I don't remember signing anything, but, clearly, everyone at Holmes Lake--from the Western Meadowlarks and lone vulture to the fishermen and Shiba Inu--had somehow decided we wouldn't talk about it.
And so, it was in a state of near silence that we took it all in, this perfect Nebraska morning.
Even the lake paused in reverence, unfettered by winds, its crystalline appearance broken only by the occasional "vee" of a mallard exploring its watery realm. I was self conscious about my shoes noisily meeting the gravel path, envious of Finn's leathery pads, his paws tapping lightly atop it all.
It was such a jaw-droppingly beautiful morning that, at one point, I just couldn't help myself, and I breached our unspoken contract.
"Have you ever seen a more beautiful morning?" I uttered to another walker, immediately regretting the question.
Thank goodness she was thick-tongued and silent in response, offering only a mild nod in my general direction. She knew what I should have known--that it was ridiculous to even try to put words to this thing we shared. That even speaking of it presented a kind of veiled threat to this temporary Eden, and that I had just eaten the apple, acutely aware of the momentary shift of things.
Halfway around the lake, I had trouble imagining any other place I'd rather be or any other form of transportation that could hold a stick to feet on earth.
Well, that's not entirely true. I actually could imagine somewhere else and even went so far as to make a second secret pact in the early warmth of the day. Someday, I told myself, I will walk the Camino Trail in Spain, all 484 miles of it, one step at a time.
Until then? Until then, I will walk happily--sometimes in silence, sometimes with a quiet song or shared story on my lips--along the Camino Trails of my home, atop the wind-blown dam at Holmes Lake, through the virgin grasslands of Spring Creek, weaving my way among the hallowed dead at Wyuka, trying hard to honor the secret pact I've made with the larger world.
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