot of personal wisdom on that walk through the desert, and that cannot be dismissed.
            I silently say “Thank you” to the bobcat.
            Now I know, I know what I must do.” I don’t walk back home. I run!
            When I enter the house, Lynn looks at me and asks, “Look at you! Your head is bleeding! Let me get a cloth to put some pressure on it, and some dry clothes. Why are you soaking wet?”
            The kids are staring at me, speechless and aghast.
            I ask, “How long have I been gone?”
            “It’s been hours now.” My oldest replies. “Mom was about to call the police!”
            Lynn quickly returns with a towel for my head and a fresh set of old clothes, in case I drop blood on them. “That’s a nasty looking cut. We should get you to the hospital. At the very least, you will need stitches. Where have you been?”
            “That is a long story.
            “I am not sure how to put this, so I will just lay it out there.
            ​“A lot is going to change around here, beginning with me. I have to change, and Lynn, you and I are going to start that firm we have always dreamed of, and where is that old bucket list? I think it’s time we begin to check things off!

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Peter Chapin is an emerging author from Northern Virginia. His writings feature character development both in humor and drama. Mr. Chapin has a wife, two children, and five grandchildren. Besides writing, his other passions are photography, performing charitable work, and tutoring his precocious grandchildren in the game of chess.

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