Thursday June 8, 2023 – The Kinsmans 2 – You Are Not Home Until You are Home
I fall asleep. How, I do not know, but I wake to dawn’s early gray light and the rumble not of snoring but water.
The murmur of the stream, and the patter of water dripping from trees.
No, it’s not rain. Not yet anyway.
Our bunkmate snores on as we rise to boil water and make breakfast and head off up and up and then down, then up, then down again, a long rocky descent. Here on Day 5, I’ve settled at last into the way of the trail. The Kinsman Pond shelter provides a good stop for lunch but I’m soon cold and stride off down and further down the dark trail by the rushing stream and at last – at long last, and not a second too late, see the roof of the Lonesome Lake hut through the trees.
Soon my friends arrive and I treat everyone to hot drinks and snacks and a very welcome warm up and revival before what promises to be a last gentle 2.7 mile descent to our ride home and what promises to be another great dinner.
Alas, the day is not over, not by a long shot. We stride warm bellied and merrily along the aforementioned gentle dirt trail. I wonder why anyone would go up to Lonesome Lake the way I always had gone, up the steep rocky trail from the Lafayette Campground. We’re all chattering along and dreaming of dinner when the trail descends into the raging Cascade Brook. I sit to take off my boots and begin to wade across, boots in hand.
As the others catch up, calls of “Wait! Come back!” There must be a better and safer place to cross.
I put back on my boots and we walk down the trail that appears on our map to be the Basin Trail. And then, suddenly the trail ends.
What do you do at the end of a trail you thought was the trail? Do you bushwhack? We bushwhack. Bushwhacking has such an adventurous lilt to it. I picture men with long swords cutting back the underbrush. Bushwhacking in fact is not nearly so romantic or easy. We stumble over soft and uneven ground and through a tangle of prickers. Sharp low branches snap back into our faces.
We trip along, willing the woods to turn back to a trail. Alas its now clear that whatever we saw on the map as the trail we were looking for was wrong. We can now see the trail clearly, on the other side of the stream, rushing and roaring beside us. We scan hopefully up and downstream for a better and safer place to cross. At last, find a spot where the stream widens and slows. We wade in boots and socks and all across the stream onto the Basin Trail on the other side. Its steep and rocky and not the nice trail I’d imagined it to be. But yes, better than bushwhacking. We trudge along, glad to have found it, until the trail veers left into the stream and crosses back over it to the other side. No way! Way. The way through is through. This cannot be. This is.
I wade across the stream in my boots a second time. Put down my pack and wade back in and across to pick up Pat’s pack despite her protests. Go back and forth a third and fourth time to retrieve other’s packs. Good heavens. This has been an adventure already. My feet wet, boots soaked. The sun begins to set over the hills, the valley darkens. We scurry down the trail, but something has to give.
Jen and I determine that we’ll head off to get the car leaving the others to wait at the Basin Parking Lot. On the map it doesn’t look far and on the drive down Franconia Notch on 93 it isn’t far. But when we get to the Basin, the trail twists and winds on and on and on.
Are you sure this is it?
Are you sure we didn’t miss a turn?
Alas, sure. The car ahead, further down this way. We go on and on down the bike trail a mile and a half. Turn off the trail at last into a parking lot and the joy of the car being there. Weariness turns to elation.
And second guessing.
Could we have done it differently when we came to the stream the first time?
Should we have turned back up to the Cascade Brook Trail when we crossed the stream?
Should we have bushwhacked?
We don’t know what to think. We think and rethink our decision making and why we made the choices we did. We text Roger to let him know that we’ll be home in an hour. We pick up Marsha, Pat and Barb and arrive home at Roger and Marsha’s for a luxurious hot shower and more laundry and a meal surpassing my wildest dreams of steak, Brussel sprouts, beer, pie and ice cream.
Maps confirm that our decision was the right one. Backtracking up the Basin Brook Trail to the AT Cascade Brook trail would have been much longer by a long shot. Despite having to cross the stream twice, everyone got down safely. We are all elated to see that a right decision was made.
And humbled to see how hard it is to make decisions in these situations – to go forward or backward, bushwhack or what?
All week we’ve been chasing choices. Do we go over to Galehead or head back down? Do we bushwhack and cross the stream at a safer place? Is the summer or winter bag the best choice? And where is the sun and how do we find it?
Years ago, Dad and I did this hike through the Kinsman’s, his last bit of the AT in New Hampshire to complete. I wanted to mark his effort and hike it with him.
This early morning, low gray clouds, drizzle. We gather for a picture in the dirt parking lot. Roger takes off to meet us again in a couple of days after we descend into Franconia Notch.
It’s so quiet out here but for the brook that really is babbling beside the trail. It reminds me of my newest favorite trail here, Bridal Veil Falls, where Betty Davis and her lover fell in love and where a marker recalls a love that came to an end with an untimely accident.
Later this morning as the trail turns from the brook into drizzle and cloud, no sound, just steady breathing, the patter of boots. No birds, no road, no hikers on the trail. I’m far enough ahead I can’t hear the women chattering behind.
Yes, its wet. Drizzly and cold and wonderful. The “wonderful” of it all surprises me once again. Those years ago hiking this trail with Dad I just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why anyone liked hiking, the plodding burden of it all. That day I used one hiking pole reluctantly, feeling too much like an old man I didn’t want to be. Fussed and worried about Dad navigating rocks when I should have worried about myself falling on this steep, rough trail badly in need of repair. Why would anyone want to do this? I thought then.
Today, I couldn’t imagine backpacking without two poles. And yes, the quiet wonder of everything that is here.
When hypothermia sets in, your brain shuts down, your mind retreats inside yourself. A few hours up the trail and Pat is cold. I think of the hikers on Lafayette with cotton tee shirts and shorts.
We pause for lunch for Pat to warm up and all of us to put on an extra layer. Devour bits of chicken from last night’s feast.
Up the trail, glistening pellets of fresh Moose poop. Moose up here, what another wonder. I’ve yet to see one since moving up here to the North Country. They are disappearing due to ticks moving up this way in the warmer weather. I’ve heard stories of them being found covered in thousands of ticks that suck their blood and strength.
From the one moose I have seen hiking, I know they are elusive, still and quiet and out there watching. They can’t see well but can hear and smell. Smell uslong before they ever see us. I see them out there smelling us now, standing so still, so quiet we mistake them for trees.
This is not the hike we would have chosen, the sun promising to be as elusive as the moose this next week. And I’m glad we are out here today, despite the weather. You could miss the Whites if you waited for the sun, its one of the cloudiest regions in the country.
The trail continues dark, cold, increasingly steep. We grunt and groan (or is that me grunting and groaning), hoisting ourselves up on the next boulder, pulling ourselves up by tree roots rubbed smooth by so many hands. The trail detours around downed trees that have been down for a long time. Water pools in the trail. Ahead, yet another tree over the trail. Neither Jen nor I notice it and bang our heads hard. I swear loudly. She falls backwards.
Whatever was the top, we missed it in the fog and rain and after a short descent arrive at the Eliza Brook Shelter. The old dark one that Dad and I had stayed in has been replaced by this bright new lean-to.
As we boil water and prepare for dinner (Lasagna with Meat Sauce, serves 2, 75% of your daily sodium, 850 calories – Perfect!) we are joined by two young through-hiking brothers. Marsha is delighted that they too are wearing bright yellow dishwashing gloves like she’s had on all day. Perfect for this kind of weather, they all agree.
The brothers are continuing down to Franconia Notch this late afternoon – another 9 miles. As for us, we can’t imagine another step and prepare for bed. Instructions to sleep with our heads toward the outside, “The mice run around the edges.” Promises of screams if mice in fact do run over our heads. Shy confessions of snoring. Silent vows to wop them awake if they do.
I loved today, everything about it. Yes, even this “shitty trail” as the young hikers christen it. It’s a comfort to hear that they too found it hard!
Why on a day of hard and cold and yes sometimes just wet and miserable, a shitty trail and a hard ascent do I love it so here? How happy I was walking out front, friends chattering behind. Glowing wet leaves as we pass.
One more trip to filter water before turning to bed.
There, under the log, a lady slipper. The first of the day.
It’s pitch black when I wake to walk out to the bathroom. Pause on the porch to see the waning Strawberry Moon nestled in the Notch. Today we’ll head out the Ethan Pond Trail to Crawford Notch. It’s one of my neighbor Kris’ favorite trails which surprises me as he is one for super long and rigorous competitions in the mountains. A few weeks ago he ran up and down to Lonesome Lake some 20 times, 66 miles, to raise money for the food pantry. I delight in seeing a few stars this early morning. Clear skies bode well for a gift of a day.
I return to my top bunk to pull on my damp hiking clothes and fold the wool blankets piled at the foot of the bunk.
Adults don’t sleep in bunkbeds. 6 year old boys with little sisters do.
I drape the blanket over the edge, flap it gently. A giggle from Jen in the bunk below. Pull it up, fold it once and let it descend and flap once more. The second blanket descends. This time it flies out and snaps back at my helpless bunkmate below.
“Hey!” A tee shirt flies helplessly up.
The final, third blanket descends. Quickly snaps back to a startled, “OOOOH!”
Success!
I can’t stop laughing.
I continue to laugh as I climb down the ladder and take off to the bathroom. The women are reprimanded and reminded by other guests that quiet time lasts until 6:30.
I join the small group of early risers with plastic cups of hot coffee, as the hut master serenades us on her ukulele with “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”
How many hikers don’t fall in love with the hut crew!
Oh yes, I love this little hut by the stream.
After breakfast we’re gifted with a graduation ceremony and receive our own Junior Naturalist Badges. And yes, still laughing about my early morning victory, “I thought the first time that he couldn’t have done that on purpose… I felt bad snapping my tee shirt back at him….”
Before we set out, I’m asked to offer a water blessing for my hiking friends at the stream. (What are they thinking?). We share our thanks for the gift of this thundering stream water and so many things we have discovered out here like laughter and lady-slippers, delicious hot meals at the hut and hamburgers on the ride over to the trail. For Roger and each other. As we close, I draw them over close to the pool where I’m kneeling, to splash and bless my friends to shouts of delight.
And yes, I’ll add the gift of sunlight this morning! There’s nothing like a day of fog to make you appreciate the sunlight today.
The trail is smooth and overgrown. Heady with our Junior Naturalist knowledge we quiz each other, “What tool do they need to use on this trail?”
“Loppers!”, my fellow Junior Naturalists cry. Exactly!
What is wilderness? This is wilderness: This valley torched and scorched, pillaged of trees and destroyed by fire. This valley a wasteland that some believed would never come back to life.
And this valley and the little pockets of refugia and resilience, shelters of life, that connected together and turned what was once a “wasteland” into wilderness once more.
We count 101 lady slippers along the way.
A pause at Thoreau Falls.
Our sauntering mood switches to thoughts of Roger who is waiting at the end of the trail to drive us home. Without cell coverage, we can’t reach him to let him know we’re late. I think of that ride home. The promise of a hot shower, laundry, clean clothes, a delicious dinner. I swing out ahead. I never really got the joy of this – this way of stepping briskly down the trail. It’s always felt disparaging to not take in the slow stride and sweep of the trail. But today, Roger needs to be found, home beckons and I slide into the swing of a brisk stride and move out ahead.
Miles ahead, the sound of a train whistle – civilization beckoning.
At last I come to the train track, cross it, and head down the steep incline to the parking lot. Call out, “We’re here!” to the car I think is honking for us. Alas, no, its the wrong car, wrong parking lot and no Roger. I turn back up the trail to the train tracks to wait for my hiking companions.
Together we walk a slow mile up the side of the road to Wiley House where indeed waits Roger and Giffords ice cream.
I drop off my laundry at Marsha and Roger’s, return an hour later showered and clean-clothed for a fabulous salmon and chicken dinner, blueberry pie and watermelon.
The women have folded my laundry and ask me to check if it’s all there. They gather close around the counter as I sort through tee shirts, socks, and here a pee pad which I put aside with,“This is not mine” to their squeals of laughter.
“This is what I have to put up with Roger.”
“You actually brought four pairs of socks?!,” they cry in wonder. “Four pairs?”
Pitch black and time to get up. Rattling windows, pelting rain. I reach up for the hooks above my head to stuff yesterday’s damp hiking clothes into the bottom of my sleeping bag. Turn over, waiting for them to turn dry and warm. I need to get up and not just lie here thinking about getting up. I reach down to the bottom of my bag, pull on my cold damp tee shirt, pants and socks. Sit up and proceed to bang my head. Swear.
Over breakfast, the weather report from Mount Washington: 32 degrees on the summit, winds with gusts of up to 70 miles per hour. It feels like 17 degrees out there with the wind chill. We are all grateful for our choice to head down and change plans. Everyone else at the hut is doing the same thing except a few hardy, or fool-hardy, young hikers who are heading to Galehead. Even Stick chooses not to risk it and will miss filling in the last 8 miles he had to Galehead. He’s headed off instead for his last hurrah at Katahdin.
It feels warmer out here at the breakfast table than it did last night for dinner. I’m adding to my list of other gear to bring, a warmer jacket. I’m glad this morning to have my hat and vest.
Before we head down the trail, Barb shows me numerous adjustments to my pack to keep the belt from slipping too low and banging my thighs which it did all day yesterday. Perhaps I’ll grow to like this pack?
I’m ready as can be. The crew croons their encouragement, “Stay upright. It’s slippery. Go slow and careful.”
Again, “Be careful.”
I look around the beautiful room that has been our warm home and shelter from the storm. So grateful for the time here. Vow: Go home and get that jacket. Keep writing, it’s home. Keep coming to the mountains, they are home. Keep making home in community. Don’t let Jen beat you at cards tonight.
And now, the far end of another day, and here at Zealand Hut and making home on the top bunk again. This night, learning to duck my head and change out of my wet hiking clothes in the bathroom.
It’s been a good day. A long slow descent down the Old Carriage Path. Impossible to believe that donkeys ever used to trek up a trail as rocky, steep and slippery as promised.
Roger was waiting to pick us up and drive us over to Twin Mountain where will take the Zealand Trail into the hut. We stop for a hot burger, hot coffee. I inhale it all, amazed at being so ravenous.
The Zealand Trail is a dream. After yesterday’s rocky ascent, howling wind and snow, this afternoon a gift of a slow meander on a lush smooth trail by ponds and bogs. We see our first lady slipper (!) and count 67 on our way to the hut. This, my sweet spot of walking in the woods.
And when we arrive at the hut, the gift of a quick dunk in a perfect size hollow in the stream. Shivery delight.
Last night we were all inspired by the group of young adults at Greenleaf who completed the Junior Naturalist Program and most importantly were bestowed bright badges before we left the hut this morning. This afternoon we spend the afternoon and evening learning about contours, tools we need to care for trails, how to spell Carrigain. After dinner, we send Pat out to the porch to listen to the Naturalist Program and learn how Zealand gets its power. (Solar)
A fitful sleep. Up at 5 to continue sorting and figuring what to bring and what to leave. Devour yesterday mornings saved half-omelet of spinach, broccoli, sausage and cheese. So good!
What is it that I worry about? What can actually go wrong? What is it that puts me in this state of anxiety and dislocation?
Hours later, packs stuffed in the car, “butts in our seats” at a little after 7:30. We’re all nervous, all excited and not sure of so many things we can worry about – the open vulnerability of the ridge, the variability of weather, this afternoon’s forecast of storms, and who knows what else we’ll find to worry on.
Roger drops us off at The Basin parking lot in Franconia Notch. Gray clouds and spitting rain as we head up the Liberty Spring trail into the dark woods. A steady slow ascent over rocks and roots slick with rain. The showers slow, stop. A tease of brilliant blue sky appears through the treetops before disappearing in dark clouds.
Nothing feels familiar or right, my pack loose, steps insecure. I’m not yet into the swing of the trail. I’m reminded again that it takes me some four days to acclimate. By then we’ll be in the Kinsmans perhaps and I’ll have the surety of feet that is not mine today.
I fuss with my new pack. It’s not as good, maybe just not as familiar as Dad’s old green pack that I’ve worn these past few years since I started backpacking.
I go to step forward, fall back and down hard. What happened? I twist around to see my pack cover snagged on a branch.
“Are you alright?” the concerned young hiker behind me asks.
“No problem!” I say. “Just fine!”
“Do you need a hand up?”
“No, no, I got it,” I say as I stumble to stand.
Wow is my little finger sore.
I let the group of young hikers pass. How I hate hearing footsteps on my tail urging me faster and forward. Perhaps its why I fell.
This morning I want to ramble, to slow to the trail. But today is no day for lallygagging. Instead, a long day ahead and a day to keep moving, to stay warm and dry.
We pause at the white army tent at Liberty Spring Tentsite. Mack bounds out to meet us, his third day of his summer caretaker duty here. He’s full of chatter, then disappears as quickly as he appeared. We continue to ascend through white fog.
Another dreamy spot of blue breaks out briefly. At the ridge, a turn to drizzle. With no views today, we won’t head down to bag Mount Liberty.
As we ascend, we turn out onto the ridge in white fog and drizzle. Nothing out there to see but all this beneath our feet: this white Trillium and tiny starflowers peeking through snow. Reds and blues, purple and gray. The views be damned, I am in love.
How many times have I hiked a ridge like this cursing the fog, willing the clouds to part and sun and blue to break. But today, all I want to see is this, this fragile beauty at my feet.
“I guess a good thing about this weather is that you can’t see Lafayette looming ahead”, offers the passing hiker. I can imagine it out there, rising in the fog.
Slow steps, wet and slow.
Who was that who said it was flat up here on the ridge? Wisps of snow turn to sharp stings of hail in wind. Now howling lashing wind. Now fat feathers of snow here on the peak of Lafayette.
I pause to take pictures, fingers frozen.
And once again, how is this, I know how happy I am. Here in these “miserable” conditions I feel buoyant, alive, joyful, immersed in the beauty of this place. I can’t get enough of it: the rime ice crusted sign, frozen snow on trees, snow sculpted by wind. For sure the promise of a warm mug of tea and hot dinner a mile down the trail helps buoy my mood.
Three young men in cotton sweatshirts and baggy shorts pass us by. Its June, right? Who would think snow? But up here above tree-line anything can happen and often does. A young woman died here last year trying to finish her set of 4000 footers. She packed light, took a wrong turn in the trail as the cold descended.
In the rocky foundation of an 19th century hotel, Jen pulls out her emergency shelter for us to get warm.
I am not a light packer. I’m packed for survival and warmth. I have enough food for our whole group for days. But I’m ready if I end up stuck here.
Descending the trail, I’ve had enough of stinging snow crystals and wind. I shout to the wind, “This is miserable!” Wonder what am I doing here? My pack cover flies off, I tighten it down. At last, the gray shingles of Greenleaf Hut at the top of the rock path ahead.
I strip off wet clothes to hang on hooks in the top bunk. Bang my head once, twice, three times on the low ceiling. I think later of how much better it would have been to change in the toilet stalls. The delight of warm clothes however makes it all worth it.
Alas, I don’t see Dad’s headlamp hanging up here that he left eight years ago.
Climb down the ladder, bent over with a sore lower back and feeling and looking like an old man. I am not enamored with my new pack. It’s too heavy as well – I weighed in at 33 pounds this morning, carrying too much as is my wont. Too much water I never did drink. Too much food I didn’t eat.
Bent and slow, I walk over to get a cup of tea as we meet to talk about plans. Tomorrow we are scheduled to head to Galehead but there’s a promise of more snow and high winds.
It’s a hard decision to bail. I’m asked what I think and I think of Dad who hiked and skied until he was 85 because he always knew when to stop and when to bail. He never got injured, never broke a bone. Well, perhaps if he did get injured, he never told us about it. Perhaps its not so hard to bail with a forecast like this and looking out for the good of the group.
We are able to change our reservations to Zealand and will hike down the Bridle Path and then get a ride to the trail into Zealand. It will give Pat about a ½ mile day on the AT for the day tomorrow but we will be smart and safe.
The wind howls, the ridge looms above.
We settle in for cards. Jen’s pack of cards is washed of color and is all gray and somehow supposed to be good for your brain. We are brain weary from watching our footing on wet rock all day. White fog descends outside the hut. The cards are as confusing and obscure as the landscape up here.
The comfort of cards. Time up here in the mountain, at the long wood table in the hut with the smell of this evening’s stew slows and stills us to another rhythm, to life in community and play.
We are deliberate, slow. Snarky over cards and steaming cups of hot chocolate that once again never before tasted so good.
Let’s see, is it my turn?
“My family would play so much faster.”
In unison, “Shut up, Jen.”
I vow on Wednesday that when we’re home I’ll pull out warmer gloves and bring new playing cards!
My left leg, my lower back, my right thigh are all in need of a good night’s rest. As I sit down to write and remember what happened today, I realize I should definitely stretch. I get up to do that. I am not yet attuned to the jostle of the trail.
Day hikers in cotton tee shirts and hoodies crowd the other tables. We glance over at them, whispering our concerns, feeling so glad we are here for the night.
“They’ve got a long way down and a cold wet way of it….What were they thinking?”
“Cotton is death,” Dad drilled into us whenever we headed into the woods. I worry about them heading down. Yes, “What were they thinking?”
The cotton-clad hikers now gone and the close of a delicious hot dinner.
“Bring the leftovers down here,” Stick says from the end of the supper table. He’s a tall thin man in his late 60’s who’s finishing tomorrow a nine-year commitment to section-hike the AT. He’s been out for a month this time and can’t keep up with the calorie loss. He’s lost 17 pounds this time around. Tomorrow he’s headed over to Galehead despite the weather report.
That night, I dream of coming to a dark road, headlamps of approaching cars in the distance. I stop at the edge of the road, run as the headlamps approach, fall, can’t get up. Instead of getting run over, I decide to wake up. Fall asleep to the roar of wind.
The most important thing is to trust your intuition. (“Survival Cards”)
Yesterday’s April snowstorm provided the perfect pause to complete this reflection on last spring’s adventure.
It’s said that 1/3 of the journey is in the anticipation, 1/3 in the trip, and 1/3 in the reflection afterwards. I’ve been so enjoying the remembering.
Saturday, June 3, 2023 Packing
The North Country has turned to Spring. The purple lilacs by the front door are blooming and I’ve watched the yard next door turn from gray to brown to pale green to today’s brilliant green and yellow. It’s been unseasonably hot. On my drive to Boston last week the temperature topped 100.
But this week a cold snap reminds those of us who are so ready for summer that it is not yet here. We’ve had cold rain the last few days and although we’re badly in need of the moisture, it’s not the ideal conditions for a backpacking adventure and showing friends the wonders of the North Country. The forecast for the week ahead promises we’ll see none of the fabled views off Washington and Lafayette. Instead, it looks like the gray overcast skies will draw all of our sights low to what is down and beneath our feet.
Oh we’ve needed the rain here in this drought. The same drought here that nursed the smoky forest fires in Nova Scotia. The weather forecasters cheer on the sun and disparage the rain when its rain we need. But no, not this week – sunny would be great.
We’ve been planning this hike for months and have reservations at the huts from Greenleaf to Madison. We’re planning on being out for three nights and then head home to hot showers and laundry before setting out again for three more days on the trail.
Tomorrow morning we begin. I’ll swing by Marsha’s at 7.
This Saturday night my bed is covered in plastic bags of food, piles of bright socks and shirts, energy bars and Gu’s, and so many questions. How many do I need? How much can I carry? Do I have enough? How can I keep the weight down?
I bought a brand-new pack this last week and a camel-back, neither of which I’ve used. Other questions. Is this a good idea? As is my habit, I overthink my overthinking. It’s this nervousness I’m ready to release to the slow and steady pace of walking in the woods.
I’m reminded as I sit here this morning scribbling these notes of the many books that have been written about the Appalachian Trail. There is perhaps nothing left to be said a bookstore owner shared with me. And yet, he went on, if it is the trail that reads you, there are in fact countless other words to be written about what the trail reveals to each passing hiker through this season of their life.
“Jody looked down into a great cupped garden, feathered with green leaves, cool and moist and, always, mysterious. The sinkhole was set in arid scrub, at the core of the pine island, like a lush green heart.” (The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, p. 74)
You’ve got to be kidding! Backpacking in Florida? What are we going to do, walk down sidewalks through subdivisions? Dodge spring break college students along the beach? And what could possibly be worth giving up a week of skiing?
But as I counted all the reasons not to go, the idea of showing up at the Orlando Airport in boots and backpack with hiking poles in hand, surrounded by swimsuits and tee shirts, was a picture I didn’t want to miss. And yes, the chance to hang out with my backpacking buddies….and truly, if not now when. When else would I ever even consider backpacking in Florida!
Like a yes to all invitations, this yes took its own negotiations. Put down this and forget that. Pining over lost opportunities imagined and real. Finding that right flight so I could get back in time for that third swing dance lesson I didn’t want to miss.
And behind it all, a whispered promise, a distant memory, to return to the way of the walk, the way of the trail.
To be a vibration among the trees and stones. To breathe in the landscape. (Rousseau’s last words, Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking)
Sitting here this morning at dusk, the first day after the clock sprung forward, one step closer to Spring, gray light glistening on a dusting of snow outside the window at 6pm. Snowflakes falling, Spring tonight seems still a long way off. It’s a month since we left the trail. Before the next trek I want to take time to remember this one.
Since returning I’ve told the same stories of the diverse foliage – from lush tropical trails to recently burned black ground, prairies of brown grass, forests of pine. Swimming everyday and nary a snake or even an alligator on the trail except that time out kayaking when we wanted to see a gator and did. The meditation cards to start our day and the late afternoon yoga circles. So much laughter and that part that I feel incapable of describing – that inhabiting, resting in time in the steady rhythm of the trail for seven days. The immersion in a world not this one, the emptiness that comes in putting aside the cell phone for a week to be in the presence of here and now.
Goodbye and Hello: Thursday and Friday, February 8 and 9
Only walking manages to free us from our illusions about the essential. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p.26)
I flew into Orlando on Thursday, and met Marsha waiting by the elevator at the hotel when I arrived. Roger in the emergency room and she headed home early the next morning to find out more about what was going on. A perfect time to head to the bar I joked and yes, for a bounteous green salad as well before the next week with nary a vegetable.
Our waiter wondered if we are here for Daytona. We tell him that we’re here for the Florida Trail which we know practically nothing about except to watch for alligators and poisonous snakes and especially bears which we’ve heard are quite plentiful.
“Oh, its none of those critters you need to be concerned about,” he offered, “It’s the wild boar you have to watch out for.” He proceeds to tell us about a bloody encounter a friend of his had with a tusk. “And oh, yes, the bannana spiders.”
For Marsha, where to be is home with Roger, that is clear. And where I need to be is here which will likewise take its own doing to arrive at. How for both of us to find our way when there is much unknown and so much real and imagined to fear. Jen texts and tells us she has landed and not to wait up. We send a picture from the bar, drinks in hand.
The next morning, breakfast with Marsha. I look on with envy as she heads off with her pack sealed in a giant pack cover to prevent snakes, bugs, spiders, ticks, wild boar or anything else for that matter from climbing in.
Jen and I head upstairs to empty our gear on the beds and ponder how many bars we really need to bring. We worry over how much weight we are carrying, and don’t have a clue how to make our packs any lighter. Perhaps this tee shirt, this pair of socks I’ll leave in the resupply. I’ll go with all the bars. When I asked a friend how he figured out how many snacks to bring, he shared his very unscientific method, “I just throw a bunch in, its just weight.” He confessed he usually doesn’t take enough. I don’t want to run short.
Barb soon meets us and we head off to drop our resupply at Juniper Springs, meet Pat and the rest of our backpacking crew. We wander down to Juniper Springs, the beautiful swimming hole and beyond it the shallow sandy stream with sparkling clear water winding under palm trees. It looks like the setting for an amusement ride at Disney World. The sign says it’s the beginning of a 7-mile paddle and one of the top 25 canoe runs in the country. Suddenly we are renegotiating our plans. What would it take to get us here in time to do the 7-mile trek?
On the signboard,
A Wonder: Ocala National Forest is the oldest National Forest east of the Mississippi. Who knew?!
And a Warning: Do not swim outside posted areas. (We won’t even ask why!)
We leave Barb’s car and pile in another and head down the road for Clearwater Recreation Area.
The Florida Trail winds some 1500 miles from The Everglades to Pensacola at the edge of Florida Panhandle. We’re off for a mere 60 something miles from the start of the Ocala National Forest here to the mysterious “88 Store” where other cars are parked.
It’s hot and humid this afternoon at 2 when we head out on the trail. The pack heavy. But no, this is not the White Mountains with rocks and roots to trip over but a smooth white sandy trail that turns around the bend ahead to a bedding of long tan pine needles.
Along the way, little things:
The orange blaze on the beautiful bark of the Pine Scrub.
A flowering yellow bush.
A charred snag.
Green fronds and grass beside brown wilting oak leaves.
A bright blue sky.
I plod along, last in our little group. Why am I so tired today? As everyone else strides out ahead, I want to slow to a stall.
But ever’ man’s lonesome. What’s he to do then? What’s he to do when he gets knocked down? Why, he take it for his share and go on. (The Yearling, p. 404)
A few steps off the trail, a grave marker enclosed by a metal fence. Beer cans scattered around the base, perhaps to honor the dead? And up ahead, another handmade marker and a wind chime in the tree beside it. Later, we can’t recall what the marker said other than it seemed a sad place.
About 5 miles down the trail, we come to a crossroads in the trail and what looks like a good broad site to set up camp. Its after 5:30pm now and I head down the trail to the little wooden bridge over the little stream to fill my water bottles. I hesitate before lowering my water bag, wondering if a hungry alligator or quick water snake might be waiting under the bridge. I’m assured that the others don’t see any green eyes peering out under me.
Setting aside worry over alligators, I take in the lush tropical vegetation. The dark green oval leaves, the spiky fan. What was the tree I read about on the park sign earlier today? Oh yes, the sand pine scrub. The largest contiguous stretch in the world here in this Forest.
The signpost noted:
Fire dependent plants and animals here depend on constant disturbance for survival. The sand pine cones don’t open or release their seeds without high heat.
I ponder if this setting out on the trail this week is a kind of necessary disturbance for my own survival? A relocation to a place not my own with things to fear that I don’t fear or think about at home. A heavy pack stuffed with tent, sleeping bag, food, water, a change of clothes. The putting aside of that cell phone. What might be released in me in the disturbance of being here?
How renewing it is to sit now by the stream, squeezing the water bag, filtering a slow stream of water into the water bottle propped between my feet. The only other sound, the gurgle of the stream below. Later, as the sun sets through the line of trees, the peepers sing. Our tents lit from within as we ready for sleep.
Metamorphosis: Saturday, February 10
When we renounce everything, everything is given to us in abundance. Everything: meaning the intensity of presence itself. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking)
Out here who knows if it’s Saturday or the 10th? Who would believe that it’s February or that it matters? What matters out here is the dawn light at 7 and sitting here with steaming coffee cupped in hand, oatmeal cooking for a few more minutes. What else really matters out here but this early morning peace while the others stir awake.
I seem to have successfully put aside my phone and all I’d usually be fidgeting to find at this hour – the news, Wordle, a text from my family. I replace it all with the anticipation of this walk. To get to know what is eternally new. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 138)
Late last night (or was it early this morning?) a posse of ATV’ers grinded and roared their machines down the sandy trails surrounding us, voices calling out in the night. I lay in bed and hoped that they stayed clear of discovering our little camp so we wouldn’t end up in a nightmare of Deliverance 2.
This morning, I wear the grogginess of last night’s restless night with another sip of steaming coffee as golden light filters through the tall thin pine scrub behind. A sandhill crane’s squeaky-door call.
All morning, we share our amazement at the lush variety of terrain we pass. From sub-tropical deep green at the stream where we filtered water last night to blackened ash earth and charred spindly bushes. I come across a patch here in the black wasteland still smoking. I scuff black earth over it. It continues to smolder.
Ahead, the trail turns by short scrub here, tall scrub pine ahead.
And further on, a prairie of brown grass that opens wider and wider as we continue up the trail. The Floridians are as surprised and delighted by the diversity of the trail here as we Northerners are fearing that the trail might have been rather a monotonous bore. I thought the same when we started out on my first backpacking trip three years ago in the 100 Mile Wilderness in Maine, and was truly amazed at the rich and diverse terrain we crossed.
Today, other small things:
A snag draped in vine.
Circles of pink fungus on tree bark.
A charred black bush with leaves of gold.
A great live oak draped in garlands of gray Spanish moss.
We have but a short hike today to Alexander Spring where we’ll camp tonight. Since we can only reserve one site, Pat, Barb, Jen and I camp off the trail across the road and just outside the entrance to the state park.
We soon join a Saturday afternoon crowd of other boisterous swimmers at the Spring. 72 degrees, year-round. Perfect! Alexander Spring is the first of three “first magnitude springs” we’ll meet on our way. I read that first magnitude springs discharge an average of 100 cubic feet of water per second or 64.6 million gallons per day or more. (I have no idea what that means but it sure sounds like a lot of water!) And wow – Florida is home to the most freshwater springs in the world, over 700.
We rent bright kayaks and glide slowly down the river. On the way, we spot the alligator on the log we’ve been wanting to see and wonder at the courage of the long-necked turtle there at its tail.
The fisherman on the way back says he saw five alligators while we saw merely one.
Today nothing feels incomplete. Everything here, everything present. Everything in motion, seen and unseen, complete and incomplete.
This is Happiness: Sunday, February 11
The authentic sign of assurance is a good slowness. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 9)
The third day in and I have settled into the swing of the trail. I wander on down the trail ahead of the rest of our group. I love the silence out here and the solitude. The knowing that there are friends behind I’ll meet up with when I pause for lunch down the trail.
Along the trail I leave a restless, fidgety weariness and abandon assumptions and stories I told myself that are just not true. Real life tells a story always more stirring and complex than the fantasies of my mind.
We all take in things differently out here. For some, the trail is a chance to talk and leave a trail of worn stories behind. Others are quick to name the maple, bay, gum and cypress, to linger over names forgotten, bird songs remembered. Much as I would like to be someone who knows how to identify the bay, gum and cypress today it’s the shape of the trail, this open expanse ahead, this snag by my side standing like a great statue that call my heart.
I’m all about shape and color out here, the form of the tree ahead against the sky dotted with white cloud.
As the trail opens ahead, I pause to breath in this expanse, become part of the landscape.
A gray and white chattering scrub jay swoops in to check me out as I pause, soon joined by six others chirping away, curious and friendly.
The trail turns toward another prairie and small pond. And here must be the tall pump that we’ve heard is a good place to get water. Jen and I grab hold. We strain to pull it up and push it down. Another try. One more. Nothing happens.
Bill comes along and takes the pump in hand and and pulls it up and down and out flows a stream of cool water. We scamper to fill our bottles.
We continue down the trail for another mile following the edge of the vast brown grassy prairie and set up camp in a broad clear area. A humid hot breeze stirs the trees.
Before turning to dinner, we take advantage of the evening light and join for a yoga and stretching circle.
A circle of thanks for the gifts of today.
Stopping, my thanks.
It’s been a good day and yes, a tiring one. But not too weary tonight to head the mile back down the trail for a quick dip in the pond to wash off the dusty heat and sweat of the day and bring back some more of that cool fresh water from the pump.
We sit on the bank of the pond, taking off our shoes.
Are you from around here? the couple on the bank behind us calls.
You know there’s alligators in there. And if you are going in, be sure to stay out of the reeds, that’s where the water moccasins live.
We wade in up to our knees splashing vigorously, shouting loudly to scare away all the critters for miles around. A quick dunk up and down and we scurry out to dry off before heading back to camp.
The sun setting orange and red, turning to gray and black. We turn on our head lamps. A constellation of bright lights shimmer along the path ahead. So many sparkling spider eyes guide our way home.
Monday, February 12
By walking you are not going to meet yourself. The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone – for the walking has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of an immemorial life. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p.29)
Early morning footsteps, a bright light traipses by my tent at the edge of the trail.
Soon, I’m up myself, sipping coffee on the log by my tent. A warm breeze through the trees behind.
That afternoon we arrive at Juniper Springs and our resupply of clean shirts, socks, snacks and suppers for the days ahead.
Another wonderful swim in the spring.
A storm rumbles through early that evening.
While others retreat to their tents, I lie on the bench watching as shrouding dark clouds cover the bright starlit sky. Far off thunder rumbles closer, closer still. I duck into my tent; the downpour begins.
Tuesday, February 13
“He decided that sunrise and sunset both gave him a pleasantly sad feeling. The sunrise brought a wild, free sadness; the sunset a lonely yet a comforting one. He indulged his agreeable melancholy until the earth under him turned from gray to lavender and then to the color of dried corn husks.” (The Yearling, p. 376)
We wake in soaked tents, some to wet gear and sleeping bags.
After breakfast, I take off ahead of the group, pause here at the turn in the trail to point out the two red headed sand cranes beside us in the reeds.
Last night we discussed whether there were too many or not enough orange markers to guide our way. Today we pass nary a one. Is it because we are in a designated “wilderness area”?
We stop for lunch under the cool shade of a stand of trees by a pond. Far too inviting to pass up a swim, I holler and splash my way in on the soft sandy bottom. Jump up and down, up and down hollering and splashing my way past fear to joy.
Sightings:
An aisle of pine needles through the trees ahead bedecked with a sprinkling of bright yellow petals.
Miniature emerald ferns in the crack in the snag.
Blue, Blue Sky.
A great sinkhole by the side of the trail. In The Yearling, Jody’s friend, Fodder-wing tells a great tale about the origin of these great holes we’ve passed along the trail. A small world lay at his feet. It was deep and concave, like a great bowl. Fodder-wing said that a bear as big as God had scooped out a pawful of earth to get a lily root. Jody knew the truth from his father. It was only that underground rivers ran through the earth and swirled and eddied beneath the surface, and changed their courses. This was especially so where there were streaks of limestone, as here. The limestone was soft and crumbling before the air touched and hardened it. Sometimes, without reason, with warning, after long rains, perhaps, a section of earth sank in. gently and almost without a sound, and a deep cavity marked the place where once had run, darkly and unseen, a river. (The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, p. 73)
We pass the trailhead to Pat’s Island, the setting for Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s The Yearling, based on stories she heard from the community that lived here including about a boy who raised a young fawn. Perhaps this sinkhole the one where Jody went to draw water.
Tonight we sleep under towering live oaks, draped in Spanish moss. A neighboring camper points out the dark barred owl there on the branch above our camp. As light falls, the owl calls to her mate, her uncles and aunts, cousins and children in the great trees around us. A cacophony of who-who, who-who, who-who.
Later, as the sun sets over the prairie into an exultation of red and orange, yellow and purple, we wait under the bat house for the bats to soar out for their evening feast. The signboard says some thousands of bats live here above us. We quiet, hear their faint squeaks. But tonight, no great swoop of bats fill the sky. Perhaps, now in the 40’s, it is too cold for them to venture out.
We head back to our warm sleeping bags and tents. Fall asleep to the steady drumming of the Rainbow People across the prairie that carries me in and out of my dreams.
Wednesday, February 14
We stop being in the landscape. We become the landscape. (Frederic Gros, A Philosphy of Walking, p. 89)
Early morning, wisps of fog rise from the prairie. A bright day dawns clear.
Early afternoon we meet Puddles from Boscawen, New Hampshire. She’s hiking some 140 miles to check out how her knee holds up. She had to abandon the Pacific Crest Trail last summer when she twisted her knee and she’s checking out this week if she’s ready to return and finish the trek.
We hear the promise of a good camp site down the trail to Salt Spring, where we’ve decided we’ll set up our tents and leave our heavy packs before walking the three miles to Salt Spring and yet another afternoon swim. But first, we gather the group in a circle for a “New Hampshire Tradition” on this special day. Hands open, sweet Valentine hearts fill our hands. Be mine.
As other hikers promised, Salt Spring is indeed the best place to swim. And yes, salty but not from true salt water but from the rock that makes it salty.
After a wonderful swim, we quickly agree to abandon our freeze-dried dinners for Subway sandwiches. Yes, make it a large please. Chips. Chocolate Chip Cookie. I inhale half of my tuna sub amazed at how ravenous I am. The other half of my dinner I devour at the crossroads before heading down to our camp.
I entice Pat to crawl out of her warm sleeping bag and come lie outside to watch the dark sky fill with flickering light like so many watchful spider eyes.
A star falls, streaking bright across the sky.
Thursday, February 15
To arrive on foot to the place where you have been drawn all day casts a backward light over the road and what was accomplished in fatigue, sometimes boredom, that is now transformed into a series of necessary and joyous moments. Walking makes time reversible. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 201)
The promise of a few last miles ahead to the 88 Store and the end of our trek. I linger behind as the group traipses on ahead to pause for pictures in the early morning light.
Giant pinecones set like Christmas Trees line the trail ahead. Thank you Barb!
A cluster of white flowers
And dry oak leaves.
A little hill ahead, an actual hill.
A black charred log with a bright orange marker.
Gaunt red oak leaves.
And what is this weariness?
I slow and plod on as the light rises, reminded of that first weary afternoon on the trail.
Down a quick slope and up to a gauntlet of poles and shouts of celebration. Packs adorned with giant pinecones.
The 88 Store: “This is a smoking establishment.” Chips and $2 beers and sun-streaked faces worn weary, rested and restored by the gift of a week on the trail.
After we’ve said goodbye to our new friends, we are all too soon back in the city, our wet tents draped over the fence by the hotel pool. We devour dinner. Will I ever not be hungry? And how will I not come home and fill myself up again to overflowing?
This morning, snowflakes fall on a gray wan early morning light.
I’ve finishing my way through The Yearling and yet another layer of meaning from a wonderful trip.
The morning after my return I discovered that a persistent tick had followed me home, and yes, questions lingering from last night’s dream. A reminder that the stories we tell – the absurdity of backpacking in Florida, for example – are nothing but stories. Reality, here and now, is so much richer.
And yes, like Jody found in Flag, a kind of love beyond all words and knowing out here on the trail, in community, in the wonder that found us all.
Flag – He did not believe he should ever again love anything, man or woman or his own child, has he had loved the yearling. He would be lonely all his life. But a man took it for his share and went on.
In the beginning of his sleep, he cried out, “Flag!”
It was not his own voice that called. It was a boy’s voice. Somewhere beyond the sinkhole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever. (The Yearling, 405)
********
Quotes from The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1939, Charles Scribner’s Sons)
Last evening hundreds of community members gathered for the Board of Selectmen meeting here in Littleton in response to comments made by a Select Board member expressing concerns about three new community murals.
I woke this morning with a few reflections and words I shared with the Board of Selectmen this morning.
Dear Littleton Selectmen, Roger Emerson, Carrie Gendreau, and Linda MacNeil,
Thank you for the opportunity you provided last night in changing your regular meeting place so that you could hear your constituents concerns and we as a community could hear each other.
Last night I witnessed something that was far bigger than responses to any individual’s particular comments. I saw an outpouring from a rich array of townspeople who had come to name and celebrate the gifts we find in the diversity and inclusion here that makes Littleton the special place it is for so many of us to call home.
I witnessed a community coming together to share that our community is better and stronger by being such a community of welcome, inclusion, belonging and beauty. Better for being a town which depends on and celebrates our diversity. Better, for in our diversity, we are able to see and experience more of our human experience than we can ever see alone.
Diversity says we need each other and we do. There are real threats facing our world but these threats are not each other. When we turn towards each other we are better and stronger. We can meet with hope and courage the real challenges and realities we need to face.
I also witnessed last evening what happens when we feel under threat. We get angry. Sometimes in our anger we turn against each other, we say hurtful words and get defensive. None of us acts better, are better, when we feel under threat. When we feel safe, connections and possibilities we never imagined can happen.
Last Saturday, I witnessed our community coming together in another powerful way. At the Butterfly Release in Remich Park, North Country Home Health and Hospice made a generous space for us to gather in all of our diversity and united in grief. They made a beautiful space where we could name, mark and share our pain and know that we are not alone.
At this event and at Monday’s Selectmen Meeting, I witnessed a community that is invested and committed in making our community a vibrant place of life for all.
As you, our civic leaders, help us find ways to turn towards each other and to continue to invest and work for the good of all life, we are all better and stronger for it.
I remember the song we sing in preschool,
All God’s critters got a place in the choir
Some sing low, some sing higher
Some sing out loud on the telephone wire
Some just clap their hands or paws or anything they got now.
Navigating Through Change 