Category Archives: Razorback Greenway

Downtown Dummies – An Art Installation Sponsored by Prank Sinatra

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I keep lists of jokes, ideas, and amusing things to amuse my amusing self. Last year while I was walking before sunrise in downtown Springdale, I burst out laughing with one of them.

I’ve been secretly fantasizing about an idiotic prank for quite a while. I’ve browsed on eBay, Amazon, and retail clearance websites trying to get a reasonable cost to purchase several dozen mannequins. The best cost I could devise was about $750. Three weeks ago, I could have purchased an entire lot, clothing included, from a defunct retailer.

After purchasing all the mannequins and keeping them in a self-storage unit, I’d rent a U-Haul. Early in the morning, I would drive around downtown Springdale and strategically place the dummies in key places. (Benches, leaning on walls, astride Spring Creek, behind patrol cars, etc.) It occurred to me that I could create a story if I was creative enough in my implementation. (With the epilogue involving me getting bailed out of jail, I presume.)

I even had a list of explanations if I were caught. I’d say, “It’s an art project for the Revitalization District.” Or, I’d say, “Look at that!” and as the person looked, I’d run like hell in any possible direction.

If I keep my movements low-key, no one will think twice about dummies downtown. There are always several standing or loitering around down there and several have been elected to keep the city running. Just kidding, Doug. I’m a big fan, with the exception of that horrendous city logo – the one which invokes an image of the floor of a New York City Taxi when I look at it.

I’ve had more fun thinking about doing this than you might expect.

I’ll probably never do it now, especially after sharing it with everyone.

If there’s anyone out there reading this, though, it would make an excellent prank.

It would also make a beautiful art project if it were planned with care.

Saturday Morning Considerations

The fog was thick this morning, enveloping everything. It looked like a 1970s bingo hall – and just as promising. The hilltop towers seemed to be just floating red orbs, blinking their presence. For November, I was once again pleased to see that I didn’t need a jacket to walk in comfort. I had on pants, though, for the comfort of any potential onlookers.

Leaving the house, I toyed with the idea of pranking one of my neighbors. He came home yesterday afternoon, probably under the influence again, and sat in his vehicle in the road, windows down, radio blaring at an insane volume. His issues aren’t limited to alcohol, though. I have an ongoing bet with myself regarding how long it is going to be before he kills someone, and I’m not referring to his poor fashion choices, either. At least I haven’t seen him urinating in broad daylight in a few days. I keep an eye on him because I hope to be as classy as he is one day. It would have been so easy to startle him awake at 4 a.m., the stupor of bad choices and a mean spirit still thick in his eyes. PS I did confuse him yesterday. I exited the house through the back door, went around the opposite side of the house and entered my car from the passenger side. I then hit the horn a couple of times, holding it for a few seconds, dipping my upper body below sight as I did so. It amused me but also made me a tad sad because, in a just world, I would have been able to fling open the front door, aim a bazooka, and launch the raucous neighbor into the stratosphere.

I added a couple of versions of the theme song to “Stranger Things” to my playlist, knowing the eeriness of the music would be perfect for this warm November morning. I wasn’t disappointed, either. As I walked along the Razorback Greenway, I looked up at the largest of our local cell towers. It loomed like an alien monolith, partially obscured by the fog. I had parked at Lokomotion, the only car within sight, and walked from there. As I often do, I paused in the middle of 71 below the mall, the neon promise of a slow death by grease flashing behind me in the guise of a Golden Corral sign. I just can’t help myself. There is something sublime and glorious about my solitary status in the middle of such a major road, absent cars, people, and the demands that will choke the pavements as the day progresses. I stood there a full minute, looking both directions and only chose to move along when headlights crested the hill between the Mall and Zion Road.

I walked a long distance on the portion of the trail intersecting 71 near Golden Corral. It’s a beautiful stretch. At 4 a.m., when you start walking, the building on top of the hill at the edge high above the trail looks like an imposing modern castle. The light emanating from the commercial behemoth above is surprisingly filtered, yet somehow casts an eerie light across the trees, creeks, and brush below, similar to a surgical room with a dimmer set to “starting anesthesia,” if such a setting were possible. I laughed when I encountered the “Speed Limit 15” sign along that section. I could have been riding a rocket through there this morning. The only thing to slow me would have been the mass of spider webs I collected as I walked. I managed to get several in my mouth, too, which is always a surprise. As far as I know, no spiders were present. As for the speed limit, I vote that we allow cyclists to go 40 mph if they can. The dropoffs on the other side are spectacular and I can think of nothing more amusing as a careless cyclist flings himself off the side to the creek far below, the theme song to “Dukes of Hazzard” echoing in the leaves as I laugh.

“Welcome to Johnson” the concrete inlay indicated ahead of an elegant bridge near the creek. I looked around, half expecting to see one of their finest on a small bicycle, loaded with a million dollars of hardware and 3 radar guns, just waiting to issue me a ticket for having sunglasses too tinted or failing to indicate a turn by morse code. The one good thing about getting a ticket in Johnson is that it invariably is written in crayon and in the language and font most commonly used on Chik-Fil-A billboards. I’m not bitter about the Johnson police; likewise, though, they shouldn’t get defensive when I use satire to mock them. They should have thought of that while submitting me to the shenanigans of their playbook. “Never start a fight with an ugly person,” and “Don’t argue with someone who buys ink by the gallon” are both true for a reason.

The trail section through the area, though, is hauntingly pretty. Oddly enough, though, I’ve never seen it in actual daylight. There are a few trees along that mile stretch which should be removed. I’m glad they haven’t been, though, especially now that they’ve dropped their leaves. Their limbs now reach craggily across the trail, wide and expansive. They are a sight to behold in diminished light of early morning. I’ve always loved the look of leafless trees, even those already dying. If I could afford it, I would have a tree similar to the one gracing the entrance to Crystal Bridges Museum.

The trail was mine this morning, as is usually the case. I saw no one and found the tranquility so compelling that I removed my headphones for almost all of the walk. It’s still hard for me to believe that other people aren’t out there in the dark. The trails are such a treat and the world is a different place during those hours.

On the way home, I stopped at the neighborhood market, the one which looks like it is being redesigned by an expert on urban torture. Dawn and I went to Harps yesterday afternoon. I had to dig in the freezer section for her to reach a few Lean Cuisine pizzas. (Which, by the way, are exceedingly good.) I didn’t check the dates. Dawn had already wisely decided to ignore the yogurt selection, as it suffered from the “O Brother Effect,” meaning everything in the selection range was at least two weeks out of expiration. When we arrived home, Dawn discovered that Harps had once again punched us in the face with poor inventory control. Harps is a place we want so much to love – but we can’t. The location near us is like a brother-in-law with a heart of gold but also suffering from a massive heroin addiction. (He’ll give you the shirt off his back but sell your dog.) The Gutenshon location is such a massive upgrade from our branch. Dawn was surprising her mom with a cake, though, and she had ordered one from that location.

As I wandered around the market, I had several encounters which amused and confused me. Several areas were roped off due to store redesign and I stopped to ask a question. The employee looked at me as I asked and just walked off. I laughed at his brazenness. He might not have spoken English very well but I’m not sure walking away without comment is the correct choice. I could be wrong though. Maybe my picture was on a “Warning” sign in the breakroom?

The next question I lobbed at two women holding either scanners or stolen Star Trek phasers. It’s tough to know that early in the morning. “Where are the canned vegetables?” They looked at one another, spoke a few quiet words back and forth. One of them said, “We don’t know.” They turned and walked away. I made a mental note to write J.D. Powers and nominate them for some kind of award.

I went around past the hideous meat section and found a small cadre of employees in front of a massive stack of supplies on the floor. The younger male was a few feet away, watching a video on his phone. Just because I was now in a mood to engage in tomfoolery, I stepped slightly behind him, acted like I was looking at his phone and said, “PORN?!” in a very loud outdoor voice. Everyone froze and looked at me, standing behind the young man holding his phone out. I pantomimed and pointed at his phone and laughed. He jerked the phone in the other direction and put it in his pocket.

“I wasn’t looking at porn. This guy is crazy,” he told the other workers.

“I know what I saw!” I said, jokingly.

Still laughing, I asked them where the canned vegetables were. One of the girls pointed back behind me and I walked away. I could feel the porn guy’s eyes drilling holes in my backside as I sauntered away.

I left the store without any canned corn. But I had something much greater: a great story to amuse myself with.

Armadillo By Morning

Last night, my wife asked me how I choose where to walk next. I answered honestly that I had no clue. Most mornings, I seldom end up anywhere that I had intended. I could point out that my life has taken the same course, but for the moment, I’ll skip the cliché of a life without compass.

This morning, I lay in bed with the cat nipping my shin and toes for at least an hour. It was too early to get up, so I used my other foot to pet the cat until my calf muscle was insisting that I stop. I felt guilty for having delighted in petting a neighborhood cat last night, one we alternatively name “Marsha,” or “DevilCat.” Last night, as my wife and I sat on the bench in the front of the house, DevilCat darted around the corner and demanded affection. Our own cat Güino peered suspiciously and contemptuously through the bottom of the blinds as the intruder greeted us outside. This is the very same cat who screeched and hissed at the office window yesterday morning at 4 a.m. startling me as I sat there trying to navigate the complexity of getting both of my shoes on the correct feet at such an hour.  DevilCat’s eyes are hilariously large in the dark, like a teenage girl getting to order her first mocha frappuccino at Starbucks.  Marsha the DevilCat, as it turns out, is quite the friendly feline, despite having a demeanor which would frighten Freddie Krueger.

Although I left this morning with the intention of going to Emma to walk and check out the new goings-on (including the crater recently added at the first stop sign), I ended up in Lowell, along Goad Springs Road. North Goad Springs has a beautiful stretch of trail extending for a long distance. For no reason whatsoever, I parked across from the convenience store there, on an empty and graveled area near the road, and walked South instead, on a portion of the trail I had never walked. The trail below my feet was a wide expanse of modern concrete, a vague grey ribbon marked with intermittent yellow dashes that I could barely see. If only life would take a moment to give us such direction, even if only in the most dimly-lit way possible. (I promised clichés, remember?)

The first portion of the road there is dense and people have little cause to drive the road near the trail at that hour. It was a wide open sky, one without clouds but decorated by a hazy sliver of a moon above, in the shape of a cookie bitten once by an overzealous 5-year-old. It’s scenic and quite beautiful during the day; at night it is magnified into something beyond. I think I’m going to need to coin a word describing the overlap of differences between scenes during daylight and night, one which conveys the magic of both isolation and of something just about to happen at every moment. If other worlds exist, they certainly exist in the margins of what we think we see and no time of day is more prehistoric than the swath of minutes before sunrise.

Off to one side of the trail a solitary yard light last cast an orange sherbet glow, creating a diaphanous haze like one sometimes gets over one’s eyes coming out of the pool. I couldn’t see what the light was supposed to be illuminating. For me, it was simply an unexpected orange beacon casting thousands of beams of light into the trees and brush as I walked by.

At the first bridge at the curve at the bottom of the valley, the temperature dropped precipitously as if 17 ghosts sneaked up on me to send a shiver down my spine. (Ghosts always travel in odd numbers, if you were wondering.) It was as the valley hadn’t gotten the message that it was still warm above.

As I exited the valley and began my slow climb it was startling to see on my left a huge reminder of civilization in the form of a multi-floor building off in the distance. It was comprised of 200 stacked and similar brightly-lit rooms, all of them lit unnecessarily.  I imagined that a mischievous janitor had run through the building, flipping all the lights on for his own amusement. In his defense, no one would stop him. Why all the lights were on was a mystery I thought about for a moment and forgot as I moved past.

And just like that, before I’d even settled into the idea of possibly being tired, a huge construction crane towered above me, against the night sky. I couldn’t believe that I had already reached the unlikely intersection of the trail, the interstate, and the area where the new East-West corridor above Springdale met them. As I walked under the interstate, the whump-whump of the vehicles passing above created the otherworldly post-apocalyptic feeling that I had anticipated. It brought to mind a period over 30 years ago in the mid-80s, when the interstate was being built and still referred to as “The Bypass.” We weren’t sure what it was bypassing. And we certainly had no idea that such a road would transform every aspect of our lives in this corner of the state. Even back then, in another incarnation, I spent many nights running, walking and biking on those unfinished lanes, even when they were still just miles of compressed gravel. It’s a memory that I cherish and one that is almost impossible to replicate in today’s more modern world, governed by strange ideas of safety and caution. I owned those roads then and in some way, I still own them. The great cycle of time has provided me with a way to relive those hours in the dark, all the while experiencing new incarnations of the same fleeting feeling of isolation in the midst of so much.

Before deciding to turn back, I walked under the mammoth overpass of the new road, stopping to look straight up and feel the dizzy recognition of immensity. The twinkling stars above it and me provided the perfect backdrop. It would have been the best possible picture to have somehow captured the perspective of it. Providing no catastrophe strikes, in a blink of an eye in the course of time, someone will stand in the same spot, years from now, seeing the same sight I did this morning.

Doubling back and retracing my steps I had forgotten that the cool valley would be waiting for me. It enveloped me in a cool haze. All I can compare it to is that first blast of cool air when you are 8 years old and you’ve been banished to the great outdoors for most of the afternoon.

I stopped to look up at the silver moon that reminded me of an older movie logo, the one with the small boy fishing off the cusp of a bright partial moon. On my right, there was a single solitary tree towering above a bench several feet away from the trail. I thought of some future afternoon, one with a cool breeze, when I might return and sit on that bench, a visit without real motive.

Apart from the impersonal interstate I only encountered two vehicles. One was a white truck which was being driven so slowly I speculated they might have been attempting to go back in time and the second vehicle was a police car out of jurisdiction driving so fast I thought it might be a DeLorean attempting to reach 88 miles per hour. It’s possible that the police car driver was also accumulating frequent flyer miles. I met several armadillos, too, none of which seemed interested in making my acquaintance.

There’s no message in this story, just moments.

As you slumbered, I walked with the moon and made friends with old memories. Or vice versa.

Barbed Wire, Safety, and Assholes

Barbed wire?

By now, I imagine most people in NWA heard about the 72-year-old man who was badly injured when a strand of barbed wire across the trail in South Fayetteville caught him in the neck as he rode his bike.

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of trail walking in the dark. While I’ve walked primarily along Springdale’s incredible portion, I’ve spent some time on some of Fayetteville’s trails, too. I’ve joked about the endless spider webs across the trails on some early mornings, so the idea of hitting wire does give me pause. But only for a brief second.

It’s always a possibility that someone will misbehave. In fact, it’s likely. I know I run the risk of booby traps, nails, or weirdos (weirder than me, even!) accosting me as I enjoy the trails. Barbed wire is a particularly criminal item to use to hurt those who walk, run or cycle. There are situations where I would never see it as I approached, especially at 3 a.m.

As for Springdale, I routinely see patrols on the trails. I’m not sure how it is managed in Fayetteville, but anyone alleging that Springdale isn’t doing a great job of maintaining visibility isn’t paying attention. Even with the best vigilance, though, it’s impossible to guarantee that lesser people won’t attempt all manner of shenanigans. The police can’t be everywhere – but we can.

Yesterday, as I walked around part of the new George Park complex, I surprised a family sleeping in a white sedan. Based on the what I saw, they were probably homeless and using their car to park in less obvious places. When I came upon them, I had just emerged from the blackest part of the trail in that area, the one I wrote about a few weekends ago. When I was going through it, it went through my mind that someone could have put up 147 strands of barbed wire and that some anonymous person might find me crawling out the next morning, looking like Rambo after round 11. As for that family, it didn’t occur to me to react to them with suspicion, just an appreciation that the weather wasn’t an additional discomfort for them.

On the other hand, two weekends ago, I almost stepped on someone who was sleeping inside the covered bus area in front of the public library, after I walked past a large man who was intoxicated as he haphazardly ambled along the pond at the park. I wasn’t nervous, as the only danger he presented was the one he did to the English language as he tried to speak to me as he passed me. People are generally great. It’s up to us to follow through when we see things. People walking while intoxicated are amusing, not threatening, even if they look like defensive linemen.

Which brings me to my poorly-written point…

I’ve walked mile after mile in the last few months, seeing so many sides of this great city. As you might have noticed, I’m a huge fan of the trail system and of all the changes in Springdale.

However, there’s a lot to be done here. In my own neighborhood, I watched as a 4-wheeler careened around my little corner of Springdale. He jumped the curb, rode the sidewalks, and made a car come to a screeching halt as he cut in front. Kids were walking home from school at the time, as the buses had just emptied at the side entrances to the neighborhood. It’s not the first time he’s done this. A family down the street gets on dirt bikes and rides at 80 mph, doing wheelies down the middle of the street. Another neighbor drinks and drives. A few weeks ago, I watched as an obviously drunk driver tried to use his clutch ran over the curb and stalled his Honda. (I wrote about that, too, as a humorous anecdote.) Dozens of people witness the idiots such as those on the 4-wheeler, motorcycles, or careening vehicles. Until we stop looking the other way and tolerating them, it can’t get better.

I could list more, but you get the idea: people are going to be assholes. It’s up to us to let the police know there’s a problem. Before you ask, yes, I’ve called the police when I observe these things – and not anonymously, either.

One final anecdote, if you don’t mind. I wrote a story one afternoon this week, one about the futility of insisting that one area is safer to walk than another, or that it’s better to walk in the daylight. I didn’t post it, though, because I struggled with the implied prejudice of it. There are some beautiful places near my house and I love walking them. But to say that it is ‘safe’ to be anywhere is simply not true. The opposite side of Friendship road isn’t within Springdale city limits. There are some strange residents on that side, ones dedicated to a life of crime, if not mayhem. Some of them are the “AFTER” posters you would see during a drug PSA. A driver, for whatever reason, decided that he was going to spew his venom on me as he exited the Springdale city limits. He thought I was Latino, and I think he hesitated from escalating his anger because he might not have been sure who I really was or if I was armed. I might have had to throw him across the field, WWE-style if he attacked me, or run away, screeching. Those who know me well can imagine how ridiculously fast I would have been running through the field at that point.

I don’t look at the angry driver or the minor idiots and lessen my view of people. We’re always going to have miscreants and assholes making our life more difficult. Safety and security are the goals of those we pay to protect us. Safety, though, is an illusion. I’m as likely to get injured on the sidewalk outside my own house as I am to be decapitated by barbed wire on one of our excellent trails – and probably by that biscuit-eating idiot on the 4-wheeler.

For those who asked, I’m not concerned about barbed wire along the trails.

If you recall, I had a plane crash on my residence almost 30 years ago, on a clear Saturday, September morning.

You can’t take it personally when life drops the anvil on your cartoonish head.

You can, however, let someone know if you see someone putting the anvil up in a tree.

A Saturday Morning

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If we are lucky enough we each have our own private Narnia, our own distinct lantern rendered invisible to others, hovering at the periphery of our minds. As we travel it is waiting to provide the dash of missing depth to our surroundings. Sometimes those of us who see our lanterns with greater frequency forget that many people are simply trying to get down the path and have no interest in such things. Perhaps it is an old refrain to you now, hearing me repeat it so often, but the world is a much different place at 4 in the morning and magic seems to lurk nearby with an intangible presence.

During my entire walk, the only light was the one gracing the distant parking lot.

The new trail I chose this morning didn’t need a visitor’s tally. There was no doubt that I was the first person to tread the cooled path this morning. A 1,000 arachnid Finish Lines graced my steps, each one a dark surprise in the wee morning hours. I felt like I had sprinted through a gauntlet of cotton candy after 15 minutes. I could only imagine how many spiders were measuring my neck and back with their spindly legs.

Even though it was barely 4 a.m. I could hear a high melody far off to my right. Having seen “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” I of course immediately deduced that I too would be found in the breaking morning light, nothing except empty and discarded clothing as evidence of my disappearance. Unlike Pete, though, I wasn’t prepared to satisfy my curiosity if becoming a toad were involved. I do wish I had known the origin of the music this morning. Anyone listening to such music at such an hour would have to be either a very interesting person or a very frightening one, a Schrödinger’s surprise for psychopaths.

I encountered no one on the trail. It’s possible though that a hundred unseen people were standing near the trail, watching me as I passed. The clouds granted darker cover to the night and the trail I walked was canopied above me for much of the distance. An owl hooted nearby and startled me more than I would care to admit. I had headphones, but wasn’t using them, both because of the delicious coolness of the night air, but also because the insects apparently had seen the movie “Spinal Tap,” and had voted to turn up the chirping to “11” on nature’s dial. Even now, sitting here in front of this modern electronic window to the world, I can hear only the box fan we use to help us sleep the quiet sleep of death and the wall of insects outside.

When I returned to my car, I stopped and admired the statue of General Covfefe, who valiantly fought so many years ago to ensure that locals could endlessly argue about the vestiges of racism.

Early Morning Delights

To all those who followed me later on the trails, you’re welcome. I didn’t do the spider dance voluntarily but I did it repeatedly and with great enthusiasm on the dark trails, most of which was carpeted with a dank tapestry of leaves from last night’s torrential rains. I’m assuming the spider dance counts toward one’s cardiovascular regimen. There were 2 or 3 spots where the fallen leaves hid the dimly-defined edges of the trail. These were particularly laden with spider webs. Some of these spiders are enormous and when they have the time to do their work without interruption, their webs become as thick as my grandma’s favorite thread.
 
The only other vehicle or person I encountered the entire length of my walk was a patrol car exiting an access road leading to a school as if the officer had returned to brush up on his ABCs. (‘A’ is for arrest, ‘B’ is for breaking and entering…) Had the officer seen me a few minutes before, doing my spider web electrocution dance, he or she might have stopped to ask if me I was alright. As it was, I was probably just a silhouette in the eerie darkness.
 
I parked my car at was once Silent Grove Church. The church has long disbanded, once a hub for fervent locals to share their community gospel. One late night, over 3 decades ago, I parked my Dodge Fury there and ran for miles, so many that I could barely lift my legs when I finished. This was before the road was anything except a serpentine and narrow road which was sparsely populated before Springdale had aspirations of even reaching its municipal tentacles to those places on the periphery of anything substantial. The thought of a trail access in that area would have been ridiculed by everyone except the most visionary back in those days. When I finished my run, I laid across the hood of my car and somehow fell asleep, as it was probably 4 a.m. or later on that night so many years ago. The next morning, the sound of a honk and a school bus door swishing open awakened me. I’m sure I was quite a sight to the kids on the bus; the driver certainly was wondering whether I was dead, drunk, or dead drunk.
 
I recognize my privilege. I have the good health to walk, a car which gets me to these new places, and energy leftover from working, and a city which grew out its parochial insistence toward maintaining the imaginary “what-once-was.” These trails and places would not have been possible if those who demanded allegiance to the past had been the most effective voices.
 
Now that I’m older, I find myself laughing at the ease with which I could fall asleep in strange places. (Before my back began to groan like a dissatisfied older lady waiting at the store register, her 16 items stacks neatly on the counter, waiting for her impatient turn to question the cashier about each and every item.) As we age, almost all of us demand our nightly rituals, with each pillow fluffed just so, the fan at the exact speed to comfort us, and our world categorized around us. Our affluence estranges us to adventure.
 
This morning, there was no meteor shower nor anything particularly eventful – just an array of small delights: the sliver of a slowly rising crescent moon on the horizon, the rush of the creek underneath, an immense tree fallen next to the bridge, probably having surrendered to the insurmountable push of water yesterday evening, the feeling or smooth and yet uncertain footing across an infinite number of fallen leaves. The air was so heavy with moisture that I could trick myself into believing that it was pushing back against me as I walked.
 
Out there in the darkness, there was an absence of bickering saltines, no one making fatuous arguments regarding predatory relics in our evolving midst, no pointing fingers of superiority toward other beliefs. Just the methodical hum of a billion insects and feet moving forward, step, step, step. I walked much further than I intended to. The miles, though, seemed to accumulate without notice.
 
Alone, with my thoughts, wondering and with wonder.

Meteor Shower Surprise in Springdale

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Thanks again, Springdale. This morning, I walked along the Razorback Greenway on the north side of Backus, near AQ. It was a fortuitous choice.

I was incredibly lucky because not only did I have the entire trail to myself again this morning, but as I walked north, a portion of the Perseid Meteor shower put on a show for me. Frankly, I had forgotten about the possibility of seeing anything. As I reached one of the beautiful steel bridges crossing Spring Creek, the trees relented and the sky opened above me and I stopped and stared as a meteor slashed across above me. The moon was bright and behind me, but no other lights invaded the wide spot afforded by the bridge and the creek beneath me. At 5 a.m., it was a delight to assume it would be the only meteor. Two more brilliant flashes arced across the sky above me. I had the urge to turn and say, “Did you SEE that?” but all the sane people were in bed, dreaming of their own fascinating sights.

So, it came to pass that I stood alone in the midst of nature, watching the sky drop burning reminders of the vastness of space. As I walked back, happy to have been witness to it, I saw a cat on the edge of the trail, walking ahead of me. I picked up my pace to see if it would spook. I turned on my flashlight app on my phone and lo and behold it was Pepé Le Pew, bright white-striped tail now raised in alarm. I stepped back so quickly I think I traveled back in time, laughing at the idea of me returning home smelling of skunk.

When I returned to my car, I walked over to the new pavilion next to the old Heathman building and sat watching as the edges of the sky slowly brightened. Two more bright meteor falls greeted me. I wondered how many early risers might have witnessed these with me. Then again, I remembered that the city of Springdale had built all these places solely for me, to be discovered in singular succession. I will hoard these memories.

As I headed back east, toward home and my disoriented cat, a deep fog rolled in from the hilly terrain, blanketing my approach. As I write this, everything seems to have been draped by the most diaphanous of gauze. Had I not stood in the middle of the beautiful nothing and witnessed the meteors, I would have thought I had dreamed it.

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Razorback Greenway Interactive

An Early Morning Walk in Springdale

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When I went to bed last night, I instinctively set both alarms. Dawn double-checked, both due to her infallible nervous condition and the fact that she has an allergic reaction to klaxons blaring at 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning. (She also dislikes bagpipes and trumpet practice at that hour, too – a lesson I learned the hard way.)

Regardless, the feline alarm started meowing at 3:30 so any concerns about the alarm clock accidentally waking us were misguided. As I was practicing my dedication to the slumbering arts, I foolishly attempted to ignore the cat the first few times he attempted to rouse me from my horizontal and stuporous state. Ten minutes later, Güino upped his game by adding involuntary massage via cat paws to his repertoire. He’s been known to gnaw on exposed toes if necessary. One of these days I’m going to coat my toes in cayenne pepper to surprise him.

I decided to get up and take a walk earlier than I wanted to. I drove and parked near Emma Street in downtown Springdale. It was sublime. Again, I had the feeling that most of the inhabitants of the place had been whisked away by an unseen hand, leaving me the entire run of the place. The new Walter Turnbow park by Shiloh Square is spectacular enough during the day; seeing it without people before the sunrise was both eerie and interesting. I walked the trail in both directions, and only toward the end of my long walk did I meet any other souls on the dark trail. A motley group of youths was long-boarding the long incline toward the rear of the fire station. I could hear the crescendo of the wheels on the concrete long before I could discern their silhouettes approaching against the distant lights. Their laughter and jabber approached and just as quickly swept by, retreating to a whisper.

If you’ve never walked the trails in the dark, they are spectacular, especially the portion running near Bluff Cemetery. It never occurs to me to feel unsafe, either for the unlikely presence of uneven pavement or from nefarious passersby. French fries are a greater danger to me than walking in nocturnal environments could ever be.

I stopped and took my picture by the Chamber of Commerce sign facing Emma Street as my backdrop. The hideous logo adopted by Springdale a while back openly mocked me as I did, its alien crisscross of bizarre tic-tac-toe still reminding me that there is no accounting for taste. (Note: Springdale has done an amazing job these last few years, one worthy of frequent mention. The logo, however, is as inspirational as getting one’s face spritzed by underarm perspiration on a languid summer day.)

So far, each time I’ve chosen to walk somewhere different, I’ve found a little corner of Springdale that had been concealed to me. I appreciate all these people working to make these new places for me.