When I travel, I miss my home routine.
To me, waking up in Montana is a magnificent gift.
At the first sign of sun, my three dogs behave like famished monkeys until I roll out of bed.
I feed the monkey-dogs and let them out, put the teapot on the stove, tune in some jazz, grind some good beans, check the outside thermometer, and so on...
When I’m on the road, it’s not just those simple rituals that I miss, but the routines of the wild things living all around me.
In the morning, I miss the deer strolling through the field in front of my house.
I miss the fearless Martinsdale rabbits, parked like pointy-eared boulders all over my yard, not budging or flinching until my charging terrier is just a hare-length away.
I miss my morning birds - an owl sitting in the pine tree, magpies and crows chattering in the lilacs, the call of eagles along the Musselshell.
Years ago when I lived in Tracy, a red fox was part of my routine.
Every morning, the fox would wander down into the cow pasture next to the house and stand there in the field yip-yip-yiping until my old dog, Kirby, would hear him and take off in hot pursuit.
The young fox wasn’t fazed by his gray-muzzled, half-lame predator. He just tiptoed back up the coulee, losing himself in the tight slit of rock walls and brush.
For months, Kirby and the fox played their early morning game. Eventually, a spinal cord tumor cut the life from Kirby’s hind legs. I spent my final few hours with Kirby laying next to him in the yard - talking to him, petting him.
At one point, Kirby shot his head up and strained to look over my shoulder. The fox stood silent behind me just a half-dozen yards away. Kirby whined and wagged his tail. The fox walked back up the coulee - alone.
I think of Kirby and the fox now as I walk my dogs around a large pond near my parents’ home in Indianapolis.
To learn the routines of wild things, you not only need to visit a place often, but you must walk with awareness.
This pond, a refuge in the city, has become part of my morning ritual while I’m here. On one end, a lone ice fisherman drags his sled of gear out onto the ice. At the other end, mallards and geese splash in the open water. I spot the stately Great Blue Heron from afar, standing like a statue at the ice’s edge.
Borage, my 10 year-old Alaskan Husky, normally could care less about birds, but he seems enamored with this big Blue Crane.
Every day, Borage begins our walk trotting the shoreline searching for his giant feathered friend. Once he finds Big Blue, he creeps towards him like a human bird watcher, hoping to get a long, good look.
Big Blue is no fool - he knows Borage is there. He doesn’t seem nervous or frustrated by the nosey, four-legged creature pursuing him. When Borage moves too close, the majestic heron draws his neck in tight and works his massive wings, somehow lifting his long body into slow, graceful flight.
Big Blue doesn’t ditch us though. He usually doesn’t even fly to the other side of the pond, putting a good stretch of water between himself and the curious husky. Instead, he lands on our shore within site of us.
Usually, we walk three laps around the pond. And on a good day, Big Blue leads the way.
The best part of any routine is the wild part.
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