A Good Walk, Unspoiled

Golf is a good walk spoiled.
-- Mark Twain

It is the first morning of autumn, on the calendar anyway, which doesn’t mean much in the extreme scheme of weather we “enjoy” here in Central Texas. But there is, thankfully, a slight north breeze that brings a promise of cooling temperatures, and encourages me to put the leash on Ally and bring her out on the Shadowglen golf course, which shut down about a month ago, when the management realized they could no longer afford to water the greens and fairways in the drought.

I have taken Ally there on a couple of other occasions, with the idea of taking off her leash and watching her run a bit. She did so, but the heat was so extreme both times, that she made a bee-line for the creek, dunked herself in, then came back, practically guiding her snout into her harness, then taking breaks every so often on the way home in order to lie down and pant in the shade of a tree.

This morning, thanks to the cool north breeze, when I let her off the leash she bolts, making it to the end of the fairway with remarkable speed. I pick up a stick and wave it in the air, causing her to return to me just as swiftly. She takes a few sorties like this one, and then dutifully reports back to me. I put her on the leash, and she sets her nose to the ground, taking in the myriad scents, every muscle in her lithe body on the alert.

I, in the meantime, take in the sights and sounds of the abandoned golf course. I’m struck by its expansiveness, and am startled when an owl flies from one treetop to the next. Its wing span is astounding and makes me think of pterodactyls. Ally looks up briefly from her sniffing before getting back to whatever scent trail she has been following.

At one point we get up to the top of a hill that reminds me of the hills my brother and I used to sled down at the Knollwood golf course across Knollwood Road from our street. We catch sight of the clubhouse. I realize then we’ve been walking in the wrong direction all this time, and that we’re about one hundred yards from where my children go to school. (I should have been tipped off sooner, as the sound of the Manor High School marching band, practicing for Friday night’s game against Elgin, their rivals, has been getting louder in my ears as we go.)

I decide that rather than face accusations of trespassing, the better idea would be to turn around and figure out our way back home. The golf course opens back up before us, and I find visual landmarks that guide me back to where we’re supposed to be headed. In the end, my dog and I probably walked a good two miles that morning, and it was a hike I’ll remember for some time, I think -- the sights, sounds and sensations being the kind that implant themselves in that part of the soul that is melancholy, and searches for the ever-elusive “perfect moment,” as Spalding Grey called it.