Essay: Trail Love | Misadventures
I pull my mud-splattered Subaru into the garage, my panting, wet dog sitting shotgun beside me. I can feel the satisfaction beaming from her. For the last two hours, Cholula has been bounding after squirrels and splashing through mountain creeks, wagging her white-tipped tail like it's her job. I followed blissfully behind, lost in my own thoughts. As she slurps up half her bowl of water (with the other half landing on the floor), I pause with my hand on the wall, shoving my hiking shoes off from the heel. There's mud caked to the bottom of them, and I notice an impressive "tan line" made of dirt at my ankles. I smile, my mind wandering to just a few minutes ago, when everything else in my life faded away. I'm hooked on that feeling. I'm a woman in love. Love has many forms. There's the ache of a young crush, unrequited and excruciating. There's the passion you feel when you discover your soul mate. There's nothing like the loyalty you experience from your dog. The familiar stability