The Hundred-Mile Memory

Alexander and I on top of Albert Mountain the 100-mile mark on the AT

This morning marks the 23rd day of our Appalachian Trail journey—and once again it’s raining. Today, however, the rain is not an obstacle, for I am warm and dry at the hotel in Franklin, North Carolina, a steaming cup of hot coffee by my side. Of all the things we have encountered, it is rain that has proven to be both our most unexpected and our most constant companion. Rain has assumed the role of fickle taskmaster, ordering us at times to hide, to cover up, to sit, to pace, to think, to read, to write—and to wait out its aqueous desires. It is rain that is responsible for altering our trip, for forcing us off the trail when we preferred to hike on. But perhaps it has the right, because water, blood brother to the rain that has chosen to rule us, makes up 97% of our bodies.

As we crossed the hundred-mile mark in our journey, I understood that the wisdom of rain has helped us most. Rain has contrived to slow us down, and its dampening effect has afforded us time to reflect upon who we are and why we are here in the first place. Had it not been for the wisdom of the rain, we would have kept moving, kept pushing forward, kept distracting ourselves by the pleasure of our own swiftness. Instead, the rain crafted a new timeline for us and taught us to revise our expectations.

Because of this, time itself has become more malleable than we were aware it could be. Alexander and I have come to see that there is day, and there is night, and everything that falls between those two points is a dance marked only by the progression of our feet. Gone are the gradations we previously used to measure our days—the man-made specificity of hours, minutes, and seconds. Now there is only the footpath and our footfalls along the rise and fall of its geography.

In the event that you doubt the intelligence of rain and believe I’m giving it too much credit, let me assure you: There exists a great and expanding body of evidence showing that water possesses a memory—and, by extension, a consciousness. Its molecular structure gives water the ability to absorb a resonance from everything it touches. In our case, the rain that has been our boon companion has fallen directly from the heavens, through the canopy of forest, and made its way from the tops of mountains, over rocks and plants. It has skipped across the backs of animals, and around the base of ancient trees, finally plunging through the earth, and exiting in a white vein of quartz crystal, before finding its way to us. In a very real way, we have been bathed in the wisdom of all the experiences this liquid has absorbed in its journey.

* * *

As I sit in the lobby at the Hampton Inn this morning, I watch families and couples mill about, lining up for the breakfast bar, getting their coffee and juice, making their plans for the day. It is Sunday, and most of them will be traveling home—to Atlanta and other destinations in Georgia, Florida, Alabama, and Mississippi, as the license tags in the parking lot tell us. Alexander and I feel apart from this crowd—partly because tomorrow we return to the trail, not to regular jobs nor to the identifying experience of home and the accumulated encumbrance of personal property. But partly, too, because we have allowed the forest to twine itself into us, and now we feel drawn back, as if the trail were an umbilical cord that siphons nourishment into us from the trees and mosses and boulders that line it.

Last night we strolled down the hill to a BBQ restaurant. It was like magic—and a bit shocking. We ordered. The food arrived. We dined. All week, we were engaged in a different sort of life, one in which we walk all day and filter our drinking water from springs that poured forth from the earth—not a tap, not a waitress’s pitcher. Alexander built fires to keep us warm and cooked simple meals. Our supplies are finite; they have to last a certain number of days, and yet in the midst of this ascetic routine, we were blissfully happy.

After we ate our BBQ, we both felt we had cheated, had broken an honorable code of the forest. At the end of our meal we simply paid the bill and left with our box of leftovers. We did not have to wash our bowls with leaves and sand, nor be concerned with the amount of water we used to complete that task. We did not have to follow one another into the darkness of the forest to make sure we were hanging our food far enough from our tents to keep us safe from bears. As we stepped through the restaurant door, Alexander and I exchanged a look. Our bellies were full, but we had done nothing to acquire such an opulent feast. Nestled way down inside our tummies, hidden beneath the layers of barbecued chicken and juicy rib-eye steak, we both felt a tiny, nagging sense of guilt.

* * *

It is a little after ten a.m., now, and the hotel lobby is quiet, except for the blaring beat of Fox News, which serves as a harsh reminder of the world that awaits beyond the lobby. I try my best to be optimistic, but the frantic anxiety that pours from the flat screen television seemingly has no end. It is easy to succumb. I realize, of course, that the world as it is today is the result of the choices we have made as a society. As a citizen of that world, I have some responsibility for its current state. Since we began this journey, I find myself asking, “How can I help to change it?”

However, that is a big question, larger than I feel I can take on today. For now, Alexander and I are still journeymen, following a path in the forest. So I purposefully erect a wall that separates the experiences of the past three weeks from the world that waits hungrily for us to step off the trail for good. Today, I will write. I will hike my “hundred-mile memory,” retracing the past weeks and attempting to unravel all that has happened. The world will wait.

* * *

Early on September 17th, I packed my gear in the trunk of the old Caddy and ran back inside the house to gather a few items I had left on the kitchen counter. I took a good long look around, absorbing the art on the walls, the placement of a few photos on the fridge, the color of the two worn chairs in the dining room, and the intricate but worn Berber rug that covered the floor. Our dogs, Ila Mae, Boo Boo, and Ruby Rose lay on their cushy dog beds with several of their favorite toys strewn about. I got down on the floor and put my forehead to each of theirs and told them I loved them. (They are all close to fifteen years old. I knew that if I left even for a few days, I risked not seeing one or another of them again. And I was departing for six weeks.)

Then I turned to my wife, Elisabeth, who stood, coffee in hand, looking beautiful—even as the my-God-you-are-a-huge-pain-in-the-ass look crossed the landscape of her early morning face, only to be followed by the I-love-you-more-than-anything-so-please-don’t-up-and-die-on-me-now look the next gut-wrenching instant. It was maybe the sweetest look I have ever had from from her. It said everything about the twenty-plus years we have spent together.

This—the house, the dogs, my beautiful wife—I wanted to remember it all as clearly as possible. Just in case. On the long hike on the Appalachian Trail, anything could happen. There are lots of possibilities for calamity. Not to mention the damn bears.

It can be hard for a guy to process an immense load of conflicting emotions—which is exactly what I was encountering in that moment. I stood there for a moment, spare ZipLock bags, hot cocoa mix, and Q-tips filling my arms, looking at my wife and wondering, “How in the hell did my world get so complex, so rich, and so beautiful all of a sudden?” Then I flashed on the good career I had pretty much just pulled the plug on so I could make this insane journey, and how all the great people whom I had worked with had always relied on me to rescue them from Computer Hell, and I asked myself, “What in the hell are you doing, sport?” But by then it was too late to consider the consequences of my actions.

So I did the next best guy thing I could think of: I leaned over to give my wife a kiss and told her, “I will call you later, baby, when we get on the road.” Then I took a virtual snapshot of everything in my mental viewfinder and stored it, along with everything I was thinking and feeling, safely away in my mind—just in case the worst actually did happen, like a bear had my skull firmly between his jaws or I slipped over some incredibly high cliff. Then, at least, there would be a bright moment when I could reach into that hiding place in my brain and replay for one last, sweet second all that I was now experiencing. And if the bear wasn’t crunching my skull too hard, or if the fall wasn’t too short, I would even have time to say to myself, “Yup, sport, your life was complex and rich and beautiful, and you were one lucky son of a bitch.”

Then Elisabeth, with the wisdom of a woman who has known me for twenty-plus years, said quietly, “You are coming home aren’t you?”

Well, that encompassed a lot of territory—and I was already on emotional overload—so I simply said, “Of course I am, baby. Why would you ask something like that?”

But I know why she asked. Elisabeth-who-knows-me knows even a dumb ass like me wouldn’t cut loose from her, the dogs, my mom, my job, and all the other wonderful people and things in my life—unless something was up. And something was up. As Elisabeth saw more clearly than I did myself, I was headed off on a pilgrimage—and pilgrimages have a funny way of changing people.

A long moment crossed between us in that kitchen. I held onto her, still clutching the ZipLock bags, cocoa, and  Q-tips, for so long her coffee grew cold. Then we looked at one another for another prolonged minute, before I gave her a final kiss and walked out the door.

* * *

As the old silver Caddy made its way north along the ribbon of I-75 to Amicalola State Park in north Georgia, I pondered the implications of making a pilgrimage. In America, we don’t really recognize the concept. Walking the Appalachian Trail is as close as to the idea of “pilgrimage” as we generally come in the good ol’ U.S. of A. And if one actually attaches some shade of religious or spiritual meaning to their “walk in the woods,” it is often overshadowed by the other reasons one has for making the hike.

Five years ago, I thought I had made a two-thousand-mile pilgrimage when I rode my bicycle from St. Augustine, Florida, to Taos, New Mexico. But as I look back on that two-month journey, I can see it was just the beginning—a preamble to the pilgrimage I am on now. The whole damn thing’s so tricky.

I remember a movie from the 1980s, starring Al Pacino and Jack Warden, titled And Justice for All. In the movie Jack Warden plays a circuit court judge who has seen too much greed, corruption, and horror. He wants to end his life, but the barrels of his shotgun are too long to fit in his mouth and still allow him to reach the trigger. Instead, he plays a game he calls “Halfway Out and a Little Farther.” Every day he fills the fuel tanks of his helicopter and heads out to sea, flying until they’re half empty,  then just a little farther, to see if he can still return safely home. In the end he never does complete his wish for death, but, instead, finds a level of peace in the attempt.

I don’t think that’s me, but I do find that the world can be a difficult place, a place in which hope is hard to find and maintain. But in some strange way, I’m discovering that the act of making a “pilgrimage”—whatever you take me to mean by that—has allowed hope to work its way into my life.

* * *

As early as Friday morning, I was not certain I would continue this trip. Franklin, North Carolina, seemed like a good place to call it quits. It was hard. Too hard. Then Friday morning, Alexander and I started up Albert Mountain just before lunchtime. The last part of the climb is an absurdly steep chute, a third of a mile in length. About half that climb, you’re using your hands as well as your feet just to keep yourself moving upward. The trail is treacherous, and one slip would ruin your day.

At about the half-way mark, I started laughing at the complete ridiculousness of the climb. Then something snapped—and somehow, I simply overcame whatever had been holding me back, and I finished the climb. When we made it to the top of Albert Mountain, we enjoyed one of the most outstanding views we had seen on the entire Appalachian Trail, so far. Then Alexander and I shared a summer sausage we had saved for lunch. As I gazed out across the view, I said, “I wish we could just keep walking” (exactly as my lovely wife anticipated I would).

He looked at me and said, “Really, Dad?” I could see the light in his eyes, that spark of hope most young people carry with them. At twenty-four Alexander has not seen so much of the world that he is daunted, so a pilgrimage is not necessary for him to revive his spirit. He is in this for the challenge and the experience. His dad, on the other hand, needs a little bit more to encourage him to face the challenges. But in that moment, our desires intersected, and the tops of the Appalachian Mountains protruding from the clouds in the distance looked like islands rising out of the sea. Right then, anything was possible. We sat back, lost in our own thoughts and devoured the rich slices of sausage, each relishing his own hundred-mile memory.

The New American

Juan at Tray Mountain shelter preparing for the day

As I lay in my sleeping bag atop Tray Mountain last Wednesday night, the warmth from the fire Alexander had conjured out of a forest of wet wood radiated throughout the open shelter. That fire was as much a testament to his woodsman talents as it seemed a miracle to the rest of us. As only a fire can, it served to galvanize the group of strangers who, for at least one night, shared one another’s company. The hot coals cracked and popped, and the intoxicating scent of smokey air clung tightly to the confines of our dry shelter—and served as an ancient link to our distant past, a time when fire was a sacred tool, one which had the power to warm the heart and light the recesses of a dark mind.

With Alexander to my right, Mother Mary to my left, Yip and Yap in the middle, and Dave from Philadelphia and his buddy Paul from Atlanta on the other side of the enclosure, the shelter was full.

Then one last hiker—a young man named Juan—strolled in just before sunset. He was a recent FSU graduate in psychology and a resident of Pembroke Pines, Florida. And although he arrived late, he wasn’t disturbed at the prospect of sleeping in his hammock—despite the threat of rain. Juan joked that Hispanic people love hammocks, that it was his preferred method of sleeping on the trail. I liked his sense of humor and the way he deflected it upon himself as if it was his calling card, as if he was saying, “Yes, I may seem different. But if you give me a chance, I will prove my worth to your group.” That subtle skill is usually found only in much older persons. It is a method of coping developed by learning to fit in where you are the odd man out—which Juan, who had an ease and affability about him that spoke volumes about his past, had evidently had to do a lot. I was intrigued and wanted to learn more about his life. As it happened, I didn’t have to wait long.

With everyone tucked into their sleeping bags, Juan moved up to the fire and started a general conversation. I was tired and to be truthful dozing a bit. So I just lay there, one ear on the discussion and the other on the rise and fall of my chest. Every now and then I would throw in the occasional comment, mostly to let the others know I was still awake and listening, but I also wished to play a part in the mini-Chautauqua which had sprung up around Alexander’s special fire. The conversation meandered for awhile, weaving its way down a circuitous path which included talk of the trail, hiking gear, and a little bit about everyone present—where we each were from, why we were hiking, and how long our intended journey was. Of course the weather was important, and someone mentioned politics, but eventually the conversation focused on Juan. I snuggled up in my bag and listened intently as he told his amazing story.

It turns out that Juan is from Colombia—Medellin, to be precise, the second largest city in Colombia and home to the ruthless Medellin drug cartel. (When Juan said Medellin, I had the feeling we were in for one heck of a tale. He did not disappoint.) One day, when he was a small boy, the cartel thugs started a shootout in front of Juan’s house. His mother narrowly missed being killed by a wild bullet that burst through a window and into the sanctuary of their home. Juan’s uncle had been a cartel member, and it was unclear whether the shootout involved him or not, but that event was the last straw for Juan’s parents. They packed up their belongings and, through a lengthy process that included the help of friends, friends of friends, and deals made with the devil, they were finally allowed to immigrate to the U.S. The family settled in south Florida, a haven from the violence that had swirled around them in Colombia.

At this point in the story Juan became quiet. He played with a stick in the fire, the glow of embers lighting his sad face. He seemed to shrink as the orange light shone upon him. I was not the only one who sensed he was having trouble getting past this part. In that long moment, pregnant in its complete silence, we all just lay still, patiently waiting for Juan to continue. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional crack of hot sap as it ignited in the fire and a lone coyote howling in the distance.

Finally, he took up his story again. After a year or so, he told us, his father had to make a return trip to Colombia. There was unfinished business which remained in the life of this immigrant family, business only his father could finalize. Weeks went by. The weeks turned to months. But Juan’s father failed to return. Questions were asked. Inquiries made. But the lonesome reality was that Juan and his mother never found out what happened to his dad. “He may have been killed by the cartel bosses, or he may simply have chosen not to return to us,” he said. “Whichever it was, I have learned to get past it.” Then, with feigned bravado, he added, “I do not need him now.”

That was the only choice a young boy could make, I thought. The lesser of two horrific evils. My heart ached for him, and I assume the hearts of our other shelter mates were also breaking. But it perhaps touched me even deeper than it did the others, because I am on this incredible journey with my own son, who is almost the same age as Juan. This ill-fated young man would never have an experience like I was having with Alexander. He would never again experience the love of his own father, nor gain the closure that learning the truth of his father’s fate would bring. I stared into the darkness, tears welling in my eyes.

At this point, we were all completely silent for several minutes–even Yip and Yap. During that time, I heard Juan rearranging the logs in the fire, making the necessary adjustments he required in order to quell his nervousness and gain the courage to continue.

When he started again, he told us of his life with his mother. How she had raised him all by herself, alone in a new country, making a living for the both of them selling empanadas and arepas on the streets of Ft. Lauderdale. He told us how he would help her in the tiny kitchen of their home, shaping the dough, preparing the fillings, helping her to package the palm-sized treats in waxed paper or aluminum foil, or filling the coolers she used to hold her daily inventory. The way he shared this part of the story let us know that his love for his mother ran very deep. His descriptions of their time together and of the ingredients his mother used to make the products she sold each day were more brilliant, richer in the telling, more lively than the tragic tale he had told of his father.

He told us many times that she helped him to purchase the gear so he could make this trip. “My mother made this journey possible,” he said over and over again. I watched him while he continued his story, his hands making the sign of the cross—although I don’t think Juan was even aware of the gesture. I don’t know for sure what his purpose is out here on the Appalachian Trail. Not sure what he hopes to find. Maybe he is walking alone in the forest in search of his father. Maybe he is giving thanks to his mother. Maybe he is just walking to sort out the pain and loneliness he has hidden in the recesses of his soul. All of that is possible out here. The trail offers blessings—and absolution, too, if that is needed.

The last part of Juan’s story really struck home. He told us he wanted to pursue an education. But there remained a giant hurdle—he and his mother were illegal aliens, and until that changed, he could not enter college. He had been illegal for the sixteen years since his arrival from Colombia. It was the secret he carried most of his life; none of his friends knew about his status. When his thoughts turned to college, his mother retained an attorney so they could become naturalized citizens. It took five years and ten thousand dollars. That is a lot of empanadas and arepas. Juan made it through  FSU on scholarship and graduated without student loans. He worked, and his mother supported him, too. He told me he really wants to go back and finish graduate school. He would like to be a counselor and help other people. I thought, What a fine young man. This is the kind of young man our society needs. This is the New American.

Today, there is so much talk about immigration, and our politics are filled with such fear, so much rhetoric about closing our borders—or worse, deporting people back to their countries of origin, regardless of the human implications—I worry that the state of the world is keeping us from upholding basic principles of freedom and equality. Historically, some of the worst atrocities have been committed when governments fall prey to the fear of the “other.” It is good to remember that, unless we are Native American, all our forebears arrived from other countries. My Holborn ancestors, for instance, came from England, and my mother’s family, from France and Canada.

Juan explained that his mother took a great risk just by beginning the naturalization process. Once the paperwork was filled out, she had essentially alerted the American immigration authorities that she and Juan were illegal aliens. Had they been deported back to Colombia, they would not have been able to return to the U.S. for ten years—and we would have lost the opportunity to welcome Juan and his courageous mother as citizens. To me, Juan and his mother represent the spirit of the American dream, an ideal that many people believe has been lost. I believe that as Americans our inclusive, warm-hearted compassion is our greatest strength.

I had the feeling Juan had not told this story to anyone in a very long time. But who better to tell than a group of strangers on the Appalachian Trail. I hope in the telling he gained a measure of relief. Juan’s is the story of so many people in the world today. Yet, in many ways it is a tragedy outside the bounds of anything most of us will ever encounter. I have to wonder how many times a day Juan’s story is repeated across America, and how many people’s lives and the futures of their children are held in the balance. As so often happens when I encounter stories from the opposite end of the spectrum of life from the one I occupy, hearing Juan’s story left me feeling both a sense of guilt for the great gifts that have come my way—and also feeling incredibly blessed.

* * *

In America, we do not go on religious pilgrimage like those of so many other countries. But I would have to characterize the seventy-some miles of trail I have encountered so far as truly sacred. I suppose we are far too Puritanical, in this country, to accept that a walk in the forest can be a sacred path to God. Only the structure of a church and the guidance of a priest can be that. But from my limited experience, the AT is our sacred walk, unofficial though it may be.

Tonight, Alexander and I met Juan for dinner at a great Mexican restaurant in Hiawassee. When we came off the trail on Friday, Juan took a shuttle bus to a nearby hiker hostel. As it turned out, the owner needed a shuttle driver, because the one he’d had quit the day Juan arrived. The owner also needed someone to help with incoming hikers, as October is a busy month on the AT. So Juan will remain here for another month, working and formulating his plans for the future—but tomorrow we will be in his company again, as we all walk the last miles of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia together. Juan said at dinner that he hopes to continue his walk on the AT.

It is my hope for him that he finds everything he is looking for.

The Magnetic Attraction of Earth

Alexander and Juan at the “Swag of the Blue Ridge,” on the way to Kelly’s Knob

Although I live in the small city of St. Augustine, Florida, “city boy” is not how I would characterize myself. I love gardening. Getting my hands in the dirt feels like it grounds me, equalizing the electrostatic discharge from computers and the other digital devices I come in contact with each day. Whenever I am able, I immerse myself in the great outdoors. Mostly, that takes the form of fishing—often on the Matanzas River, with my lifelong friend, Scott. At these times, I practice a sort of meditation: Seizing the moments of quiet, I attempt to absorb the positively charged ions of water vapor saturating the air around us. This, I have always believed, approximates the quiet of the woods.

I don’t really involve myself in modern culture much, either. My wife and I like to keep our distance from the daily media onslaught that pervades modern life. We haven’t owned a television since 1994 and I have a rule of no radio while driving in the car. (Although I confess to listening to NPR on occassion – I have a thing for Terry Gross.)

I have attempted to keep my life simple. Gardening. No television. Fishing. Positive ions. Together, these led to my assumption that, since I was in such sympathetic alignment with nature in my daily life, my transition to the forests of north Georgia would be less traumatic. This, as it turns out, was an erroneous assumption.

What I can say now, with all the authority that two weeks in the woods (save for a couple of stints at a cabin and the Holiday Inn Express) can afford me, is this: When you are schlepping everything you require for your daily existence in an enormous pack strapped across your back, life snaps into focus and your priorities are reordered. No longer is a venti Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccino the bedrock of your morning. Nope. Food, water, and shelter, these become your daily concerns. Hitting the trail without proper sustenance is potentially life-threatening, so breakfast takes on a monumental importance, right up there with breathing. The snack you must eat an hour or two later is vital, as well. And staying properly hydrated requires you supply your body not only with ample water, but with the minerals and electrolytes that keep your muscles going and not cramping—or you risk becoming a human Charlie horse. Or worse.

Then there is gravity. The concept of gravity never entered my head on a normal day back home. But the Appalachian Trail is a reminder that certain laws of physics rule our existence on planet earth. Out here, hiking the serpentine path of the People’s Trail, it is gravity that determines the force pounds of pressure apply directly on your back.

So, food, hydration, gravity, shelter. These are the new rules for your life.

* * *

As Alexander and I departed Tray mountain shelter Thursday morning we knew that we would only walk as far as the next shelter at Deep Gap. The distance was a fair measure of how our days have stacked up during the past two weeks – eight miles of trail. The weather forecast called for rain, and it was already overcast and quite cool. So when we awoke to a dry day we felt as if we had been handed a gift. The concern, however was that the rain which was inevitably coming our way made the protection of a roof over our head, and a dry place to sleep our main consideration. Time was of the essence Thursday morning if we were to arrive in Deep Gap before the rain fell.

To our great delight, the past twenty four hours had come together in some unexpected ways. First, we had the pleasure of meeting a very knowledgeable guy by the name of Dave Harrington. We had met Dave as we rounded a bend at Indian Grave Gap and spied a man bent over inspecting something at the edge of the trail. It turned out to be Dave eyeing up a wilting Cauliflower mushroom. As we soon learned, Dave knew a thing or two when it came to mycology (the study of fungi) and the Cauliflower true to its name was quite edible and rare. Ever since departing Springer Mountain Alexander and I had been walking past thousands of mushrooms. In fact, certain sections of the trail literally smelled as if they had been misted with mushroom perfume, the smell of them was so heavy upon us. We were excited.

We both share a serious interest in “shrooming”, however our ability to identify more than a limited number of delectable fungi made foraging a dangerous business. The history of collecting wild mushrooms is filled with endless stories of supposedly mushroom knowledgeable people who have either become horribly sick or have died eating wrongly identified mushroom species. For us, Dave was a bit of a superstar providing insight into a world that had been tantalizing us for over a week. Dave spent some time with us talking about various mushrooms, especially his apparent favorite the exceedingly rare Lions Mane. Buoyed by Dave’s knowledge we continued on with new purpose and each with an eye out for shrooms.

Amazingly, we had gone no farther than a mile or two when I spied what appeared to be a Lion’s Mane growing on the side of a tree not more than twenty feet off the trail. Later, I would confirm our find on the internet and then once again on Thursday we would find yet another! For Alexander and myself this discovery lifted us up as we trudged up many a steep rise and our preoccupation with shrooms served as a new mental game we would use quite effectively in order to deflect the incredible demands of the trail.

Our second bit of good fortune were the new friends we made Wednesday night at Tray Mountain shelter. Not just one but three. There was Dave from Philadelphia and his compadre Paul from Atlanta. Two electrical engineers taking a week off to hike the AT together. Then the last guy to stroll in from the trail was Juan from Pembroke Pines, Florida. A recent graduate in psychology at FSU. This is not to say that they were the only hikers in attendance at the Tray Mountain shelter. There were actually three more. The “Eagle Scouts” arrived soon after Dave and Paul and then second from the last was a single woman named Mary, a high school teacher from Kentucky. Mary immediately received credibility from the group as a single woman hiking the trail and who was willing to hunker down in a small shelter with seven strange guys.

The Eagle Scouts irked us within minutes of their arrival however, as they began dissing a group of southbound thru-hikers they had met a few nights prior at Low Gap. To clarify, the thru-hikers had walked over two thousand miles by the time they encountered the likes of Yip and Yap (the name we ultimately bestowed upon the “Eagle Scouts”) at Low Gap. It was a clash of cultures which lay at the heart of Yip and Yap’s discontent. The south bounders were a bit gamey in appearance bordering on the non-established look of hippies. They might even be “pot smokers” quipped Yip. It was the old game of “Us and Them” and Alexander and I wanted no part of their limited view of the human race. We realized in that moment that these young boys from Ohio had some growing up to do. As it turned out they were also in short supply of manners. Later, as in five a.m. the next morning Yip and Yap began an incessant talking spree and atmospheric farting contest. To our great disappointment, Mary (Mother Mary as she was later anointed) joined in with them. Not in the air biscuit portion of their morning show but was happy to be included in all the inane bits of conversation these imbeciles could seemingly generate before daylight.

But let me get back to the trail and the magnetic attraction of earth.

We have been able to navigate this journey without the existence of a map. Partially, this is because the AT is well marked with its signature white blazes found on the trunks of trees, rocks and posts every few hundred yards along the trail. We have relied instead on a cell phone app called Guthook’s Guide to the Appalachian Trail. It is a superb resource and via the GPS function on your phone can tell you with remarkable accuracy your trail position. The other extremely helpful component is the ability to view via a graphic interface the elevation which lies ahead.

And so, on Thursday morning our new group; Dave, Paul, Juan, Alexander and myself gathered around in a tight circle to see what our day on the trail had to offer. As it turned out the view before us was not too bad. There were a few steep rises but the total elevation was manageable and spread out over enough distance that we each knew the grade was something doable. But towards the end, the last two point six miles of trail in fact was a tremendous upwards spike that made each of us groan. The mountain was called Kelly’s Knob and she was the nemesis that lay waiting for us at the end of our day. It it one thing to have a big climb-out early on but to have to face such an arduous task in the last miles of your trip is really heart rending. At that point in the day you are tired, everything hurts and the last thing you want to do is make such a horrific climb. As we viewed the numbers the truth of Kelly’s Knob became more pronounced. She is a tall slice of Appalachian Pie – a thousand vertical feet in a distance of less than a mile. A trail that steep is akin to crawling on all fours but in a vertical position.

After our briefing session the group dispersed. Dave and Paul left first each carrying lighter packs, around 35 lbs. each. Juan, Alexander and myself were much heavier forty five for myself and Juan and Alexander tipped the scales at a crunching sixty pounds. Dave and Paul would arrive first and promised to save us a spot at the shelter. The rain was coming. The three of us hit the trail by ten o’clock and enjoyed our day. We met several people along the way, socialized a bit, kept an eye out for mushrooms, and then by design stopped for lunch about a mile shy of Kelly’s Knob at Sassafras Gap. Alexander fired up the stove, we had a cup of tea then he fixed a hot lunch, a mixture of Knorr’s rice and pasta mixes. To top it off, I had been carrying a block of luxurious Italian chocolate embedded with dark cherries. We split the block among the three of us then marched on.

Our plan was that we would give ourselves a good hour up a steep rise from Sassafras and then down the other side before we had to attack Kelly. That way the slowing effects of our hot lunch would have worn off and we would be as ready as ever to make the slog up. Arriving about three thirty, Juan went in the lead, then Alexander and I brought up the rear. For myself, the climb was accomplished in small sections. Every hundred feet or so I would stop, flex my legs, lean on the ends of my hiking poles and wonder with all the sincerity I could muster why in God’s name I was doing this. Internally, I was a churning mass of doubt, fear and desperation.

You might think that with such intense physical demands placed upon your system that the mind would be essentially quiet leaving the body to do the dirty work of making it up the mountain. This was not the case. There were moments when I wanted to quit, long extended moments when all I could think of was how can I escape this torture in the quickest most direct route. The visions of slinging my god forsaken pack over the edge of the trail, watching it tumble down the steep incline and finally exploding as it collided with an enormous rock was actually helpful for it took my mind off the misery. I had done the math every way to Sunday and realized with a searing pain that the quickest way out was up this bitch of a mountain and down the other side. Unfortunately, I was still another day’s hike out to civilization. I realized that I would just have to persevere to the shelter.

There was also the fantasy of simply giving in and succumbing. Curling up on the trail, lying in a fetal position until the elements claimed me. But I couldn’t get past the itching thought of the ants, beetles, slugs, and centipedes which would inevitably feast upon my corpse and so I trudged on. About half way up, I began hallucinating. I remember keening for my mama and having visions of lying in bed at home atop my eighteen inch pillow top mattress while my wife brought me bowls of delicious chicken soup and caressed my head. I remember seeing my life before me inventorying every modern appliance that made my life easier. I drooled copiously as a haloed image of the quarter round shower we purchased at Home Depot appeared and the hot, steaming flow of water cascaded over me from the Water-Pik shower head.
Likewise, I sat seemingly for hours on the elongated bowl of our porcelain toilet, and stood before the upright freezer refrigerator with ice and water dispenser built into the door. I am not sure how long this lasted but eventually I placed one foot in front of the other and continued to move forward. At a certain point I became aware of the flood of dark matter seeking to leave my body. The sensation was mental as well as physical. I began to feel as if my flesh were tearing, separating itself from the responsibilities of work and home and any idea of a normal life. I began to view the climb up Kelly’s Knob in a different light. The thing about going into the wilderness is that you instantly begin a process of separation. Your life back home and the new life you have found in the woods cannot co-exist under the canopy of elm, oak, sycamore, poplar and chestnut. The natural world full of its treasure trove of animals, streams, rocks and mystical meadows does not play well with the anxiety you bring from outside this place of wonder. As I increased my slog up Kelly’s Knob I could almost see the kinetic spring which lived inside me. I could feel the earth spinning under my feet attempting to turn that spring ever tighter. Attempting to compound my fate. But in a brilliant flash of understanding I knew that the only way to release the tension, to overcome the stress that had become me was to continue onward and upward. In that moment a lightness dawned in my chest. Kelly’s Knob became less my nemesis and more my alter ego.

Alexander and Juan had long since escaped my view. They each had gone ahead pitting themselves against the mountain finding their own truth along Kelly’s steep trail. I had been walking in a dense cloud for almost an hour but suddenly the mist parted and in a flat rise fifty yards ahead of me stood Alexander rolling a cigarette to share with Juan. They had made it to the top and were were celebrating with a smoke between themselves. I joined them a few minutes later. I just stood there catching my breath attempting to stop the river of sweat coursing down my face with a handkerchief.

We all smiled and I said quite exuberantly “Well boys that wasn’t so bad after all!”

In the Company of Women with Whiskey

Our new friends, Ann, Lynn, and Annette

The Appalachian Trail is known as the “People’s Trail,” and after our first week of hiking north Georgia it is easy to understand why this is so. The boys and I have encountered many other hikers—and everyone, it seems, has their own reason for being here.

When we made our way to the top of Blood Mountain last Sunday, we met Don and Mike, two brothers from, respectively, Pensacola, Florida, and Hattiesburg, Mississippi. The brothers were standing, with a handful of other hikers, atop a big hunk of granite that towered over the stone shelter that was to be our home for the night. Alexander, Ryan, and I hoisted ourselves up to greet them and to see what had prompted the spontaneous gathering. It was immediately apparent that, on Blood Mountain, “the rock” was the place to be. The view to the west was so commanding and exquisite that it quite literally sucked the air from our lungs and left our jaws agape, an OMG eventually winding its way out from between our lips.

As we stood gaping, Don passed us a flask of Irish whiskey, and my boys and I each took a glorious sip of the sweet nectar. Later, Mike shared that he and his brother make an annual pilgrimage to the wilderness for a bit of hiking, and this year they wanted a social experience. So the AT—the People’s Trail—was the obvious choice.

I’ve read a great deal about the AT over the past few years, so I knew about the social aspect going in. While I enjoy people, having the company of other hikers along the journey wasn’t an overriding consideration when we were making plans. It has, however, been a pleasure. The presence of others who are sharing a similar journey helps keep your spirits up. It’s not just you battling the rain, the fatigue, or the steepness of the climb up the last mountain and the painful press of the rush down the other side. You will undoubtedly meet someone during your day that will be delighted to share their experiences with you.

Don’t get me wrong. The AT is not filled with a line of intrepid hikers marching steadily around every bend—but it would be the off day that you wouldn’t meet someone. This could not have proven more true than this past Friday when Alexander and I ambled into Low Gap shelter in a driving rain. At this point in our day were were tired, cold, and soaked to the bone—and had been basically salivating at the prospect of a warm shelter for the night. So it was a huge disappointment to arrive at Low Gap and find the shelter full, with no room at the inn.

Of course the shelter was full! It was a weekend night on a popular section of the trail. A salient point we had naively overlooked. And yet, reading the disappointment on our mud-stained faces, the seven hikers who had already claimed dry cover for the evening began the process of reordering their gear in an attempt to eke out extra space for us. Just seeing their compassionate efforts helped us make a mini-recovery.

While the Low Gap shelter crew scrambled to make room for us, we busied ourselves over dinner. There was a lone, wet picnic table that sat squarely in the rain, so Alexander and I proposed to the group that we relocate it at the rear of the shelter under the partial cover of the overhang. Being the MacGuyver that he is, Alexander had a plan to rig a tarp from the roof and provide complete cover over the table. It worked, and the others now had a place to sit and fire up their camp stoves for their evening meal.

Things were starting to come together.

The interesting part of all of this was the effect that the activity and the small victory of the picnic table had on our moods. Focusing on the group, rather than ourselves, temporarily elevated our attitudes, and we found we could forget the miserable weather conditions and begin to enjoy what might have otherwise been a painful camp out.

It turned out that we had seen three of the hikers, a group of women, in the Low Gap shelter at Neel’s Gap, when we departed on Thursday, and had heard them hooting and hollering a mile or so back as they crested the trail high above Hogpen Gap later that afternoon. The hollering, as it turned out, was a reaction to a near-miss, when one of the trio, Lynn, a marketing executive from Atlanta, stepped in the path of a large diamondback rattlesnake and was struck on the foot. Miraculously, the snake’s fangs did not penetrate her shoe, and Lynn survived to continue their hike.

News of this sort spreads like wildfire on the trail. In fact, Alexander and I passed a father and son day-hiking the very next morning, and when they shared the news of the snake bite, it was already a cult classic. When the trio of women did not appear at Whitley Gap the night before (the next available shelter on the trail) I shared my concern with Alexander: “Hope those gals were OK in all of this rain. What a miserable night to be tenting it,” I said, adding a moan on their behalf. But via the trail grapevine the next morning, we heard the women had filled their water bottles at the stream below us and were now out in front, beating feet down the trail.

This was the first intimation that this group of women—Ann and Lynn, sisters from Atlanta, and their cousin Annette, who had flown down from her home in Bangor, Maine, to make their long-weekend hiking adventure—were no band of wilting daisies. And here they were, at Low Gap shelter, happy, joking, and having a ball among the worry and concern of the other hikers. Everyone else was making plans for a formal escape should the weather not clear during that night. But not these women!

As Alexander was busy prepping our evening meal (potato gnocci, Knorr’s Parmesan cream sauce, and a foil pack or two of salmon—this boy sure takes good care of his dad!), Cousin Annette, of Bangor, Maine, meandered up to the picnic table, a Hav-A-Tampa Jewel cigar dangling from her lips and toting, as she explained, a ritual Maine peace offering—a half-pint of Fireball whiskey. (I for one had never tasted an alcoholic version of a fireball. Imagine, if you will, Southern Comfort blended with a strong dose of cinnamon and peppermint. Mix the Fireball with the cold, the rain, and a few of Annette’s stories, and you’d find that sweet whiskey pretty damned good!)

We had already learned first hand that whiskey—in moderation—is a critical component in wilderness survival, a nip or two at night serving as a stellar method to weather the rigors of the AT. We knew this, because Alexander had thoughtfully brought along a flask of Crown Royal. (Actually, his flask was an extra gas bottle for his stove, but he had filled it instead with our favorite smooth Canadian blend. And, yes, we did have a discussion as to whether we could run his Whisper-Lite camp stove on Crown Royal, but decided to pass on the experiment.)

But back to the Fireball. . . .

While first sharing whiskey, laughter, and stories with Annette, I found myself in the shadow of something deeper and more painful. This wasn’t just a weekend stroll on the AT for Annette and her cousins. As we stood in the lee of the shelter, Annette attempted to share in a nonchalant way that her long-time husband, the love of her life, David, had died of cancer just two months prior. It was an attempt at ease she could not quite manage, although she sincerely tried to pull it off. I stood there, slack jawed, attempting to process the news, and watched as her big smile cracked like glass under an immense but steady force. Tears sprang to her eyes, and I had a similar reaction. It was one of those moments that defies verbal engagement, so we just stood, eyes locked on one another,  caught in that uncomfortable vacuum where language simply fails.

For those few seconds, I could not for the life of me differentiate between the sound of the rain beating down around us and the sound of my own heart beating in my chest. I could tell Annette had become accustomed to broaching this sad news, for, to her immense credit, she simply passed me the small bottle of whiskey as if handing me a cup of tea. It was one of the sweetest gestures I can remember, and I gratefully took a long sip while collecting myself, then passed the bottle back to her, a sacred communion intended for our immediate salvation.

The painful moment passed, and by the time Ann and Lynn rounded the corner, Annette was back in rare form, telling raunchy jokes, drawing hard on her cigar, and puffing out clouds of smoke between her stories. Every so often, I caught a glimpse of some of the other hikers back in the main shelter and saw the look of regret in their eyes. Why hadn’t they been included in our gathering?

But those other hikers couldn’t know the truth of these moments: Under the overhang of the shelter, between shared sips from the small bottle of sweet whiskey and the good-natured fun, Alexander and I were witness to the healing journey these three women were on. As I marveled at the women’s bravery and laughed hard at their stories, I also realized that, having transcended the predictable traps, we were basking in the natural attraction that both sexes derive from the other. In fact, Alexander and I had arrived in a special place most men only hope to find. Briefly, we were visitors to the Inner Lives of Women.

I cannot pretend to know how a woman views such a thing, but for a man, the interaction with a group of women who know there way around a dirty joke, who can throw back their heads and laugh until tears stream down their faces, who smoke cigars, drink whiskey and enjoy the company of men is a rare and delicate thing. That night, I believe, we touched on an intersection that marks a dividing line between the sexes. A demilitarized zone if you will—a place men and women rarely visit together.

While I am not sure of our exact place in Ann and Lynn and Annette’s journey (maybe we were just there as a counterpoint or a mirror for the work they were committed to perform), that night I did understand it would have taken a calamity much worse than a downpour to drive these girls from the mountains. It was evident that they shared a long history and a close bond and that Ann and Lynn had contrived this trip to fill the painful void in Annette’s life—even if that meant a respite of just a few brief nights on the trail.

If Alexander and I bore witness for them, they provided a sweetness and soft sounding board that only a woman’s presence can deliver. They buoyed us up, giving us friendship, laughter, and companionship at the end of a difficult day.

Truly, the Appalachian Trail, the People’s Trail, is a place of healing.

A Tangled Line Around a Fish

A novice at the bottom of the mountain

Before heading off on my Appalachian Trail journey, I’d already had experience with the sort of extreme physicality I knew lay ahead on this trip. My cross-country bicycle journey of five years ago prepared me for the ultimate by product of this type of adventure: a dark matter that seems to leak from your psyche when you engage in such rigorous physical activity. As I have mentioned before, I am in great measure a man who likes his comforts. The old adage “built for comfort and not for speed” aptly describes me. But deep down inside, squirreled away between sedentary layers of fat cells, lies a kernel of rogue consciousness that seems intent on testing my mettle. Normally, I am able to deflect the ludicrous demands of this internal devil, demands which on any given day would appear completely insane. But this little monster seems to take hold of me on occasion, as if it were an addict craving the solicitude of a new drug.

As our merry band set off on the approach trail at Springer Mountain, I was already prepared for the unusual experience(s) I knew lay ahead of me. Or so I thought. You see, the thing about dark matter is that it doesn’t follow any of the normal rules of worldly engagement. There are no warning signs along the trail stating, “Warning: Dark Matter Ahead.” It simply sneaks up on you, toying with your senses and your physical and mental equilibrium. One day it might attack your feeling of confidence and send you reeling into a mental abyss. On another, it might act as an oracle, providing insights into the deep terrain of your subconscious mind. Whatever path it chooses, the results are always shocking.

Now that I look back on it, I can see that the flood of this dark effluent began towards the end of the very first day. It is necessary at this point to characterize the conditions we hiked last Friday so you get a sense of our mental and physical landscapes: The Springer approach trail is a bitch, no two ways about it. It is outlandishly steep, sometimes slippery, insanely rocky in stretches, and it winds before you like a dark tunnel full of such nonhuman sounds that any city boy will quiver in fear and cry out for his mama quietly under his breath. I certainly did.

Within a half mile, I knew two things very clearly. One: my pack was horribly overweight. Two: I was in no shape for the steep inclines I was facing. Had I been able to muster the presence of mind to focus, I might have heard the peals of laughter from the tormentor deep inside of me. Instead, I was huffing, puffing, and wheezing with such ferocity that I was only able to place one foot in front of the other. In fact, my brain was teetering on the thin edge of reality. I kept asking Ryan and Alexander if they could hear the drumming sound emanating from the forest. Of course, they heard nothing. The drumming was inside me. It was my very own heart beating so powerfully, so loudly, that the sound seemed to originate outside me. When I finally made this tiny discovery, I had only one pitiful thought: Yikes, I am in big trouble!

(You may be thinking at this juncture that Hugh loves using a wee bit of literary license to elevate his tale, and that I am wildly exaggerating. Sadly, I am not. Feel free to contact either of my boys, and they will be glad, albeit embarrassed for their dad, to verify my simpering state of disorientation.)

At the “final act” of the Springer approach trail, the juncture with the AT,  one would anticipate a grand feeling of accomplishment and victory: “Yes, we made it! Wow, that was brutal. We just slogged through eight miles of hell, but now we stand atop Springer Mountain. We win!” But then there is the harsh realization that you did all of this just to reach Mile Zero on the Appalachian Trail. Of course, you knew this before you ever left the comfort of the lodge, but when you see that mileage sign on top of the mountain with its big, fat, emblazoned zero, the reality slams home.

In fact, from this point forward, no matter how far your journey along the AT takes you, the approach trail is simply a non sequitur. “Hey, I just hiked one hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail!” Sorry chum, the approach trail at Springer Mountain doesn’t really count. If you don’t believe me, just read any of the published Appalachian Trail guides out there. The mileage starts from the top of Springer Mountain. Not the bottom. So the only benefit to having conquered the approach trail is the knowledge that you did it—and the ecstasy a religious penitent might experience for having suffered its precipitous climb.

By the last half mile on Springer, I had lost sight of the boys. They had steadfastly waited for me throughout the day as I laboriously brought up the rear. But at this point, I understood it was really every man for himself, and both Ryan and Alexander were fighting their own battles for survival. I had been sweating so profusely that, earlier in the day, Alexander tied a spare American-flag bandanna around my head to help cease the flow of stinging sweat pouring into my eyes. The added benefit was that it kind of gave me that Billy Jack sort of look, which added a layer of 1970s hip to my trail image and gave me the sense that even “A Born Loser” such as myself might yet make it to the top of Springer Mountain.

One of the most useful tools we have employed on our journey came to the fore almost immediately. The cell phone app “Guthook’s Guide to the AT” is a wonderfully useful piece of technology. It has almost every bit of info that one might need to tackle the 2,178 miles of the trail. Life-saving data such as water sources, trail elevations, shelters, mileage points, yes—but to me the best part is that it tells you, via the use of GPS (so it doesn’t require cell connection), precisely how far you are from any destination point. I mention this because during that last half mile at the top I had to take a “Spanish Pause” (Jack Nicholson in Going South—his term for taking a break) about every couple of hundred feet. I would sit long enough to catch my breath, wipe the overflow of sweat from my eyes, nibble on a cheese stick or Clif Bar, and reference my progress via Mr. Guthook. At this point, I was referencing my pace up the trail in feet rather than miles. I would sit as long as I could—or until I heard an unidentifiable sound from the woods (bears!). And since almost every sound at this point was unidentifiable, I kept moving at a snail’s pace towards the summit.

It was in this last stretch that the hallucinations began. Every hundred yards or so, I could have sworn that I saw someone out of the corner of my eye. There would be quick movement behind a bush or tree, and I would see a human form standing there. As quickly as I turned my head to look more directly, it would be gone. The whole thing was very unsettling, and after three or four occurrences, I was seriously questioning my mental capacities. Yet I never once thought that I might have unleashed a flood of dark matter throughout my system. This is the tricky nature of the stuff. You just never see it coming.

Finally, on my last sit down, the wind had been completely unleashed from my sails. I was bonking hard, and I knew it. I removed my pack and leaned against a large rock, consuming Clif Bars and mozzarella cheese sticks and guzzling my electrolyte water in order to send nutrients to my feeble body as well as my mind. A check with Mr. Guthook said I was 534 feet from mile zero. I knew that the boys were just above me—in fact, I knew that they had many hikers in their company, that there was a veritable party of survivors whooping it up just over the crest of the summit, while I was hopelessly lost in a never-ending maze of forest.

For a moment I experienced a bolt of terror, thinking I had sidestepped into a situation akin to Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day experience, and that I would be forever caught in a endless loop on the Appalachian Trail—forever bonking, sentenced to an eternal diet of Clif Bars, cheese sticks, and grape-flavored electrolyte water. But this was not to be my fate. At that fading moment, I caught sight of another movement to my left. The form was large, and for a brief instant I knew the bears had found me. Instead, when I mustered the courage to slowly turn my head, I was met by the loving visage of my father, clad in his favorite plaid, wool Pendleton shirt, western-cut khakis, and rough-out, round-toed boots. He smiled—then he was gone. I sat there for a long moment, tears welling in the corners of my eyes, and felt a warm flow of renewed energy revisit my body. Ten minutes later, I was standing beside my boys looking over the summit of Springer Mountain, happy to have made it.

This was just the beginning. During the next few days, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to view it, I would see my father for a fleeting moment. On the fourth night, we slept in our rented cabin at Blood Mountain. That night, I had a dream—and in it my father was with me. Since his death almost eight years ago, he has visited me in dreams on only two or three other occasions. Each time, his presence has held a specific meaning for me, and now was no different.

In the dream, he and I were riding along in an old blue Ford sedan—a car he owned when I was a small child. Dad was driving, and I was the age I am now and seated in the passenger seat. Both our windows were rolled down, the weather was perfect, and the wind blew through my (non-buzzed) hair. Neither of us were speaking, but a peace pervaded the vehicle like warm, brilliant sunlight, and I was basking in its aura. It was then that we rounded a turn on the edge of a small lake that lay to our left. In it, I saw a school of small fish jumping from the surface—splashing about as if something was after them. Dad did not seem to notice, he just continued along the long arc of road that led around the lake. But for some reason, I couldn’t take my eye off the school of fish. And then, suddenly, an enormous fish broke the surface, revealing its golden underbelly and dark flank. I knew it was a large-mouth bass, but it was huge. He must have been 20 to 30 pounds, making it possibly the biggest large-mouth in existence.

I asked dad to stop the car.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on a green, grassy slope at the edge of the lake looking down into water that was as dark as richly brewed black tea. Out of the depths, glided the enormous fish I had seen, and although it was as big, if not bigger, than I had imagined, I could see it was starving, for his flanks were withered and thin, and a ball of monofilament fishing line was wrapped tightly about its upper torso and great mouth. There was no way this beautiful monster could have caught the small fish he had been pursuing because his mouth was wound tightly shut. There was an empty golden hook dangling at the end of the line, and it was embedded under one of the creature’s large scales. I felt a flood of compassion for its plight and knew he was approaching me for help.

I waded into the water, and reached out, grasped the gold hook, and slowly unwound the tangled line from the fish’s body. It took several minutes to accomplish my task, and the entire time the creature just gazed at me, its large dark eyes filled with complete trust and hope. After the line was removed, the fish stayed where it was. I turned it around so it was free to return home, back to the middle of the lake and watched as, slowly, its giant tail propelled it forward. But only for a few feet—then the fish stopped, and stayed where it was for a long while. I could tell it was thinking, making a decision about something. I had no inkling of what that might be, but I was transfixed by whatever transformational process it was undergoing.

Then, in a rush, it flipped back to me with a renewed strength and swam up my extended arm, gazing at me with the same pure trust, to which was now added a radiant joy I can only assume was caused by his recent release. He was displaying his thanks, and, if a fish can love, an expression of love for me. We stayed in that position for a long time, and as the fish wiggled with evident pleasure on my outstretched arm, I could feel the gaze of my father over my right shoulder. I turned to look at him, and he was there with the same broad and engaging smile I had seen in the forest, and I could sense an expansive radiant warmth that encompassed him and me and the wonderful creature still fast upon my left arm.

As dreams so often do, this one ended at just the moment I wished it would not, and I found myself awake in my bed, left with the memory of it all and wondering what it was trying to tell me. I am not an interpreter of the unconscious mind, but we have all read that if there is a message for us in our dreams, it is usually one we’ve conjured, made from images that make stories about our lives. Sure, some people may have the gift of precognition and prophecy, but mostly we dream about ourselves. As I see it, the fish was me, and I suppose that I once again I found myself  attempting to set myself free—to untangle the lines which bind me.

For some confounding reason I have elected to do this by the most strenuous means at my disposal—hiking the Appalachian Trail.

How “Treebeard” became “Missed It”

“Missed It” gazing out of the shelter on Blood Mountain

I am writing to you this Wednesday morning from the kitchen table of  Wild Boar Cabin, just a few short blocks from the AT. The windows are open, and I am surrounded by a thick canopy of trees and the golden tint of filtered sunlight. This is how it has been here in Georgia. The forest is so dense that you rarely emerge from it to face the sun. I have yet to wear my sunglasses. The fresh air is cool, and light sparkles off the leaves of the elms, poplars, and oaks on this sunny, south-facing mountain slope.

But amidst the beauty of our surroundings, Alexander and I are feeling a wrenching sadness. We sent Ryan back on the shuttle about an hour ago, and the loss of his ebullient force leaves a void we have not yet decided how to fill. In just a few short days, he carved out his role as navigator and trail greeter, leading the way and setting the pace for Alexander and me to follow. Ryan gave himself the trail name “Tree Beard,” which he acquired from his favorite book, The Lord of the Rings. However, he promptly lost that trail moniker the second night of the journey. We had stopped to resupply water at a small spring near the shelter, when a troop of Boy Scouts from Birmingham passed us. Ryan was concerned we would not be able to find a campsite, so he powered himself forward to ensure a place for us. Alexander and I arrived about forty-five minutes later, only to find no evidence of Ryan.

After quizzing the entire campground, some 20-30 persons, and learning that no one had seen Treebeard, we were quite worried. Just when we thought a search party was in order, he appeared walking zombie fashion down the shelter trail. Alexander and I were busy making camp, collecting firewood, and setting about our preparations for dinner. At first we were annoyed, thinking Ryan was making a joke of his tardiness, while we set camp. Quickly, however, Ryan told us he had missed the sign and side trail for the shelter and plunged down a steep mile trail that made a juncture at a forest service road. He had to back-track up the wicked inclined in order to rejoin us at Hawk’s Mountain Shelter. His zombie walk was no put on, but rather simple exhaustion.

From that moment, Treebeard became “Missed It.”

A Fat Boy In The Woods

A fat boy in the woods enjoying tea

When I consider the attraction we humans feel to nature—“the call of the wild”—it boggles my mind. Considering the millions of years we have spent emerging from Homo-erectus and his kissing cousins, I suppose the magnetic pull is intrinsic. We must be genetically coded for it. I feel certain that those scientists that devote their lives to sequencing our genetic code and isolating the specific functions of our DNA will someday find, tucked deep down inside that helix, the smiling face of “Mr. Green Gene.”

Having just emerged from a four-day stint in the woods, I am overwhelmed by my desire to slip back into that ecological cocoon, where I felt as if I were a living cog in the natural system. Even as the complete novice woodsman that I am, I feel I belong in the land of the turkey, chipmunk, and bear. Don’t get me wrong, I miss all of the comforts of home—the hot showers, the abundance of food, the warmth of my soft bed, and the company of my wife, pets, and friends.

And in truth, I am still tethered to that world by the internet, by my cell phone, by Facebook. But significantly less so than before I hit the woods. And I have enjoyed sharing this journey through those marvels of technology and am thankful they are available to me as I move slowly along the Appalachian Trail. Without them, I would feel more alone, more isolated in a foreign world, more fearful of those things I hear each night, when I am sequestered in the confines of my delicate tent. Certainly, without the digital connection, I would not have the sense that every one of you is traveling with me as I trudge up the rocky slope of each wickedly steep north-Georgia mountain and stumble down its equally steep and slippery other side.

Yet even as I make these confessions and concessions, I find I am still thrilled to be in the great outdoors and on the Appalachian Trail. For example, I find a special satisfaction each time we stop to collect water for the miles ahead, knowing with a startling clarity that this liquid we take so utterly for granted in the “real world” sustains our very lives. Frankly, it tickles the hell out of me when we coax liter upon liter of clear H2O into our plastic containers. Finding the mere dribbles and drops of a small spring along the path becomes a huge cause for celebration in our day. Standing with heavy packs and dry mouths before such a source, we understand it is nothing short of a miracle, and I feel as if nature has favored our journey, provided a blessing so that we may continue onward on the trail—a blessing without which we would simply wither and die.

My son, Alexander, has become the water gatherer on this trip. He has displayed such great ability at keeping us supplied from the minute trickles that I feel an immense pride in watching him at work. I realize, as he displays his ingenuity, that my young son has grown up, become self sustaining in the ways a father hopes for his son. I have realized too, that he is at his best here in the forest. Where many might be daunted by the challenges of nature, he excels. And of course, all of this makes me wonder about the round holes into which we force the square pegs of our own and our children’s abilities in “regular life.” I think this is the beauty and higher purpose of places like the AT. They help us bring order and clarity in a way that no measure of higher education or counseling can ever achieve.

Tomorrow, Alexander and I once again slip behind the veil of the forest and prepare to follow the trail for another four or five days before re-emerging to resupply in Hiawasee, Georgia. For those four or five days, I’ll be back into “trail consciousness”—a state in which I look both forward and ever inward. What I have found there so far are things that like to replay themselves on the stage of my life.

For instance, once again, I have jumped with both feet into a strange world, unprepared and grossly out of shape. Five years ago, I made a similar move, deciding to ride my bicycle two thousand miles, while having never ridden farther than a mile or so around my mid-town neighborhood. Now, I have plunged into the wilds of nature with a fifty-pound pack on my back, bound for Damascus, Virginia. I am not entirely sure why I choose to do these things, but when I cogitate a bit, I see there is something about it that appeals to me. For starters, I think I enjoy embracing the opposite of myself. I am clearly a “fat boy in the woods” on this adventure, as I was a bit of a “bear on a bike” five years ago. The humor here is not lost on me—but when it gets down to it, I believe there is an Olympian deep down inside my corpulent soul that aches to come out. It is a better version of Hugh, one who, every so often pulls me aside and says, “Hey, Sport, don’t you think its time to take a look at things! I mean, really, you have let yourself go. Again. Blood pressure is up. Cholesterol is up. What’s with the chest pain? Let’s face it, you ain’t getting any younger, and a drool cup and cane is not a good look.”

The good thing is that I tend to listen to the my inner Olympian. It’s like a switch trips, and I lift my head out of the mire of my life and say, “OK, I think you are right.” The bad thing is I choose something crazy: “OK! I will hike 450 miles of the Appalachian Trail! Will that shut you up?” I shout, when what Olympian Hugh might have really meant was, “Why don’t we go for a walk, Sport? Or go on a diet and join the gym?”

Too late, Oly. I have moved full speed ahead, fully engaged with my new adventure.

The decision to jettison everything for a journey like this is really a decision to let go of everything that is strangling you. It’s not just one thing, not just the job, or the house, or the bills; it’s the whole big, ugly beast out there—the world we have created. Because, when I stop and think about it, I like my job, I enjoy my co-workers, I love my wife, and I kind of like my place in the world. But when I break it down, I feel the world is killing me. I feel lost, I often feel alone, disconnected from my community, and I wonder with a hopeless angst what we are trying to achieve as a society. The bigger part of me likes—no, loves—people, and I work in a job where I see a lot of pain and hopelessness. It’s a new thing for me to see so much suffering so close at hand. I guess at the ripe age of fifty-nine I am opening my eyes.

The more I study my condition, the more I think it’s one we all share. Maybe some experience it to a higher degree than others, but I believe that in those lonely long hours of the night we are all visited by these same thoughts: What are we doing? Where are we heading? Why can’t we come together in ways that make us feel whole? For me, these questions tend to bring me down, and I just spiral further and further inside myself, turning the screw of my own condition tighter and tighter as I go.

Last night, Alexander asked me why I was making this trip. His question caught me off guard. I should have expected it because that is the kind of young man he is. He’s a thinker, and he wants to know what motivates people, especially his father. So I gave him the bullshit answer: “Well son, I want to lose weight and clear my head and get focused on my life.” OK, so this is not entirely BS, but it’s close. I will have to read this to him later. I think it’s a more honest answer to his question.

As I sit in the cabin this morning, I am preparing to let go. Alexander helped me cut my hair—buzzed my head in fact. I look in the mirror and am not sure who is looking back. But that is the way I want to be: unsure, and separated from the person who left home just a few days ago. I want to be open to discover something new when it occurs. If I thought it would help, I would strip off my clothes, coat my body in mud, and run headlong into the forest. It is my hope that I can re-emerge lighter in form and spirit so that I am better able to deal with the world as it is—and maybe out of all of this, be better prepared to help someone else when they are considering making a journey of their own.

* * *

As we crossed Blood Mountain yesterday, I could feel an energy emanating from the earth. There is wisdom there and a voice to be heard. I believe you just have to listen.

These are the thoughts of a fat boy as he enters the woods.

Camp Ivanhoe

Alexander making coffee at Camp Ivanhoe while Ila Mae looks on

If you have wondered whether my foot is better and if I am still planning to hike the Appalachian Trail in September, the answer to both questions is, Yes, and I leave tomorrow. Actually, my two boys, Alexander and Ryan, are going with me, Ryan for the first five days and Alexander for the entire journey.

So, tomorrow is departure day for the three of us, as we load our heavy backpacks into the back of the old silver Caddy, my pack weighing in at a sturdy forty-eight pounds, Alexander’s at forty-five, and Ryan’s at forty-point-five pounds. We will travel beyond Atlanta into the mountains of north Georgia at Amicalola Falls State Park—a distance of four hundred fifty-seven miles—and spend one luxurious night at the park lodge. Then, after a hearty breakfast, we shall embark upon our walking journey.

The Appalachian Trail doesn’t really start there. It is necessary for us to hike eight miles along the approach trail upwards some 2000 feet over the course of the day, to reach the southern terminus of the A.T. It is there that we shall encounter the first of the white trail blazes, the two-to-three inch-wide stripes of paint, about eight inches in height, that mark the trail all the way to Maine. There is a blaze approximately every hundred yards or so, and these friendly stripes situated on the bark of trees will help us to stay on course.

Tree Beard, Straight to Bottom, and Teatime packed and ready!

It is tradition that each hiker chooses a trail name for him – or herself to help distinguish individuals in the trail registers that we will sign all along our journey. So, starting Friday, I will be leaving behind the moniker of “Hugh” and instead shall become “Teatime,” a nod to my exuberant love of tea. Alexander shall become “Straight to Bottom” (a story in itself, about a dark night, a bottle of rum, and a precipitous gang plank on a small island in the Bahamas), and Ryan, with his full and well-manicured facial mane, shall take on the trail name of “Tree Beard.”

I believe there is something to this name thing that goes beyond an easy way to tell between the five or ten Bobs, Sallies, or Joes who might be hiking at any given time. It is a small rite of letting go, of leaving behind our normal world and the name that binds us to that place. As we take our first steps into the forests of the Appalachian wilderness, we go forward as different people. We have, in a way, willingly rebranded ourselves and become people whose history is only as long as the number of steps we take along the trail.

I like that. It feels clean and new, and it allows each of us to drop our normal set of baggage at the base of Springer Mountain and move forward unburdened, ready to experience all that nature has to give.

My last day at work was Friday, and since then I have been busy tending to my gear and to the organizing principles that allow one to make a journey of this sort. Already, it has become apparent that there are two distinct theories on how this should occur: my own and that of my son Alexander. I fall into the camp of dry-bag organizing, while Alexander champions the single-bag stuffer technique. It is not that either is inherently right or wrong, but Alexander comes to this trip with solid experience, having spent thirty days in the wilderness of Wyoming on a National Outdoor Leadership adventure when he was fifteen. Myself, I have not completed an overnight stay in the great outdoors since, well, since God was a boy. My predilection for organizing my various accoutrements into brightly colored dry bags is a sign of my age—and a sign that somewhere deep inside my psyche is a desire to bring order to an experience that already frightens the bejesus out of me.

It’s not entirely the long miles up one mountain and down another that lies ahead of me, nor the many days of travel without the luxury of the normal food which I dearly love, nor the normal shower(s) I relish taking, or even sleeping on the ground with nothing more than a three-mil polyester tent wall around me. It is a deeper, more primal angst that feeds my fear.

It’s the bears.

I have to face the fact that, for all of my nonchalance about life in general, there exists inside of me a deep and dark well of fear. I recall making my cycling trip across America five years ago. At that time, it was the shadow of zooming semi-trucks that kept me up at night and made my hands shake ever so slightly as I gripped my handlebars each morning. I was certain that one of those ugly beasts would veer into my path and pancake my human form somewhere on a lonely road in some no-name location in America. But if I think back across my life, there have been many of these fears (boogeymen) that have sent chills down my spine. When I was a kid, I was terrified of the dark and the shadows that formed in my room at night. Later, when I made my way to the beach I was terrified of the sharks that swam hidden in the murky waters of the Atlantic. Now it’s the bears who are waiting for me in the dense Appalachian forest. But I try to remain positive, so I am trying to focus on the grandness of the forest that surrounds the Appalachian Trail (and on organizing my stuff) and not spend any more time thinking about bears.

I have come to realize that there is always something lurking—some dark, ominous, seething thing that is out to get me, trying with all its cunning to snuff out my candle, to drag me kicking and screaming into the night. Maybe everyone feels this way, a holdover from our prehistoric ancestors who really did have to fend off threatening beasts at every turn. But in view of our present reality, I see that I am a bit of a pussy, when it comes right down to it. I think I make trips like this one to try to fight my inherent nature.

* * *

On Monday night, Alexander and I spent the night in the backyard inside the warm cocoon of our tents. It was a shake-down run, so to speak. I had ordered new tent poles and needed to see if they fit. Did my air mattress have a hole in it? Would it take thirty minutes to blow up? (I went for the three-inch luxury model. No aching back for this fifty-nine year old.) It only took four minutes, which is acceptable.

The shake-down was fine, but already I was ready to be on the trail. Despite my nest of fears I was ready to go.

The next morning, I awoke to an osprey circling overhead. I could hear her chirping above me, riding the air currents on a cool September morning, as she searched for her breakfast and wondered what, if anything, she could glean from the human encampment below. I took her appearance as a good omen, a sign that we had been blessed and our journey along the trail would be safe. Later, Alexander tested his new Whisper-Lite stove and we sat in lawn chairs with my dog Ila Mae at our side and drank hot coffee from camp cups. Alexander called our setting “Camp Ivanhoe.” It’s a name taken from the Wes Anderson movie Moonrise Kingdom and the Scout camp of the same name. Alexander knows how much I enjoyed the quirkiness of the film and the nostalgic look from a moment in the 1960s. In his great, loving, and omniscient way he surmised that dad was attempting his own step back in time by attempting our journey.

The name Camp Ivanhoe brought a warm feeling of joy in my heart. It rolled back the hands of time for a man staring down his sixtieth year. The last time I set foot on the Appalachian Trail, I was thirteen years of age and had been named “honor camper” at Camp Alpine for Boys. The year was 1969, and I walked fifteen miles of the trail in an area very close to where my boys and I will start on Friday. With my camp counselor, Fred Benice, and a group of young kids, mostly from Miami, I spent two days suspended in a world high above anything I had ever experienced. Fred showed us plants we could eat, berries we could forage, and how to start a fire in the rain with only one match. For me, a wide-eyed boy from Jacksonville, this was a rite of passage. I never forgot that trip, its beauty, but mostly the freedom I felt wandering along a winding path high in the Appalachian Forest.

Easy Does It, One Step At a Time

The New Shoe, The Giro Rumble – Caffeine or Death Socks Optional

It is a sweet Sunday morning, and I am out for a long walk, testing out the tender right foot. About ten days ago, I thoughtfully kicked the podiatrist’s Össur Compression Boot (with internal pump system) to the curb. In its stead, I have opted for the sleek, but firm-soled, Giro Rumble Cycling Shoe. Because of the Rumble’s stiff sole, my foot cannot move as it was accustomed to in the Keen Arroyo II Hiking Sandal. By comparison with the Giro, the Keen is a shoe with little more than a flapping hinge of a sole—far too flexible for a man in my precarious metatarsal condition. The selection of the Rumble is really a straight-forward choice, geared to acquire a much-needed structural integrity. And, in a fortuitous turn of synchronicity, a pair was anxiously waiting to be laced up just inside my closet.

Mechanically speaking, the Össur Boot held my foot in an unbendable pose so that the fracture could heal. It is my hope the Giro Rumble will perform in a like manner. The problem with the boot was that it also upset the already delicate muscular alignment within my body. Not only did the foot continue to hurt, but so did my hip, back, and neck. Additionally, I was unable to perform my job as IT Manager, hobbling around, as I was, with a concrete-block accessory strapped to my right leg. (If you desire to test the consequences of such a boot without actually having to have one prescribed for you, just duct-tape a 2″ x 4″ wooden block to the bottom of one of your shoes, then walk around all day. Presto! Hip, back, and neck pain. Guaranteed.)

Faced with pain—and the possible end of my AT journey a good two months before it even starts—I have been in hot pursuit of healing options. Over the past several weeks, I have sought resolution in a bevy of foot-related apparatus and alternative medical procedures. Below is a list of these recent efforts.

Hugh’s Healing List

1. Tried and abandoned: a cushy pair of Dr. Scholl’s foam inserts that the cashier at CVS swore changed his “bi-pedal” life. I have since learned from both my podiatrist and chiropractor that these retail shoe inserts do nothing more than provide a little bounce to the inside of your shoe. Maybe a little “cush” is all you need, but my right dog is barking for more. On a rating scale of 1 to 10, Dr. Scholl’s is basically a 1. Save your money (and don’t tell the guy at CVS I told you; it might hurt his feelings).

2. I am now wearing a professional strength orthotic that comes highly recommended by my chiropractor. A similar pair helped him overcome foot pain on his very own AT journey, just a few years ago. Unlike the Dr. Scholl’s cush pads, these actually do some good and, in combination with the right shoe, are a help.

3. I recently purchased (I won’t even tell you what these cost; I knew it was a long shot, but, hey, I am desperate), wore, and abandoned a patented inflatable shoe insert from an Italian inventor who sounds like he is really from the Czech Republic. Nikola manufactures each buoyant pair by hand in his garage in Los Angeles. These inserts look like a cross between a miniature life raft and a flat eggplant. Please take careful note: the inflatable sole has a small, red pump built into the bottom panel, and if you have a tendency to over-pump them, they will actually lift you clean out of your shoes! Son of Flubber has nothing on this guy.

4. When I haven’t been inserting weird shit in my shoe in hopes of a miracle cure, I have been driving to Palm Coast to visit my acupuncturist, Dr. Hu (not to be confused with Dr. Who). There may be something a bit masochistic in this type of treatment, but his procedures don’t really hurt—unless, of course, they do. In reality, there is virtually no pain, except when Dr. Hu or his attractive assistant Dr. Lee wiggles one on those 6” needles, while it is firmly implanted in a really sensitive chi point. I am not really sure why they do this, but usually a good Yowwwsa! on my part gets them to stop. Oddly, the upshot of being stuck with about 20 or 30 stainless steel acupuncture needles is that you have a tendency to nod off and drool. A lot. Logistically, I have been forced to pare down my alternate healing protocols to local providers only, so I haven’t been back to see Dr. Hu. I did however enjoy relaxing and talking trash with Dr. Lee.

5. I have now established a standing Friday appointment for chiropractic alignment from John Worz. John has been cracking me up literally and figuratively since 1990. My foot may not be getting any better but my neck feels great!

6. The same goes for weekly visits for deep tissue massage from Betsy, at Ocean Vibes Massage. This girl can open a tuna fish can with her bare hands, and my gastrocnemius muscle feels like it’s 21 again!

Okay, so back to the story.

As of Thursday, July 30th, I was basically in Shitsville. The sum total of all my healing efforts had yielded a big, fat goose egg. I was shocked that, after all of the inserting, needling, cracking, and massaging, I had to admit my foot was simply no better than before, and relief was nowhere in sight. To my surprise, I was secretly lured by the insistent voice of my podiatrist, “the man in the white coat.”

Maybe, the doctor is right, I said to myself. Maybe, I will just have to pull the plug on this entire hiking adventure. Until . . . well, until my foot doesn’t hurt, I lamented.

As I silently muttered those words, my entire expedition began spiraling hopelessly out of control. Regretfully, I was a willing participant in my own demise. I understand, now, the helpless feeling a hooked fish must experience as he makes one last valiant run for freedom, while all the while being hauled, crank by relentless crank, straight into a waiting net. It’s hard to do your best thinking when a hook is set in your mouth and a tight line is bent on reeling you in.

But I live in this linear world, and because I do, I have a tendency to take the predictable route under such stressful circumstances. Maybe we all do. I think it’s just human nature to put the mind on cruise control and follow the wisdom of the man in the white coat.

I am living in a linear world. Right?

As I drove home from work on Thursday, my foot hurt. “Throbbed” would be more accurate. I was dejected and depressed and, yes, if the truth be known, a little angry. Angry because I was feeling my mortality. One day away from my fifty-ninth birthday, and I was blatantly facing the fact that I was no longer a resident in a lithe and youthful body. I had the will to proceed, but maybe no longer the brawn. For a guy, even at fifty-nine years of age, having to acknowledge that fact really hurts. But as I slowed at the stop light in Hastings, I experienced an urgent tug in my gut. It was almost like a panic attack, but the sensation was lower. For a split second, I was confused and nervous, but then it dawned on me. It was a wake-up call! Like ring-a-ding, WAKE UP MF! PAY ATTENTION! In a flash, cogs moved and gears locked into place. Suddenly a small chute opened, kind of like the slot that appears when a bag of candy drops from a vending machine. A card fell out, and the message was clear: If you go to your scheduled podiatrist’s appointment on Monday, the Appalachian Trail hiking trip will be over. Zip, bam, boom.

Often, I take a while to comprehend things. This I understood immediately. I decided then and there to kick the podiatrist to the curb. Him and his boot. All of those years of medical school and training had not prepared him to see my problem with an outcome other than a compression boot and a pair of crutches. I was in need of positive vibes. And so, I laid my throbbing right foot on the brake and swung the Caddy into an empty parking space at the Kangaroo gas station and called his office to cancel my Monday session.

It’s strange, but I could swear my aching foot felt a surge of relief.

The dismissal was nothing personal. I simply felt as if I were falling into a trap. I felt suffocated and couldn’t breathe. I reached over and turned the air conditioning up full blast, hoping the cold air would dry the beads of sweat that had formed on my forehead. As others around me pumped gas, toted six packs of cold beer, and ate Cheetos, creating brilliant smears of electric cheese upon their lips, I watched a small but high definition video play inside my head. It was a French film, entitled Raison d’être (Reason for Being), about a small-town foot doctor with legions of hobbling patients. The starring role was played by a guy who looked remarkably like my own podiatrist, except that he smoked a big Cuban cigar and sported a pencil-thin mustache. The whole thing had the look and feel of a Charlie Chaplin silent movie, with frames whirring quickly, as the good doctor strapped huge iron anchors to his patients’ feet before pushing them out of his office and sending them stumbling into the street.

I sat there at the pump laughing to myself, the air conditioner blowing ice cold air across my cheeks, while I thought about what I was up to and what I really wanted in this world. I realized that I was getting old and had let things go for a long time. There were lists of things I wanted to do and adventures I wanted to complete. It’s funny. I never thought of any of them when I was in my twenties, thirties, or forties. It was only after I reached my mid-fifties that I formed a desire to ride my bicycle across America. And now I wanted more than anything to hike 450 miles of the Appalachian Trail.

Truth be known, I want to hike all 2,178 miles, but I can’t yet concoct a plan to come up with the six months of free time to make that happen—not without abandoning my wife and eighty-eight year old mother.

I suppose that is really what this is all about. Time or the lack of it. It’s also about fear and realizing my limits for the first time in my life.

I saw my chiropractor, John, on Friday morning, and he probed every pressure point on my body before announcing, “Hugh, you are doing good, really good, except for the fucking foot, of course! Let’s give the cycling shoes another week. Try walking on it. Let’s see what you can do. If you have to, maybe then it’s time for the boot.”

On Saturday morning, I saw Betsy, and she worked out all the grit in my legs and feet. She had tears of pain welling in my eyes, but it felt good, anyhow. I told her of my conversation with John and my plan to start walking. To test the foot.

Positive vibes.

It’s Sunday, now, as I sit at the counter at The Blue Hen Café on ML King Avenue. I am writing this post mostly on my iPhone, until I realize I have a lot to say, so I guess I will finish it on my laptop when I get home. I walked here. Distance: 1.43 miles. And after breakfast, I will take a different route home. Shooting for three miles today.

Easy does it. One step at a time.

Shoe Bootie

The Shoe and The Boot

Last week, with the upcoming AT journey ever present in my mind, I thought it might be wise to see a foot doctor regarding the ache I have in my right foot—a lingering pain I have been experiencing for the past six months or so. Earlier, I had done some research on the web and came to the conclusion that the pain and numbness between the toes of my right foot must be what physicians call a Morton’s Neuroma, an inflammation in the nerve which runs between the third and fourth toes. At that point in time, and until just recently, I had adjusted to the pain and minor numbness. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but I could live with it.

Then, just last week, the whole thing simply got worse. The pain spread across the top of my foot and the intensity of the pain dramatically increased. At my Monday appointment with the podiatrist, it was his diagnosis that the source of the foot-pain is a stress fracture. How it happened is unclear. I cannot retrace any occurrence which might have resulted in a fractured bone in my foot. Specifically, the metatarsal bone at the base of my big toe. The only way for this to heal, I am told is to immobilize the foot by way of a compression boot, and to use crutches as much as possible. In six to eight weeks, “It is possible that you might [heavy emphasis on “might”] still be able to make your hike,” said the good foot doctor.

_____________________________________

 

In all fairness, looks can be deceiving. What is that inscription we see etched on the driver’s side mirror of our automobile? Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. Of course, we all know this is just a nice way of saying, Beware of the menace that lurks behind you. In this case, it is not necessary for me to look in the rear view mirror—the object (my right foot) is clearly in focus. Or, as my 94-year old French mother in-law says, in her heavily accented voice, “clearly in phuckus.”

The real questions I keep asking myself, however, are these: Is the foot thing a menace? Or is it a message? Are unseen forces in my life attempting to ground me? If so, for what purpose? Or, is this a test to determine my commitment level for this journey?

Are spiritual forces asking me, “How strong is your desire to scramble up one mountain and then down the other side? Is a 465-mile trek in the wilderness really that important to you? It’s going to be hot, then cold and wet,” they remind me. Yes, wet. “You are going to trudge through days of rain,” they intone. “Does that really sound like fun to you?”

What strikes me most about my predicament is the complete irony of this situation. For the past two years, I have been attempting to come to terms with stress levels in my life and slowly inching my way towards a decision that would restructure my career and possibly change it altogether—in order to once again acquire a life that leaves time for myself, my family, and those things that mean so much to me. My plan is to take time from work and my responsibilities at home, which include the care of my eighty-eight year old mother, to strike out on the AT in order to renew myself through physical exercise and contact with nature. This approach worked extremely well for me in the spring of 2010, when I pedaled my bicycle from St. Augustine, Florida, to Taos, New Mexico. Once again, I am ready to invoke this same prescription—when a fractured foot places everything in limbo.

Have you ever noticed that when you plan something big in your life, or make a decision to steer your boat into uncharted waters, there is often some unseen force that intervenes and challenges that choice? It’s what I like to call “the paradox of a firm decision.”

I believe spiritual voices constantly test us and our resolve to make choices that hold the power to change our lives. And yet, there are those other voices too, the nay-saying, finger-wagging, negative voices that we call our inner demons. I have heard those voices as well, for most of my 58-and-7/8th years. They tend to be louder, more obnoxious than their spiritual counterparts, and they like to scream, or rant—a lot. Demeaning is a popular pastime amongst their ilk.

They have even been known to cajole in an attempt to sideline any idea one might have that tests the bounds of quote “normal life.” “Your foot hurts Hugh,” they squeal. “Stay home. Be responsible. Go to work. Do your job. Take care of your mom, your wife, and your pets, and let go of this whimsical adventure crap,” they rattle off like an auctioneer selling pigs at the county fair. “You are 58-and-7/8ths years old for God’s sake. Who in the Hell do you think you are? Ha, ha. You won’t make it to the end of the approach trail at Amicalola State Park, much less out of Georgia. Grow up!” And with that, I hear their chorus of laughter fade into silence, leaving me breathing heavily in an atmospheric effluent of all the doubting Thomases I have ever known.

I am unsure of the source of these petty demons, but I know for sure their efforts are relentless. The little buggers followed me each and every day of my two-thousand mile bicycle journey across America. They especially loved to chime in on the really steep climb-outs in Texas, or earlier, in the sweltering heat and humidity, as I pedaled my way from Florida to Louisiana. Their high-pitched squealing voices reminded me of the chorus of piglets that sung the Frosty Morn sausage commercial from the 1960s. It was this humorous childhood memory that saved me. It gave me power over them. As far as I was concerned, they were mere piglets on the way to the sausage factory. I admit that at first their attempts were unsettling and almost upended my trip before it was able to gather a momentum of its own. Eventually, as I put more miles behind me, their chiding became a background chatter that I learned to tune out. In the end, as I rode my victory lap around the Taos plaza (my final destination) they became spiteful and jeered at me, shouting, “Wait until next time. This was a fluke! A lucky farce!”

Such little turds they are, these whimpering voices of doom.

And so today, as I look down at my left foot in its Keen Arroyo II Trekking sandal and my right foot in its dark anchor of the Össur compression boot (with internal pump-up system), I sincerely want to cry, as I think of the danger it poses to my upcoming journey. But as I continue to gaze, sadness quickly turns into laughter as I recall another television memory. I am reminded of the 1970s TV series All in the Family and the episode in which Archie Bunker sadly tells his son-in-law, Meathead, about a time when he was a young boy and his family was so poor that he did not have a normal pair of shoes to wear. He only had one shoe and one boot. With tears in his eyes, Archie tells Meathead that he wore that miss-matched pair to school each and every day. The kids made fun of him and nicknamed him “Shoe Bootie.” It was one of the rare times that the bigoted and small-minded Archie Bunker shed a tear on broadcast television.

Today, as I look down from my perch high above these two opposing feet of mine, I realize I have become, in my own way, a kind of “Shoe Bootie.” I may not suffer the trauma young Archie Bunker felt as his heartless peers made fun of his shoes, but I sense that I am a man torn asunder—literally: the left foot from the right. The rest of me, the above-ankle part of my being is held captive by the tensions which stress my body. If I approach my condition in terms of opposing feet and the shoes they wear, the shoe and the boot speak of a truth that is difficult to deny.

The left foot is adorned by the sleek and intrepid Keen Arroyo II trekking sandal. With its active tread pattern, it was made to go forward, eager to chart new territory on the undiscovered trail. The Keen exists to hike the AT and go the creative distance regardless of what may lay ahead. The right foot, however, is encumbered by the massive assemblage of the Össur compression boot with its internal pump-up system. The boot seeks to go where the right always finds itself—mired down by convention, tradition, and the ways of the known world. It is no wonder my right foot hurts. The right foot wants to dominate a path that is ultimately made rocky by the nature of its inherent predictability.

But it is good to remember that our physical aches are traceable to a single source, much like one follows a stream uphill to locate its beginning. There may or may not be a fracture in my right foot. The truth is that it hurts. The real question is why? What was the cause of such a break, if in fact one exists at all?

I believe our physical problems are the outward manifestations of our inner selves. At 58-and-7/8ths years of age, I am at a critical point in my life. Gone is the luxury of time. I am a man staring at the latter third of my life—if I am lucky. I believe my feet are calling for a resolution. They want to know which path I will take. Which one of me is in charge? Do I go forward into the mountains of North Georgia with a possible fracture? Or do I make the predictable call, the smart decision, and remain safely at home? Either way, I believe my foot will heal. Yet the decision I make will determine far more than the mere weeks I have set aside for a brief existence on the Appalachian Trail.

When I stop to analyze my motives, I think that my desire to hike the AT is, in reality, a vision that many men hold somewhere deep inside themselves. Women may feel the same thing, too, but that is a question I cannot answer. I do believe that all men wish to rise above their own lives so they can gain a new perspective on themselves. By literally making our way to the top of a mountain, we somehow transcend the hold that our daily lives have on us. I believe this is a journey that is hard-coded into all men. Secretly, a man says to himself, “If I can make it to the top of the trail that crests high in the mountains above, then, maybe, just maybe, I can look down and see the arc of my own life.”

In my opinion, all men want that. We each desire to know if we are on the right road, doing the right thing, and following our own destiny. That is knowledge that no one else in our lives can tell us. It doesn’t help if a loving wife, friend, sibling, or parent reassures us. Sadly, the truth of who we are in relation to the life we have chosen does not wait for us at home, at work, or even in the eyes of our children. Those things can placate us, but they do not bring the clarity we seek. That can only be found alone at the top of a metaphorical mountain. It is the journey we must experience. And we must choose to make that happen. One shoe—or boot—at a time.