Go for a ride?
Dogs are smart. They see through the clutter of life, right to the important stuff, things like dinnertime, walks, and pats on the head from the people they adore. And they know the value of rides.
My dog was sleeping on the floor in front of the fireplace, a perfectly reasonable thing to do on a chilly autumn day. He was snoring, oblivious to his surroundings, until I pulled my keys from their hook on the wall. The tiny clinking sound resurrected him and he shot past me to stand expectantly at the door. Go for a ride? You bet!
We piled into the cab of my truck and were off. My dog's nose stuck out of the window, taking in the smell of strange country. After only a short ride he bounded out of the truck and ran into the house, as eager to come home as he was to leave.
Recently I endured a period of quiet desperation; the world seemed off its axis. Trapped in that proverbial box with the walls slowly closing in, I didn't know what was wrong. My dinner dish was full, I didn't need a walk, and my wife gave me all the pats I needed, but I couldn't see the important stuff through the clutter… I needed to get the smell of strange country. Go for a ride? You bet!
No two rides are the same, but I know a few simple rules, which anyone may follow. The first day, go as far as practical to put that box behind. Drive across a place like Nevada if you can. The vast open spaces and distant blue mountains stretching to the horizon are so intimidating they force you to view your problems from a new perspective. Listen to country music, the poetry of the common folk, on weak radio stations that fade in and out as miles blur beneath your tires. Use the solitude to wander around inside your head and reacquaint yourself with the person living in there. In such desolate country you will discover time to clean out the closet a little. It is OK to cry.
If you know where you are going, and there are two roads, take the smaller. If you don't know where you are going, take the smaller road anyway.
Explore a short detour, perhaps a spur road into the Ruby Mountains just before dusk, when shadows are long and colors warm. Spend time in aspen groves watching the sun sparkle through the golden leaves. Then drive on through all the phases of the sunset and into the darkness.
Breakfast on the second day should be in the coffee shop of a second-rate casino. Get up very early, the call of the road will prevent sleep anyway, and be sure to flirt with the old waitress with the gravelly voice. Talk with people who have lived their lives differently than you; do not judge, instead try to learn. Listen to the old folks. We may be in the information age, but we should acquire knowledge the old fashion way.
Seek out settings so awe inspiring that you lack words to describe them to your friends. Stand shivering alone on a sage flat in Jackson Hole for instance, just as dawn breaks and elk begin to materialize from wisps of ground fog all around you. Bugles from unseen bulls echo on four sides and you can see the small clouds of steam billowing from an antlered bull as he poses in front of you, silhouetted by the dawn. Remember to look behind and watch the summits of the Tetons turn to glowing embers with the first brush of the morning sun.
Later, note the wonder reflected in the eyes of a small boy as he watches half a ton of bison saunter past his dad's car, four feet away, as the great beast leisurely strolls down the yellow stripe in the center of a road in Yellowstone. Acknowledge the twinge of envy you feel when you realize the boy, unlike yourself, is just beginning to experience all the wonders he will see. Then go out and find some new wonders for yourself.
Find places so beautiful you don't know where to look first. It is OK to cry here, too. Then photograph or draw or write so you can prolong the lessons when you get home.
As you pass by, contemplate the lives of people memorialized by little white crosses on the side of the road. They also went for a ride, but they can never go home again. Hope that they were at peace with their lives when they were asked to leave. Then count your blessings.
When it is time, and the ride is over, you will bound out of the truck and run into the house, as eager to come home as you were to leave. And you will find the important stuff will be clear again.
So, the next time you feel the walls closing in and you cannot see through the clutter, take a lesson from a dog. Go for a ride? You bet!
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