The End of The Trail, Part 2 – A Peacock Comes to Camp

In “The End of the Trail, Part 1,” I recounted the tale of what was meant to be the last morning of our Appalachian Trail journey. Alexander and I had spent the previous night with our friend Stuart, from Texas, at Brown Fork Gap Shelter. Stuart was a highly organized hiker, who liked to be on the trail at first light. His efficiency reawakened some misgivings I’d been harboring about my own competence as an outdoorsman. Luckily, Stuart’s generous nature and his willingness to share his trail knowledge helped me see that my shortcomings as a hiker were simply OK in the grand scheme of things. No matter that other hikers might be more adventurous, more experienced, or, like Stuart, more efficient. I am the man I am. No need to compare myself to anyone.

That morning, after Stuart left the shelter, I sat sipping coffee, awaiting Alexander’s awakening, the day dawning all around me. There is something magical about the forest when the sun makes its first appearance through the trees. And once Alexander awoke, we allowed ourselves to soak in all its wonder. We talked, we watched the morning develop, and we began to mourn, each in our own way, the ending of our time on the AT.

So it was that, later that day, over lunch, we made the choice to linger one more night in the forest. After checking our navigation app, we discovered there was another shelter located less than three miles ahead—four miles shy of our final destination at Fontana Dam. That small decision—to spend one more night on the AT—opened a doorway onto one of the most unusual encounters of our entire journey.

* * * *

We arrive at Cable Gap shelter a few minutes after 3:00 pm. About an hour later, we are joined by Stephen, a fireman from Asheville, North Carolina. Stephen is drenched in sweat and appears to have been running a race. Before he says “Hello,” or removes his pack, or even asks our names, Stephen barks out, “Are you guys sleeping in the shelter, or what?” By this point, Alexander and I have unpacked, inflated our pads, unrolled our sleeping bags, and arranged our gear neatly in the shelter. In a word, it is obvious that we have settled into the shelter for the night.

I think to myself, “This guy could really get under my nerves.” But to be fair, he just hiked fifteen miles in four hours and forty-seven minutes. (Stephen informed us straight off of his astounding pace—a bona fide hiking miracle. Or so he claimed.) “Maybe,” I think, “just maybe, he’s tired, and after all that zooming through the forest his blood sugar is low. It could happen to anyone. Right?” So I decide to give Stephen a break.

It turns out I was wrong.

An hour rolls by, and even though he has eaten a Clif Bar or two, he is still pissing me off with his tales of personal accomplishments. Finally, he asks how far we traveled before arriving at the shelter. But our six-mile day is not up to Stephen’s rigorous AT mileage standards. “You guys are sure taking your sweet time hiking,” he quips. Thankfully, my early morning revelation to relinquish all comparisons with other hikers has already brought me a measured peace.

However, even for a man basking in the afterglow of inner stillness, there is no effective way of communicating with a guy like this. There is only listening to his one-broadcast programming: The Stephen Show.

So I am sitting here wondering who this guy really is—and what he’s doing in our camp. Then I remember. Oh, yeah. It’s the People’s Trail. And I remind myself to be patient. That everyone has a right to be here. “Just sit with it a while longer, sport,” I tell myself. “Let’s see how far this peacock can take this crap.” But then there is that other part of my brain that can’t believe someone can actually behave like this for more than five minutes. Stephen has been going on for so long, I am looking up and down the trail, expecting Alan Funt to step out from behind a tree in a cheap bear suit and welcome Alexander and me to Candid Camera.

Stephen doesn’t sense any animosity from us, but I can’t believe he sees us as his willing audience, either. Then a wayward thought creeps into my mind. Maybe Stephen is at peace with himself, too. Just the idea of that is a bit frightening, so I slough if off, and consider the other—and more likely—possibility: Stephen is just a self-absorbed idiot.

Of course, we can all be idiots. Myself included. But I get the sense that Stephen is routinely oblivious to the effect he has on people. And right now, he is on a roll, so he just leans into his self-inflated view of the world, and, for the next twenty minutes, recites details of all the cool hiking trips he has made on the AT—despite the bumbling ineptitude of the fools who have traveled with him. It is at this point that we discover Stephen has left his two current hiking buddies behind hours ago. When I ask why he would leave the company of friends to hike alone, Stephen informs me he is simply too fast a hiker. “Most people do between one to two miles an hour on the trail. Me, I do like twice that. Maybe more,” he boasts.

Inner stillness or not, this guy is standing on my last nerve. My skin hurts just listening to him, but I smile and probe a bit, searching for signs that he has a heartbeat and may, in fact, be human. Instead, I learn that he has all the best gear, packs light, knows all the trails, doesn’t even need a map, and has been climbing every rock in this forest like a mountain goat since he was ten years old.

About then, Alexander leans way over onto his right butt cheek, leaving a gap of about six inches between his left butt cheek and the log he’s sitting on and mimes sticking something up his rear end. This, of course, is the universal sign for “This guy really has a stick up his butt.” Alexander and I both grin—and turn our attention back to the evening’s entertainment: more of Stephen’s amazing tales of Stephen.

It’s going on 6:00 pm, by now, and Stephen has been flat out for more than two hours. A part of me is impressed that he can keep his monologue on target for that long. Another part of me notices that, while he’s been talking, Stephen has also been keeping an eye on Alexander, as he builds one of his most excellent fires. I know Stephen doesn’t focus his attention on anyone that long unless he can find fault. Now, he continues to stare at Alexander, looking for some sign that Alexander is building his fire all wrong. Which would lead Stephen right into his next bit, “How a Proper Fire Should Actually Be Constructed.” God help us.

But Alexander is a fire-making master, and I can tell Stephen is growing frustrated because my son hasn’t made a slip.

As I watch, Alexander constructs his fire like an origami master folds a single sheet of paper into a weeping swan. He gives such delicate attention to every detail—to how and where he arranges each of the small bits of wood that make up the tight assemblage of sticks—that I can see Alexander has inherited my father’s penchant for engineering. I wonder, what is he thinking as he focuses on the structure before him? Obviously, he is weighing the practical questions: Which sticks are the driest? Which will catch fire quickest? Which will support the weight of the next? But to my eye, the whole affair goes way beyond the ordering of sticks and twigs. I get the sense that at the crux of Alexander’s fire-making initiative is the fact that he is an artist. A sculptor and fine blacksmith in his professional life, he approaches each fire as if it were an artistic creation.

But I sense something else, as well.

This hike has become a spiritual pursuit for each of us. Of course, we are here to spend time together—to enjoy each other’s company and cement the bonds between father and son. But we are also individuals, and we have our individual reasons for being here.

For myself, I am seeking to quicken those aspects of my mind and body that have become fallow. In negotiating the circuitous path of the Appalachian Trail, I have hoped to also uncover a new and more sympathetic path for my daily life back home. In that quest, I have been helped by the peace we’ve found in the forest, by the grueling intensity of the physical exertion, and by the “allies” I have met—the owl, the snake, and certain of the plants I have discovered. Like Native American cultures teach, these allies of the natural world have offered me assistance and allowed me to draw strength from them.

And for Alexander? While I cannot begin to assume his deeper purposes for this journey, what I can say is this: It appears he has discovered fire to be one of his allies. I believe he creates fire with a spiritual intent, and that is why he takes such time, gives such focus, such meticulous care to its preparation. It is my considered opinion that when Alexander sees a circle of rocks in the woods, he does not interpret them as a simple hearth for the purpose of providing us with warmth for the evening or heat for cooking. Rather, he sees them as an altar—a place where he may practice his own understanding.

Now, sitting on my log, about three feet from where Alexander is creating this evening’s fire, I have a commanding view of the cross section of his intricately layered twig pyramid, and I wonder quite seriously if he was in fact Archimedes or Michelangelo in a previous lifetime.

I glance over at Stephen. He is still watching Alexander at work. It’s impossible not to. But Stephen won’t allow himself the luxury of being a voyeur, of staring avidly, of gawking in outright ecstasy at the beauty of Alexander’s creation. Instead, he watches covertly, from the corner of his eye, only stealing longer glances when he thinks I am not looking.

The fire is lit now and is warming each of us. Whether we like it or not, Stephen has entered our sacred space. Alexander and I have become accustomed to being in this space, the four-foot radius that emanates from the center of the flames. We are familiar with the level of silent communication that takes place here. And, as always, Alexander’s fire radiates warmth, but it also radiates his love for our journey. Stephen is an outsider. An uninvited and uninitiated guest. I can feel his discomfort in our presence.

I see an itch start to form at the corner of Stephen’s eye, and his hands dig way down into his shorts, and then his fingers begin picking nervously at something in his pockets, or maybe just at the hair on his legs. I sense the pressure building in him as clearly as if he were blowing up a tightly stretched balloon that is about to pop. He starts grinding his teeth, and I realize it’s because he can’t find a way in. I believe Stephen can sense how Alexander and I feel inside our circle. The love we have for one another is very present, and I think it pushes him hard. I think he understands that Alexander is up to something more than just building a fire, and Stephen’s uncertainty of what that “something” might be troubles him. I wonder how insecure and unsettled he must be in the presence of such subtle and genuine feelings. So he does the only thing a guy like Stephen can do—he turns his back on us. But then he does something strange. Back still turned, he scooches a little closer to the flames. Is he just trying to keep warm? Or is he trying to stay connected to our circle?

That scooch is the only sign of concession he makes. No kudos to Alexander for his incredible fire-building exhibition. No “thank you” for the raging fire that now warms his backside. Then, without missing a beat, Stephen continues his litany of woodsman accomplishments—now talking with his back to us. There is a different inflection to his voice, however, and his words spill out faster and with less certainty than they did before. I can tell he is nervous. Alexander recognizes it, too, and looks over at me, making a face that says, “What’s up with him?” I shrug in reply, although some things seem to be coming into focus.

Next, Stephen stands and moves to the far side of the ring of stones that surround the dance of flames, but he continues talking, addressing an invisible audience, located, I presume somewhere on the other side of the small stream at the bottom of the short ravine. The scene is surreal. But as I gaze across at him—at the back of him—I no longer view him as the pain in the ass we have been dealing with for hours, but as a pitiful character, one who strikes me as both lonely and afraid. Yes, he is still acting like an idiot. Yes, he is still standing on my last nerve. But for some inexplicable reason I am seeing him differently. Is it the obtuseness of a man addressing us, while looking in the opposite direction? Or is it the dark hilarity of his invisible audience?

Whatever the case, I now realize that his feeble attempts to communicate are an effort to save face. A few short hours ago, this obnoxious character entered our camp with all of the finesse of a German tank rolling down a cobblestone street in a small village in France. Now, all I can see is a little boy who has been placed in time out. I no longer hear his whining drivel. Instead, I hear a cry for help.

Suddenly, Stephen does an about-face. He seats himself back at Alexander’s fire, looks me dead in the eye, and begins to talk about his wife and his three sons. This is the first time since his arrival that Stephen has spoken about someone other than himself. Alexander and I share a questioning glance. Were the last two hours just foreplay?

Then, Stephen’s entire demeanor changes. It is as if someone sunk a heroine syringe deep into a main artery and drove the plunger home. Tears well in his eyes, but he holds them at bay—small pools perched on his lower eyelids. He tilts his head back to keep the tiny pools from running down his face. Finally, he lifts a hand to wipe his tears away.

To be continued.

 

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.