Irma Kniivila for The Globe and Mail
Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
I like to run in the hills with my dog, Olive. We have a few favourite routes, all leading to a peak with a panoramic view of the valley below. I slowly run up the paths, taking a few breaks along the way, and walk back down in hopes of minimizing damage to my aging knees.
On a recent gloomy day with light rain, we started out from the parking lot late in the afternoon. Olive chose a trail with a small gazebo about halfway up the hill where we can rest a few minutes and take in the view. The weather must have discouraged others because we didn't encounter anyone along the route.
About 15 minutes into the run, I trudged up the long straight stretch leading to the gazebo. As I got closer, I noticed a shadowy figure, a large man dressed in dark clothes. I could see he had a long scruffy beard and matted hair that stuck out from under his backward baseball cap. His black jeans were tucked into heavy army boots. He looked nothing like the outdoor enthusiasts I was used to seeing in the park.
Olive ran ahead, eager to get into the gazebo for a rest. With the man still in the doorway, my instincts were to keep going, but Olive scooted between his legs. As I approached, his appearance made me even more uncomfortable. His black, sleeveless T-shirt revealed muscular arms covered in tattoos. Chains dangled from his studded belt and his jeans were torn at the knees. He looked annoyed and I sensed he didn't want company.
I called to Olive from the doorway, but she had hunkered down under the bench opposite the door. The man stepped aside and I entered and sat on the bench, giving myself a minute to catch my breath. As I was about to pull Olive out and make a hasty retreat, the man resumed his stance in the doorway with his back to me, his hands resting on the door frame. I felt trapped, thinking that he was intentionally blocking my way out.
I was about to stand up when I noticed a dark object on the bench beside me. In the dim light, it took a few seconds to make out a large black bag with three long metal tubes, black with silver fittings, sticking out of it. They looked similar to the automatic rifles I had once encountered in the course of my job.
As panic set in, my thoughts raced. Had I come across a drug deal of some kind? Maybe gang activity was involved? Was a murder planned – or maybe one had already happened? Was the bag filled with cash – or ammunition? I had gotten a good look at the man's face, so he knew I could identify him – I was doomed! I thought of grabbing Olive, throwing her over the gazebo wall and making a run for it, but how far would I get?
Frantically trying to make a plan, my eyes darted around the gazebo before coming to rest on a piece of white paper partially tucked under the black bag. I strained to get a better look, suddenly recognizing sheet music. Across the top of the page in dark print I could make out the words, Scotland the Brave.
I realized the sinister bag and tubes were a set of bagpipes. Feeling giddy with relief, I initiated a conversation.
"So, you play the bagpipes?"
"Yup," he responded.
"And you come up here to play?"
"Yup."
He said that he couldn't afford music lessons, but over the past five years had taught himself to play. He had recently been accepted as a member of the local pipe band. I told him how much I loved Scottish music and that I grew up hearing my father play all the traditional tunes on his violin.
"We're playing at the Highland Games tomorrow," he said. "You should come."
"Well, I might do that! Thank you very much!" I stood and wished him luck, then hurried out the doorway with Olive in tow to start the last leg of the climb.
On our way down, I spotted the piper walking on a ridge below the trail. He pumped the bag under his arm and began to play Scotland the Brave. I didn't move until the song ended, captivated by the beauty of the scene. After a few seconds of silence, I clapped and the piper looked up, spotting me on the hillside. He smiled and took a little bow.
The piper continued to play a series of beautiful, familiar tunes. The melodies to Loch Lomond, Ye Banks and Braes and The Barren Rocks of Aden echoed through the hills as I walked down the trail. I was flooded with fond memories – of our home filled with family and friends, my father on the violin leading family singalongs and children dancing to jigs and reels. Tears were streaming down my cheeks when I reached the parking lot.
I felt bad for judging the young man so harshly. Was it narrow-minded to make assumptions based on his appearance? I was so fortunate to have grown up in a musical home where everyone played an instrument and years of music lessons were taken for granted. The young man didn't have these advantages, yet he had taught himself to play the pipes – not a small feat.
The next day, I went to the Highland Games. As promised, the local marching band paraded down the main causeway, playing Road to the Isles. With his long beard, it was easy to spot the young man. Well back in the crowd, I waved and cheered as he walked by. I hope he knew I was there.
Ann Diehl lives in Kamloops, B.C.