Nothing But Air beneath Me

     I was running towards the edge of a cliff. A man running behind me was shouting,  "Run! Run faster!"

    This was not a nightmare, and it was a dream only in the sense of my having at any time in my life dreamed of flying, which, actually, I never have. But here I was, running as fast as I could, encumbered as I was by the harness around my chest and legs, towards the edge of a cliff and the emptiness beyond. Suddenly I was the Road Runner—one moment running on the cliff, the next my feet churning on air.

    Then I was just sitting in a hammock under a gorgeous kite bearing me up through the air with my pilot, Sebastian, behind me. All I had to do was sit comfortably on my swinging chair and enjoy the amazing sensation of floating above the Alpine peaks and the chalets and streets of Grindelwald, Switzerland, as the fog revealed and then closed again blue patches of sky.

    A few days earlier, walking back to our hotel after a hike, my sister Sharon and I had paused to look up at the colorful paragliders dotting the sky like bubbles. "Did you ever want to do that?" Sharon asked dreamily.

    I shrugged. Not really; basically I like my boots on the ground. Still, it would be beautiful to see all those snowy Alpine peaks, the Eiger and the Monk and all their minions, from the sky. "Well," I added with a shrug, "if someone offered it to me, I would take it."

    It didn't occur to me that all I had to do was pay my money and I, too, could be floating in the air under a large umbrella.

     But Sharon, who has always had dreams of flying, was already thinking that maybe this was her chance. In the next few days she did some research, some thinking, some looking at her budget, and then announced that she was going to book a trip with a paraglider.

    As easy as that? If Sharon was going to take this adventure, so could I. "Sign me up, too," I said.

    It was foggy on the day of take-off. The four paragliding pilots and their passengers waited at the top of the cliff for a hole in the fog. Sharon was first in line. "Run," her pilot cried, but before they reached the take-off spot, the hole filled, and they had to step aside. I was next in line.

    Um. I thought I would watch Sharon jump off a cliff first.

    Suddenly there was a hole in the fog and I was ordered to run and Sebastian was shouting at me to run faster, and then I was floating. As easy as that.

    It was beautiful. It was dreamy. The fog obscured the tips of the Alps, but its shift and swirl made beautiful, changing pictures. The pilot turned us to the left so we could fly over the dark green forest and silver ribbon of the Milibach River flowing out of Bachalpsee, where I had been swimming a few days before. There, from my floating chair, I uncorked a small vial of my husband's ashes and watched as his spirit disappeared over the river, the forest, and the Swiss Alps.

Bears and Apples

    Three nights ago I woke up to something big scrambling off my deck. I shook myself awake enough to turn over and look out the window and saw a large black bear lumbering through the moonlight into the woods.

    I never did understand what he was doing on my deck—or what startled him off it. But there was no mystery to why the next bear appeared the next night. 

    I awoke to the sound of apples hitting the ground. Time was when I would have leapt out of bed, down the stairs, and out the door to chase the bear off. My apples! But now I thought, well, I couldn't reach the apples myself, anyway. Might as well let the bear have them. And I went back to sleep.

    Yesterday late afternoon I heard apples hitting the ground again. I looked out the window. Bear again. A little bear, not a cub, but not one of those huge lumbering things, either. He was so little he was cute. I had to laugh. As soon as I opened the door and walked onto the deck, he was off like a shot, so I didn't get any pictures.

    I have never had so many apples as I have this year. They are small because I haven't given any attention to the tree, and, actually, they aren't quite ripe yet. The bear doesn't care. And, being a small bear, he doesn't break branches when he climbs the tree, and sometimes he leaves apples on the ground for my harvest. We have an agreement.

    I am careful in my relationship with the wild creatures. I love my lame fox, who looks right at me and barks at me and has no qualms about curling up to sleep in front of my garden. It is tempting to make a pet of him, but I won't. I don't think it's right or a good idea to make a pet of a wild creature. I'll let the fox recognize me and go his way; I'll let the bear eat the apples and let him still be scared when I open the door.

    But, darn he's cute.