Archives for posts with tag: walking

One of the things Rick and I have done, from the very start, since moving here, is to walk fairly regularly. We try to avoid the “main drag,” especially in summer and winter. We have easy access from that highway to our cross-street, and thence to our quiet little road. In summer, the roar of, and speed of the traffic on the highway makes walking  unpleasant.  In winter, the plow doesn’t clear far enough from the roadway to make it safe. For part of the year, we limit ourselves to mostly our little road. We live at the intersection where the cross-street meets the beginning of our road; at the other end, it loops back to the highway. There and back gives us a walk of just over two miles, without having to deal with traffic.

Our road is very local. There’s a cluster of homes at each end. The middle doesn’t even have power, which has kept it wild, and beautiful. The only heavy traffic we see is in the summer, when tourists on bicycles use it as an alternative route, to avoid the  highway traffic. Indeed, our road is so quiet that we look up from what we’re doing when vehicles pass. We have a nodding acquaintance with our neighbors–and I mean just that–when they drive by, we nod, or wave. We’re not very social, but we do that. Despite living here for years now, we’re still considered “the new people,” and we haven’t made more than a handful of actual friends.

It became clear, as soon as we started walking, that our route needed some regular maintenance. Apparently folks haven’t yet learned that the countryside is not their trash can. About quarterly, we do the walk bearing trash bags to pick up all the litter that accumulates along the roadside. It’s surprising how much we get. It’s surprising just what people throw out the windows as they speed by.

There’s the expected cigarette butts. (Make no mistake, this kind of trash is not just unsightly, it’s poisonous to wildlife, and if in water, can be deadly to fish.) There’s candy wrappers, and clamshell to-go containers, even pizza boxes. Sometimes we’ll find brand-name beverage cups, McDonald’s or Burger King–even though there are none of these outlets in our county. Junk travels. Most shocking to me is how many liquor bottles and beer cans we find–evidence of drinking and driving.

We also find construction debris, and automobile parts. Are these cars just falling apart as they whizz by? More than once, we’ve collected more than we can carry, and we have to take a second run at it. We find the bulk of the trash on the highway and on our cross-street, which bear heavier traffic. But even our quiet little road through the forest gets its share. Spring is our heftiest harvest, the retreating snows revealing a winter of sins. This is when we find most of the liquor bottles–people on snowmobiles out for a good time.

Labor Day is another regular trash run, cleaning up the excesses of the tourist season. We’ll do a couple of lighter runs if things look messy, and we’re always picking up beer cans.

If you do this, year in, year out, in a particular location you get to know the patterns of a neighborhood. Sure, the snowmobile crowd leaves their particular type of trash, as do the summer tourists with their to-go food. But some of this is specifically local. By this, I mean beer cans. Collecting this kind of trash gives you an entirely different view of the traffic. There’s a lot of impaired driving out there.

We have one particular offender. This guy (and unfairly, we’ve always assumed it was male) drinks cheap beer that comes in a blue can. He’s local. His litter is not seasonally dependent. We can even chart his path–since the cans most specifically line our cross-street, a particular stretch of highway and our little road. For years, we’ve been picking up his cans. I always mused that it was an expensive habit–even if you just counted the foregone deposits on all those cans. Rick’s theory was that he tossed the cans so that he wouldn’t have a vehicle full of empties–in case he was pulled over. I thought he was concealing his habit from family. Either way, recycling takes a back seat to privacy when you have something to hide.

And so, over the years, we’ve debated, creating a fictional profile for our most durable litterbug. We’ve wondered what we’d say if ever confronted by this guy who so regularly soils our landscape. Until yesterday.

Yesterday was beautiful, a mid-winter break from our regular gloom. The sun came out and lit up the snowscape with brilliant vivid clarity. It was cold, but spectacular, a perfect day for a walk. I guess everyone thought so, because our little road was filled with the footprints of walkers. (It’s the sort of thing you notice if you’re a regular.) We marched up our little road, marveling at the light on the snow. Near the the other end we encountered a truck–it’s not unheard of to see a vehicle while we walk, but it’s notable. Rick waved, and so did I, as we do. Except that Rick actually identified the driver. A friend from town. Rick was surprised that he didn’t stop, roll down the window and engage in local banter, as folks do. He commented that it was odd for him to use our road. I defended, because, it’s a lot prettier than the highway, even if out of his way.

On our return, we found it. A single blue beer can in the middle of the road. It hadn’t been there when we’d passed on the way out. We hadn’t encountered any other vehicles on our walk. In a sad way, things fell into place. It all made perfect sense. We’d always wondered what we’d say, and now we know… we won’t say anything.

Two-Legged Hazards…

A.V. Walters–

People just don’t walk. In Two Rock, Rick and I had a reputation. If we went to feed the emus, on the other side of the farm, we walked over. We walked when we visited Elmer, our friendly landlord. We walked to our favorite berry patch, only about a mile and a half away. We would have walked to more places, but there wasn’t much around. (The nearest market was about 5 miles away, and that’s a little far to be lugging groceries.) People noticed. Sometimes they’d roll down the window to ask if you needed a ride. Soon, folks in the area knew us—they’d wave. We heard that they’d asked Elmer about us—you know, what’s up with those two, always walking all over the place? Elmer would just shrug. The farmers in the area all drove pickups, or four-wheelers, wherever they went. It made sense if you carried tools and feed. But it was more than that, one day Elmer dropped by for one of our friendly conversations. In the middle of it, he was reminded of a newspaper article that he’d saved for me. He held up one finger, “Be right back,” and he hopped in the truck for the 500-foot trip to his house.

On his return, I asked why he drove that little hop, to his place. Granted, he had a bad knee, but it was more than that. Elmer and Don always drove everywhere on the farm.

“It’s habit, I guess, we can’t afford the time it takes to walk everywhere.”

I guess my face showed doubt.

“Really, a walk over to the sheep barn would take 20 minutes, the work-day is long enough, as it is. If we walked, we’d never finish what needs to be done.”

So, in part, it’s a habit. Once the workday is done, the habit remains, and you drive to visit the neighbor—if only yards away.

Our walking was noted by the livestock, too. We had a single lane driveway to our side of the farm, about half a mile long. On one side of the lane, there were two large pastures, for sheep and, opposite the sheep, there was a huge field for the dairy cows, next door. That dividing lane serviced the dairy trucks, hay haulers, feed trucks, egg trucks, tractors, numerous tenants, you name it—all manner of large and noisy, vehicular farm traffic. They moved along at quite a clip, too. The sheep and cows grazing mere feet from the hurtling trucks didn’t even flinch at the noisy invasions. But, pedestrians? You’d have thought we were wolves. We’d walk down the lane and the sheep would flee as though their lives depended on it, lambs galloping, followed by lumbering, milk-heavy ewes. The cows would stare, chewing, and as we approached, mosey on, away from the fence line. Of course, if you carried a feed-bucket, those same sheep would mob you.

We’re back to our walking ways, and our neighbors have noticed. They drive by and wave. Yesterday we walked into town, just over a mile, to check the mail. Like Two Rock, the roads here are not very pedestrian friendly. On the way, we spooked a doe and her fawn. They’d been poised at the road’s edge, readying to dash across. It’s a busy road. Michigan statistics show that every year over 60,000 of them don’t make it to the other side. Deer seem oblivious to two or three tons of fuel-injected steel, screaming towards them at 70 mph, and yet, when confronted by a couple of pedestrians, that deer bolted back into the swamp, along with her equally spooked, spotted fawn. Maybe I should check myself in the mirror. I’m a little afraid of traffic—but the deer are afraid of me.