Prophet and I got out about 7:30 this morning.  It was cold, but it was sunny and the air was still.  There were not too many people out yet, so I was comfortable defying the leash law for the first two or three blocks.  Then, walking west on 231st Street toward the river, we had to stop frequently: to nurse salty paws and to scrupulously check the guest register.  Dog owners know exactly what I am talking about.

The street was very salty (and there is no sidewalk) west of Independence Avenue, so we cut through Seton Park.  Once we passed the tennis courts, I took Prophet's leash off again so that he could bound through the drifts and follow somebody's cross-country ski tracks through the brush and saplings down to Palisades Avenue.  I was already trudging, but didn't quite realize it because I was going downhill.  What goes down must come back up, but I was gleefully oblivious.

When we got into Riverdale Park, the trail was tromped down pretty well from the last 24 hours of foot traffic, but while rough, it wasn't frozen.  So I was not moving too fast, but I wasn't really struggling, either.  Prophet, on the other hand, was racing up and down at a full gallop and then springing through the drifts.  I would say he was having a good time.  And no salt!

We got to the turn-off for Prophet's favorite off-trail adventure and followed a much less traveled (by the evidence of foot prints in the snow) trail to the edge of a steep hill at which point all foot prints stopped.  We dropped over the edge and I quickly realized that today was not the day for walking upright… or dignity of any sort.  In other words, I slid down, sitting on my heels.  This amused Prophet some, who was still racing up and down as if a steep, snowy hill were a kind of test track, designed to see just how fast a dog can go.  He took time out to pounce on chunks of snow I send down from my sliding.

The little valley below is a setting for teen smoking and drinking in warmer weather.  There is even a little hibachi cached behind a tree, with a small bag of match-light charcoal inside.  But this season only has trash strewn around to remind you of the festivities.  And today the snow covered the trash.  Except for the railroad tracks and transformer station yards away one could imagine… Well, truthfully, it's a nice spot next to the icy river.  One need not imagine.

Usually we climb right back up an equally steep hill on the other side of the little valley.  Today I wasn't feeling it.  Prophet started up, but the instant I indicated my desire to take another route, he raced back down and headed for our little game path along the side of the ridge, heading north along the tracks.  He kept blocking my path, waiting for me to dislodge chunks of snow that he could chase.  It was hard going.

That route takes you to a side trail that leads back up to the main trail a little higher up the ridge.  Prophet was not interested.  He wanted to bushwhack north through the brush between the tracks and the ridge.  We did.  I only fell once.  I had not yet realized that struggling through drifted snow, downed trees and brush without breakfast wasn't such a great idea.  That epiphany came later.

After a few hundred yards the way forward was almost completely obstructed by a tangle of fallen trees and branches.  Prophet and I agreed that it was time to return to the trail above.  Once again, dignity cast aside, I had to use hands and feet to ascend.  Prophet was, well, you already know: four feet, claws, tail for balance.  Let's just say the climb presented him with fewer difficulties.

Once we were back on the trail I proceeded with some difficulty.  I was becoming aware of my failure to eat before going out and was moving a little slowly.  Prophet, meanwhile, walked hopefully to the edge of every precipice and then looked at me imploringly: "Can't we please go down there?  Please?  PLEASE?"

No, we could not.  I was fading and, in any case, those hills have no flat space at the bottom along the fence line to the railroad right of way.  We reached a concrete platform, just before the place where the trail runs back out to the street for a few yards, admired the view, and then turned around.

I will not recount the way back.  We skipped the adventurous detours.  The trail remained difficult for me while Prophet galloped ahead and then came back to check.  The streets were still salty, but now crowded with motorists and pedestrians.  I had run out of gas.

But did I have fun?  Am I lovingly recounting the details?