The NOC-a-NOC

Yes friends, your humble narrator and backpacking shenanigan on two left feet has made it to the Nantahala Outdoor Center in Bryson City, NC.

He, I, was culinarily underprepared leaving Jiveawassee in order to save on weight...you know, I had the right materials, even skills, to cook food, but not enough raw material...

And so, last night at 5:30 when I descended the 5,000 feet from the outstanding southern Nantahala Wilderness and was about to pitch camp and I realized the burger I longed for all week was only a mile away, I booked it to the restaurant and got me one with barbecue sauce and onion rings, oh Lord! And don't forget a brownie sundae for desert--YES! to fill my belly before I stumbled upon an open field by the river to cowboy camp at for the night under the stars. Yes, I live the life of a hobo with a credit card who only gets to use it once a week.

The weather has been outstanding, the views super-natural, yas, and the hiking difficult but rewarding. Pulled 4 sixteen-mile days in a row for that burger, and happy to be taking it easy up through the Smokies. I went into the outfitters here to find some knee braces and look! There were 2 for free right in the hiker box people, and yes, the trail provides, and yes my friends, the trail does provide.

Each morning the group I've been hiking with and myself, the self-titled THE FUN PATROL PLUS (replete with bananagrams, harmonicas, and hackysacks), greets the day in a circle via stretching, mindfulness exercises, meditation, prayers and blessings for the day, and self-love. Then the hike begins. Mornings I find myself talking and laughing with the group, playing games and takin it easy. After lunch I get pensive, almost brooding, and choose to hike ahead alone.

I still cannot fully account for this midday shift, but here are some cognitive reflections based off of raw emotion:

All winter, I anxiously awaited my departure. And now, sometimes my body hurts. My heart hurts. Sometimes I miss home desperately. Sometimes I feel God's sunrays and mountains penetrate me so deeply that I cry--for overwhelming gratitude, sheer loneliness, fear of the magnitude of the world without and within, or even just happiness to be alive. I am thinking, learning, growing. And sometimes it hurts, friends. Sometimes I need solitude, and sometimes I can't stand it. I am still getting my bearings out here. Still learning how to be, if you will. If I could figure out how to upload pictures to this thing, I'd first show you the view from Wayah Bald...but second I'd show you the first struggling spring trillium--beautiful, solitary, growing, awaiting, unsure, just learning how to be--cause that is me.

The evenings filled with campfires and musical revelry seem to wash away the day's trials, and even though it's cold at night, I've learned how to keep warm til daybreak.

The trail flows up and down. People come and go. Mountains and storms rise and fall, trees bow in reverence, nourishing streams flow. Today, after I bathe in the river, I think I'm gonna go hiking, and maybe tomorrow, I'll do the same.

Onward to Fontana Dam, with love, wistfulness, and all the imperfections, heartaches, and triumphs in between.

Hiawassee, GA

Greetings friends! I write you from hopefully-getting-sunnier Hiawassee, GA.

The last 5 days and 70 miles have already brought, big surprise here, life lessons and emotional transformation!

Physically I'm feeling tip top--bustin ass up and down mountains and skipping along ridges...well yeah, there's a lot of heavy breathing and sore muscles involved, but it ain't usually my body that is forced to grow.

It's my mind and spirit! Ah yes, spiritual growth...insidious and desirable.

Moments of fear--I mean real fear people, the kind you get alone in the woods in a rainstorm--oh, and the doubt, the loneliness, the sadness, the homesickness....

And I am relieved to say that those moments are but pepper on my potatoes, well more like hollandaise on my eggs but you understand--

It is the moments of gratitude, serenity, awe, and wild mountain bliss than generally fill my belly and my soul.

So how would you characterize this freshly rejuvenated hiker sitting in a hotel room in a small lovely town in North Georgia typing on his iPhone after coming through high wind, ice, and mud?

You could say that his skies look sunny and clear, because in this moment, he feels it all, and even the bad feels good, because it's the holes that make us whole.

I actually do love life.

Onward to Fontana Dam, NC and the foot of the Smoky Mountains. Stay tuned.

-Bootless

Frigid Nights of a Virginia "Spring"

So, the cold rain & snow was supposed to cease by now, right?

I mean, I chose to leave in APRIL from GEORGIA for a reason, yes? 

As our merciless pepperings of mother nature warm-day teasings continue, I began to get a bit unsettled about my lack of cold weather preparation...I even added "make sure I have enough warm clothes" to my to-do list. 

And...how? 

I reckoned it'd be prudent to set up the old Princess Birthday Tent in my backyard on Sunday and sleep out in it in what warm gear I have--and yes, 20 minutes after I had it pitched the sheets of icy rain which soon turned to fluffy ant-sized mattresses of snow commenced, and I must say I was overjoyed, because what better conditions could there be to test my gear than the most adverse I could conveniently find? 

With droves of optimism, I put on my wool, had one last dance with the iPod, and snuggled into my sleeping bag. It was cold at first....but manageable, and after some time, I drifted off to sleep.

Until some unknown amount of time later where a shiver, like a lightning bolt, flew through my body, feet to head, and jolted me awake. I had never been so shaken by a shiver. And then the anguish began to set in. I suddenly realized I'd need warmer things, and I easily forgot that my bed was just 20 paces away. I tried, friends, tried so hard to get warm again, I squirmed and buckled, but in the end, I dejectedly slipped on my boots and trudged inside. 

Awaking I was gripped with fear. Fear of failure. Fear of loneliness. Fear of misery and regret.   

And you know, that's just how these things go. Shit, that's how life goes. Reluctance and fear always manage to chisel their way even into the most seemingly safe and sound choices. So, you know, I think I am where I need to be, and I feel especially grateful for the people in my life who remind me of that when I so easily forget. 

Yeah, and then I bought $200 worth  of warmth things, and I ain't scared no more--I'm gonna go hike this motherfucker. 

Anticipation

Folks, 5 days lie between me and the mountains of Georgia, the origin of my 6-month walk up the Eastern United States. 

I am very emotional--filled mainly with excitement--excitement to try something new, get to know myself better, free myself of worldly possessions, roll and ramble in the hills....
 --and also small anxieties, manifested in occasional nightmares about thunderstorms and hitchiking....

And you know, I will miss home, all of my homes, and all of you, my people, dearly. But mainly, I am poised for this opportunity to love myself and be grateful for my world just a little bit more. 

Stay tuned--tales of backcountry hiking to follow. 

--Bootless, GA-->ME 2013 

PS--I WANT YOU TO COME AND JOIN ME FOR ANY INCREMENT OF TIME! So if you're into it, let me know, and we will hike together for a bit. Anywhere between Georgia and Maine works. Peace!

College: Check

Ah, to be done. An endeavor lasting from Kindergarten until this moment now. Though, I am happy to say, my education is never complete. 

This is the first big thing I have accomplished.  And it just feels really good. That's all. 

How My Phone Met Its End

3:16 PM: I print out a story I still need to read for my fiction writing workshop, which starts at 3:30. No problem--only 7 pages, and I need to poop--how could the situation be more ideal?

3:21: I make it to the 1-stalled bathroom outside of my classroom. Crap. Occupied. No problem--I'll just walk to the building next door.

3:23: Ah, life is good. 2 stalls--1 occupied, but I found my seat in the vacant one, and took a moment to gather myself together. 

3:24: OK, better start reading. I whip the story out of my backpack, along with my cell phone to check the time. The cell phone goes flying straight between my legs and into the toilet. Shit. Without thinking, I plunge my hand into the bowl to retrieve my submerged communication device. Luckily, I had not deposited anything into the toilet at this point. In so doing, I splash toilet water all over the story I am supposed to be reading. I frantically try to dry the story and the phone with my shirt, rubbing vigorously. I begin to rustle around and cuss and stamp my feet--I feel self-conscious regarding my stall-mate next door, so I jam my headphones in and put on my iPod at full blast. Nothing like some nice '68 Dead to cool the brain waves.  If the boy next door tries to talk to me, I am no longer accountable--I have thrust myself into happy frantic oblivion. 


3:25: I glance into the toilet. The water is yellow. That's right folks: I dropped my phone into a toilet full of someone else's piss and wiped it all over my shirt. And splashed it all over a story I am supposed to hand back to the author. To confirm my observation, I smelled my fingers. Yep. Luckily, the piss-and-run offender seemed to have been reasonably hydrated. 


3:26: This is not funny yet. 


3:27: I realize I've neglected my original purpose in sitting on the toilet. So I try again. Meager results. Now, those of you who know me are aware of the length of the fingernails on my left hand, for guitar-picking purposes. And those of you who are familiar with the UVa bathrooms are also aware of the thinness of their toilet paper. Put them together? You get a fingernail full of you know what. 


3:28: Still not funny. 


3:29: Gather my belongings, turn up my music, wash my hands thoroughly, and get the fuck out of that bathroom from hell.


3:30: Suck down a cigarette and stroll on into my fiction writing workshop, on time, drying story in hand (yes, it dried completely, and yes, I handed it back to the writer, and yes I may be a horrible person for doing so, but urine is sterile and and and...yeah. There aren't really any good excuses for that one. Sorry 'bout that.)


6:00--10:30: I spend hours obsessively looking at all the new smart phones I can buy, the man who said he'd never own one, who now just simply NEEDS to have one. 


10:31: I realize I'm being silly and reaffirm my choice to not buy a smart phone.


10:42: Indefinitely phoneless, I laugh for the first time about the misfortunes of my day.

2nd Prize Winner in Virginia Outdoor Writers Association's short non-fiction Contest

High, Low, and In Between

            We awoke to a soft fog encircling our tarp.  The morning after a day in town was always a bit hazy, but there was nothing like the silence of dawn to readjust us to the wilderness.  We had been walking north for eight days, the two of us, Bootless and Gold Bond, from Mt. Springer, Georgia along the Appalachian Trail.  We had spent the previous day in Hiawassee, Georgia resupplying our packs for the hundreds of miles ahead.  On this morning in the lowlands of Bly Gap, just over the North Carolina border, we joked and hollered, excited to have crossed our first state line.  Our yelping broke the silence, and as the sun lifted the fog, birds began to chime in with our chorus.  North Carolina was wetter than Georgia; we had entered a rainforest of rhododendrons.  After filling up our Nalgenes at the nearby trickling stream, we strapped on our packs and continued north up the steep hillsides of the Sitting Indian Wilderness.

            As we climbed, the day grew sticky.  Clouds filled the sky, but that golden June sun persisted behind the cottony veil and wet our bodies.  The trek upward turned grueling.  We knew that once we hit the ridge, our steps would sail us smoothly across the mountaintops with views of Tennessee ahead, but as the southern heat thickened, we began to gripe about our climb and bicker.  The serenity of the morning had slipped away—no, we had left it behind in Bly Gap—and the mood turned tense and frustrated.  We were used to climbs like this after a week of negotiating the unrelenting foothills of northern Georgia, but approaching the state line, we had created idealistic views of the cool blue ridges of North Carolina.  The state’s motto “To be, rather than to seem” fit quite nicely on this heated but present ascent upwards.

            Inches away from collapsing under the humidity and our frustration with each other, we glimpsed an abnormal object thirty paces ahead.  After living in the woods for nine days, anything besides flora or fauna tends to throw a dagger into one’s expected field of vision.  We continued to approach the object and deciphered a pink plastic box, a thermos, and a journal sitting on a table.  The nature of this arrangement did not quite register at first—what was it doing in the woods? Oh—oh! Ain’t nothing like a dose of good ol’ fashioned North Carolina trail magic!  We opened the box, thermos, and journal and were welcomed with homemade fresh cookies, hot coffee, and a note reading:

Good morning hikers! Rough climb, eh? Take a break, enjoy a snack, and re-fuel for the beautiful day ahead of you. And if you will, sign your name and where you are from in the journal. Happy trails!

            Thousands of miles away from home, in the middle of the wilderness, alone but for the birds, we felt extremely loved.   We bounced onwards with a renewed passion for the trail.

            Yet again, the trail sloped gradually upwards, the coffee and cookies and love had all worn off, and we had slipped back into grunting complaints.  Why do we do this to ourselves, Gold Bond? Bootless…I have no idea brother.  We refused to rest, for resting would only make the climb longer.  We were locked into reaching that ridge before noon, and that goal consumed our minds.  We grew silent as we trudged, fooled into perceiving the wilderness as one monotonous step after another, blind to each unique bark pattern, bird chirp, and flower scent.  Yet the forest seems to save you in moments of frustration.  The trail does not need coffee and cookies to be magical.  The trail knows you, it breathes, and it breaks you only so that it can lift you up, higher, higher, into mountaintop bliss.

            Through the laurel, we saw a small opening of misty blue, white, and gray.  We suddenly felt weightless—despite the burden of our lives on our backs and our souls in our boots, we ran, skipped, like children at the carnival, towards that fresh opening in the foliage.  For the first time that morning, we breathed—a deep breath of blue air, a cool fresh taste of wind and clouds circulating through our mouths and nostrils.      

            We stood speechless for over an hour, on the top of North Carolina, watching the mid-morning fog roll over the mountains.  Struck by the power of nature, we were humbled.  We felt silly to have griped about our climb—Bootless, THIS is why we do this to ourselves.  The wilderness does not isolate you.  It connects you to the infinite whole.  It aggravates…and then calms in a soothing release, freeing you to be present to the world.  Letting the damp air coddle us, we dipped back into the rhododendrons, ready to make our next ascent into the blue.