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I'd dreamed of New York for years without knowing how it'd all be how people could come and go how I would change
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The dog died on a Thursday in a hospital uptown.
He’d been there for 2 days, his owner outside pacing the streets, or sitting and staring at the Queensboro bridge, chest tighter with each breath, waiting for the dog to get better — and worrying that he never would.
When his owner visited him, the ever-hungry dog no longer cared for treats, and his eyes didn’t quite say he was done living, but that he was tired — too tired to get up and walk anymore. Then they learned he had cancer, so his owner put him to rest.
He'd wanted a final day with the dog at home, in the August sun in the park, with a giant bowl of ice cream. But instead, the dog’s last breath was in that hospital, looking at his owner looking right back at him, smiling and petting his head, whispering “thank you” for being such a good companion.
-
The next day, his owner got on a train north from Grand Central. He had been restless and pacing and sobbing in his apartment, so empty and quiet now. So he'd packed a sleeping bag, some peanut butter, and the dog’s collar, and left.
They'd always hiked together before the dog got arthritis and walking turned painful. Now that he was gone, his owner could walk that 40-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail between Connecticut and the Hudson River. The dog would’ve done it if he could — and now his owner wouldn’t have to leave him at home anymore.
On the train, with concrete turning into trees outside, he pulled out his notebook to write. It used to be sort of comforting, the idea of your body dissipating into the universe when you die. Now, the thought brought no comfort at all. He was paralyzed, losing a companion so entangled in his every thought and fiber. His only comfort was cruel — that he was better off having found that dog on the side of the road 10 years earlier. He was lucky for loving him as much as he did.
-
Eight miles into the trail, the sun was setting and his legs were burning. He was so fucking out of shape. He swatted at the fucking mosquitoes and the goddamn gnats that swarmed his face, flying into his eyes and biting his hands. With a huff, he paused to check the map.
He was close to the camping shelter, but, “Fuck this shit,” he said aloud, “I can just walk back to the train tomorrow.”
Then he kept walking, faster, hoping to outrun the bugs, feet lazily clopping on the dirt and rocks.
Finally he saw the shelter in the distance, perched on a rocky outcrop. There, in the twilight, he got the weight off his back, set up his tent, and crawled inside — safe from the bugs at last.
Outside the tent, there was a growing hum of insects as night fell. He was completely alone in the woods for the first time in his life. No more dog to keep watch, like that time in the swamp when the dog scared some large creature away with a rare, sharp bark; or the Georgia canyon with the howling coyotes, when something came near the tent, but the dog stayed quiet.
-
In the morning, he woke and the sunlight was already soaking the forest floor.
He went down the hill and pumped some rust-colored water from a decommissioned well. Then he filtered it, and cooked breakfast. As he ate, two hikers stopped by, introduced by trail names, Tortoise and Jerebear. The three exchanged a few words about supplies along the way, then wished each other “happy trails.”
The dog’s owner finished packing up. It was only 9 miles to the next shelter, and his legs felt better.
He decided to keep walking.
-
The terrain was gentler, and there were fewer fucking bugs, thankfully. An occasional breeze blew and it felt wonderful.
He had attached the dog’s collar to his pack, so it would jingle with each step. He was getting used to hearing that sound while learning the dog wouldn’t come trotting along anymore.
He talked to himself and the trees. Lives are usually measured by how long they last. But maybe all a good life needs is one good day — especially between companions, where you only have each other. And the dog goes trotting up ahead of you and waits, looking back, tongue out; and you just smile, catch up, and say, “Okay,” patting him on the head. And it goes on like that. And not another fucking thing matters.
They had had so many of those days together, and really, just one had been enough.
-
After seven hours, he found the white brick shelter in the cleared field. He unloaded his heavy pack, mindlessly singing to himself about missing his dog.
Then he leaned against a post and played something slow on his harmonica. Funny enough, a bunny hopped out of a bush down the path and just stopped there for a while, to listen.
-
The next day, 11 miles went by easily. He passed a scenic lake from a cliffside with people swimming down below, and met a local man that led him to water.
Near the water, there was a rotary phone on a post, connected to nothing. A note next to it read, “This Telephone is for all who grieve. … May you hear their voices on the wind.”
A nice thought, if only dogs could use phones.
-
The last day was gray in the morning, and there were only 10 miles left to the train station.
By now, he was used to the weight and the burning in his legs. The hills were easier, and his feet were less clumsy. By late morning, the clouds had dispersed.
As he noticed this, he came over a hill to a flat stretch of trail and the evergreen trees caught his eyes — and made him stop dead in his tracks.
The sun lit up the branches and needles against the vast blue sky, like a scene from his old home in the south, all those days he and the dog would walk among the pine and palms. The air felt like in the Shenandoah mountains — days climbing hills together in thick woods.
The dog’s collar wasn’t jingling anymore. The tree branches creaked, and he listened, nearly breathless. Without warning, those tight, tangled and knotted fibers seemed to release, just slightly. His heart was pounding, and he just stood there, overwhelmed by some nameless feeling he finally found, after walking 30-some fucking miles.
…
Then he slowed his breath, and closed his eyes, and knew what he had felt. So he said: Okay — in the same way he’d always said it to the dog, even once he was gone.
Then he kept walking.
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There is a path I'm sometimes on at various points in my life. Other times, I'm off in the trees, taking side trails just to see where they lead. I often end up in interesting spots, come back with new friends and experiences I'd never have if I just stuck to the main trail. But I usually find my way back to that solitary path eventually, whether through instinct or some steady sense of direction.
Other times, I stay in those woods long enough to get a little lost. The trail there might be more well-worn or gently sloping. The change of pace is nice; there are warm evening campfires with warm people. In time I might think, 'I really need to get back on the path — just after the next bend.' And then 6 months have gone by, and I'm still in the woods, figuring I'll get back eventually.
In certain ways, this is how I've felt this year. But it seems this time far from home has swiftly dumped me back out on that main route, wherever it leads.
It's good to be home, good to have traveled; good to remember, again, what my days are for.
read the same text with more photos on instagram
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walking to the park. a little kid with his grandpa excited to see holden but afraid to pet him changed his mind later followed us down the path holden looking for scraps the kid fascinated grandpa says with a smile, he's always like this
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this winter was more brutal than it needed to be but I still wish I had 100 more brutal winters to live through to watch them all turn into spring