The creek gurgles among the sun-beaten stones. My leg brushes against the Oregon grapes as I hike down a meandering path. Northern flicker greets me (or berates me), follows me down the path – kew, kew, kew. At the end of the trail, a cliff, or a creek crossing. I ponder and a black dog darts past me, straight into the fast-moving creek. The black dog keeps his feet, turns, ignores me, runs back to his people. The black dog returns, darts past me into the creek, turns, now looks me in the eye. Are you coming? I grab a nearby stick, a pole really, plant it in the water with one hand and leap to a large rock. The black dog ventures further into the creek. I leap to the next stone, and the next, and the next. The last one is a risky effort, but I land squarely on the dry tip of a stone and my momentum carries me to the far shore. I look back at the black dog. Are you coming? The black dog noses the fastest part of the stream, looks back at his people, who are watching with curiosity from the shore. The black dog looks me in the eye – nope, not coming – and tears back down the path, through the trees, and beyond the gurgling creek.
