When I don’t have to roll directly out of bed and log onto the computer to meet a work deadline, or the sidewalks are not covered in the ice of winter, I usually head out for my morning walk at 4:45am. I must admit, it takes quite a bit of effort to lift my legs and place them into some semblance of forward motion when I first start out. My mind is saying “go” but my body is screaming “no”. It is essential that I get the process restarted fairly quickly because I have to beat a freight train to a crossing that is only a mile from the house. If I spend even a little longer than normal shaking off the fog of sleep, I get to spend ten minutes watching the creeping gallery of the brightly-colored urban artwork that graces the canvas of freight cars.
You would not think that there is much activity at a time that still borders on the night. However, I have found that there is significant action, but of the non-human kind. Wildlife takes the opportunity to take care of their daily business before the daylight exposes their presence. I regularly see raccoons emerging out of a sewer only to make a bee-line across the street to the next entrance to the underground network they call home. The foxes are the only animals that pay any attention to me. They will stop in their tracks and watch me with staring eyes. On occasion, I have had them follow me. They will only scamper back to the brush after I take a few warning steps back in their direction. The deer, that are normally so quick to take flight in the day, actually freeze in place like statues. I have come within 5’ feet of both fawns and fully-racked bucks with nary a flick of their white tails. They clearly have no fear of any human dumb enough to be out at that time of the day.
There is a trace of human activity as the night sky transitions to what photographers call the “blue hour”. Most of the humans I encounter are accompanied by their canine companions. I first cross the path of Justin and “Red”. “Red” is not red but cream colored. He is a pit-bull mix that is built like an ottoman. If he has already taken care of his morning business, “Red” is very genial and will saunter over with tail wagging like a metronome to have his chops rubbed. If I catch him before the morning constitutional, his lowered tail indicates his desire to remain focused on the business at hand.
About halfway into my 7-mile suburban hike I run into Margie, Rich and Ed and their menagerie of rescue dogs. One of their pit bull mixes is blind in one eye and the other is deaf. It doesn’t matter. They can still identify me 100 yards away. I guess that with their optical and auditory disabilities, they have developed their sense of smell that can lock onto my pre-shower scent like a Russian SAM. The other two retrievers in the crew have no problem giving me wet, slobbering kisses although I have yet had the opportunity to brush my teeth. After our enthusiastic greeting, it is the humans turn to get acquainted with the latest news in our lives.
In this strange, socially-distant world of COVID, sometimes the only physical human contact that I have during the day, with the exception of my wife, is with these strangers that I now consider friends. Sure, I may talk with a dozen people on the phone and through Zoom each day, but even a brief encounter with these crazy people who are also up before the dawn, is an assurance of normalcy. Just like a pack of dogs or a herd of deer, we too are social beings that are most comfortable being in contact with our own.
One of the other fair-weather companions on my walk is the constellation Orion. Beginning with those cool crisp mornings of the late summer and through a good part of the stark winter, I am greeted in the sky by this old friend introduced to me as a child while camping with the Indian Guides. Orion is a seasonal visitor and he no longer joins me on my morning walk. However, his annual return is as constant as the Northern Star. I look forward to his return as much as my encounters with my other pre-dawn friends.
