Firsts.

I was tempted to cheat today.

I was tempted to skip our weekly Monday afternoon hike to the bench. Since class was canceled last week, Apacha and I ventured to the bench quite a few times at different hours. We observed the horizon drip pinks into the clouds and blush the houses on the hills during our dusk hike last Wednesday. The hills of Frick were beet red, causing the eyes to squint into awe.

I remember the first time Apacha and I discovered Frick. It was August and the sun was warm on our bodies. I was wearing a dress the color of lavender and my skin was dark from being outside all the afternoons I could be outside all afternoon. I found Frick on a whim, driving aimlessly around my new city. Attempting to gain my sense of direction. Everyday we drove to a new section of town and searched it out. We let ourselves get lost, then found, then lost. This was before I had an iPhone. All I had was a map.  My new boss thought I was crazy for this. She called me old school. Who knew having a map was old school. Hand written directions were scattered all over my passenger seat last August. I would reverse them to get home. Quickly, I was finding shortcuts. Pittsburgh is full of shortcuts if you search out for them.

Apacha was with me when we passed the signs for Frick and I slowed my car and found a spot. It was around seven o'clock and the sun was starting to fall and the moon was beginning to rise and we needed to stretch our limbs.

It was one of those dreamy summer nights, with the air perfectly warm but not too humid. We hopped out of the car and strolled the paths of Frick. On this first trip, I found a different bench, underneath an umbrella of a tree, and that is exactly what the tree became on that first initial visit--an umbrella. A gentle rain started to drip as Apacha and I climbed the hill. I had a book with me, I don't remember which one, but I pulled it out of my bag and sat on the bench underneath the umbrella tree and listened the the rain drip down the leaves the color of asparagus. Everything on the ground was green--the grass, the leaves, the hills running into the bottoms of the other, dipping into each other.

And that sky. That beautiful summer sky. The sky was a watercolor of pinks--pink lips sipping a cosmopolitan. Salmon swimming a bed of red roses. Flamingos dancing a tongue. And it was the whole damn sky. Despite the rain it was glowing, screaming, bleeding pink. Blood blending water.

I remember sitting there, with the book in hand and Apacha at foot and the smell of a soft, summer rain in my nose. I inhaled it. I inhaled the earth around me and sucked it up into my lungs. This was Pittsburgh. This was my place to call home for the next two years. This was my place to swallow and absorb and inhale and exhale day in and day out and day in. This was a new segment of the person I was becoming.

And that day, I had no one but myself. I talked to Apacha and strangers at the park, strangers at the cafes, strangers at the library. I was a stranger amongst strangers and it was all very unfamiliar. I loved almost every minute of it. I was new. I was unfolding. Nobody knew my name. I could have changed my name. I could have changed my story. I could have faked an accent. I could of cut my hair and dyed it blonde and no one would have known the difference.  I was nobody yet. I was invisible. This city and I had no qualms. We had no histories. We were just beginning to adjust. To become familiar with one another.  In those early days with Pittsburgh I was climbing and crossing many things. I was in awe of the friendly demeanor of its people. I wanted to sit in the chairs people placed in front of their homes to save their parking spots. I tried pierogies. I visited the Andy Warhol Museum. I found all the good thrift stores and started filling my house with things. New, old things. Other peoples disregards.

Apacha and I sat there for over an hour. We watched the sky fade into purples.
Lavender. Petunia. Verbena. Passiflora. Salvia. Pansies. Daylily. Iris. Aster. Bacopa. Yarrow.

The rain stopped and we walked back to the car under the appearance of the moon. I remember thinking how nice it was to have this park in the middle of the city. A few miles from my new home. Every night after that until school started, Apacha and I ventured back to this park. It became a routine for us. We met people along the way, at the dog park and they would give me Pittsburgh advice. Tell me the good spots. The best hiking spots for dogs. Good places for breakfast. The best place for cheap furniture.

I quickly fell for Pittsburgh because of the people I met within its realm. I went from nobody to somebody. I shook hands and looked people in the eyes and listened as they spoke and found truth in their stories. Over time, I have gathered a tribe. Through school and work I have found a new community. A strong, solid set of people who support each other. Who encourage each other. Who engage each other.

Within each other, we find a little bit of ourselves.

Now, on this Monday, this morning. I almost cheated. I almost headed straight to the coffee shop to do school work because there was much to do and the air was too cold and I didn't feel like a park outing this morning. I felt like sipping strong coffee and listening to Bill Callahan and writing. I felt like shutting everyone out and spilling myself onto the page.

But those two eyes. Those two prehistoric yellow eyes looked into mine. Apacha knew it was Monday. He had to. He started pawing at me and talking in little barks and mini howls. He was fiesty and he deserved to be. He deserves his Monday hikes. Just because we went on extra outings last week doesn't mean I should deprive him of our Monday hike. And once I zipped up my coat and pulled on my gloves, he was bouncing around the house with excitement. He knew exactly where we were going. I opened the door and he ran straight to the car. He usually rests in the snow for a bit. But he went straight there, his fox tail wagging back and forth as he ran.

And, of course, it was all worth it. Once we got out and ran our bodies into the redundant powdered sugar snow we became alive again. We stopped to observe the birds flying overhead. Singing the songs of spring. The birds were about--bluejays and sparrows. And one beautiful bird, I could not identify. It was large with black top wings which were white as the snow underneath with a mahogany head. It soared by its solo self from tree to tree, gliding with the wind.

Once we arrived at the bench, the sun was directly overhead--twelve o' clock. The fire pit from last week was covered, but a bigger and better version was built about a hundred feet from it, with the snow covered gravel piles on three of its sides. A smarter placement for the pit, as the piles of gravel block the wind and hold the warmth.

Again, I wondered who this person is and if they are sleeping out here at night. Outside my window, as I type it is 3 degrees. In my house it is 66 degrees. I have the warmth of Apacha next to my frame and my feet tucked under his body. I get to curl myself under a couple of blankets. I wear fleece leggings and a thermal.

How did I get so lucky, Pittsburgh?

I didn't cheat today. I couldn't do that to Apacha. I owe him these hikes, these walks in the park, his time to sniff out his own version of Pittsburgh and make his bold yellow marks. We stayed longer in the park than we usually do. I climbed the gravel hills covered with snow and watched the cars on the interstate slow down into a traffic jam. They looked like a train. Connected from front to back to front to back. I angled my body backwards and jumped down the hill, sliding a good six feet--for a second it felt like I was snowboarding. Apacha barked at me to hurry up, he was eager to get to the dog park which was right beyond the gravel piles I was surfing.

This time I followed him. He led me to the land of barking dogs. His tail whipped back in forth and his hackles shot up. He ran and played with dogs of all sizes at the dog park. He flew through the snow and quickly became the alpha. He barked and the others followed.

Now, next to me, he sleeps and dreams. As he dreams, his paws shoot and he whimpers and howls. His body quivers. I picture him dreaming of running free in the endless blankets of snow with wild dogs. And then, I think--these aren't dreams, these are Mondays.

I won't cheat.

I owe him Mondays. And Tuesdays. And all other days. I owe him his wildness. His run frees. His dartings into the woods. His endless blankets of snow (which do seem quite endless.)