The other morning, a few days after Irene, I decided to walk to our mailbox and back — about a mile and a quarter.

On the way, I counted potholes. Thirteen. A “baker’s dozen.” More accurately, “The Dirt Road Dozen,” two nearly qualifying as lunar craters.

I also saw a stick wriggle past me. So many had fallen, along with thousands of leaves and innumerable pine needles, that I nearly missed the traveling stick which, suddenly, came to a dead, yet curving, halt.

“Hello, Beauty!”  I greeted the young garter snake. No response. No movement either. Playing dead? Sticks should know they usually don’t look wavy. Leave it be. And I did.

I passed three of my neighbors’ homes, two of which had tossed empty lobster shells out onto our dirt highway to crack down as fill. I’ve heard the crows squabbling over tidbits of leftover lobster meat, enjoying millionaire’s meals themselves. How lucky we all are to live so close to two working wharves!

I arrived at our mailbox out on Pinkham Point Road when the idea dawned. One I’d had before.

Why not take a shortcut home through the woods? But, where should I enter? And how would I gauge my direction? What about those mossy ledges lying parallel at varying heights that wend their way to the cove? “No problemo!”

At first, the walk was pretty easy. Mostly side-stepping and taking the long way around here and there. Then, it became increasingly challenging. Because I soon couldn’t tell where I was!

Plus my 3-month-old nonorganic knee was a concern. My surgeon had just told me to avoid risks. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

I commandeered a walking stick with only a little mold on it, praying it would hold up. Feeling my retirement watch nearly slip off my wrist, I realized that I also wasn’t dressed for hiking. Next time. No, no next time!

I was comforted by the thought that I was carrying my cellphone and yet felt a mounting humiliation, thinking I might have to use it. “Lost” in a few dozen acres of woodlands!!

When I saw a familiar, steep roof line, I realized that I’d nearly completed a circle. Do I walk straight through my neighbor’s property, revealing once and for all just how stupid I really am? After all, I’m from away. I have an image I’m cultivating.

Careful trekking, some sliding downhill on my bottom, viewing exotic ferns and fungi, and an Irish Kelly green pervading everywhere, finally brought me to a most welcome glimpse of a log house! Home!

My last 40 or 50 yards conjured up a mental image of a slow-motion meadow prance. Thank you, St. Christopher, even if your credentials are dubious!

I placed my new best friend, my trusty walking stick, against a tall oak and crossed our yard, a small adventure under my belt.

– Special to the Telegram