Of Binoculars and Beagles
The three-mile Hike and Bike trail between Oak Thicket and Park Prairie is usually a sanctuary of shared silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic scritch-scratch of gravel underfoot. But last Tuesday, the peace of Lake Fayette was interrupted by a standoff that had all the tension of a highstakes poker game, though with significantly more khaki.
Arthur stood frozen in the brush, his neck craned at an angle that would make a chiropractor weep. He was armed with a pair of Nikon binoculars and a field guide so wellthumbed it looked like it had survived a laundry cycle. He was after the osprey—the majestic pair currently rumored to be scouting real estate near the water’s edge.
He had just spotted a flicker of white and chocolate brown through the canopy when the vibration started. It wasn’t an earthquake; it was the enthusiastic, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a tail hitting a calf.
Enter Martha and Barnaby. Barnaby was a beagle of substantial carriage and a nose that operated on a frequency somewhere between “highspeed broadband” and “frantic.”
“Sir, please!” Arthur hissed, not lowering his glass. “You’re telegraphing our presence to every wing in the county.”
Martha stopped, her grip tightening on the leash. “It’s a public trail, isn’t it? And Barnaby is on a six-foot lead, behaving like a perfect gentleman.”
“Your ‘gentleman’ sounds like a percussion section,” Arthur whispered hoarsely, finally lowering his binoculars to reveal eyes narrowed in scholarly frustration. “The osprey is a sensitive soul. He doesn’t care for the scent of kibble and domesticity.”
Martha bristled. “Well, perhaps the osprey should appreciate a bit of local color. We’ve walked this trail every morning since my Harold passed, and we’ve never once had a complaint from the wildlife.”
“And I’ve sat on this bench since my Clara left us,” Arthur retorted, his voice softening despite himself, “and I have yet to see that mating pair because of ‘local color’ scaring them off.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant lap of the lake and Barnaby’s sudden, intense interest in a nearby dandelion. The mention of Harold and Clara hung in the humid Texas air like a shared secret.
Arthur sighed, his shoulders dropping. He looked at the beagle, who was now looking up at him with soulful, droopy eyes that seemed to apologize for the entire canine race.
“He... he has a very sturdy tail,” Arthur conceded, clearing his throat.
“It’s his best feature,” Martha said, her defensive posture relaxing. “I’m Martha. And I’m sorry if we broke your concentration. It’s just... it gets a bit quiet at the house, you know?”
Arthur nodded slowly. “Arthur. And I do know. Believe me.” He hesitated, then gestured to the space on the bench beside his tripod. “If you sit very still—and if the percussionist can keep his tail in check—the male usually circles back from the Park Prairie side right about now.”
Martha sat. Barnaby, sensing a shift in the wind, flopped onto the shade of Arthur’s boots and went instantly to sleep.
Ten minutes later, a shadow swept over the trail. Arthur didn’t grab his binoculars. Instead, he nudged Martha and pointed. High above, the osprey let out a piercing, triumphant whistle, its wings catching the Texas sun.
“Oh,” Martha whispered. “He really is something.”
“He is,” Arthur agreed, but he wasn’t looking at the bird anymore. He was looking at the way the light hit the trail, and the way the bench didn’t feel quite so large anymore. “Say, Martha. Do you and the drummer ever make it as far as the Park Prairie picnic tables? I hear the warblers are moving in tomorrow.”
Martha smiled, a bright, genuine thing. “We could be persuaded. As long as you don’t mind a bit of ‘scritchscratch’ along the way.”
It’s funny how we spend so much of our lives looking through long-range lenses, trying to spot something rare and majestic off in the distance, only to realize the best views are usually standing right next to us on the path. We go out seeking a glimpse of a bird that might fly away at the first sign of trouble, but we end up finding a friend that’s willing to sit through the noise.
Out here at Lake Fayette, the migratory birds eventually move on when the seasons shift, heading for different shores and higher branches. But a good neighbor and a steady walking partner? Well, that’s a species worth adding to your permanent life-list. Keep your eyes on the canopy, folks, but don’t forget to check who’s sharing the bench.
Gillbert Ives has been casting lines and sharpening pencils in these parts since before the valley was a lake, documenting the life of the Fayette County shoreline one ripple at a time.