“Be careful.”

“I will,” I said.

I grabbed one of my hiking poles and set out. Down the driveway and then up the hill to the macadam. I walked southwest on the macadam. The sun had already set, so I had my headlamp on my forehead in case drivers drove past.

But there were few vehicles out and I was thankful. I walked against any traffic that might come, just in case, and kept my headlamp on my forehead just in case I needed to turn it on for any drivers who might pass me. When I descended the first hill, four deer were munching grasses that grew just off the asphalt. Surprisingly, the does spotted me before the small buck. The doe closest to me looked at me and eventually flagged me, her white tail swaying left and right–left and right–as she trotted into the woodline. Then the two other does followed her to the safety of the hardwoods. The small six-point buck stood unbelievably still and watched me as I kept walking. Finally, the click of my hiking pole as I tapped the macadam with every other footfall, sufficed for him, and he took to the trees.

I walked on. Still, no traffic. Just the cool gloaming for company. I reached the bottom of that hill and the next one came into view. I passed a few homes on my left and right. Inside were a few lights. In one, a television screen mounted high on the wall cast an obnoxious bright that contrasted with the evening outside where I was under the trees and silver stars.

The hill was steep. I could feel my heartrate increase as I climbed, the click click click of my hiking pole alerting me to my slowing pace as I ascended the hill. I paused and reached into my left back pocket and retrieved my hydration bottle and took a few sips. After placing it back, I continued until the top of the hill and finally turned left onto another road.

A home on the right had an open garage, and a man was working in his garage. He appeared to be measuring trim for his interior, and I could smell sawdust from his table saw I could see in the middle of his garage. It was nearly dark now and the man did not appear to see me or hear the click of my hiking pole upon the pavement.

The descent towards the creek was steep. When I reached the bottom curve, the creek was running. The sounds of the water over the rocks sounded something soulful within me, and I understood yet again why Melville wrote what he did in Moby Dick about man’s soul being inextricably wed to water.

As I walked up from the creek, I turned right back onto the road home. I’d been out less than an hour. There had been nothing spectacular about my stroll–just a few deer, the cool of the evening, the trees, the sights of a few homes with their lamps and TVs, and a man working in his garage. Otherwise, just my steps, the sounds of my hiking pole upon the macadam, and my own quiet observation of the gloaming.

Back home now, I’m reading John Williams’ novel Butcher’s Crossing and making notes for what I have to accomplish tomorrow. But I bet tomorrow I will again long for quiet strolls like this one, where one can walk slowly, listen to the sounds of the evenings, look up and out and around and just be amidst the gloaming.