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Testing My Volunteer Spirit

After my chat with the boy on the hillside, Paco and I continued north along the new section of the Swimming Deer Trail.

About 50 yards beyond the houses, the trail ends at a graded area that slopes down to one of the branches of Sandy Creek. In the wetlands, Sandy Creek has multiple channels.

Ahead was a long row of red marker flags. They stretched in a long curve across the graded area, over a branch of the creek, across a narrow sandbar, over another branch of the creek, up a hillside, and out of sight.

I studied the scene for several minutes, trying to picture the boardwalk following the curve of the flags. Then we turned around and headed back toward the car.

All was quiet when we passed behind the row of houses on the bluff. The boy was gone.

A long time later, about 10 minutes from the trailhead, I heard voices ahead on the trail. I got out Paco’s leash and hooked him up.

(The park requires dogs to be leashed at all times, but that’s a silly rule.)

Soon, four hikers came into view, chattering happily. The group consisted of two 30-something women, a 30-something man, and in the lead, a wiry older gentleman. It was Walt Cook.

I’ve encountered Walt four or five times over the years. We’ve met on local trails a time or two and chatted briefly. A few years ago, we spent a morning working together on a trail maintenance crew.

Walt is a pleasant, friendly fellow, and I always recognize him. But he never remembers me. Or Paco, for that matter.

Each time, when he introduces himself anew, I take no offense. I find it sort of amusing, even endearing. After all, Walt is busy, important, and 80-plus years old.

“Hello,” said Walt when the four hikers reached us. He smiled and extended a hand. “I’m Walt Cook.”

In his other hand was a bundle of red marker flags. I smiled and shook his hand. “I’m Rocky Smith. This is Paco.”

Paco, tail wagging, had assumed his self-taught, belly-to-the-ground position. One of the women cooed and petted him.

The second woman backed away slightly. While being scratched and petted, Paco looked up at the second woman with a Border Collie stare.

Paco has a very intense stare, but it’s benign. The woman didn’t know that.

Standing back as far as the narrow trail allowed, she observed, “Why do they always focus on the person who’s afraid of dogs?”

“Mr. Cook,” I said, “This trail is a whole lot longer than it used to be.”

Walt allowed as how that was true. He said they were on their way to the boardwalk site to place the final marker flags.

Wow, I thought, they’re hiking the trail instead of driving to the neighborhood on the bluff and walking 30 yards. I was impressed.

Walt spoke earnestly, but as usual, showed no sign of recognition. He took his turn petting Paco, but didn’t seem to remember him, either.

A few minutes later, Walt and his friends had continued north, and Paco and I were almost back to the car.

Both of us were tired. In the past, patrolling the Swimming Deer Trail required an out-and-back hike of six miles. From now on, the out-and-back is going to be almost nine miles.

Walt and the parks people are sorely testing my volunteer spirit.

Paco leads the way on the Swimming Deer Trail.