The Things I Carry is a continuing series of posts and photos highlighting the valuable and admittedly silly items that I've dragged the around the country on my many moves.

If memory serves, I purchased the leash while living in Anchorage, Alaska. We didn't need it much because Bark was great about going straight from the house to the car. Wherever we went hiking, she rarely needed to be on it. Her fear of being left behind outweighed her desire to run off. I can't imagine a better hiking companion on the trails.

There's nothing remarkable about the leash. It's a very common brand of retractable leash and wasn't even one of the heavy duty ones but it served its purpose well. When I moved to more urban areas, though she was still great off-leash, I used it moreso to not offend other folks. Still, Bark being occasionally excitable, it wasn't out of the question that she would see something that grabbed her attention and quickly want to jet off.

Since her passing, I've dragged this thing from the Bay Area, to Kansas City, to North Idaho, to Spokane and now to San Antonio. Maybe I'll finally find a way to part with it ... but not yet.

I remembered the obituary notice that I sent out to my friends and family when she passed. It gives a clearer picture of her than any simple picture could.

02/172005

Dear Friends,

Today my beloved Bark has taken her final sleep.

After several months of deteriorating health, the past two weeks have seen her in a quick downward slide. She is now at peace.

Back in the Summer of '91, my ex-wife, Emma, and I made the decision to choose Bark before we even saw her. We went to the animal shelter in Columbia, SC prepared to choose the ugliest dog on its last day. That turned out to be Bark. As it turns out, we made a great choice.

Since then Bark has been my constant companion from South Carolina to Alaska to California to Kansas City and back to California. I was hoping that she would join me on my next move, but that will not be the case. She has seen the arrival of our two wonderful sons and has been witness to the wonderful and the sad moments in our lives.

Along the way, she and I have hiked countless miles in some of the most beautiful places in Alaska and she has helped me make friends of strangers at the many street side cafes in the cities in which we have lived.

I have countless stories of Bark but my absolute favorite is from a hike that she and I took while in Alaska.

Just outside of Anchorage is a small recreation area called Arctic Valley. In the fall of '93, just after the first significant snow, we set out from the parking area and went up along the ridge line of the mountain. The leeward side of the hill was almost bare of snow but the windward side had thick drifts of white packed into it. After a long and hard climb up the ridge to the top of the hill, Bark and I sat for a bit and admired the scene. Actually, I admired the scene and Bark tried to catch marmots. Because the sun was setting, the rays were pink and orange and, as they fell onto the snowy peaks of the other mountains, they made it seem as if the snow were actually on fire.

Marmots, like ground squirrels, keep sentries out to keep watch while the other marmots forage, play or do whatever marmots do. Their shrill cry of alarm is much like that of a bosun's whistle. While I was sitting, Bark was trying to catch marmots. As soon as she would see one, she would chase off after it. Marmots being ten times as smart as Bark, would allow themselves to be chased only when they wanted to be. One would set himself up to be chased by whistling its shrill cry while the other fled to safety. As soon as Bark came within 20 yds, the marmot would slip into its burrow, completely safe. Bark would look down the hole, certainly thinking that she came oh-so-close to getting this one. Within minutes she would scan the horizon looking and listening for the next victim. She would bound after the next one she saw, no matter how far away it was. Of course, the next one would escape also. Bark had such boundless energy that this would continue until I got tired of watching her. After my rest, we continued.

The area that we were in was also part of a ski resort, Along the ridge that we were on, were the tops of the ski lifts and each lift had a small cabin at its top. Because it was late and going back the way we came would mean arriving back at the car way after dark, I was looking for an alternate route down. The solution was found inside one of the small cabins in the form of a snow shovel.

From where we were, it was about a 1500 ft descent to the lower trail with several feet of snow on the hillside. I rode every foot of it on the pan of the shovel with the handle sticking out in front of me. What of Bark?

This was possibly Bark's greatest feat and certainly my favorite vision of her. As I made my way down the hill, Bark tried to run along side me. The snow made that impossible. Instead, she would bound downhill in great strides. With each leap, she would have to jump up and out of the hole that she was in, clear the next several feet of snow and land in the next bit of
powder, creating another hole that she would have to jump out of. All the while she was trying to keep up with me, following the instinct/fear she had of not wanting to be left behind.

Imagine the sight! As I was racing down on the shovel, I would glance back and she this shaggy black beast bounding again and again. Her ears would fly up as she reached the apex of her leap and would flop down again as she hit the ground. Her eyes were fixed in front of her and her black whip of a tail was set straight behind her as a rudder.

That is how I will remember Bark.

I will allow some time to pass, but soon I will rescue another ugly dog and make it my own. No matter how great the next one, Bark will always be my first.

Please remember her fondly.

The Things I Carry - Bark Dog