Mountain Top(72)
“What are you working on?” he asked.
“Writing down a dream I had last night.”
“You never remember your dreams except bits and pieces that don’t make sense.”
“I remembered this one. It was so vivid.”
“Tell me.”
Peg hesitated. “Not until I have time to think about what it might mean. It may be important in a religious way.”
“I’m a minister. I’ve been dreaming for years. Trust my experience and training.”
Peg smiled. “How many classes in dream interpretation did you take in seminary?”
“None.”
“That’s what I thought. If you had, I’m sure you would have made an A, but I may call Sam Miller and ask him about it. He has a lot of experience.”
“Wait a minute. I’m Sam’s protégé, and he didn’t say anything about God giving you dreams.”
“Jealous?”
Mike poured a cup of coffee and took a sip.
“I’m not in danger of violating the tenth-commandment prohibition against jealousy when it comes to my wife,” he teased, “but don’t make me wait six months before you let me know what you really think.”
As soon as he said the words, Mike wished he could take them back. Peg’s face fell. She closed her notebook.
“Were the words in your sermon the other day about forgiveness just a minister talking down to his congregation?” she asked.
“No, it came straight from wrestling with our situation. I meant every word.”
“It’s a new day. Do I need to ask you to forgive me?”
“No. I’m sorry,” Mike responded quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know what you said on the mountain was from your heart, and I received it that way. Seeing the glow on your face Sunday was worth the pain.”
“Is that what you really think?” Peg asked.
“Yes, and I respect your right to keep the dreams to yourself until you feel comfortable sharing them. Call Sam Miller if you like. I’m sure he’ll be glad to help if he can.”
Judge, as if knowing Peg needed to be comforted, came over to her. She patted the dog on the head.
“I was thinking about going over to Cohulla Creek today,” Mike said. “Would you like to go with me?”
“No. My energy level isn’t very high this morning. I’d better stay here and take it easy.”
“You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, pregnant. Are you going to park and ride your bike?”
“Yes.”
“Then take Judge with you; he’ll enjoy it.”
PEG WASN’T IN SIGHT WHEN MIKE PREPARED TO LEAVE. JUDGE, sensing an outing, paced back and forth across the kitchen floor.
“Peg!” Mike yelled up the staircase.
“Bye!” she called back.
Mike climbed several steps of the stairs. He wanted to clear the air between them. Judge barked and scratched at the door. Not sure what to say, Mike retreated down the stairs.
WITH JUDGE ON THE SEAT BEHIND HIM AND HIS BIKE IN A RACK on the roof, Mike drove west of Shelton. The main access road to Cohulla Creek was about a mile from Sam Miller’s house. Mike turned onto a gravel road. Within a few hundred yards, he began to notice red and orange survey ribbons tied to the lower limbs of trees. The color had faded from some of the ribbons, but others appeared fresh. Survey ribbons marked more than boundaries; they were the first sign of permanent change coming to the woods.
The road crossed the creek on a one-lane bridge. A fisherman wearing hip waders stood at the edge of the water below the bridge. Focused on his line, he didn’t look up when Mike drove by. The emerging leaves shaded the road as it skirted a small hill then emptied into a parking area where fishermen left their vehicles. Mike parked beside a white pickup truck. From this point forward, the road remained passable for vehicles but received less maintenance and became more dirt than gravel.
Judge bounded out the door and immediately put his nose to the ground. Mike unhooked his bike and lifted it from the roof rack. He slipped on a small backpack and whistled for Judge, who had ventured down the road.
To Mike, a mountain bike earned its name if used to climb hills and mountains. Hopping curbs in Shelton didn’t count. The red paint on his bike was nicked from contact with rocks and trees. Only once had he hurtled over the handlebars. During a ride in Virginia, his wheel had slipped into a deep rut, causing him to become airborne. His helmet slammed against an exposed tree root. Stunned for a few seconds, Mike recovered and continued.
He’d ridden along Cohulla Creek shortly after they moved back to Shelton, but because it was relatively flat, and he wasn’t a fisherman, the route dropped off his list. Mike enjoyed the physical workout required in a climb followed by the exhilaration of reaching a high place of perspective above the world below. The Cohulla Creek watershed didn’t offer any thigh-burning challenges.