Twice a day I take a two-and-a-half mile walk through the Bluemont Junction part of my town. I walk from our house down to the park and then follow the bike paths along what is known locally as the Bluemont Junction trail. Sometimes, I stop at a local 7-Eleven for a soft drink or a newspaper. Sometimes I simply turn around and head home. I make this walk in the cool of the morning, the heat of the day, in darkness in the winter, and before sunrise in the early summer. I walk when it is raining or snowing, when I am tired, and even when I am not feeling well.

Since moving into this house more than five years ago, I’ve probably walked this route more than 3,500 times. Usually, I am listening to a book as I walk, but one can’t walk a route day after day for years on end without noticing the company one passes. The people of Bluemont Junction have become a familiar sight to me and, I suppose, I to them, though I know very few names.

There is Neal, for instance, an 88-year old fellow who is frequently out walking early. He is tall, slightly stooped, and with a handlebar mustache and more than a passing resemblance to Sam Elliot. A year or so ago, I didn’t see him for a while, and I’d return from my walks brooding about what might have happened to him. Then, one day he was back, using a walker. Turns out he’d fallen and broken a hip, and despite being (then) eighty-seven, he completed his physical therapy early and was back out walking. I saw him yesterday, and he no longer uses a walker or a cane, he just walks slowly. Sometimes, he whistles and that whistling carries along the long, narrow strip of park that the bike path divides. Usually, I’ll stop and chat with him for a while.

I’m usually out before sunrise, and in the winter, I walk in the dark, and on most days, I see the same early birds. There is an old fellow, who drives his car to the park, and then walks the bike paths. He is short with a wind-worn face, and a gravelly voice with a strong accent. He always says, “Good morning!” cheerfully, and I always reply.

There is an older couple who speed walk, and who I usually cross paths with early in my walk. The woman almost always walks ahead of man, sometimes as much as 50 yards ahead. The man always gives me a big small and wave and I wave back. We usually pass each other a second time on my way back and go through the entire routine again, perhaps with more of a smile on our lips, each of us wondering about the protocol of waving a second time. This morning, for the first time in memory, I saw them walking together, side-by-side.

There are lots of runners, some of whom I can now tell just by their gait and pace. One fellow is usually heading back toward our neighborhood early in the morning, running just as fast at the end of his journey as I’ve seen him running at the start. He doesn’t even seem winded. Another woman, rail thin, runs with long strides, with a look of determination on her face, as though this time she is going to set some personal record, although I see that look on her face every morning she passes me.

There is another fellow who walks with a pronounced limp, who always lifts his hand slightly and nods when we pass. We pass each other frequently without a word. One day, I was sitting in the McDonald’s near my turnaround point, having some breakfast, and he came up me, said hello, and shook my hand.

Quite a few people are out walking their dogs. I know the name of only one of them–the dogs, that is–Brownie. His owner takes him down to the nature trails and tosses frisbees for him to catch. Another dog catches frisbees on a strip of park that runs parallel to the bike path. Many of the dogs are as familiar to me at this point as the people.

Early Sunday mornings are usually the quietest, the mornings on which I see the fewest people. There have been Sunday mornings on which I haven’t seen another soul. If I get the time just right, I’ll walk back and pass a group people coming up the bike path, holding crosses and rosaries, and singing. They turn off the bike path and head up one of the side-streets toward a local church. This morning–a Sunday–I was surprised by how many people were out, although admittedly, I slept in a bit and didn’t hit the trail until about 6:15am. I sometimes pick up a copy of the Sunday New York Times, but I was out of luck this morning, too early for the paper at both 7-Eleven and Safeway.

In addition to the people, there are the animals, beyond the dogs, that I encounter on these walks. Deer are frequently on the trail, or just off to the side, and are used to people walking by. They don’t budge. I see foxes crisscross the trail here and there. Birds are ever-present, but early in the morning I hear owls, and occasionally, catch a glimpse of a large wingspan passing through the trees. Frogs sing along the banks of the stream that runs through the park. Ducks paddle their way about the stream. “My ducks,” I call them, and if someone is with me, I’ll look at them ruefully and say, “Don’t they look delicious?” Once, I got a video of an otter making its way up the stream.

There is a comfort to this walk. The people are strangers and yet familiar. They smile, they nod hello, they wave. They populate the little world of the Bluemont Junction bike path and make my daily walks more pleasant.