Yesterday, I witnessed something I never imagined I'd see — or would want to see, for that matter.

For the past few weeks, I've been engaging in a mental combination of geometry and geography, trying to figure out which back roads might provide a time-saving shortcut to the grocery store, which is an hour's drive from where I live. Yesterday, I found myself in need of provisions and decided, on my way to the store, to explore some promising alternate routes.

There's one road in particular that seemed to me logic would dictate ought to cut a few unnecessary miles from the trip, so I turned onto it. I followed it for several miles and found myself stopped at a "T" intersection pondering whether a left or right turn would be more likely to take me to my intended destination. Directly across the street from me as I sat at the stop sign was a ramshackle two-story wood-frame house. The front porch was covered by a roof extending the full width of the structure such that the second-story windows, when opened, would allow one to crawl out onto the porch roof.

The residents of the house, it seems, were too lazy to walk their dog, preferring to use their home's easy egress to the great outdoors to their advantage to allow their dog access to some fresh air when he felt the need for refreshment. One of the upstairs windows was open and a ratty-looking German Shepherd stood guard on the porch roof barking menacingly in my direction. The sight of a dog on the roof was peculiar enough to draw my attention and I found myself wishing I'd brought my camera with me.

I chuckled at the sight for a few moments, but soon recovered from my bemusement and my thoughts returned to my mental cartography. Apparently, the dog's interest in me waned at the same time; he stopped barking at me and began sniffing around on the roof. Then, just as I decided that a left turn held the most promise for a shortcut and had activated my left turn signal, the dog squatted down and took a crap on the roof.

That's something you don't see every day.

Patience, it has been said, is a virtue. It isn't. It's a mental disorder. Why else would I sit here freezing for hours on this cold rock perched above a bubbly creek and watch for a fox that probably isn't there? In all likelihood, he has kicked up his white-socked feet and moved elsewhere.

Foxes do that. They're nomadic during most of the year, except during mating season, when they find a soft spot in the dirt and dig a den in which to birth their kits. There is absolutely no evidence that this fox is any different, and yet I sit and wait, hoping for a glimpse of my old friend.

I first met him last spring, when I tripped along the hard-packed trail just before dawn. It was still dark outside, but I wanted to watch the Earth awaken, to see it rise and stretch, to find out what it eats for breakfast. The sky brightened and the mist rising from the calm spots in the creek was dissipating when I caught his scent. He had, of course, known I was there long before I knew he was.

I sat and waited, hoping then, as I do now, to catch a glimpse of him. My wait wasn't long. Once he had grown comfortable with the idea that I wasn't dangerous, curiosity got the better of him. He emerged from the tree stump where he'd been hiding and hopped atop of it and stared me down.

I saw him on several occasions during my romps through the woods last year. We became old friends and I named him Kitsune, after the fabled fox of Japanese folklore. He had a mischievous sense of humor, sneaking up on me and surprising me when I least expected. I found his den, but never saw his vixen or their kits, though I knew they were there.

When I moved up to the lake, I stopped coming here. The mountain's summit became my new contemplative place, but although it had its own entertaining characters, I still wondered what became of my old friend. Today, I was back in town and stopped by to see if he still stalked these woods.

I haven't seen him, though, nor any sign of his presence. His old den is in disrepair, caved in by the elements. His kits are grown by now, and have likely set out into the world to seek their own fortunes. And Kitsune himself has apparently left this place.

Still, though, I wait and hope, listening for his bark in the distance and watching for rustling underbrush, hoping to see my old friend again.

Patience. I'll wait until the Rapture, if I have to.

Yesterday, I climbed the mountain again for the first time in three weeks, and only the second time since the accident. I had wondered whether the summit would have the same meaning for me, or whether it had been interminably changed, its hypnotic vistas conjuring images of death and loss, rather than the zen-like peace it had generated in me until six weeks ago.

I took my camera with me, but there wasn't much worth photographing. I had hoped to capture a panoramic view of the trees' colorful autumn death throes, but they had already shed their leaves during my long absence. Instead, they stood denuded and skeletal, their charred bones packed into a mass grave awaiting springtime's resurrection. All atop the mountain appeared before me in the grainy black and white of an ancient ferrotype.

I stayed entirely too long and my descent was made in near-darkness. Though the sun had not yet reached the horizon, the trail is on the back side of the mountain shielded from the sunset in the mountain's shadow, and the dwindling light filled the air with a surreal myopia, as if viewed underwater.

By the time I reached the dusty trail at the bottom, the same trail I had ridden so many times atop my horse pursued by the idiot farm dog tilting at his unseen windmills, it was almost dusk. The dog came out and looked at me, but disappeared back into the shadows, letting me pass in peace as if he knew, somehow, that this was not a typical journey in need of his comic relief, but rather a sacred pilgrimage deserving respect.

I finally reached the gate leading to the barn which formerly housed my horse. I lifted the latch and walked through, thinking of the numerous times I'd dismounted and opened the gate to let my horse pass in happier times. He always waited until I had opened the gate, then would amble through to the other side without my having to lead him, and would stop and wait while I relatched the gate and climbed back into the saddle. He knew the drill.

As I walked to my car bathed in nostalgia, I turned and looked back at the gate and finally found something worth photographing. The blood-red sunset shown through the gate, casting it in a lazy silhouette. In the view, I saw beauty. I saw the phoenix of hope rising from the ashes of loss. I saw the one thing that made my pilgrimage meaningful, that life goes on.

And I learned a lesson: No matter what happens, always look back.

(Click image to enlarge)

If Ella Fitzgerald married Darth Vader, her name would be "Ella Vader."

And if she married Alan Funt (Smile! You're on Candid Camera!), her name would be "Ella Funt."

I just thought you should know.

Moon Over the Mountain Last Night
(click image to enlarge)

The moon was fat and copper-colored last night, shining like a new penny. When my daughter was two or three years old, she used to try reach up and grab it. Many children do, I'm told. It's understandable. It looks friendly and inviting, cool and soft to the touch. When my daughter first learned the concept of ownership, she used to claim it as hers, but ownership of such a thing has its drawbacks. Neil Armstrong said, of standing on the moon looking back at his home planet, "It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small."

I suppose such economies of scale should make us feel small. The desire to reach out and touch the moon is, I think, the very thing that makes us want to pet wild animals or chase wild dreams. It's the innocent desire to make beauty ours, whether it's the desire to scratch a wild fox behind the ears or lay claim to the moon. The fact is, wild animals will only let us touch them when they want to be touched. If we try when they don't, they get spooked and run for the hills. Sometimes they come back. Sometimes they don't.

Same with wild dreams.

It's that time of year again! National Novel Writing Month (a.k.a. "NaNoWriMo") is approaching! I just signed up!

In case you're not familiar with it, NaNoWriMo challenges those who sign up to write a "novel" 50,000 words in length (which is really more of a novella, hence the quotation marks) in one month, between November 1 and November 30. I did it last year and it was loads of fun, though a tad stressful when, for whatever reason, I was unable to write for a day or two. Procrastination can be deadly, and it's one of my tragic flaws. Somehow, though, I managed to complete the 50,000 words.

I didn't just stop, however. I liked what I had, so I kept going after all the hoopla of NaNoWriMo ended. I was in a groove. My momentum carried me onward, and I finally finished it in mid-April and I'm now in the process of editing and rewriting. All totaled, the first draft ended up being just over 152,000 words, which translates to about 475 pages in a standard novel.

It's lots of fun. Go sign up! Just remember to come back here when you're through.

I am a pilgrim and a gypsy,
Both at once, and each complete.
I know the path of roughened stones,
And mountain passes, cold and bleak.
I've crept across the slippery log
That bridges rivers, with their secret undertow.
I've learned to meet deep needs, and know
The earnest prayer that heals and soothes
And gives the pilgrim strength to grow.

I can dance down a country lane
And toss my head back to laugh the night away
And sing from dusk to dawn the next day,
Then soundly sleep on a pile of fragrant hay
And dream of timbrels and gypsy campfire glow.

I am a pilgrim and a gypsy,
Part of both and all of each;
The years twist them in a firmer bind,
And life yet clings to the highest vine,
A tempting beauty,
A ripened peach.