Your happy place

During dark moments, people always tell you to go to your happy place.

I always thought of this as an imaginary land, where everything is glorious, and nothing hurts. My happy place has a river and kids splashing in it and dogs digging holes to their hearts' content in the soft sand. Of course, they are off-leash, because they always come when they're called.

Recently I found out that my happy place really does exist. As it happens, the site materialized out of my wildest imagination by the banks of the Hudson in a town called Stuyvesant. It's not without its downside: located just over two sets of railroad track, where commuter trains travel at 80 miles per hour.

I didn't find this place by accident.

A friend told me about it. She explained where I should park and how I should walk there: it's a bit tricky, as the first attempt felt like having to be guided by faith.

I didn't quite believe I could safely walk along the train tracks, but she assured me the trains no longer use those outer lanes.

The dogs pulled against the leashes as I leaned backward, barely a human governor on their progress. The river ran alongside us, egging us onward. They scampered over the cobble, daring me to stay upright.

Once we found the opening in the trees, we slid down the bank together. None of them worried for my safety.

As soon as we'd gotten to the beach, my gaggle of growlers slowed to a crawl. Too many things to see and smell, and not near enough slack in the now tangle of leashes.

I had made a point to ensure it would be low tide. I checked the charts, made aware by my friend it wouldn't be much fun at high tide when twice a day the river swallows up the beach.

But with the water drawn back, hundreds of yards of oddities are uncovered. Such as the roots of trees tiptoeing forward, sending out scouts that somehow grow strong without soil. Taking deep drafts of river water and small sips, they don't seem worse for wear.

Without trash cans, one would think the detritus would be ankle-deep, but most visitors, it seems, pack out what they pack in. The only junk to be seen must have washed up from the river: Shards of glass are still transparent and sharp. River glass doesn't get tumbled to softness as it does in the sea.

I pick up some litter and take it with me, dumped in a bag along with the "do" the dogs paused long enough to deposit.

I am determined to leave no trace even when no one is watching.

But since we are alone, I unclip the leashes from their collars. I call them back as a test before I let them romp and roll, and dig in the soft sand.

Just watching them lowers my blood pressure.

Everything they do is joy personified: They jump over tree trunks; They wade in the thin marshy grass; They roll, pounce and splash at the river's edge. They are happy. I am happy. We are lucky to be here. Lucky to be living in this time and lucky to have found this place.