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Falling River Country Club lies outside Appomattox in an area of rolling hills and rich history. “Where Our Nation Reunited” reads a billboard on one road leading to the national park honoring the cessation of civil war.

The 18-hole course on the outskirts of town is scruffy but fun. I’d never played it, and after touring the battlefield I felt the call of fairways and greens. Following a bogey-filled front nine, I stood on the 10^th tee and surveyed the hole’s layout, a par four dogleg left. And speaking of doglegs, suddenly a sleek English setter hybrid, tongue lolling happily out the side of its mouth, emerged from behind the tee box and approached along the cart path. I was on my way back to the cart, deciding the hole called for a driver rather than 3-wood, and couldn’t resist giving the setter a scratch behind the ear and a cheerful “Hey, girl! Good puppy!!”

No sooner had I hit (should’ve stayed with the 3-wood) than Rover climbed into the cart and began nosing a packet of peanuts I had opened a few minutes earlier. I shooed her away from the nuts and eased her out of the cart. Soon she was springing down the left rough, completely at home as if she owned the course. Or as if she belonged to the course’s owner.

The latter may well have been the case, for over the span of the next few holes, Rover proved to be a most knowledgeable and supportive companion. As I prepared to chip onto the 10^th green, she came up—wagging and panting and smiling the way only dogs can smile when they’re running at large on a sunny spring day—and offered her head. A quick pat, and I suddenly felt confident that I would hole out my wedge shot. Rover eased to the side and stayed still as I shot. Close but no cigar.

On the next tee, Rover came up again for a little love, then scampered away from the box. I did use 3-wood this time but pushed the ball far right into some scraggly junk by a cedar tree. I might have said a forceful word, for Rover seemed dubious when she came for a post-shot petting. I hit another ball—pured it down the middle—and all was right.

Rover continued roving as I puttered down the cart path. I picked up the bad ball and hit the good one, a seven iron just off the green’s shoulder. Rover took the liberty of piling into the cart, and together we rode to the next green. A chip and a couple of putts and we were off to the next tee box, where the routine repeated. I began to wonder how far Rover was straying and whether I was aiding and abetting an escape, but judging from Rover’s well-groomed appearance, leather collar and dog tags, I surmised she was just out for a lark and totally within her realm of familiarity.

On the next tee, she did something I’ll never forget. She went to the front of the box and laid down just in front of the raised part. Her body was completely protected from any errant shot, yet she was able to watch me go through my pre-shot routine, then hit. The ball sailed toward the left side of the fairway and came to rest right at the 150-yard mark. A good shot. Rover leapt up and accompanied me to the swale where my ball sat. Then, as if assuring herself I would no longer require her company, she took off, not in any hurry, just exploring, following the nose wherever it goes. Increasingly, she moved back toward the clubhouse and farther away from me. I concentrated on my shot and didn’t realize until too late that that was the last I would see of her.

I finished the last few holes without event. Later, long after the round was over, rather than reliving the good shots and ruing the bad, I would think of Rover, the softness of her white-and-black fur, her friendly disposition, her uncanny knowledge of golf etiquette, and, most of all, that smile that only a happy dog can smile.

Sept. 10, 2012

Sometimes, the call of the river is too strong to ignore.

Sunday evening, after checking the weather forecast (glorious) and the stream flow data for various rivers (spotty), I loaded the kayak on the Jeep with plans to paddle the North Anna River, my favorite because of its remoteness, its white water, its plentiful fishing and its natural beauty.

The Rappahannock River

I awoke at 3 a.m. Monday and could not get back to sleep. So I decided to forge ahead. My plan was that by the time I deposited the kayak at the put-in, drove to the take-out, left the Jeep and ran the nine miles back to the put-in (all part of the challenge when doing this adventure solo), I would be on the water right at sunrise, the best time of day for fishing and wildlife watching.

When I got to the river, though, the water level was too low. The stream flow data had indicated it should be acceptable, but the North Anna fluctuates wildly. Pumped to paddle, I decided to check out the Rappahannock–I was already halfway to Fredericksburg, and I knew of a put-in where I could paddle upstream relatively easily to remote sections of the river.

The Rap was high and clear, and my car was the only one in the parking lot as I unloaded the kayak and launched. Wisps of mist rose off the water like offerings to the sun, yet to crest the tree line. The only sounds were my rhythmic splashings, the caws, quacks and chitters of fowl, and, in the distance, the clanks and clangs of heavy equipment busy paying tribute to the lumbering colossus of progress. A brisk chill in the air hinted at the turn of seasons.

The first stretch upstream was mild, an easy current winding among banks of algae, river grass and other growth I can’t name. The fish were coy–a few nibbles only. I worked up a sweat laboring upstream through some riffles, and by midmorning I reached a lovely spot with boulders and rapids. The mist had cleared, the sky had blued and the sunlight was sharp and clean, another hint of the crisp clarity of fall to come.

I climbed up the highest boulder and ate a PB&J (remember, I’d been up since 3 a.m.). Then I clambered down and waded into the channels below the rapids. The fish seemed to think my little worm was the most delicious thing ever to float their way, for I caught nearly 20 smallmouth bass in the various pockets. What a blast. These are the most pugnacious fighters in the freshwater world; they rocket into the air like missiles and wrestle for every inch. I make the fishing as challenging as possible using a lightweight line—4-pound test–and small hooks, and a good set of the hook catches them only by the cartilage; they are released healthy and wiser.

The morning passed in golden river time. I was wrapped in the focus of fishing, which requires fairly constant attention; no other boat was on the water, so the solitude was a much-needed balm. I paddled up one more stretch to another rapid–more wading, more fish–then turned downstream. This time I set aside the spinning rod and geared up the fly rod with a “popper.” This fishing is the most challenging, for casting with a fly rod off a moving kayak in steady current makes for an interesting algorithm. The popper attracted mostly small bluegill and perch until well downstream, when a feisty smallmouth bombed the lure and bolted. Because of the light line, I had to take great care to bring the smallie in and release it properly.

One of the rapids on the Rap

I put up the rods and paddled the remaining distance with a heart as contented and a mind as clear as at any time I can remember. I was filled with a sense of natural beauty, of being at one with my surroundings, of my head being swept clean of the flustered cluster of anxieties that tend to swirl around me. Though I know I left some bass and bluegill with sore lips out there, the fishing forces you to become part of the river, part of the rhythm of nature, part of the flow of life that feels the sun, smells the earth and water, and senses the change of seasons, day by day. This golden day was one to remember.

I saw the Dalai Lama once in D.C. and the man made  a significant impact on my life. He was so bubbly without being superficial, a fountain of positive, thoughtful, inspiring vibes.

I have read several of his books and others about Buddhist teachings, taking what fits within the context of my Christian upbringing, my life experience and what little wisdom I might have gleaned from my own hard knocks and the kindness of others.

A concept that eluded my intellectual grasp for some time was that of emptiness. I had a hard time not thinking of nothingness, if you’ll forgive the double negative. On the contrary, though, it represents the extent to which everything is interwoven, part of oneness, so that our perception of individuality, of the self and of uniqueness is illusory. Things are empty of individual identity, as I understand it.

So I want to share this excerpt from a book of “daily wisdom” by the Dalai Lama. It expresses this thought far better than I ever could–

“Emptiness should be understood in the context of dependent arising, and it should evoke a sense of fullness, of things created by causes and conditions. We shouldn’t think that the self is something that is originally there and then eliminated in meditation; in fact, it is something that never existed in the first place.”

I’m posting the latest of my musical meanderings. As usual, it’s just me and my guitars and my Garage Band, but this time my nephew Brett, a professional audio engineer in New York, has helped with the mix and really raised the bar on the whole effort.

The song is “Some Roads.” Let us know what you think.

lg

Flash update–My younger bro, Reid, who is 300 times the guitarist I am, laid down some creative licks on the original tracks. I have added that version here as well–notice the variety of tones and colors he creates. Harv (family nickname) is a student of the instrument and has played in pit bands for Broadway shows (not actually on Broadway, but pretty close), numerous rock bands and, currently, in church worship groups in Pennsylvania. He is da man, in my book.

Some Roads

01 Some Roads with Reid

I exercised this morning.

Not the usual running, biking, hiking, ellipticizing or grunting and groaning.

I did an exercise I devised several years ago, one that’s so simple I can do it anywhere and invariably it leaves me relaxed, alert and in tune with my surroundings. I’m sharing in case you might like to try it.

I start by closing my eyes and listening. I start with one sound–the whir of an appliance, the caw of a crow (if I’m outside), the rustle of the wind, the creak of the house. Then I expand, trying to hear every sound within earshot (eyes still closed). This becomes complex because the sonar landscape shifts constantly. The dryer stops, the crow flies, the house settles. Then a plane rumbles across the sky, a car starts, a dog barks, a tree shivers. Keeping track of every sound can be demanding, no matter the setting, if you work hard to isolate every noise, bump or bonk.

Then, while continuing to hear what’s around me, I listen to my breathing, the steady in and out. This makes me aware of my lungs moving, and I add–again, without opening my eyes–the sense of touch. The feel of clothes all along my body, from my feet to my neck or head. The caress of a breeze. The squeeze of a belt or a sock. It’s usually at this point I realize how poor my posture is and sit up straight.

While trying to hold all of these senses, I focus on smell, which has proved the most difficult because it is a sense we exercise so little. Can I smell my deodorant? Can I smell what my deodorant was supposed to deodorize??? Is there a flower’s fragrance wafting my way? Exhaust from a bus? A baby’s diaper?

Now, what has been happening all this time is that my mind is so busy keeping track of all these things that I have not had a second to let the usual thoughts occupy my brain. What should I pack for lunch? Can I make it to work without being too late? Why can’t the Republicans and Democrats get along? Have I told Marggie I loved her today? No room for those thoughts as I’m forcing my consciousness to monitor sensory input that normally would occupy very little of my awareness.

Finally, I open my eyes. This usually feels like an explosion. The world was totally alive and vibrant before I looked at it, and now there are all these colors and shapes and movements. Whoa! Now, if I am able to hold onto this mindfulness (oh I hate to use that word because it’s been overused and devalued) and continue to listen, feel, smell and touch while seeing, I find the world around me is crackling. And my mind is not prepossed with “me” thoughts, which is freeing.

I am not disciplined enough to sustain this exercise for long, so when I feel the energy and concentration fading, I try to say a little prayer  of thanks (“Dear Lord, I give thanks for not having to deal with baby diapers today”)  and go about the day.

Oh, and I did go for a run today. In Mem Gym, on the indoor track. And I did remember to use deodorant afterward.

I saw my first shooting star this morning.

Not my first ever, as I’ve seen plenty of meteors, comets and assorted cosmic debris come streaking through the sky. They never cease to thrill.

This, however, marked the first since embarking on our Afton Mountain adventure, and it came at a timely moment. Marggie has been like a kid at Christmas about meteors, texting me from Richmond repeatedly.

“Any action in the heavens tonight?” she texted last night.

“The gods are making love,” I thumbed back.

Supposedly, the Gemenid meteor shower of 2011 was scheduled to put on a show this week, peaking Tuesday and Wednesday. The shower was a wash, though, from my Afton perch. The moon, despite being at half mast, was exceptionally bright, and puffs of clouds limited the view.

When I got up this morning for my run, I could tell the sky was up to some tricks. The moon was wreathed in a perfect circle of soft color, a cat’s eye looking through a monocle. As I began my run on the parkway, the clouds cleared and I saw the unmistakeable zip of light as a meteor flared and disappeared. Blink and you miss it, but I was all eyes.

At the same moment, a different sort of shooting star caught my attention. A jet, its lights twinkling Christmas cheer, arced overhead. Then I saw another, and another. Their trails laced the sky, thin lines at first that spread like ink squirts in water (truth be told, their ragged edges also reminded me of dental floss after being shredded on my wisdom teeth). Though not nearly as romantic in their astral mystique as meteors, these jet trails had a beauty all their own, and as the light grew, their puffs joined the clouds emerging from the night.

As I turned and headed back on the parkway toward my starting point (the return is almost totally, blessedly downhill, and I stretched out, my mind filled with images of Strider chasing orcs as Baradur glowered in the east), I remember that if you see a shooting star, you get to make a wish (or is that the first star of the night? Whatever.).

I chewed on what wish I might make. Wishes are tricky, you know, but I finally came up with one I liked.

I wish that the next time I see a shooting star, Marggie can be here to share it with me.

I counted my lucky stars (and planets) this morning as I started my very first run on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I began before the brunt of the rush-hour traffic. The only things moving were these deer in a meadow (aka truck stop for deer). BTW, do these deer know they are grazing at taxpayers’ expense? That’s government grass growing there, not free enterprise turf (though I could swear I saw one with a Starbucks logo on its antler).
Running in the morning requires several stages of effort. The first is getting out of bed. The second is staying out of bed. The third is drinking enough coffee so that you feel like a booster rocket on the Soyuz. The fourth is dressing appropriately. I wear several layers. Two tips for novices–be sure to wear a hat that will cover your ears (antlers do not constitute good ear protection) and gloves for your hands (I actually wear a pair of old socks–better than mittens).
The Blue Ridge Parkway is perfect for running. The road slopes gently, the woods shield you from the wind and the views are spectacular. On this particular morning, I would rate the sunrise–on a scale from 1 to 10–as a 42. I know that’s a harsh judgment, but hey, this thing happens every day.
The road was all mine for the first half of the run, and I decided to upgrade the scenery when I caught a glimpse of the lunar eclipse. As I stopped to stretch at the turn-around point, the first car of the day puttered by. And guess what–the guy had a cellphone pressed up against his head.
Didn’t he know–that’s not good ear protection.

Dec. 8, 2011

I sit in front of a picture window facing east and watch the far ridge go through every shade of red, pink and orange I can imagine, like a river of color slowly flowing across the hills as the sky lightens and the stars fade.

It is my first morning on Afton Mountain. Last night I drove up from Charlottesville through brisk winds and swirling snow, certainly not a blizzard but a bracing welcome to a new world. The higher I drove, the more that sense of separation from the valley below grew. Though the Jeep handled the climb adroitly, my sense of vulnerability and exposure increased—if I slipped on ice getting out of the car or suffered some other minor mishap, the consequences could be dire. But that’s part of the man/boy appeal, part exhilaration, part threat, part wonder, part the sense of being on the edge so that you are forced to be in the moment.

The house creaked and groaned last night as the heat came on, warm waves coursing up through the vents. I rubbed my hands and gave thanks. The stone exterior gives the house a sense of fortress, and last night I welcomed that feeling of impenetrable shelter. The evening passed quickly with rummaging and exploring, and I slept well despite apprehension that the strange surroundings would keep me awake.

Now I find it difficult typing. I’m sitting with all the lights off to savor the first sunrise, and every time I look up the sky has changed color and texture. Five crows just flew by the window, cawing harshly; are these the roosters of the dawn? The snow lies like dust, a confection for breakfast. And the valley below, earlier just a puddle of glinting shadow, now is taking on detail, meadows and woods becoming sharp, and the breathtaking sweep of the view keeps drawing my eye from these keys. So now I pause, thankful for the beauty and aware that I will never experience this initiation again. But no two sunrises are the same, eh? I hope for many more.