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 Book of Timothy – Part II

Ian, Morgan, April, and Alexander atop Siler’s Bald

Monday morning, after Miss Beverly dropped us off at the AT trail head, we had only a six-mile hike from Winding Stair Gap to Siler’s Bald—but that hike was six miles of steady climb. Still, we were rested, and we were excited to make camp at the summit. Siler’s Bald is the first in a series of high mountain clearings that some believe are natural occurrences, but which others believe are man-made clearings for high-country cattle grazing. In any event, having read about Siler’s Bald in our guide books—and having seen videos by hikers who emphasized the magnificent views from the top—Alexander and I looked forward to camping at the summit on Monday night.

I arrived first, to survey the location, while Alexander stopped on a side trail to fill his large water bag, which we call “The Dromedary.” (The Drom has proved invaluable. Its six-liter capacity ensures we have enough water in the evening for cooking and washing up, and still have some left over to filter for drinking water to start out the next morning.)

Siler’s is situated on a quarter-mile side trail, which, from the base looks quite unassuming. When I arrived, I could see someone had recently mowed the high meadow, and a long serpentine path wound its way out of sight towards the bald. I started up the path, but quickly realized making it to the top would be no easy feat—and knew it would be even harder for Alexander, under the burden of the filled Drom. However, upon cresting the bald, I found the effort worthwhile. The world spread out before me as generously as if I had entered an open air cathedral, a sacred place where the beauty of the land was revealed for all to enjoy.

You see, the Appalachian Trail winds its way through a continuous canopy of forest. Although Siler’s marked mile 114 for us, since departing Springer Mountain, we have had just a handful of clear views. When you’re hiking the trail, most of the day, every day, you’re making your way through forest, the sunlight filtered by branches and leaves that brush your skin as you pass them. This biological buffer protects you, hides you from the hustle and bustle of the world that exists beyond the trail. You feel cradled by a benevolent primal force that speaks to you, should you care to listen, through the rustle of plants, birds songs, the intricate babble of brooks, the ancient wisdom of rocks, and the soil beneath your feet. Then, every so often, you emerge into bright light and blue sky, as we did Monday afternoon at Siler’s Bald. When that happens, you feel clean and renewed, as if you have been blessed by the spirits of the forest.

By the time Alexander (and the Drom) arrived, my tent was pitched under a perfectly clear sky, and we stood together, side by side, humbled by the majesty of the 360-degree view. It promised to be a spectacular, star-filled night.

We had been there for no more than twenty minutes when a couple from Ocala, Florida, arrived with their young daughter (who seemed less than thrilled with the steep hike). Fifteen minutes after that, a trio of campers from the University of Florida appeared. The Ocala family left, and we struck up a conversation with Ian, Morgan, and April—engineering and finance students respectively. As it turned out, these young hikers had divorced themselves from two others in their group, who, it seems, had a rather militaristic idea of a hiking trip. For that reason, Ian, Morgan, and April decided to go it alone—and at a much slower pace, so they could “smell the flowers,” instead of zooming past them. The only problem was the other guys had taken the stove, leaving Ian and his tribe dining on Clif Bars and dried ramen noodles.

Upon hearing this sad news, Alexander and I exchanged a quick look of compassion for our new friends. Then Alexander let them know we had plenty of food and that he would be glad to cook them a hot meal, should they decide to camp on the bald for the evening. They were overjoyed! The expressions on their faces showed as much delight as if he had handed them a winning lottery ticket. But realizing they had no water, the trio retreated back down the trail to resupply. Frankly, I thought we had lost them, but an hour later they made it back up the steep trail and pitched their tent about fifty yards below ours.

The rest of the evening counts as one of the most magical of our trip. Having shared a meal—and having cemented bonds of friendship I have no doubt shall continue long after our trip is over—the kids laughed and told tales around yet another of Alexander’s spectacular fires, while I busied myself with taking some of the best photos of our journey to date. The sun was setting as I snapped a beautiful panoramic shot of our promontory on the summit. But I failed to understand the significance of the billowing line of clouds on the horizon—a failure that would come back to haunt me.

* * *

Around two a.m., I awoke to flashes of light and the distant rumble of thunder. I was shocked. The weather hadn’t mentioned the approach of a thunderstorm. I reached for my phone, opened my weather app, and took a long, cold look at the radar on my iPhone’s screen. There it was. The hard red line of a cold front almost on top of us—and an unbroken line of thunderstorms rapidly approaching.

In less than a minute, the deluge began.

I yelled to Alexander at the top of my lungs. Suddenly, Siler’s Bald, a place that had seemed like a blessing from the spirits of the forest just hours earlier, was dangerously exposed. There was no cover from the driving rain. We had to decide—break camp and move off the mountain? Or ride out the storm? If we broke camp, our clothing would be soaked—and with temperatures in the low forties, hypothermia was a deadly concern. On the other hand, the lightning strikes had gotten ridiculously close—close enough to raise the hair upon my arms.

At that, Alexander suggested we squat on our feet inside our tents to minimize contact with the ground, a position we hoped would protect us from a deadly lightning strike. So for the next hour that is how we sat—balanced low on our feet, heads down, hands clasped behind our skulls. It was a scary, lonely feeling—and an unnecessary one. I had failed to read the signs that had been right in front of me. Signs that I had photographed. The building clouds that had stretched so beautifully across the horizon were all the sign a more experienced hiker would have needed to make a good decision—when their was still plenty of time to shift camp.

That hour, the one I spent squatting on my heels between two and three a.m., with the storm crashing around me, was the longest, most anxious hour I can remember. What did I think about besides my own stupidity? Well, to be honest, I thought of Miss Beverly in her leopard print velour pants. I wondered what Miss Beverly had seen as we flew up the mountain earlier that day. How far down the trail had she been able to see? Did she sense the storm was coming? Did she know that with her “life phrase” from the Book of Timothy she was giving us a tool to fight the fear that would challenge us?

Whatever vision or premonition Miss Beverly had, while I was cowering beneath that violent storm, I repeated her life phrase over and over to myself in earnest.

* * *

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I realized the storm had extracted its price—I was depleted and weak. While I couldn’t move from my tent, I was glad to hear Ian, Morgan, and April talking as they prepared to leave. Their tent had been stripped of its rain fly during the worst of the storm. As a result, everything they owned was soaked—their shoes, their packs, and most of their clothing. It was a miracle they did not freeze. But by the sound of their voices, I could tell they were simply happy to have survived the ordeal, and that their youthful exuberance had saved them any serious regret.

When I was finally able to emerge, I found the top of the mountain a solid cloud—I could see no more than thirty feet in any direction. But there was Alexander, busy over his Whisper-Lite stove, making us coffee and his signature oatmeal in a soulful affirmation of our daily routine. Alexander looked up, and for a long moment, caught in the illuminated whiteness that swirled all around us, we just held each other’s gaze. Then he asked what I had thought about during the storm. But before I could answer him, he said, “I repeated Miss Beverly’s scripture and prayed a lot!” I nodded in agreement, and then we both laughed long, nervous laughs. It was a release that said we were glad to have made it through the night safe and sound.

Then with that big, beaming smile of his, he asked, “Dad, How about a cup of coffee?”

So my son and I stood together, watching the clouds clear around us and the shapes of mountains re-emerging from the mists. Before our coffee cups were even empty, the warming rays of autumn sunlight shone upon our faces. Order had been restored to our world, and the violent threat of the night was now just a distant memory.

The storm has helped me see that there is a flip side to every coin we tumble. Alexander and I have been living in a perfect dream for weeks—but sometimes there is a price to be paid for the joy and beauty we experience in this life. Our awakening atop Siler’s Bald reminded us of the power of nature—and that we do well to be a bit more humble in its presence.

* * *

I haven’t yet reached out to Miss Beverly, but when I do, I will tell her that her scripture sustained us. That it brought a sense of peace to the maddening fright of the storm. In fact, during the worst of the flashes of light, when the lightning was crashing into the earth less than a second from where Alexander and I crouched, I found myself smiling briefly—because, even in the most fearful moments, I felt we had our own angel looking out for us. I may never know much of what resides in the Bible, but I will never forget the Book of Timothy, chapter one, verse seven. . . .

The Book of Timothy – Part I

Alexander, Miss Beverly, and me: at Winding Stair Gap, on our way to Siler’s Bald

On Sunday, Alexander and I needed to make a trip to Three Eagles, the local hiker outfitter, for supplies. The store was an eight-mile round trip—a longer walk than we wanted to make on our last down day at the hotel—but when I called the front desk, I was told that the only taxi service in Franklin, North Carolina, did not operate on Sundays.

I called Three Eagles Outfitters next, to explain our wheel-less situation, and a very accommodating girl named Katelynn gave us the number of a local shuttle driver, a “Miss Beverly,” she said. Within twenty minutes, a gold Honda CRV rolled up to the hotel portico, and Miss Beverly greeted us decked out in her church finery—and immediately let us know that she did not shuttle folks during church time, but as Sunday morning services had concluded at her place of worship, she was officially open for business.

Displaying the vigor one might expect in a motivational speaker, she told us at length how, in her mid-seventies, she had become the “Go-to Gal” for hiker shuttles in and around Franklin. A year or so earlier, it seems, her grandson had completed a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail and had asked her to pick him up outside of Franklin. To Miss Beverly’s dismay, her grandson failed to give her either a specific time or a specific location for the pickup. So, on the appointed day, Miss Beverly drove to the only spot she knew near the trail, Standing Indian Campground. There she found several hikers, none of whom had met her grandson. The hikers asked Miss Beverly for his trail name, a concept with which Miss Beverly was entirely unfamiliar—but not for long.

As it turned out, Miss Beverly had just encountered her first group of clients. The dozen or so hikers thrust cash in her direction, requesting she give them rides to town and make food, cigarette, and NDBR’s (near-death beer runs) for them.  To hear Miss Beverly tell it, when they displayed those greenbacks, she felt like someone had placed her at an altar that was gushing green abundance. Then her motherly instincts took over, and Miss Beverly brought all the hikers back to her house, where she cooked them meals, washed their clothes, and shuttled the entire bunch around Franklin over one very long weekend. In the process, she received a crash course in AT life and lingo that would stand her in very good stead in her new career. (Yes, she finally found her grandson—but not before she found a new niche for herself.)

Although Miss Beverly knew that opening her home as a hostel would be far too much work, she had really enjoyed being around all those young people, with their wide-eyed optimism and high energy. So she hung out her shingle and became Miss Beverly, the Hiker Shuttle-ist.

But the service Miss Beverly provides hikers is no ordinary taxi service, as Alexander and I found out upon our return from our trip to Three Eagles. You see, rather than having standard rates, Miss Beverly operates on a donation-only basis. And in our case, Miss Beverly refused payment of any kind, stating that it was her pleasure to run local trips for free because she felt the Franklin community needed hikers to help boost the local economy. With a big smile, she added that, regardless, it made her feel as if she was doing her part to help out. (In my book, her high ethical code elevates her to a station that nears “shuttle-driver sainthood,” if there exists such a canonical designation.)

Then, at promptly 11 o’clock the next morning, Miss Beverly arrived to shuttle us back to Winding Stair Gap, a manageable six miles from our destination, Siler’s Bald. Looking every inch the hikers’ cheerleader—adorned in leopard print velour pants, a black top, and a well-coiffed hairdo—she was ready to roll. On the way up to Winding Stair, Miss Beverly entertained us with stories of her past husbands and of current Franklin goings on. Then suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, she began quoting the Bible in short, scriptural bursts that seemed to deliver the moral to whichever story she was relating. It seemed Miss Beverly had worked herself into a sort of spiritual frenzy, but somehow, the unexpected appearance of sacred writ in the midst of her monologue seemed as natural to Miss Beverly as her leopard print tights.

Alexander and I exchanged awe-struck glances as Miss Beverly pressed on. We were riveted. It was as if she had been seized by the Holy Spirit, and Alexander and I were her de facto backup chorus, chanting, “Tell it all, Miss Beverly,” and offering a solemn Amen! where we felt it was needed. As the gold Honda CRV bounded up the mountain, Alexander and I felt we were being transported in a spiritual capsule on wheels—one fueled not by unleaded gasoline, but by the sizzling power that had seized Miss Beverly.

Then, at the pinnacle of her story telling, Miss Beverly mentioned a recent evening of fellowship and cocktails she had spent on her neighbors’ outdoor patio, which overlooked the valley. These folks were from Florida, she explained, as if that should give us a clue as to what she had experienced. She continued on, telling us that during the course of good conversation and several glasses of wine a giant spider decided to perch itself on top of her right shoe. At that point, Miss Beverly informed us, she let loose a blood curdling scream as she kicked her right foot for all she was worth. Her scream nearly shattered every wine glass present and left her friends in a highly agitated state, she reported—and it was a good thing she had partaken of several glasses of wine, herself, or no telling what she might have said. (I had a few ideas, but I kept them to myself.)

At that point, Miss Beverly said, she began repeating her “life verse,” Timothy 1:7, much to the amazement of the entire company. She is usually not one to carry on, she assured us, “But that spider completely covered my entire foot, and I refused to be afraid!” The Book of Timothy, she said, was one of her favorite passages in the Bible, and Chapter one: Verse seven had long been a source of strength and guidance in her life. During times of trouble, or whenever she felt afraid—like the moment with the spider—she would quote Timothy 1:7. Then she told us that fear was nothing more than the Devil attempting to take us away from the presence of God: “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind!” she exclaimed.

As we flew straight towards Winding Stair Gap, Miss Beverly firmly gripped the wheel, while repeating that line over and over—until, finally, Alexander and I began to wonder if she was attempting to school us with the potent passage in preparation for some forthcoming event on our journey. At that moment, the golden autumn sun illuminated Miss Beverly’s plume of white hair, giving her a radiant, glowing aura, and her shiny hoop earring, mirroring a brilliant sunbeam, shot a starburst towards me that penetrated deep into my soul. I remember thinking, suddenly, that we were in the presence of something greater, something brighter than just our endearing seventy-something shuttle driver and the mid-morning sunlight. The sense that something lay ahead could not have been stronger—it was as if Miss Beverly’s Honda had become our chariot, delivering Alexander and me to a moment of awakening on the Appalachian Trail—and yet it could not have been more sweet, for we were in the company of our very own angel, leopard print velour pants and all.

By the time we arrived at the AT trail head, Miss Beverly had repeated her “life verse” at least a dozen more times—so many times, that Alexander and I, having a bit of fun at Miss Beverly’s expense, quoted Timothy 1:7 back and forth to one another as we made our way towards Siler’s Bald. But to tell the truth, we had both fallen in love with that wonderful old lady. And to tell more of the truth, that would not be the last remembrance we would have of Miss Beverly, nor of those consoling words from the Book of Timothy. Although we did not know it then, our day was a long way from being over. . . .

 

Stay tuned: The Book of Timothy, Part II is coming soon!

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.

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.