[Dailydrool] Elsinore and Charlie take part in a roadside dumping

[Elizabeth Lindsey]

Well, we've started our fall out with a real bang--two basset picnics  
and a big hiking expedition. I'm still playing catch-up from it all.  
Ken turned 50 last month and decided he wanted to mark the occasion  
by hiking the Appalachian Trail, something he's dreamed of doing for  
years. Even better, he's dreamed of doing it all by himself, not with  
me or the hounds. I enjoy the odd day hike now and then, but I have  
no desire to spend months doing nothing but walking up and down  
mountains and sleeping in a tent where I'll be bitten by spiders in  
the night.

It takes several months to hike the whole 2,000 mile trail from  
Georgia to Maine (or vice versa), and Ken doesn't get that much  
vacation time. And after watching my father die of a terminal disease  
at the age of 66, completely missing the retirement years he'd  
counted on for doing fun things, Ken knows that none of us are  
guaranteed either a retirement or good health in our golden years. By  
the time he has the time to hike the whole trail, he may not have the  
ability to do so. So, he figured, if he's going to hike even a  
portion of the trail, he'd better do it now while he can. Anyway,  
what better way to spend a landmark birthday? I was fine with this  
plan because it saved me the work of organizing a big party, and he  
wasn't insisting I do this hike with him.

Several days before his birthday, our Elsinore, young Charlie, and I  
loaded up Ken and all 55 pounds of his hiking gear and drove four  
hours to eastern Tennessee. The access points for the Appalachian  
Trail are usually next to impossible to find, and I'd prepared for a  
lot of driving around in circles looking for a small clearing in the  
forest and a brown AT sign tucked behind large bushes. But we found  
the access point and pull-off parking spot on the North Carolina  
border pretty easily. Even better, neither hound was carsick on those  
twisty mountain roads. Our late Jane Basset would have arrived with  
an empty stomach and an all-over green tinge. Poor dog, she found  
mountain driving absolutely nauseating.

To reward the hounds for being so patient on the long drive, we  
walked them for about an hour on the trail. They found all kinds of  
things to smell, including several varieties of lovely poop from wild  
animals they don't see in our urban neighborhood. Thankfully, they  
didn't roll on it. Or eat it. Could've been a loooong trip home if  
they had.

When we got back to the car, Ken helped me load the dogs up. Then he  
shouldered his pack, picked up his walking sticks, and got back on  
the trail to begin his solitary, celebratory, ten-day, fiftieth- 
birthday hike. I drove off and left him there. It felt really, really  
wrong.

As I headed back down the mountain and toward the interstate, I began  
to wonder how this whole situation looked to Elsinore and Charlie.  
 From their perspective, I'd just dumped Ken on the side of the road  
on some godforsaken mountain, miles from any houses or trash cans or  
other food sources, and then driven away. Were they wondering what  
heinous thing he'd done to make me abandon him like that? Had he dug  
up the hydrangeas I've nursed through our long, hot summer? Had he  
taken food off the counter one too many times? Had he (gasp) left a  
puddle or even pooped on the good oriental carpet?

Or maybe, as someone later suggested to me, Elsinore and Charlie were  
envying Ken's ability to get back on the trail with all its enticing  
new scents to follow. Either way, they were exceptionally well  
behaved after we got home. Charlie didn't tear up a single magazine  
or toilet paper roll.

I spent Ken's absence trying not to worry about bears. It's fall, and  
the Smokey Mountain bears are pretty active right now, preparing for  
hibernation. From their point of view, there's Ken trotting along  
looking meaty and feeling as invulnerable as an adolescent. What a  
great way to stock up the pantry, yes? Ken promised me he'd hang all  
his food in a bag from a tree a good half mile from where he'd be  
sleeping, though I suspected he was just saying that to shut me up. I  
finally decided I'd probably read too many Readers Digest articles.  
Their stories of "I faced a [fill in the blank] and survived!" tend  
to feature either shipwrecks or bear attacks.

Ten days later, the hounds and I drove from Columbus, Ohio, where  
we'd been for the OBR picnic, to Damascus, Virginia, to meet Ken in a  
church parking lot, as prearranged. Elsinore and Charlie were  
ecstatic to see him again, trying to climb out the open car windows  
to get to him and wiggling so much they shook the car. Charlie cried,  
he was so happy. They must have thought Ken really was history. But  
suddenly, there he was, in the place they least expected, and he  
looked as if he'd done okay fending for himself out in the wild. I  
can tell you, though, he sure was glad to see his food bowl (in the  
form of a large pizza) again! Because he promised to behave in the  
house, I let him back in the car, took him home, and made him take a  
long bath because he looked a bit mildewed as well as filthy.

Despite persistent chilly temps and drizzle, Ken had a great birthday  
hike. He traveled 103 miles, almost lost a fight with an ugly briar  
patch, was stung by swarming yellow jackets, got lost once, and came  
close to falling off a ledge, but he didn't see any bears (or "bare  
holes," Nigel). Bear poop, yes, but no actual bears. All that worry  
for nothing. And now we're back to our normal lives, though Ken's  
been talking a lot about "the next time." So I guess our Elsinore and  
young Charlie will just have to get used to me dumping Ken on the  
side of the road and then driving off and leaving him there. I DO NOT  
EVER condone doing that sort of thing with pets, but I've decided  
it's probably okay with husbands who've requested it.

Elizabeth

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