Backroads and Byways: In perfect timing, (boring) Marshall Lake and usual road trip spots provide moment to reflect

We went in search of snow.

Our recent road trips have included a co-pilot – Cat or Caitlin, and always their dogs – but this one was meant to be taken alone.

Just the two of us.

Heading north on Harvard Road in Liberty Lake, sipping the weakest possible triple-shot 16-ounce latte, the hills in front of us began to pale from forest green to white. A light dusting clung to the grass and trees.

Not much. Just enough.

I grew up with several feet of snow on the ground from Halloween to March. Snow isn’t novelty for me. It’s baseline for the winter months. I need it in my life.

We could have stopped at closer spots like Antoine Peak or Mount Spokane. They’re familiar places, trails we’ve hiked more than a handful of times over the years. Easy to get to. Easy to choose.

But we needed this day, this road trip together.

Plus, our hiking days are over now.

Bella is due to turn 12 in March. I got my first Maremma sheepdog, Shep, to 12 and a half, so I know what that number can mean. It leaves open a quiet, unspoken understanding that there are no guarantees.

Age and health have changed the way Bella and I move through the world together. She tires more easily now. Our pace is slower. Our adventures look different than they used to.

I’m fully immersed in anticipatory grief, and I know what that means, too. I’m a pet loss grief coach and educator. I help my dog photography clients navigate end-of-life sessions, encouraging them to slow down and stay present while they can.

Knowing how to do that for others doesn’t always translate into knowing how to do it for myself. I get stuck.

So I fall back on the things I know how to do. We go. We stay together. We move through the day without forcing it. We make the kind of memories that don’t require summits or mileage.

Bella’s health issues don’t mean the end of adventure. They mean recalibration. Shorter walks. More rest. Time measured differently.

Time measured in miles logged on tires, not hiking boots.

Heading north

If snow was the destination, north was the only direction.

A few years ago, a client texted me and said, “Oh my gosh, you have to go here.” She sent a photo and added two words: Marshall Lake.

I never went. I don’t know why, because the photo was gorgeous. So on road-trip day, when I thought, Let’s go somewhere, Bella, I plugged Marshall Lake into Google Maps and tapped “go.”

We hit the open road and the mood shifted. It’s one thing to get in the car and head for the gym, the grocery store, the responsibilities of life. It’s another thing entirely when all you see in front of you is asphalt and sky. Cars become different utilities then. They help you set responsibility, age and fear aside for a little while.

You might even start to feel a little invincible, especially when no other humans are listening. You can have deep conversations with your dog about anything while the miles pile up. Bella knows my deepest, darkest secrets.

And she will never judge me for my singing voice – or lack thereof.

Road trips demand car karaoke. I sing with the thrust of Taylor Swift in her Menopausal Era (it’s coming, you just wait) and car dance with the energy of Carlton Banks. My playlist makes no sense to anyone but me – Aretha Franklin to Slipknot, Debbie Gibson to Eminem and Dr. Dre, with a heavy sprinkling of Canadian artists like the Tragically Hip, Spirit of the West and Great Big Sea. Bella seems especially fond of Newfoundland sea shanties, or at least I think so.

We arrived at Marshall Lake and my client wasn’t wrong. It’s stunning. Quiet. Still. The mountains are perfectly mirrored in the water below. But there isn’t much to do. The old campground is permanently closed – has been since 2021 – and “no trespassing” signs are posted everywhere.

A Discover Pass is still required to park and fish on the lake. The boat launch was covered in about a half-foot of snow. So we stood there, staring at the mountains, for as long as we could before we got bored.

I knew there were other places we could stop and hang out so we headed back toward Priest River. Foiled again … man, I really should plan these day trips better. The parks along Highway 2 to Sandpoint, managed by the Army Corps of Engineers, are closed for the season.

Priest River Recreation Area – the Mud Hole – is still accessible with a few minutes walking toward the water.

But that’s when age stepped out of the shadows and reminded me it was still there.

Dogs, truth and time

Bella moved more carefully on the path. Her steps were slower, more deliberate. By the time we turned back toward the car, she was ready to be done. No drama. No protest. Just honesty.

This is the thing dogs do best. They don’t pretend. They tell us exactly where they are.

It was time to decide the rest of the day would be an easy drive.

As we approached Sandpoint, the Cabinet Mountains came into view. I thought of all the trails I always believed we’d get to one day. Scotchman. Star Peak. Antelope Lake.

Those trails won’t be tackled with Bella, and I have to be OK with that.

This is part of anticipatory grief. Not just preparing for a goodbye that hasn’t happened yet, but grieving the quiet losses along the way. The places you won’t return to. The versions of life you thought you still had time for.

It’s a strange thing, loving someone who is still here while learning to let go of pieces of the life you shared.

On the way home, we stopped at Round Lake. It’s a place we’ve hiked before, a place I associate with long walks and familiar paths. This time, we didn’t hike. We stood on the beach for a few minutes. Bella sniffed the air, found a spot to pee and that was enough. Some days, enough looks different than it used to.

A little farther on, we pulled over for the Dufort barn. It’s called to us more than once over the years, a quiet landmark worth stopping for. This time, it was gone. Reduced to a scatter of weathered boards in a field across from the Morton Slough. The barn stood for more than a century before finally giving in during one of the recent windstorms.

Things can be solid for a very long time, and then they’re not.

By then, the road toward home felt less open. Bella was tired. Dinner-time tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t need explanation. As the sun dropped behind the hills to the west, the day gently closed in on itself.

Dogs have a way of doing that. They mark time honestly. They don’t pretend they have more in them than they do. They don’t bargain with reality. They tell us the truth with their bodies, their pace, their willingness – or lack of it – to keep going.

And the truth is, we set ourselves up for this hurt when we bring a dog into our lives. Loss isn’t only about death. It’s about losing the places, the routines, the shared abilities that once defined life together. Even while she’s still here, there are things we don’t get to do anymore.

And still, we choose them. Every time. Because this love – this fierce, uncomplicated, ride-or-die love – is purer than almost any other kind of love in this world.

Angela Schneider is a part-time copy editor with The Spokesman-Review and part-time dog photographer. Follow her adventures with Bella at @our.gr8.escape.