Unclaimed.

I laced up my boots this week. That's right, laced up my boots. The winter boots stayed at home today as most of the snow has melted and dripped and flowed down the Pittsburgh hills. I laced and knotted the blue strings of my ankle boots for this week's journey to the bench. 

We left the house irritated, Apacha irritated with me because I kept running back into the house to get something, or check something, or change something. He waited patiently on the front porch as I kept returning inside. I was irritated with myself for too many reasons--sleeping in, forgetting things and just a general self disappointment. I hoped the walk to the bench would change that, bring a resurgence of energy and fulfillment with the self. The past two days have been consistent disapproval for no reason at all. Going. Going. Going. Seems to happen when there is much on the plate, and I keep adding more. Seems to happen when I forget to slow down and pile on anxiety to small tasks. 

When we finally do arrive to the park, I realize I forgot my gloves, and again curse myself. Although the snow has melted, the windchill puts the temperature at 14 degrees. My long boney fingers do not appreciate the winded cold. Apacha is eager in the backseat to get out. 

The park has a whole new composition compared to the past few weeks of snow. The grass looks worn and defeated from the winter. It has a combover from the constant weight of boots on top of snow, the stampede of warriors pushing the once erect blades of grass into limp, sad defeated soldiers. But at least they lay together, fallen into the arms of their comrades. At least they fought winter's war with one another. And there is still a chance the ice and snow will be back for more, round after round, until the noble season of spring declares the treaty of sunbeams and gentle showers. 

From the top of the hill, I admire the simple blending of the yellow-green grass with the blue-big sky, it reminds me of a Rothko painting. The two colors trump everything else, the browns of the trees and the patches of white clouds moving dissipates to the blue and the green. My favorite kind of pictures to snap are of landscapes like these--simple and concise. A lone tree in an Ohio pasture. A swallowed sky by the open sea. Split images of landscape and sky. Simple. Pure. Beautiful. 

Apacha is down in the valley of the hills, sniffing out the treeline. He looks up to me, waiting [seems to be a theme today] for me to catch up, for our adventure to continue. I run down the blades and feel my body move in strides. My arms squared at a ninety degree angle, fists clenched, shoulder blades bouncing, legs extending, then tucking. It feels good to run into the open sky, the brisk air. I meet Apacha at the bottom and he smiles up and runs next to me along the treeline. Together, our bodies extend and tighten and we move in unison.

Our own small wolf pack of two. 

With most of the snow melted, I notice all the trash around the park and make a mental note to bring a bag next week to pick up other people's crap. It pisses me off when people disregard nature, throwing their junk into the woods like it is some kind of landfill. Most of the trash is plastic bottles and plastic bags and aluminum cans. Most of the shit is shit we don't need anyways, but fill our bodies with then trash into the earth. I noticed last week that all the trash cans in the park were overflowing, perhaps because of the snow and lack of city pick-up, and maybe all this trash came from people putting the bottles next to trash cans, then the natural elements of wind and snow rolled it away, down the hills and into the woods. I hope the latter is the case, making us humans less lazy, but still very much so. I have a feeling though, that it is just people throwing their junk into the woods.

Enough ranting. Back to running.

We run about halfway to the bench, until Apacha darts off into the woods in the same spot he did last week. I squint my eyes to see if I see a creature, but scan nothing. Sometimes, I think he just runs wildly for the sake of running wild, something I need to do more of--running for no reason at all.

As I wait for him to run back, I notice a bunch of nutshells collected on a tree stump. I wonder who these belong to. Perhaps a squirrel, or a raccoon or maybe a chipmunk. At first, I think they are black walnuts, and they may very well be. After looking some things up, I decide they are Hickory nuts. Upon investigation I find that Hickory nuts are eaten as a last resort when nothing else can be found. I hope they are not Hickory nuts, I hope the forest animals are not hunting and gathering things of last resorts. 

Apacha reappears and rests his body on a patch of snow and looks up the hill to a black poodle and its owner leaving the dog park. I tell him to stay, and he does, but he can't help his whimpering. His cries for dog companionship. The times I do take him to the dog park, he runs around for a minute, then comes back to me--easily bored and unamused. 

We continue on.

We are nearing the bench when I notice loads and loads of deer scat on the grass--little pebbles of poop in piles a few feet from each other. It all seems relatively fresh. I have to watch my step in this last portion of the walk, but appreciate this is where the deer like to hang, in this little pocket of the treeline, tucked into the woods. Apacha decides to poop here too, amongst his deer friend's shit.

As we approach the bench, I notice a small circle of stones filled with kindling and sticks behind the bench--a nice little fire pit behind the bench. It is late morning, and I walk my boots up to the perimeter of the fire pit and pretend it is providing warmth. I circle my palms into the other over the pit. I wonder who made this. I wonder if they slept back here. I wonder if it is their not so secret spot too--a place to watch cars move back and forth on the interstate. A place to sit still and observe movement. I bend down over the fire and pick through it, hoping to find more clues to when it was lit. There are a few cigarette buds in its realm--the only clue I can find. There is no lingering warmth coming from it. I assume it is a couple days old. I scope out the area for other clues and find more cigarettes in front of the bench, and a fresh litter of beer cans down the hill. Seems, my bench is a good spot to have a smoke and a beer. I wonder how the view is at night. With the city lights and headlights of cars. I wonder how the stars are here. If they are visible, or if the light pollution dwindles them. I'll have to venture here one night soon.

I don't sit on the bench today, it doesn't seem like my own anymore. Instead, I sit a few feet away over the blonde hay that too has been defeated by winter's snow. Apacha comes over and sits to my left. I kick my boots over the edge and scan the horizon. Also to my left, about two hundred feet away, a crumbled royal blue sweatshirt scatters itself amongst the dirt. Who is this person? Who is this owner of a royal blue sweatshirt, some kind of filtered cigarette and drinker of natural light? Or is is a variety of persons, coming from different places, for different reasons. I wonder how my bench services others. For me, it is a getaway, a place to sit still and observe the movement of nature within a city. For someone else, it might be a place to get lost and high. For others a long sturdy structure to sleep at night, amongst a burning fire.

It is nice to think of the bench's purposes. And I realize it is not my bench to claim. It holds many people. Maybe one day Apacha and I will get here and someone else will be occupying it. But for now, at this hour, on this day, it is our spot to sit and listen to the whispers of woods and notice three seasons below my boot--the leaves of fall, the snow of winter and the debut of spring's sharpened blades.