I have two miniature pinschers that are house dogs. Can't really take them anywhere because if they see something, they go after it, and are not coming back until they're good and ready. It's the nature of the breed. They are darlings in the house. Very clean and sweet-natured. Bright and entertaining. I keep them in the yard using electronic "fence."
So, I thought if I took Chris along on the walk, he could help with the chase-and-corner if one of them managed to slip free from her halter.
We chose the Tommy Thompson Trail. This four-mile rails-to-trails paved route goes from about 15th Street past Fidalgo Bay RV Park and used to go over Fidalgo Bay to the edge of the refineries' property. Last year, an arsonist burned a span of the trestle crossing, so you can only go as far as the barricades. A heroic community effort is underway to rebuild the pilings and walkway section. It's the only thing I can remember the community uniting over and getting right to work on. Everything else requires endless hearings, a lawsuit or two, and protesters from all over the state. The paper says it will be finished the middle of next month.
The trail follows the water's edge. It's elevated above rip-rap and tidal flats. Across the bay are Tesoro and Shell refineries, but they are far enough away they don't spoil the scenery. Mount Baker rises behind them, and Hat Island fronts a line of evergreen islands. You can sit on one of the benches placed here and there and watch tankers pull up to the piers, or watch pintail ducks pursue crustaceans. Mostly you can watch people, as this is a very popular trail. Every kind of walker, jogger, biker and canine make up light, but steady traffic on nice days.
There are a few sculptures made by local artists placed along the way. My favorite is a granite river otter in a playful but not too fanciful pose.
There is one condominium project along the trail. It was expensively and inefficiently built, and took years to sell out. I saw the full-occupancy and I noted this to Chris, who made a wry face and said he was sure they'd all find it very nice until one of those cat crackers at the refineries blows. I imagined that. Each lanai has a clear view of the potential disaster. A little like living at the foot of Mount Aetna, I suppose. People do it.
With that cheery thought hanging, we went through the list of family and personal bummers, as moms are wont to do. After we checked them off, I asked him if he was ok with all the material, and he shrugged and said, "It's just news. I'm glad you keep me in the loop."
I was pleased that the dogs stayed tethered to us and were having such a good time they'd given up growling and lunging at the occasional bicycle. They still strained at their leashes and got tangled up at cross-purposes. I said to Chris that they were doing pretty good for the type of dogs they are. He said he thought management could use improvement and winked at me. I told him that they really don't like management.
The dogs like to act tough when they see other dogs. Size differences matter not, and a chihuahua is greeted the same way a pit bull is (why do people seek out and buy pit bulls?). Hackles up, posture rigid, shooting the mouth off. And us owners of these stupid dogs look at each other and apologize. I marvel at Ava, especially. At ten pounds she's afraid of nothing. I remark to the baffled owner of a rottweiler, "She looks even bigger when she's got her fur up, doesn't she?"
We passed through the RV park, which is now owned by the Samish Tribe. I noted that it appeared well-cared for, with the exception of some semi-permanent ratty-looking trailers along the rear edge. What a great place to hide out, I thought to myself.
And then at the beginning of the trestle platform, we saw lots of work in progress. There is a crane and soon to be a pile driver in place. The charred debris has been removed and progress should be made quickly. The portion we could walk on, before the barricades, was pleasantly familiar. Shattered clamshells litter the pavement. Sea gulls dine here, after dropping the live creatures and dashing them to bits.
We stood together at the trail's end for a few minutes, gazing into the water, taking in the views of industry, Highway 20, and nature in 360 degrees. The salt air chilly but clean-feeling, and it's good to breathe in deeply.
We turned our backs to the cyclone fencing and began the return, little dogs now confident of the route, their new harnesses feeling more comfortable... not so much straining.
"Are you up for a beer at the Wheelhouse?" I asked my son.
"Sure," he said, "You buying?"
Of course.
