Walking in the Woods with Bogart

I am walking in the dense woods with Bogart, my Snowshoe Siamese who thinks he is a dog. He is crisscrossing my path as leaves and twigs crunch under my foot. I carefully watch my step. Patches of marshy soil glisten here and there, perfect muddy traps. Bogart stops now and then wondering why I am so slow – his inquisitive back glances are reassuring. His marbles-sized blue eyes watch for every move around him. When he runs ahead and I lose sight of him, I know exactly where he is – the tall and yellowing blades of grass are moving in a wave pattern.

There is a comforting stillness surrounding me. The usually windy area is silent. The Aeolian gods must be asleep today. The locals call the fierce winter wind the “hawk.” The trail had not been tended to in years and it is now overgrown with saplings, making walking very difficult. The soil is black and rich - fed and fertilized by hundreds of plants growing under the tall canopy. A symphony of fall hues surrounds and envelops the thick woods: gold, rose, magenta, plum, purple, red, yellow, rusty brown, green. An intricate rug of fallen leaves with a crisp and waxy texture contrasts with the vivid green grass, looking like nature’s confetti scattered after a party. The dew gives the leaves an extra sheen and vividness, little crystal beads. The temperature is balmy for this time of the year, perfect for green grass. The deer must be happy grazing through the dense woods out of sight. I can hear animals snapping branches underfoot and I can see hoof prints scattered on the ground.

---

The Potomac River is not far, as I hear the call of the Canadian geese. A light fog is lifting and a few rays of sunshine are peeking through the brush, setting the magenta leaves on fire. The forest is so alive with color, a painter’s palette from God. Birds are chirping and squirrels dart around, frightened by the appearance of Bogart, the territorial menace. We encounter fallen trunks, twisted in strange shapes, rotting in the marshy underbrush. Moss and mushrooms grow on the soft, rotted wood. A few bugs are crawling here and there lazily – the unusual warm autumn has modified their biological clock as well. I find a few broken shells, a sign that we are not far from water and the Atlantic Ocean. Fog condensation covers areas here and there like a spider’s web. The elaborate water shapes will evaporate when sunshine will peek through the dense trees. Leaves are falling everywhere, in a slow motion ballet, fluttering like ailing butterflies until they join the rich carpet covering the ground. The smell of wet leaves and dirt is intoxicatingly alive like an exotic perfume. The magnificent colors of the deciduous trees shedding their precious leaves and the sounds of critters moving about unseen in their daily survival awaken all my senses and take me back to childhood memories when exploring the woods with Grandma was a rare treat.