Walking my dog in the woods is therapeutic. Especially when we’re trailblazing along the river. I find something new each trip. A beaver slapping the water with his tail. A dead duck laying in an angelic pose. Baby dolls hanging from nooses in the trees. Or a lone flower, colored a shade of purple I’ve never seen.

And sometimes, though rarely, I come across another human being.

One day I found a rowboat anchored cockeyed on the shore. I shrugged it off. A few steps later I saw a man carrying a shovel and black duffle bag. I held my breath as he neared and tried not to think of what he buried.

“Norwegian Elkhound,” he said.

“Huh?” I stopped.

“Nice dog.”

“Oh, thanks,” I smiled. My dog sniffed him and then ran ahead. A hundred yards later I looked back to see him rowing away. I convinced myself he was probably just a mushroom hunter.

Then this weekend I came across a campsite. Or something like that. Its not unusual to find remnants of a small fire, littered with beer cans. But this was different. It had something extra. The site had a bench or a bed, I couldn’t tell which at first. It was fashioned out of two rotting logs and a wooden plank. I could have dismissed this as a fisherman’s bench, but it was slightly too low to be both functional and comfortable. And it was set at a height to avoid snakes and spiders, and low enough that it would not be painful to roll off.

There was also a rope hanging from the tree.

A poorly fashioned, but sharp spear on the ground.

A discarded, soiled t-shirt.

And a romantic river view…

As with the mushroom hunter, there’s probably an innocent explanation, but I’m still thankful no one was home.