Nearing the End of Hiking Season

"There are things you should

notice anyway.  To live for some

future goal is shallow.  It's the sides of

the mountain that sustain life, not the top.

Here's where things grow.....but, of course,

without the top you can't have any sides. 

It's the top that defines the sides."

Robert Pirsig 

 

As I have aged, I find that I ride less in winter and hike more.  It is not that I can't ride in winter, or even that I don't ride in winter, but I ride in cold temperatures less frequently, tend to ride shorter distances, and I certainly don't enjoy it as I used to.  It is physically and mentally harder than it used to be.  The wind and cold have not changed, so I must have changed.  I suppose I am nearing the top and it will help define the stages and changes in my life.

 

 

I have often asked myself if it is the loss of the companions that I rode with throughout the winter in the past or creeping weakness and vulnerability.  The winds seem a bit more powerful.  My legs a bit weaker.  My willpower not so steeled.  Perhaps it is just because I know that I can do it, so proving it to myself and others is no longer an issue.  Regardless of the reason, it is what it is.  I no longer have a need to prove myself to anyone but me.  And perhaps it is best to have a multitude of hobbies to choose from.  Perhaps it brings a freshness to older hobbies.  Absence does, conceivably, make the heart a bit fonder, not only of people but of activities.  When spring arrives, I am longing for long, warm unhurried days on the bike and the companionship of those friends I rarely see other than in warm, bicycling weather.  By fall I am longing for the forest trails and the isolation.

 

 Instead, to keep active and not become a total winter blob, over the past few years I have started hiking more frequently in the cold months.   I enjoy the colder months in so many ways when hiking.  Less people are seen on the trail.  Ticks are fewer to non-existent.  Snakes are sleeping.  I quite enjoy plopping down on a log and opening my thermos for lunch, hot soup doing a slow creep, warming me down to my bones. I quite enjoy the starkness of the sepia landscape and how the few splotches of color here and there seem almost cartoon like and unreal.  

 

And the silence.  I enjoy the absence of sound other than crunching of leaves under my feet or the rapping of a woodpecker or the occasional rustle alongside the path by goodness knows what.  Birds will become raucous  and pervasive when spring hits, but for now there is largely a silence here.  Their song as they desperately seek mates will be one way I will know that spring is close along with the awakening of the peepers shrill clamor.  I will know that warmer weather and bicycling approaches.

 

I quite enjoy the way my lungs struggle trudging up a steep climb reminding me of my dependence upon air.  The way my calves ache during a steep climb, muscles straining to meet the demands being placed on them.  Often, particularly early in a hike, I will rush to meet the climb testing myself, knowing that my strength will normally ebb toward the summit or upon the return when the miles have left their mark on my legs.  

Of course, when Jon is with me, which is quite often, there is more sound....mostly my incessant chattering.  But it is just different somehow.  And he is quite tolerant. Usually, silence descends more surely as we get further into the hike.  And when Jon is with me, there are more demands put on these short legs.  Sometimes my shortness is a gift, when a tree has fallen and must be gone under or around, but often it is a hindrance, making me stretch to climb over it or to match my shorter strides to his longer ones, the foot or so difference in height becoming even more apparent.  Of course, we often tease each other about it.  We have been friends long enough that there are jokes between us that others would not understand.  Miles hiking or biking or perchance just time spent together gives birth to such closeness. 

 

Fortunately I live near five trailheads for the Knobstone Trail.  I don't know how long it was after I moved to this area that I became aware of the trail, but it was awhile.  It stretches for 58 miles with the loops I believe.  So many parks have trails that are only a few miles long. How glad I am to have found out about it even though there are times it kicks my butt. 

We decide to do the loop from Oxley Trail Head to Delaney Park with the idea that we can turn around or shorten the hike as needed by cutting out loops.  (This is the only part of the trail that loops). The original plan is to leave from Delaney, but Oxley is closer to my house and so the  hike starts there.  There are numerous cars in the parking lot which surprises me, but we do not run into them on the trail.  A mile or so in, Jon notices tents off to the right of the trail, and we suspect that those belong with the truck.  I don't notice, but Jon said the truck bed was filled with empty beer containers.  So we speculate that they are just camping and not hiking.  Indeed, we never see them on the trail, but their vehicles are gone from the parking lot upon our return.  

As we hike, we talk about the things that friends talk about.  The woods still seem rather dead with the occasional leaf beginning to bud out.  Jon spots and points out a few flowers, but they are not yet fully open.  And the miles pass.  We got a rather late start, so I begin to wonder about finishing before dark.  As so often happens, my imagination takes over and I picture us out there, no light, trying to find our way as not only darkness gathers around us, but the cold descends.  For it has been cold the past few days and night.  Unseasonably so.  But when we reach Delaney for the trek back, it appears all will be well barring injury or getting lost, something that could happen but is unlikely as the Knobstone is, on the whole, extremely well marked.  

 

17.7 miles later, we are back at his truck, preparing to go find nourishment.  Later I think that Mr. Persig is probably wrong in respect to a life metaphor.  Surely the sides, how we approach the top of our life, actuates the end of the long climb.  The top must be somewhat influenced by the path we take to get there and maybe even how long it takes to reach the summit.  But I suppose neither can exist without the other.  I suspect that each has a role in defining the other.  And how terrible it would be to reach the top and realize we had missed the journey, the sides, in  our quest.  Surely it is not shallow to consider the top. Regardless, it was a good day leaving me tired but sated, at least temporarily, and happy knowing that spring approaches along with long days on the bike.  Such blessings. 

HIking the Knobstone Trail

"You must accept that you might fail; then, 

if you do your best and still don't win, at least

you can be satisfied that you have tried. If you

don't accept failure as a possibility, you don't set

high enough goals, you don't branch out, you

don't try, you don't take the risk."

Rosalyn Carter

As I near retirement, I have started listing things that I hope to do after I retire.  You see, while I long for  freedom after my years of servitude, I also am wary.  Luckily for me, many of the people I know who have retired are active and have busy lives with numerous hobbies and can serve as role models and advisors, but then there are those who seem to wilt once the harness comes off, robbed of the purpose given by employment and unable to establish purpose on their own.  Seldom do those people seem to live long enough to enjoy the retirement they earned.   In other words, retirement tells us something about ourselves and our personalities. I also suspect that it will be harder to have a fruitful fulfilling retirement as a single person than it would have been if my husband were still alive because sharing experiences with someone enhances those experiences. 

On my list of things I hope to do, see, experience, etc. is to hike the entire Knobstone trail.  I don't know much about the trail other than it is close by and that it is said to be good preparation for hiking the Appalachian Trail. I mention this to my friend, Diana Cozart, who surprises me by saying she would like to hike the trail as well.  And it is thus that plans begin being made.  And while I am not yet retired, it will give me a taste of if I like it.  Originally, my plan was to camp while on the trail, but Diana would rather not and it is not that important to me at this point.  Frankly, I feel certain this adventure would not have gotten off of the ground, at least until after I do retire, if it were not for Diana.  I mentioned it and the next thing I knew she had a map and was doing the planning.  Mainly, I followed in her wake.  I also mentioned what we were doing  to Mark, the Director at the office where I work, who says I need to take his phone number in case I need to be rescued.  He talks about how difficult he has heard the trail is and how he has rescued others that have attempted it and decided to quit.  The worry in his face touches me as does his offer of assistance if we should need it. 

Last fall, in preparation, we began  a series of few short hikes doing certain sections of the trail.  Jim, Diana's husband, would drop us off at one trail head and pick us up at another.  During these three or four excursions, we experiment with what works for us and what does not.  One  lesson is painful, rocks and acorns underfoot on the trail cause my foot to slip and my ankle to turn.  I hobble out without Diana realizing just how badly I am hurt, but I learn a valuable lesson.  Every hike from there on out, I have hiking sticks and boots, not running shoes with no pole to balance.  We learn about what we can expect our pace to be, how much water we  need, etc.  I begin carrying an ankle bandage with my other supplies. While I think we can do it, still in my mind there is a speck of doubt.  Some of the climbs are remarkably steep and the descents likewise.  I can ride a long way on a bicycle, but walking is different.  Since my car accident last year, I have occasional back and neck issues that I did not have previously.  Doing twelve miles on foot is quite different than doing over fifty.  "What is the worst that could happen," I ask myself?  Anything new holds the risk of failure. Possible failure is the spice in the stew.

I take a week off in April, and so our adventure begins.  Diana and Jim  pick me  up in the morning at 8:00 and Jim  takes us to Deam Lake and drops us off.  We have successfully hiked a few sections of the trail during our preparation days, but because of the distance to the start, this is not one of them. 

I awaken to the sound of thunder booming loudly, the kind that makes the air feel alive and the house seem to tremble.  And there is rain.  What was a twenty percent chance of rain has become eighty percent.  I am fine with going or waiting a day.  Again, I leave it up to Diana.  We decide to move forward.  By the time we start, the rain is nothing but a gentle misting, quite pleasant actually .  It is warm enough that it is not uncomfortable with a light jacket, and the rain seems to make everything more vivid.

We had intended to do this  hike before earth yawned, stretched her arms, and awakened, but it has been unseasonably warm or our planning was off or a combination of the two.  Regardless, we trade the possibility of snakes and tick bites for a growing sea of greenness, for Red Bud trees, and for wildflowers.  Gone is the monochrome of previous hikes. We see several snakes throughout our four day adventure, but the one on the first day is on the path.  He is small and totally brown, no stripes, and does not seem to have any desire to  yield the path, tongue flickering in and out, so we yield to him and walk on.  This is his home:  we are only guests.  Two others are larger, one at least four feet in length.   I "think" it is a black snake, the kind my brothers used to catch and play with.  The last, the one that slithers into a pile of brush, us smaller and is tan with brown with stripes. Suddenly I am thinking of the movie "Riki Tiki Tavi" from the children's youth.  There is a scene with a snake and the snake tells the boy, "If you move, I strike.  And if you don't move, I strike."  Later that night, I review on line what to do when bitten by a snake.  But it really seems things are rather hopeless if one happens to be bitten by a poisonous snake so deep in the woods.

Reeling in my imagination, we move on.  Our paces are similar and it is nice to have company.  Sometimes we chat and sometimes it is just the affable sound of our footsteps and hiking sticks and breathing.  Birds chatter in the background.  At one point, we see a beautiful bird I am unable to identify, but who sadly appears unable to fly. In my mind I thank him for sharing his beauty with us before continuing his journey on the other side, for to be a bird and unable to fly is, I feel sure, certain death.

At the crest of a climb, we decide to have lunch and we come upon two buzzards, each sitting on the remnants of a tree that was topped by a passing storm at one point.  In fact, in that area, all the trees have been topped.  The buzzards take wing at our approach, but they  settle nearby, this time huddled together, companions and friends. I think how they are useful birds, and there is beauty in their cuddling.  I find that I appreciate things differently now that I am older, that I have come to a realization that there is a beauty in purpose and how the pieces of the world fit together.  A piece may be beautiful is only because of its usefulness to the whole, but it is still beautiful.  I try to get a picture, but as I suspected, the telescoping lens on my camera is not sufficient.

As we eat our sandwiches,  the rain picks up in intensity.  Slightly chilled, we both put back on the jackets we had shed earlier.  Then we move forward.  Diana remarks on how well the path is marked because in this section we are walking sideways around the top of a hill.  Unless you would like to take  a nosedive down a sharp incline and possibly kill yourself, there is no other place to go.  For some reason, this strikes me as particularly amusing and I giggle about this the entire hike, particularly as we reach a few places where the trail is not so clear and yet there is no guiding mark.I briefly wonder about the people who designed and maintain these trails, and I hope they know how much it is appreciated. 

At one point, I slip twisting my bum ankle a bit.  I stop, wrap it, and move on quickly realizing that it is not nearly as bad as the last time I twisted it.  It will swell a bit, but it will not be exceedingly painful.  This is good because the last time I could barely walk the next day and this is not a practice session but the real thing.  Shortly afterward,  Diana also falls, hitting her knees.  But she says she is okay and seems to be. It is hard to decide whether the climbing or the descents are tougher. Climbing challenges the lungs and stamina, but descending challenges the balance and toes. When we reach the end of day one, Jim is waiting and has brought each of us a bottle of water and a granola bar.  I think how nice it is and how thoughtful. I am glad that Diana has someone to do these things for her.  Relationships are a blessing to be treasured.

The second day is quieter as we walk along in silent companionship.  Interestingly, there seem to be fewer bird sounds than yesterday.  Rain or terrain? Blisters and foot issues have started, but not so significantly that they will stop us.  I tell her how friends told me about using duct tape on blisters and areas that are rubbing.  I keep looking for places that I might stop if I decide to do this trip on my own in the future and to camp along the way rather than going home each night to a shower and my own bed.  During the hike, we come across two tents.  One we saw on an earlier hike and has obviously been abandoned for some reason.  I keep teasing Diana that we had better not look under it as there are probably dead bodies.  The other is well maintained though nobody is there. Cooking utensils are hung from trees.  The tent is erect and the entire area, while human-less, appears tended to, almost as if someone is staying there regularly rather than just for a night along the trail.  There is even a stack of magazines. All these things fuel my imagination taking me further along the trail.

Somewhere along the way Diana spots a mushroom and I get to hear her story of how they would look for them as children along with her father when he was still living.  I think of how are lives are enriched by others, the experiences we have of spending time with them, and I realize  yet again how lucky I am to have a reliable companion on this part of my journey.  I think how much we miss those that were part of the fabric of our lives: parents, siblings, spouses, children.  If you live long enough, it seems most of these are taken from you.  It is easy to feel sad and despondent, but I try to be grateful for the rich colors they have added to my journey.  Briefly I wonder if Diana and I will still be friends 10 years from now, 20 years from now?  I think of something Paul said on a recent ride, something that struck me because I heard the same thing from my mother:  "All my friends I grew up with are gone."  Is, I wonder, survival, being the last one standing, a blessing or a curse?  But I am not wise enough to have the answer if there is one.

As we walk, I think about our ancestors that settled this land, and how strong they must have been.  It  is hard enough with a path and without trying to carry seed corn and those things needed to start a homestead.  I think about how lucky we are that they preserved some of the forests for the enjoyment of future generations, but I also mourn the lack of old growth forests and wish that some of this had been preserved for us. What will we leave behind for those that come after us?  We pass through large areas that have been touched by tornado damage or by logging.  At one point, we reach a turn with absolutely no marker.  We pull out the map and Diana uses the compass on her phone to determine our course.  Soon we reach a white mark that assures us the turn was correct.  I also occasionally ask myself why I am doing this, particularly as the heat grows stronger.  Really?  Who expects an eighty degree day in April.

The last day is also traversing areas we have not hiked before so we do not know what to expect.  I ride my bike in that area, but the road is in valley.  Not so the trail.  At one point, we are on a thin, sliver of path that cants down into what would be a terrible if not fatal fall.  I struggle with my fear of heights and remind myself to concentrate on the path and nothing else.   It is not helped by the fact that I am having what I now call "a bad eye day."  Ever since my viscera detached, I have the occasional day when my one eye seems to be covered with a thin veil.  No amount of blinking, looking down, or the other suggestions given by the doctor help. Today not only is there the veil, but there is a line like a hair across my eye, something the brain normally screens out.  It is not painful, but it is annoying and definitely affects my vision.

 There is also a long detour on this section and we find ourselves on a gravel road that seems to last forever. I wonder how long the actual trail will be closed.  As we take the detour, there is a family on a porch who tells us it is not much further.  And it is not.  Again and again on the trail I think about trees and what wonders they are.  The roots often serve as steps or keep the dirt on the hillside from eroding.  We use them to climb out of creek beds that are nearly as deep as we are tall, and to keep from falling downward into them as we descend. The colors of the Dog Wood and Red Bud are stunning against the sea of encroaching greenness.  All shades of green.  There are area where it seems you are on top of the world and can see forever.  And always there is our progress forward toward our goal: completion. 

Each mile marker becomes a source of celebration as we draw nearer and nearer to our goal.  Sore feet and tired bodies yearn for warm, soapy water, filling food, and a soft bed.  For a few days, at least, such things will be more appreciated than they normally are.  And for a few days there will be the satisfaction that comes with something difficult being successfully navigated and completed. Finally I hear Diana say, "There's our truck."  And there Jim is, patiently waiting for us, and it is done.  I know that tomorrow a part of me will be glad of rest, but that a part of me will wish I was heading back out on the trail, the rhythm of our feet and breathing in harmony with the land, the land we came from and will return to.  As the Florida Georgia Line song says, "You know you came from it, someday you'll return to it."  Until then, may there be more adventures and new ventures, and may there always be the risk of failure because without the risk of failure, success would not be so very sweet. In the words of Diana, "We did it!!! Knobstone Trail. 4 days; 27 hours; 55.9 miles; 558 floors; 132,497 steps. We started at Dean lake and went to Delaney Park."