Taking a break at Dismal Creek Falls, VA
Saturday, May 15, 2010
How'd you sleep?" and she answers, eyes remaining closed, "Still sleeping." Her reply always causes me to grin.
This morning, like every other morning on the trail, will be consumed with packing. As a fellow hiker once told me, "It doesn't matter if you're hiking 20 miles or 2 miles, it still takes the same amount of time to load your pack." I begin with my sleeping bag, mashing it into its proper stuff sack and putting it into its place on the bottom of the pack. Next in are my spare clothes: a fleece, pair of shorts, socks, and a shirt. I leave my rain gear out for mow; always better to keep it easily accessible. I grab any food I might want during the hike and place it in the top compartment where it's readily available. The rest goes back into the food bag and sits on top of the spare clothing, next to the cookware, stove, and fuel. The tarp and hammock complete the ensemble. I pull the drawcord tight and snap down the top compartment. While making a quick scan to ensure nothing is left behind, I strap my sleeping pad and sandals to the outside of my pack. As I lift it up with both hands and swing it quickly to the side, all in the same motion I maneuver my right arm through the corresponding shoulder strap. My left arms shortly follows suite.
Everything I have is on my back. Another day on the trail is unfolding. As I shift my weight and lean forward to adjust the waist belt, I think about the day ahead, about what I will do, about what I will accomplish. Some may think not much. After all, there are a number of things I will NOT be doing today. I will not go to work. I will earn no money. Today, I won't do anything that has any economic value what-so-ever. I will not drive a car or read a news paper. Today there will be no phone calls, text messages, or emails. I won't even manage to flush a toilet. So then, what will I do today? Well, I will walk. I will walk up one side of a mountain and walk down the other side, only to go up and back down the mountain after that. Today I will struggle. I will sweat and become short of breath. I will trip over roots and stumble over rocks and somehow find a way to form a new blister on the only unblistered part of my foot. Today I will think. Today I will let my mind wander. Today I will pray prayers of thanksgiving: for people, for blessings, and for this place that I find myself getting to experience right now. Today I will foster connections: with my wife, with myself, with creation, and with my creator. Today I will walk. Today I will live out a dream.
As I make the final adjustments to my pack, I look over to Laura and sarcastically ask, "So, you wanna go on a walk today?" The question has become part of the morning's routine, one of us asking the other every day for the past 500 miles. She makes eye contact with me, nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders, and says "Sure. Where should we walk to?" "I don't know, how 'bout north," I respond as we both begin to smile. She agrees, and so the day begins. Today we walk and think and sweat and stumble. Today we connect. Today we live out our dream.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Kincora is nothing short of a refuge, a safe haven, a hiker's solace from the daily struggle that is life on the trail. After hiking hiking over 400 miles from Georgia, time at Kincora can replenish, rejuvenate, and re inspire even the weariest of walkers. It's amazing how dry clothes, a hot shower, and an afternoon off your feet can totally alter one's perspective. Whether it's the recent college grad, the ex marine commander, the retired attorney, the drop-out, the drifter, or the nature lover, today Kincora will be our home. And tonight, sharing stories while sitting in worn, creaking recliners and laughing at the follies of moments past, we all will become family.
As I look up and around and try to take in this place, I notice a saying posted on the wall. It is framed, yet hand written on a sheet of loose-leaf paper. As I read it, I begin to laugh and can feel a grin making its way into a smile on my face. "My hiking is getting in the way of my trail experience" the framed sign proclaims. Truth found in jest. I hope to remember this, both the saying and the moment. I hope I remember to relish every experience, especially the ones where I'm sitting barefoot on the front porch, resting, relaxing, pondering . . . simply being.