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Sound Clip – Ben explains how some spiders catch their prey.
 

It wasn’t what I had in mind when I started the car Sunday morning.

After my son and I played catch and other games in the back yard early, I decided we needed to get out of the house, to one of the places I recently discovered while wandering away from work.

On past walks and bicycle rides to the donut shop, Benjamin had toted along books in his backpack. The tradition became this: move a while, then stop and sit on the sidewalk for me to read him a book. Benjamin decided to continue this tradition on trips that don’t involve deep-fried breakfast food.

This time there was a twist that, while initially undesirable, turned out to be pleasant. (as usual, please use headphones or earbuds for maximum immersion)

Shortly after we entered the woods, I had Benjamin stop and pose with the first big tree. The boy doesn’t do “still” very well, but on some level I think he likes to humor his old man. He compromises by striking wacky poses.

In our stillness, we were bombarded. Newborn mosquitoes, hungry and agile, attacked with a vigor unknown to summertime bloodsuckers. Maybe they knew that cooler weather was coming soon to cut short their miserable lives.

“The mosquitoes found us already,” I said. “Come on, son, we need to keep moving.”

Benjamin quickly unzipped his backpack and chose a book: Green Eggs and Ham.

“We can’t stop and read a book on this trail, Benjamin.”

“I can read it while we walk, Daddy.”

It wasn’t a particularly treacherous trail, so I let him have his fun. “Just keep up with me, son.”

My memory of these woods rooted in harsh noon light, I noticed how much more serene they seemed in the morning sun. The shafts of light came in at a sharper angle and made the forest glow.

“I do not like them, Sam I Am,” Benjamin intoned from behind me.

As we approached the creek’s high bank for a second time, I stopped in a patch of sunlight, with hope it would provide respite from the biting bugs. I snapped two quick shots of Benjamin, the water rushing past in the background as he continued reading aloud the timeless words of Dr. Seuss.

Unlike their vampire cousins of lore, the mosquitoes seemed completely unfazed by the sunlight. They swarmed.

“Okay, son, let’s get moving again.”

We did, but less than a minute back on the trail, Benjamin’s reading stopped and he grunted. I turned back and saw him, still standing as he bent over a fallen log that blocked my view of his shins and his feet. He tilted his head up to face me. “I’m okay,” he said.

“Try to watch where you’re going, Benjamin,” I said, and made a note to myself to warn him of future obstacles. Sure, I probably should have told him to keep the book in the bag while he walked, but if I couldn’t put down the camera and just enjoy the walk, then I suppose I wasn’t going to insist he put down his book.

Plus, when you tell a six-year-old boy growing up in a big-city suburb that you’re going to a park, he’s picturing playground equipment, not a trail in the woods. He might have arrived with something completely different in mind, and there were worse things than his asking to read a book. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed hearing him reading confidently as we wound our way through the 800-acre oasis.

The only drawback — besides the danger of tripping — was that we were not going to sneak up on any wildlife with his voice carefully enunciating the persistent insistence of Sam I Am.

At one point as we walked under a low canopy of tree branches and shrubs, Benjamin stopped and said, “Wow, this is cool, that we’re under right now.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. You might see some other cool things, too, if you look up from that book a little more often.

“Okay, we’re at the spot now where we can walk down to the creek, like you wanted,” I said. “Let’s zip your book back into your pack and check this out.”

With me in the lead, we worked our way carefully down the bank toward toward the stream. The trail was muddy clay and my feet slipped a bit with each step. Only half way down, so much clay was caked up on my shoes that I couldn’t keep from slipping. “Okay, son, we need to go back up.”

“Daddy, I’m slipping!” Benjamin said.

“I got you. I got you,” I said.

But nobody had me.

My feet slid toward the edge of the steep trail. One hand still on Benjamin, I grabbed a thick tree root to steady myself. “Okay, we’re fine. We’re just going to make our way up slowly,” I said. “Sorry, kiddo, this trail wasn’t like this the day I came out here from work.”

“Daddy, I’m scared,” Benjamin said.

“We’re fine, son. I have a grip now.” Viny undergrowth covered the hill to our left. “You just grab onto whatever you can if you start slipping, but I have you, too.”

We worked our way up, very slowly, and made it to level ground. My shoes were noticeably heavier from the clay covering and sticking out from the edge of their soles.

The rest of the walk went smoothly, although we had to turn around once where a puddle pond made the trail impassable. On the parking lot we dragged our feet with each step to clear off some of the mud, then doffed our shoes before getting in the car.

“Daddy, can we go somewhere to a playground now?” Benjamin said.

“You mean with equipment?”

“Yes.”

“You bet, kiddo.”

And we did.