New Scaratings

A mile south of my apartment lies Salem Hills Park, with some of the usual amenities: a basketball court, two tennis courts, a playground, and a community garden. The vast expanse of the park is given over to mountain biking. Granted, there are no mountains. The elevation of the path probably doesn't vary by much more than a hundred feet. The challenge is in the texture of the trail. It's deeply rutted, in many places all roots and loose pebbles, some the size of a squash ball. Fat tire enthusiasts make limited use of the trail, which turns, sometimes quite sharply, in and out of prairie grass and forest to a length of five miles. The trail is occasionally subject to contour work by a local bike club, but when nobody mows the grass and weeds along the edge of this narrow path, as has been the case this summer, it might be difficult not to foul your pedals in the undergrowth, which sometimes, unavoidably, licks at my calves. Which, for me, is of no concern. I don't own a bike, and only go there for the pleasure of a solitary run. This deep into the season, I have yet to peel off a Salem Hills wood tick, and I know where to take precautions to avoid the occasional trailside patch of poison ivy. I've only encountered bicyclists a handful of times this year, no more often than I've seen white-tail deer.

In October, when an overnight rain gives way to morning sunshine, the colors of the sumac and young maples are vivid enough to burn your retinas, but for the most part, as you may have gathered, this can be a melancholy place.

If from the parking lot you head due south on the trail, dropping to the pond and then climbing to the prairie on its far side, about a third of the way along the five mile loop you'll come across a tree to which is affixed a sign, pointing in the direction you're headed, a wooden sign, carefully lacquered and etched with the following:

Dan's Path 1/5/1984 - 4/7/2014.

I can tell you nothing else about him. Did he die in a traffic accident? Was he taken out by an IED in a place yet more solitary and forlorn? Assuming he made regular use of that challenging terrain, and that he was moderate in his habits, he probably survived only a third of his natural span.

Make of it what you will, this post may never be read by anyone so young as he.

Bless you all.

Thanks for this.

_________________
Anon
"He may seem like Mr. Rogers but a dark spirit lies beneath."

Perhaps he ate the gun after being exposed to an acme of turgid prose.

SHAKES, are you sure you didn't mean: "...an acne of tumid paws..."?

Speaking only for myself, my forefeet tend to blister in all this heat and humidity.

Yours from Mouse Hollow

Or Dan may have pushed a Spanish peanut with his nose the length of the path, posting the elapsed time.