His routine has changed somewhat, lately, making it unlikelier for us to come across him as often as we have, in the past.  He sets out later now for his daily vigorous perambulations in the ravine, and we tend to prefer going out earlier in the day, as early as our own routine allows us to.
 

We don't nearly maintain the same pace he does.  We truly do perambulate.  He percolates.  With the use of two walking sticks, one in each hand, he virtually propels himself along.  We have, in contrast, two little dogs, one for each of us to guide along the pathways.  They take their time doing so, and so do we, the pace suited to all of us.

But for our ravine acquaintance, whom we still see fairly regularly, the whole idea of taking to the ravine trails is to maintain a certain level of physical capability, to exercise his heart and lungs, and to challenge himself continually to improve on his timing.  For us, the purpose is to get out into a natural surrounding and enjoy what nature offers us, season to season.

We don't feel compelled to challenge ourselves, as Max does.  This is something he has taken up since his unexpected heart surgery.  When, afterward, he was placed in a nursing care home temporarily, as part of his recovery process.  And where his wife, for whom he is the sole caretaker, was placed alongside him, as there was no other solution that presented itself.  Until he was fully recovered and they were both able to return home.  For him then to resume her daily care.

She is not ambulatory, and cannot manage on her own to provide for her own hygiene, meals, or any other critical survival techniques.  He is devoted to her care.  And once she is carefully tended, her quotidian needs provided for, he slips away for an hour or so to tend to his own needs.  And those include his daily ravine outings, and his shopping forays; shopping for food, mostly.

Each time we come across Max at various places throughout our daily ramble, we stop to talk and chat with one another.  His speech is slightly European-accented, for he is of Swiss origin, although his language capability is impeccable.  We discuss a myriad of topics.  What continues to disturb and puzzle me about Max, a slight, underweight man some ten years our junior, is that he unvaryingly is clad, winter storm-days or spring moderation, in the same white-starched shirt, over which is an unlined bright red-cotton jacket.  His only concession to the change in seasons seems to be his headgear; in the winter a warm woollen toque and mittens, and yesterday a cotton Tilley hat to protect against the sun.

It absolutely confounds me that he is comfortable on really inclement days when the winter wind howls, snowfall is incessant and the temperature has plunged deeply and he is dressed in that red jacket which he has zipped to the top, still leaving his throat exposed and vulnerable.  I want to wrap him in a scarf, chide him for not dressing adequately to the weather.  In contrast, we have an assortment of jackets, hats and mittens to suit the weather exigencies of the day.

It is not that he hasn't the financial wherewithal.  It is obviously of little concern to him.  We know, from our conversations that he has often embarked on securing the services of professionals to alter areas of his house to make them more wheelchair-accessible.  And he has a son and daughter-in-law, both health professionals to give advice and assistance if need be.

But then, it is yet another instance of people ascribing different perspectives, priorities and values to what they see as life's necessities.  He has all the major ones figured right.