AT Part Two - My Road to Damascus

My Road to Damascus

And on we go. Our tribe of disparate souls moves steadily north, a community sharing the good with the bad and brought together by a common desire to get to Mount Katahdin in Maine or as far as our wills, our bodies, and our wallets will take us.

Welcome to Virginia! I am in my fourth state, as the Appalachian Trail left Georgia, and wiggled along the border of North Carolina and Tennessee, and, at Mile 464, into Damascus.

The Road to Damascus has been fraught with peril and adventure, although some of the most beautiful spots of this part of my hike were hidden by brutal weather that gave me some of the most difficult hiking I have faced in my 30-plus years of backpacking.

This 200-mile section of my hike – from Hot Springs, NC to Damascus, VA -- has also brought me great new friends and traveling companions, amazing and challenging trails and wonderful campsites. I have stayed in a shelter only a few times and spent most nights in a tent. Strangely, I find it impossible to sleep in a bed and find comfort only in my sleeping bag and my one-man Hubba tent. Go figure.

I leave refreshed and far lighter than when I arrived. I celebrated getting to Damascus with a new pack shipped from home, making a modest investment that dramatically enhances my chance of getting to Katahdin. Thanks to my friends and technical advisers at The Backpacker in Columbia for their help with this amazing trip. Billy and Adam and the others have been generous with their advice and counsel, and I could not have been as prepared as I have been without their expertise. Thanks, guys!!

Early in the hike, I carried more than 50 pounds, but have consistently downsized and sent stuff home. Fully loaded, my new gear weighs 34 pounds and the new Osprey pack will be great in the summer weather ahead. I will drop even more weight by shipping home winter clothes and switching to a lighter summer sleeping bag.

So many memories:

o Chow Hound and Chuck Wagon, a married couple from Vermont, knew that I was running low on food as we neared Erwin, TN and resupply. They shared some snacks with me beside the trail late one morning and that afternoon, I rounded a curve to find a surprise. Sitting nicely on a tree limb hanging over the path was a bag of trail mix with a message: “Grasshopper. Eat Me!"
o Twice I have run across Cimarron, an 88-year-old hiker, who continues his effort to be the oldest hiker to complete a thru-hike from Georgia to Maine. In a world filled with youngsters, it’s good to feel so much younger than someone else on the trail.
o I accidentally left my trail guidebook at a biker bar after a burger and two beers one afternoon in Hampton, TN. I had returned to the trail and after a six-mile hike over Pond Mountain to a road crossing the next day, I hitched back to the bar, retrieved my book, ate another burger and drank only Pepsi before hitching back to the trail and another six miles of walking.
o I keep running across Oatmeal and Reese, two guys from Columbia, showing how small the world really is. They are headed back to South Carolina so Oatmeal can recover from shin splints.
o About 15 miles south of Damascus, there is a lovely meadow designed to be accessible for those in wheelchairs or otherwise physically challenged.” A wide and graded path wends through lush green grass and offers wonderful views of the mountains. I was lucky to be there when the sky was a brilliant blue.
o Trail Angels from a local Baptist Church brightened one afternoon with a trail side box filled with ice cold colas and cookies. What a wonderful and refreshing surprise.
o Milkweed Puff, 50, from Iowa, gave me an idea for a new adventure for next year. Last year he canoed the length of the Mississippi River. How cool is that? It took him 121 days. He is also a martial artist and we worked a bit of tai chi together. Regrettably, he left the trail in Damascus and is headed to Kansas.
o I have been hiking with Buckeye, a 69-year-old retired science teacher and track coach from Ohio who completed a thru-hike in 1999 and has the mentality and body type of a long distance runner. He stunned me the other day by referring to me as “wiry.” We had breakfast before he left the trail for home -- he had wanted to hike four states and did what he set out to do.
o My weather delays made me fall behind my young friend Strider, but he was in Damascus when I arrived and we will leave together today.
o I went to the medical clinic in Damascus to use their scales and weighed a surprising 182 pounds, which is maybe 20 pounds lighter than when I started.

But The Story of this section of my merry woodlands adventure has been the weather.

Beauty Spot Clearing was the most terrifying. The fog rolled in as I neared the bald summit 12 miles into my day. First came thunder and lightning and torrential rains -- and then hail. There was nowhere to hide, but I threw aside my hiking staff and huddled beside a tree; I shivered and I prayed.

Other hikers said lightning struck a few hundred feet from me, but I didn’t see it as my head was down and my eyes were shut.

Water filled my boots and I was soaked to the bone.

The nearest camp site was more than a mile away, and I trudged along as soon as the weather broke. I had hoped to make it over Unaka Mountain and wrap up a 17-mile day but I was shipped by the weather and grabbed the first flat spot I could find.

I woke in a panic in the dead of night, clawing at my tent as though fighting to find a way out of a coffin. It was 4 a.m.; I made it out but could not see for the fog or cloud that covered my campsite and the mountain.

Rattled, I struggled the next day, carrying wet gear and a wounded psyche. I hiked another 12 miles before stopping near an appropriately-named Greasy Creek Gap campsite, and pitched my tent at a wet and muddy spot. I was wet and miserable.

This was the lowest point of my Appalachian Trail adventure. That was 80 miles ago, but the memories are fresh and will last.

But I rallied. I prayed and decided that the demons of doubt were testing me and the devil was trying his best to get into my head. I would rely on my faith in God and my faith in myself.

I headed north to climb Roan Mountain as the rain continued a slow drizzle and I gained about 2300 feet of elevation in a three-mile hike to the Roan High Gap Shelter, the highest shelter on the entire AT. It was a cold place, but dry, though a bit grim.

I had looked forward to this part of the trail for weeks before I entered the woods because of pictures I had seen of the rhododendron fields and high altitude meadows.

No chance.

The next day's 16-mile hike over the mountain and the up and over the bald mountains was ridiculously hard, though a hostel, a hot shower, clean clothes and marvelous food awaited me at the end of the day.

Fog cut visibility to a few hundred feet and cold winds shipped rain across the open spaces. There were endless climbs leading to a long downhill trek over slippery roots and rocks and a muddy trail.

I had made it this far through a three-day weather crisis with continuous prayer and variations of a hymn of praise asking for the Lord's help -- "Holy, Holy, Holy. Lord God Almighty. Help me climb this mountain, and bless me as I go. Or, "Bless me as I hike this trail, I praise Thee as I go."

The doubts and panic and despair from the Beauty Spot Clearing hailstorm and my nightmares vanished.

My trail journey continues the spiritual quest that I began last summer at Mepkin Abbey. That retreat started me backpacking for the soul, and the spiritual theme of this thru-hike is: “Following The Cross and White Blazes.” I read, reflect and work on my relationship with God and Jesus Christ. I am reading the New Testament and Proverbs over the next miles and have learned much from another small book -- More Than a Carpenter, which provides proven historical documentation to Jesus' life, ministry, death and resurrection and the accounts in the New Testament.

Coincidentally, as I neared Damascus, I read an account of Saul of Tarsus on the Road to Damascus. An enemy of early Christians, he was "blinded by the light" in an encounter with the risen Jesus, who rebuked him for his plans to arrest Christians in Damascus. Three days later, Jesus sent Ananias to Saul to heal his blindness, and Saul became Paul the Apostle, a leading disciple and Christian leader.

Looking back to Beauty Spot Gap through that lens, the lightning that flashed and terrified me brought me back to my religious reflection.

My spiritual work has served me well.

This story is being finished in the Washington County, VA public library, but written the very old-fashioned way -- with a pen and in a notebook as I camp alone downstream from Laurel Falls.

I stop now for ice cream before headed back to the trail for the next adventure. Bless me as I go.


-30-

AT Prequel - Soul Searching at a Monastery

Hangin’ with the Brothers: a walk on the mild side

            The quarter moon was still high and the stars were bright as I hurried through the darkness to join the monks for Vigils.

Four days into a five-day retreat at Mepkin Abbey, I had promised myself to rise with the brothers and join them for Psalms and Readings to start the day.  The alarm chirping at 3 a.m. made me question the pledge, but I pulled on a shirt, blue jeans and sandals and made it to the church on time.

A nun from Cleveland and I were the only guests that Thursday morning as the brothers trickled in, also rubbing away the sleep.  Sitting in this darkened solemn place in the dead of night, I smiled as I thought, “What in the name of God am I doing here?”

We worshipped by the light of a dozen candles, chanting Psalms and quietly signing hymns of praise to welcome the day, ask God for forgiveness for our sins and for strength for the day ahead.  I hoped the power and intensity of their faith might lift my own prayers higher and, perhaps, I might find some of what they have found.

Vigils ended at 4:20 and I returned to my cabin. I reset the alarm and fell quickly to sleep, rising a half hour later refreshed and energized to hurry back through the starlight for 5:30 Morning Prayer.   I wanted to keep with the brothers’ schedule and join every service on this, my last full day on retreat.

The brothers of Mepkin Abbey nurture and maintain a natural paradise on the banks of the Cooper River as stewards of the land to the glory of God.

Mepkin is a quiet community where two-dozen men share a life of obedience, prayer and meditation, hard physical labor and spiritual reflection.  They have dedicated their lives to God and to the monastic traditions of an order that began in 1098.

Monks are known for their hospitality, and they welcome people of faith for spiritual and personal reflection and renewal and share the monastic life, if only for a few days.

I am not a Catholic, and I am no monk.

Like others of faith, I came to this Roman Catholic monastery to get away and nourish my spirit. Prayer, it is said, is talking to God; meditation is listening to Him. There may be no better place to come and look closely into your heart, your beliefs, your soul, and your connection to God.

I have used God’s gift of writing skill to “render unto Caesar” during my secular life; I share my story of soul-searching at Mepkin to “render unto God”  and to tell others who search for their own answers about a wonderful place to look. Writing is therapy that helps me re-live my spiritual journey and find deeper meaning with each rewrite as I continue to search and grow.

The Brothers, the Sisters, and Me.

I was anxious but excited on the 45-minute drive from Charleston to the abbey, feeling much as I would at the start of a backpacking adventure into the wild.  You never know what is going to happen when you step into a forest for a wilderness hike; you know that you will not be the same when you come out.

It was hot and still that Monday afternoon, and the friend who phoned seemed alarmed to hear that I was 10 minutes away from a monastery. “You’re going where? To do what?”  

He was calmed when I explained that I just needed to unplug, and compared it to a wilderness camping trip.  But I had tough questions for myself -- and for God.  Why had my journey become stumbles and disappointments, financial setbacks and family crises?  Why the pain of three job layoffs, lost love and lost friends?  Would seven years of famine turn into a few years of feast?

I also came to praise God for His many blessings and to open myself to His will.  Despite the hurdles, fears and doubt, I am happy, healthy, and optimistic.  I am keeping my head up and above water, although tiring from years of treading water and swimming against a tide.

A week with the brothers would surely be refreshing, but I was walking into unfamiliar territory and was uncertain about the week ahead.

My anxiety soon faded when Brother Robert made me laugh.  

He was pushing a cart through the guest dining room as I walked in from the heat.  “We have new kinds of cheese this week!” he grinned, excited to be sharing such wonderful news.  I laughed along with the women who had walked in with me.

We knew these monks are vegetarian, but we all expected more for supper than a plate of provolone, Swiss, and cheddar slices and three different kinds of breads.  We also knew the rule of silence at meals, but we whispered and giggled like children as we pondered the cheese and the week ahead.  My three new friends are nuns, and I figured if nuns could break the silence, I could, too.

Two of the Sisters really are sisters.  Sister Carole joined the order of the Humility of Mary when she graduated from high school 55 years ago; her sister, Sister Praxades, became an Ursuline nun a few years later. They came to Mepkin with their Ursuline Sister Patricia Marie to visit her longtime friend Brother Vincent.

We walked together to Vespers and were assigned seats, as this was our first time in the church for services.  The three sisters would sit together in choir spaces on one side of the church for the week, and I sat on the other.  The monks took their places along both walls, some seated, some standing and facing the altar in prayerful wait for the service to begin.

Over the week we would put names with faces and individual personalities would emerge.

Father Joe used smiles and gestures to show me the Psalms and order of service; he was a helpful and patient guide as I learned my way through the liturgy.

The men of Mepkin are gentle, friendly, and kind.  Their personalities peek through with nods, smiles and perhaps a wink, but they also are engaging and affable hosts and welcome conversation when talk is appropriate.  

Brother Vincent is bearded, rail thin and very tall – his 6-5 height exaggerated by the hooded black stole that hangs over his white robes from shoulder down to his knees.  He waved happily as he drove past me with the Three Sisters headed to the farm after Vespers, on a private tour of the grounds.

At 72, he is a happy man who says he is still fascinated by Greta Garbo, and, like many of his brothers, enjoys the New York Times that comes to the Abbey each day.

When I compared my retreat to a backpacking trip for the soul, and he replied that it “sounds like a good title for a book,” somehow knowing that he was talking with a writer who would share Mepkin’s tale.

The monks sometime read aloud to the community at lunch, Brother Vincent said, and they had shared Bill Bryson’s hilarious, sometimes profane, but always entertaining and iconic backpacking classic, A Walk in the Woods, about his Appalachian Trail hike.

Kevin, a young man considering a life commitment here, was eager to meet with the Sisters after services and hoped one of them was Ursuline.  He had gone to an Ursuline high school on Long Island, and shared a funny story about one the nuns who taught him.

The personality of this holy place is as obvious as Brother Joseph’s smile as he pedals by on a bicycle headed to the farm, or as quiet as Brother Stephen’s love of hot peppers. It is as patient as Father Guerric’s instructions to volunteers who are helping him with native plants.  When I told him how much I enjoyed the labyrinth, he quickly and happily tried to recruit me to work there.

The Abbey’s personality also stays as subtle and hidden as the tiny cabin in the trees near the farm and far from the gardens and public spaces.

This very private place has a table, a chair, and a lamp; various key thoughts and meditation points are pinned to the walls. If needed, a cot hangs against the wall. This room was built and used by Brother Luke, who died a few years back.  His Bible, his Rosary, and his spirit remain.

The monks say that their prayers are not just for their monastic community, but the prayers also flow down the Cooper River to wash across the South Carolina Lowcountry and beyond.

Mepkin is a historic 3000-acre rice plantation owned by Henry Laurens, a patriot and Founding Father, in the 1700s and by industrialist and publisher Henry Luce in the 1900s.  The Luce family gave Mepkin to the monks in 1949.  

A large white cross marks their small family cemetery on the top terrace of the Clare Boothe Luce gardens that sweep from the bluff to the river.  The oaks, native grasses and wildflowers are breathtakingly beautiful in late summer and are surely even more magnificent when the azaleas and spring shrubs bloom.

The Tower of the Seven Spirits sets the tone and marks time in this timeless place.

Its bells sound a call to prayer and “give voice” to those who have lived here and are buried here – native-Americans, African-Americans who worked the lands, the Luce and Laurens families, and friends of the Abbey, and the monks.  The bells give voice to the monastic community “in glory” and for the monks now here and those yet to come.

The abbey will welcome as many as 12 guests on retreat, but there were only six of us there that week in August.

Folks on retreat bring their own expectations and plan their own time.  They are welcome to share any, all, or none of the monastic services.

Guests are given a room with a bed, a desk, and a chair in a cabin on the grounds and they share a dining room next to the monks, eating what the monks eat when the monks eat. Silence is to be observed during meals, and shorts and tank tops are not permitted in church where knees and shoulders must be covered.

The brothers live and worship on the monastic green. Their private spaces curve along the river with the layout designed to take advantage of prevailing breezes and accommodate their routines and prayerful schedule. They work the grounds and operate a nursery, mushroom farm, and gift shop.

The brothers rise at 3 each day and gather for Vigils at 3:20, then an hour of study, followed by Morning Prayer at 5:30 and breakfast of a hard-boiled egg, cereal, and toast at 6.  The brothers spend an hour in meditation then share 7:30 Mass before being assigned their tasks for the day.  

The Main Meal comes after Midday Prayers at noon, and guests follow the monks through the food line, eager to fill plates or bowls – sometimes stewed squash and potatoes and salad; sometimes cheese and bread, and perhaps a slice of cake or pie.

A short service in the dining room after lunch gives way to a short siesta, an afternoon of work, and then a supper that’s often a cheese or peanut butter sandwich at 5 p.m., Vespers at 6, and final prayers at 7:30 before retiring at 8 p.m.

After Vespers that Monday night, Brother Vincent and the Three Sisters drove around the property and I went first to the gardens and then the labyrinth to collect my thoughts and adjust to this very solemn and somewhat forbidding new place.

Backpacking for the Soul

The stars grew brighter and the moon rose as I wandered barefoot through the labyrinth, the idyllic path that wends to a prayer circle at the center of a lush meadow. The labyrinth is perfect for 15 minutes of walking meditation and then 20 minutes of thoughtful breathing and tai chi. I prayed for guidance as I thought about how I would spend the week and what I hoped to accomplish.

A week in a monastery was a more evolution than great leap, as my life had already become a slow slide toward monasticism, solitude, and simplicity.

I traveled light. Packing simple clothes, a Bible, a few books about the life of Christ and spirituality, a notebook and a pen, I quickly fell into the rhythms of the Abbey.

Adjusting to their schedule, I joined the monks in many of their services and ate what they ate when they ate. While they worked the farm or handled chores, I went to the river or gardens to look around inside myself and do some hard work on my mental health and my spiritual growth, to sit and read and think and walk. And write.

This is surely a holy place, a place of such peace and natural harmony that a chameleon wandered idly across my shoulder as if to visit and a grasshopper calmly paused in my path to be petted before leaping lazily into the grass.

This was backpacking for my soul, a journey more challenging than any wilderness adventure. It meant toting a heavy spiritual pack through difficult terrain, one with psychological and spiritual forests, valleys, but also with joyful vistas, insights, and discovery.

I was a very long way from my religious roots in Greenville, where we lived in the shadow of Bob Jones fundamentalism and where street preachers praised Jesus and shouted Scripture for all who would listen.

Raised an Episcopalian, I was an altar boy, sang in the choir, played church basketball, and was active in youth groups.  I spent hours learning to worship while kneeling on the cold hard floors of the Christ School chapel, where boarding school life also taught me hard work, discipline, and sacrifice.

I raised children and was “active” in the church with scouting and sports, but I also continued my spiritual search because religion, or church, did not bring me to inner peace and harmony.  

But I was still angry with God for taking my father and older brother from my mother and me during a terrible 18 months nearly 40 years ago.  No doubt He had plans for them and both are with Jesus; but my mother never really got over the loss of her husband and firstborn, and I could have surely used their friendship and counsel through the years.

But God gave his only Son, so who was I to complain.

Then I began a return to God and to Jesus Christ.

With a few quiet words of emotional support, friends led me to pray with them at work, and my life seemed to improve the more I opened it up to God and worked on my soul. When I collapsed at work one day, the doctor blamed low iron, but I think, now, that God was sending me a message.

Another message came when a friend took me to church, with the caution that the pastor was a charismatic and the service might be unusual for me.  She faced a health crisis and was praying for a healing miracle. The pastor rejoiced in the “new wine” of the Holy Spirit and preached of signs and wonders.  This was my first experience with people “in the Spirit” and speaking in tongues.

I cannot explain the energy that coursed through me as I prayed that night for her to be healed, but it knocked me from my comfort zone and put me on my knees.

The pastor and his flock were convinced I was being filled with the Holy Spirit and had a very strong connection to God. They urged me to help them cast out devils and heal the sick at a food bank in the parking lot of a Moncks Corner shopping center.

The spirit was very strong on an amazing morning that staggered me with its power and filled many people with joy and religious fervor.  Our prayers did not give my friend a healing miracle, but they raised her spirits and gave her hope. God heard our prayers and guided the doctors who repaired her ailing body and cared for her.

At the time, I believed that the energy surge we shared felt like a heavy dose of chi, the universal life forces that I have studied and worked toward during years of tai chi and martial arts training.  Now I think that my friend and her pastor might have been right – God was trying to get my attention and it is time for me to listen.

My spiritual path has gone through the martial arts, and I have worked to learn the explosive kicking, punching, and ancient fighting drills of karate and kung fu as well as the gentle rhythms and movements of tai chi.

Those disciplines are much the same but so very different, the yin and the yang of martial arts. The hours of grueling drills and routines also teach breathing, stretching, focus, and concentration and you relax deeper and deeper into stances and movements that strengthen your body and connection to the earth and align your joints to “open the gates” to universal forces of life and energy.

Workouts and tai chi sometime lead me to this place of inner calm where action flows without thought, where chi flows freely, and where peaceful breath and gentle movements find a graceful harmony and allow for an empty mind.

Those are the currents that brought me to Mepkin Abbey, a place where East would meet West on my spiritual journey, where the lessons taught for centuries by monks in China would meet the ancient disciplines of the Catholic monks in South Carolina.

Asked what monks do, the monk replied, “We fall and we get up; we fall and we get up; we fall and we get up.”  The Abbey, like the dojo, teaches humility.

Yin and yang. Holiness and wholeness

My retreat on the banks of the Cooper River brought me much closer to God and to Jesus Christ.  My time with the brothers of Mepkin will continue to help ease my burdens as I keep working toward peace, balance, and harmony with them and with myself.

That Eastern path led me to 10 hours or more of training at the dojo each week, so my body was very tired when I came to the Abbey and I looked forward to taking the week off from workouts and classes.  Though it was tempting to just nap in the gardens, I planned my days to work on my spirit and soul while resting my body.

I came to Mepkin on a continuing quest for peace and harmony in a world where “who we are” is judged by “what we do” or “what we have” and where our validation too often comes from what we think that other people think.  I came looking for context and meaning while looking for work – again.

Job searches can be agonizing and dispiriting.

Your professional life is reduced to entries in a computer that are reviewed by a cold and faceless process that decides whether you are worthy of an interview. Hope leads to disappointment, and sometimes to despair. You might hear that you were not selected (but thanks, anyway); more often, there’s no response.

I cannot (and probably would not) change the fact that I will be 60 in January, but I know age can be crippling to a job seeker during difficult economic times. I also kept pointing the finger of blame inside, and questioned my faith in myself and in God’s plan.

The yin/yang symbol on the cover drew me to “Urgings of the Heart,” a book on spirituality and Christianity that brought Eastern and Western principles together.

“Urgings” guided me into imaginative contemplation and helped me take myself into the life and times of Jesus for a journey of self-awareness to deal with the shadows and, through meditation, to learn from Biblical lessons and teachings.

It took me into the shadows and steered me onto a path to awareness, forgiveness, and acceptance.

The shadows are where the voices inside grow louder and louder as the noise and clutter of everyday routines fade away. The shadows are the places inside that we try to ignore, the parts of ourselves that frighten us, the areas that convince us that we should not love ourselves and we deserve our failures, pain, and unhappiness.

This is where we judge our lives and the lives of others, or where we obsess on past slights, failures or mistakes. This is where we doubt ourselves, question our faith and fear for the future.

“Urgings” teaches how to embrace the shadows as parts that enrich us, and to welcome them as critical to who we are. This self-awareness leads to self-acceptance and to a place of peace where our conflicting but complementary parts work together in harmony and where we keep the faith that all things work in God’s will.

With work and prayer and faith in God and ourselves, wholeness will lead to holiness, the place where we embrace God’s love, accept our flaws, and find the peace and courage to live like Jesus and to love like Jesus.

Lightning did not strike during my week at the Abbey.  There were some flashes of inspiration and “ah-ha” moments, but I know that the hard work of my spiritual journey and growth will last as long as I breathe, whether at the Abbey or wherever life takes me next.

I am closer to comfort with my shadows and continue to work at the dojo and at the Abbey.  I balance life by spending as much time at the monastery as I do in martial arts training, and I spend one day a week working at the nursery, cutting lawns or potting plants, and sharing a noon meal and prayers with my new friends, the men of Mepkin.

I told my friend Sister Carole about my walk in the labyrinth when I asked God whether I should come here for retreat.   An explosion of butterflies flew from the wildflowers and circled, giving me a mystical answer that I already knew.  She smiled, “Butterflies are a sign of the resurrection.”

The Three Sisters have returned home to Ohio and Nebraska, but they continue to pray for me and believe that I am being called to join the brothers and follow the religious path that has been the center of their lives.

I will settle for inner peace and harmony. The butterflies are my symbol for renewal, and God willing, I will get there. I do not believe my path goes through Brother Luke’s cabin in the woods at Mepkin Abbey, but, then, I never thought I would find myself chanting Psalms with the monks in the middle of a lovely Carolina night.

-30-

270 miles -- Hot Springs looking back at Springer

Hot Springs, NC. May 6, 2011

       My legs started talking to me at about midnight. Screaming at me, actually, as the hamstrings and the quads both legs locked up.
       I had rolled over in my tent in my tent at Peck Shelter, a 10-mile hike up from Newfound Gap deep in the Smokies. April had turned into May and I was more than 200 miles along the Appalachian Trail.
       The cramps somehow made me laugh even as my eyes watered from the pain while I struggled to stretch me howling muscles and ease the pain. It reminded me of the aftershocks of seven-hour Saturdays at the dojo and my aging legs telling me, “that’s enough, damn it.”
       I decided to stop eight miles away at Tricorner Shelter, a short hike and an afternoon to do what my legs were telling me to do and give them the rest they demanded.
Good thing.
Rested, I would do 18.5 miles a day later. It was a fabulous day of hiking that took me out of the Great Smoky Mountains and down from some of the highest points I will hike along the 2,176 mile Appalachian Trail.
       It was a month after I had started thee long walk from Springer in Georgia to Katahdin in Maine, and it seemed I was about to be finding my trail legs – any my hiking head.
       The 18.5 would be followed by eight as I stopped early and get out of the coming rain. That was a smart move, as I had just enough time to get into my tent ahead of the weather. It rained and rained. I slept and slept. My muscles never twitched.
       Twelve miles the next day and then 14 miles into Hot Springs and here I am in Hot Springs.
It is time to “zero” and do no miles. This would be the first time since Hiawassee that I had done no hiking and that was almost three weeks earlier.
       Whew.
       Am I really Hot Springs? Am I really on the Appalachian Trail? Have I really hiked and lived inn the woods lugging 40+ pounds of food, shelter and other necessities for more than a month and covered 270 miles?
       Pinch me. It’s almost surreal.
       I carried high hopes into the woods, but my merry woodlands adventure has been even more spectacular, challenging and intense than I had imagined.
       Two nights ago, I wore every bit of clothing and was still cold in my sleeping bag and small tent in 35 degree weather at my campsite at about 4,000 feet. Last night I was in a double bed under quilt and comforter in a 200-year old Victorian hiker hostel.
       And, I find, I cannot seem to sleep in a bed.
       My first morning in Hot Springs started with Trail Magic, a pleasant surprise of fudge from a friend in Charleston. I had forgotten that I had listed Elmer’s hostel as mail drop and just happened to see a box with my name on it. A true trail treat.
       Springer Mountain seems so very far away – and so does the real world. I have been as unplugged as possible since starting April 3 and have been completely disconnected from the news. I saw the price at the pump and was shocked (and am glad I’m walking) A bird watcher from Alaska crossed my path the other morning and told me about Bin Laden. The only other news I’d heard for a month was about the devastating tornadoes.
       Thinking back, Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the A.T., was more magical than I anticipated. The summit and its markers were surprisingly cool. I enjoyed a beautiful sunset and signed the trail register at the top of the mountain. And on a crisp Sunday morning, I headed north.
       The first few days were exhausting; I knew they would be. Like many, I had packed far, far too much stuff and I soon rethink my possessions and send home about 10 pounds of things that I had been sure that I would need.
       That first night, I camped near Hawk Mountain, about 7.5 miles out, when a barrage of not-too-distant gunfire shattered my serene surroundings, helicopters flew over, and it sounded like a gun battle erupted a mountain away. It turns out the Army Rangers have a training camp in the area. The second night, I camped near Gooch Mountain and cowered in my tent during an overnight thunder and lightning storm that brought cold and heavy rains and 60-mph winds.
       And then one day folded into another, one mountain into another, one day into the next.
       Hundreds of would-be thru-hikers never make it out of Georgia and dozens never even make it more than a very few days, with a few bailing after just a few hours. The AT in Georgia is said to be among the hardest along the trail. Your pack is very heavy, your legs are weak, it is difficult to breathe and it takes the mind and body time to adjust to this strange new world and to life in the woods.
       There have been many odd but wonderful scenes along the way. There was a man playing a battery-powered electric cello at a stream crossing, a 'food dump' where an over-packed hiker shed excess weight (I snagged a pepperoni log and some breakfast bars, there were the trail angels who waited along the trail to offer cold drinks and snacks to hikers or, at Blood Mountain, to offer a bit of chocolate with a Biblical passage attached.
       We are hiking a particularly religious part of the country where Jesus Saves, and there were Bibles in many shelters. A church group fed lasagna, peaches and salad to ravenous hikers one night at Neels Gap and then hamburgers the next morning. It was free, no prayers or sermons, and they offered us the opportunity to add our names to their prayer list.
        I came into the woods alone, but there is no shortage of company or opportunity for fellowship. A day of virtual solitude along the trail ends with a night at a campsite or shelter and hikers sometimes travel in pairs or small groups or otherwise just end up in the same place.
       I am surprised in Hot Springs to be reconnected with folks who I have met much earlier in the hike.
Meat Loaf is here. So are River Dog and Winnie and Mowgli, as is Terri, who is hiking in honor of her grandson, who died of SIDS. Surprisingly, Henry (the Marlboro Man) is in Hot Springs. I met him at 6 a.m. in the Atlanta bus station two days before I came onto the trail and I never thought he would find the trail, much less hike a big chunk out of it.
       The Wolfpack is also camped near the springs. We hiked the Smokies together after meeting up at the first campsite. Fish and Lemon (a married couple from my hometown of Lakeland, Fla.) with Spork from Cincinnati, BeerBurger from Illinois and BearBait, a German.
       My young friend, Strider, 20, from Virginia Beach also is in Hot Springs. We have been hiking together for a hundred miles or so, and he was planning to meet his mother and sister here. I had fallen a day behind and didn’t get to meet them, but Mom had paid for a pizza for the two of us at the Smoky Mountain Diner.
       You tend to forget that you are a member of a trail community and your actions and presence affects others. Strider told me that he had posted an entry on his blog – Enter Grasshopper – and that he had been writing about our hiking and camping together. (I haven't seen what he has written, but may soon.)
       I also met a young hiker named Chuck, who had yet to take on a trail name. He was hiking before starting graduate school in philosophy. Being a Dad, I resisted the urge to ask what in the world he expected to do with that. A few hours later, I offered him a trail name - “Chuckrates (as in Socrates.) He laughed, and said he liked it; we'll have to see if it sticks.
       But I digress.
       Hiking comes in segments – from resupply to resupply and the schedule often shifts because of supplies, weather or health. Taken in chunks, thru-hikers chart progress like Neels Gap, Hiawassee, NOC, Fontana Dam, which tells us in shorthand how far we have to go and how many days of food it will take to get us there.
       Neels Gap – this first stretch from Springer is about 30 miles and has a hiking store that gives hikers a chance to scuttle their packs of excess weight, ship stuff home, and resupply to Hiawassee and beyond.
       This was the first BEAR SCARE!! I was camped up and behind the hostel bunkhouse when I heard some noise and a shot and stirring around from a hundred yards or so away. Then someone with a flashlight came to my tent and told me a bear had been seen prowling around and I needed to move my food inside.
       I was anxious about staying outside while my food went in, but figured I was going to be living on the bear's home turf for the next months, so I might as well stay in the tent. A bear had twice gone into a shelter at nearby Blood Mountain twice the night before and that night would steal two hiker's food from a campsite a half mile away from mine.
       The Trail in Georgia features long and touch climbs and sharp descents through forests that have yet to bloom and offer stunning views of surrounding mountains, ridges and valleys. Rhododendron tunnels and mountain laurel.
       I stayed in Hiawassee for two nights, waiting for a new tent to be shipped in, using the time buy more food and also eat subs from Subway and take several hot showers.
       A lady named Almost There was the main topic of conversation and concern along the trail. She was a most odd woman about whom I had heard passing but nonspecific trail gossip, but had never encountered her until one morning. I had broken camp early for a six mile hike into NOC, and a possible resupply.
(It became a hot shower, laundry, a burger, two beers and ice cream before getting back on the trail for 2.5 more miles and 2000 foot elevation gain, which is my definition of a triple double - two beers, 2000 feet, two miles.)
       I had left at 7:30 a.m. and had just turned a corner a half mile out and there she was -- disoriented and literally babbling. She told an odd story about hiking at night, not being allowed to stay in a shelter, being off her medication which was for focus. Then of she went, north like me, She skipped and sometimes ran while all the time chanting Hail Marys. Walk About, a young Pennsylvanian, said later he had found her sleeping in the stone lookout tower at Wayah Bald. Like me, he worried about her, but we figured she must be OK or she wouldn't have made it all this way from Springer.
       Then there is Trail Magic.
       A few days later, Strider, Spider, and I decided to hitchhike the 10 miles from Stecoah Gap into Robbinsville and, with luck, we hoped to be back on the trail in time to get to a shelter or a campsite with as little off-trail time as possible,
       Strider met Nina, a day hiker, on the trail and she agreed to take us into town and bring us back. She waited patiently while we grocery-shopped at Ingle's, stopped by McDonald's and offered to let us come to her community house and shower and get cleaned up. We spent a delightful 45 minutes at her home and I found myself talking about tai chi, chi gong breathing, and eastern spirituality with her husband while the others showered. It was unreal.
     Three hours after leaving the trail, we were again hiking and I would cover another five miles before making camp.
       My goal from the start has been to avoid towns and other civilization and to make the resupplies stops short so I can get back into the woods. Many hikers mail food packages ahead; others,l like me, buy food along the way.
       I did an overnight stay in Franklin, hiking in one day and out the next, and joined eight other hikers for food shopping at Wal-Mart. I spent $35 and left with a week's supply of food – and a new watch.
       The Trail in Georgia features long and tough climbs and sharp descents through forests that were naked as spring had yet to bring its leafy shelter, although there were numerous Rhododendron tunnels and much mountain laurel. The climbs were brutal at times, but there were always stunning views of surrounding mountains, ridges and valleys through the trees.
       Cold winds often whipped through the gaps and around knolls and knobs. I sometimes hiked in thermals, fleece and a rain jacket to fight off the cold, only to then come around a bend into the hot sunshine and away from the cold.
       One goal had been to make it to Fontana Dam and the Great Smoky Mountains by Easter. I was a day short.
       But I did sleep at Cody Gap that Saturday night, not needing a rain tarp. My tent was open to the skies and a brilliant star show with shooting stars.
       The Easter sunrise was unforgettable, a reminder that I also hike to the glory of God. I thank Him each day for His blessings – the air in my lungs, the food in my stomach, the strength in my legs, the courage in my head and heart, and the wonder of His forest and trails.
       The Smokies are magnificent. They are higher and flatter, more open and inviting. The forests had already begun to bloom at lower elevations, with lush meadows filled with green grasses and flowers of white, purple and orange.
       Camping is restricted to shelter areas or specific campsites. I found Spence Field after a 10-mile day and was delighted to find it was near a high meadow with spectacular views. I enjoyed a quiet meal watching the sunset, but moved into my tent as the weather began to change.
       The wind started howling after sunset, turning a glorious sunny day in the Smokies into a roaring night in the woods. The hiking was about to turn nasty. It was very cold that next morning with the wind continuing to whip across the mountaintop, making it hard to walk. It rained sideways and began to sleet, the frozen rain bouncing off my face and the hood of my jacket.
       That afternoon we received word of horrible weather coming in. While we missed the brunt of the storm that devastated Alabama and other parts of the south, the storm rocked the shelter and pelted it with hail.
       And so it goes. Now it is on to Erwin, TN by midweek and than a decisions as to whether to leave the trail for a few days and hitch to Damascus, VA, for Trail Days. I am thinking about staying on the trail and avoiding that crowd scene. I have finished my Zero Day in Hot Springs and am ready to get back on the trail.
       Happy Trails everyone.