Many times on her strolling exercises, Bea had walked a distance from that terrible area which led to Bea's Golden Path. She had never seen the change taking place. She realized this was because she had been too busy thinking of her wonderful footprints and the golden part of the path which used to be there. She wondered what else she had missed over time because she hadn't done her important notice exercise.

Walking cautiously toward the black path she promised herself that she would do more noticing. This was difficult and she had to make her courage bigger than her sadness. She felt such a heaviness and her bad memories came pouring back. The sacred place in front of her used to be golden like the color of her "be-good-to-myself" treat.

She had discovered it so many leaf falling times ago, a beautiful path of golden dirt which held her footprints. She fondly remembered darting in and out of the path and joyously discovering that her pawprints were still there. Some even had her claw and paw marks.

Her thoughts had turned to blackness just like the awfulness which had been poured over her footprints. She remembered the tracks left by all of the creatures who'd had the honor and pleasure to have walked Bea's Golden Path. That whole nightmare was rushing back of smelling something terrible and Scruffles running with her to see what was going on.

She wasn't sure she could continue her investigation exercise or her notice exercise. It hurt too much. Bea's Golden Path was gone, no longer there. Why was she even visiting it? Then she heard that soft humming of bees that always comforted her and it gave her courage to go closer.

Bea thought of the pattern of weather her mom had told her about. She remembered feeling severe cold and then oppressive heat. The coolest place was in her cave home. Her mom had said this caused the black to melt and crack. There were wonderful giant cracks all along what used to be the black path.

Now it was a path of cracks. Bea was elated and began doing a drumming dance hoping to make more cracks. Counting as her mother had taught her, many little trees were poking up. They reminded her of the ones she and Timothy, the woodcarving, clay pot making, tree planting, beaver had put into clay pots. Each crack seemed to have life peeking out from the darkness into the light of the warm sun.

She was sure that Timothy had not been there to plant anything. She knew for certain that she had not stepped foot, paw or claw on this spot. So must be the maker of Golden Paths and the maker of trees of all kinds had planted them. She still didn't know if it was the same maker that did all this.

But just in case she did her talk anyway to the maker of all things. Bea, the wee bear, felt somehow that would take care of the whole thank you thing. Her steppings, as she left, were the happiest she'd danced in a very long time.