Sonya Eaddy Cordina
author/artist
1
Pine Cone Therapy
“Divorce, if you let it, will suck the life out of you. Your body gets really skinny or really fat. Your eyes well up with tears when a guy simply holds a door open for you. And your only memories are the ones you are constantly trying to squeeze out. I let this happen to me so slowly and torturously that I soon realized I was completely empty. I had no interests or aspirations. Nothing made me happy and everything made me sad. But a day, an hour, a minute, and then a second came along, and for some reason, I grabbed that second and found the strength to pry open the door to my soul. Then I stepped outside.”
I joined a local adventure group. A group who traveled the southeast in search of lofty mountains to backpack, serene rivers to kayak, and diverse trails to bike. The outdoorsy type. They appeared wholesome, and I was craving anything that was pure, honest, and simple.
The first outing I chose was an 18-mile bike ride on the middle section of the Swamp Fox Passage that wound through the Francis Marion National Forest in Awendaw, SC., just outside of Charleston. I spent weeks in angst over whether I had the right bike and the appropriate clothes, or the stamina to make it this far with a group of young athletic guys.
We met in the parking lot of a shopping center to caravan to the trailhead. I quickly inventoried the bikes, everyone's gear, and the physical condition of these men, still nervous that they were so out of my league. A friend of mine had come along with the group for most of the same reasons I had joined - a bad divorce, pain, and self-loathing. She arrived with her beach cruiser, yoga pants, and a beanie with pink and purple flowers. I wished I could be more like her.
We took a left off of Highway 17 and then another to arrive at a parking area of the Halfway Creek primitive campsite. As one of the guys offered to get my hybrid bike out of the car, someone else was checking to see if anyone needed air in their tires, assuring us he was carrying tools in case any adjustments needed to be made along the way. And I overheard our group organizer laughing about wearing hiking shorts over his running pants.
"I just wear whatever I don't mind getting muddy!"
Everyone was taking their time to get snacks in their daypacks and grab their water bottles. No one was stretching, putting on expensive helmets, or downing energy supplements. Instead, they were marveling over the perfect weather and seemed happy just to be outside.
So we started to line up the bikes in no particular order and began our early morning adventure. I noticed our organizer planned to lead the way, so I quickly jumped in behind him. I think he sensed my anxiety as he turned to look at me over his shoulder and shouted in my direction.
"I'm setting the pace now...this is not a race. We always stop to smell the pine cones."
Noxious fumes still had a stronghold on my body, my mind, and my soul. Fumes of self-doubt, and voices in my head of my former married life full of hurtful words and harsh realities from someone I had loved and trusted. I slowly blew out a long breath and tried to let all of that go. And I began to pedal a little faster in an effort to escape the exhaled air that had been so congestive it almost squeezed my heart to death. Then I inhaled deeply as I took in the smells of nature, the confidence in myself I had missed so much, and a feeling of peace I hadn't felt in a very long time.
We made our way through the forest and laughed as we bounced along the tree roots, carried our bikes while walking on a railroad tie trapeze to avoid the water still lingering from the recent flood, and had to ask some local hunters if we were headed in the right direction. We alternated places and got to know each other better while discussing our next adventure. My friend kept up nicely with her beach cruiser and appeared blissful to be surrounded by such kindness.
After it seemed like time had stood still during a delightful autumn afternoon, we emerged from the forest and continued our journey along Steed Creek Road back toward the trailhead. Some gave their thanks for such a great choice in trail biking, while the youngest in our group offered an open invitation to meet for drinks at a local bar. I eagerly agreed to go with him, deciding the ride had been a great tradeoff for a cold beer.
I'm glad I found the strength to pry open that door, as it appears there's been a lot of goodness knocking for quite some time. I can breathe better now - exhaling the bad and inhaling the good. I intend to take in one glorious breath after another, knowing there's a way to recover from this thing called love.
2
Trail Diversity
“I laid everything out on the floor in the small space between my bistro table and living room sofa. Then I attempted to stuff it all inside my backpack. I only needed enough for two days of hiking and one overnight on the trail, but my everyday efficiency didn’t seem to have an interest in the trip. I picked up the bag and took it into the bathroom to weigh it on my scale. I could do this…only 32 pounds. I could do this…”
I was spending money like there was no tomorrow, but I tried to consider all my purchases as an investment. An investment in myself to continue these amazing adventures and have proof that life keeps going after divorce, loss, and years of someone testing you to see how much pain you can actually take before you snap.
Well, I finally did snap. I had what I considered my ‘bottom of the trashcan’ moment. I saw my dignity wadded up like balls of garbage and scattered across the last eight years of my pseudo-married life. It wasn't pretty, and I knew where I had to go to make things better.
I shivered in my sleeping bag and cursed my kidneys for not being able to just hang in there for a few more hours. Our hiking group had spent the first night at a local campground, giving me a chance to test out all my new backpacking gear. When daylight finally seeped into my new little one-person tent, I joined twelve of my fellow adventurers as we hefted our backpacks on ourselves to begin the first day’s ascent from Packs Landing to Mill Creek County Park on the Palmetto Trail in the midlands of South Carolina.
Just a couple of miles into our journey, we literally tightened up our belts and began an obstacle course alongside Sparkleberry Swamp, where only the trail blazes led us in the right direction. The 1000-year flood had wreaked havoc on this part of our beautiful state, and it hadn't fully recovered. Large limbs we hoped to use as support simply cracked apart and added themselves to the sea of dead debris, briars, and thick vines.
As I cautiously stepped over a large tree trunk, something caught the top of my backpack. So in an attempt to free myself from the hold on my back and the prickly briars that were tearing at my right leg, I lost my balance and plopped down in the stagnant rust-colored water. Maybe a couple of moments passed before a strong, outstretched hand pulled me up, and we all plodded along for a few more miles and finally reached the edge of the forest.
I laughed and thought of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz when she’d questioned the right path to take through the woods, and the wicked trees clawed at her along the way. Then we all stepped out into the field of poppies and set our sights on Oz.
Okay…there were no poppies, and Oz was Mill Creek, but the sun was out, and the trails ahead were dry. If we hadn’t been burdened with backpacks, I’m sure we would have linked arms and skipped across the meadow with voices of Munchkins playing in our heads.
The group slowly stretched out through the woods as the more experienced backpackers trudged ahead to locate our camp for the night. The trail blazes became more confusing, and our leaders began to leave arrows drawn in the sand for those of us ‘trailing’ behind. Our group, comprised of engineers, teachers, tradesmen, and young entrepreneurs, provided a perfect analogy to the diversity of the trail. The water, the deep sand, the pine forest, and even the changes in elevation were each unique and seemed to have found their place in life. We began to slowly find respect in the challenges they posed.
We reached Mill Creek County Park and found it completely to ourselves. There were hot showers and grassy lawns where I sat in the sun to dry my hair and soothe my aching feet from a full day in new hiking boots. We had left some of our cars at this first night’s destination, so a chosen few of us were spoiled as we ate succulent steaks and pulled on warmer clothing to sit by the fire - sharing our loot with the rest of the group. I went to bed earlier than the others, just needing a good night’s sleep after the restless one the night before. I layered my clothing differently this time, added hand warmers to my sleeping bag, and cinched it tightly around my head. I had set up my tent just a few feet from the bathhouse for the inevitable trips during the night, and I felt cozy and warm - happy that I just might have figured this out.
Abruptly, I was awakened from a deep sleep when a pack of wild coyotes whizzed by my tent. It soon became obvious there was a farm nearby as the dogs went into a complete frenzy, the rooster mistook the huge full moon for the sunrise, and the cow decided to moo just because she could. And then every degree of heat somehow began to escape from my sleeping bag, and I was, again, freezing in my tent. I think it was just before sunrise as I softly sang my own version of Emmylou Harris.“…and the coldest hour is just before dawn…”. As daylight finally found us, we unzipped our tents to discover a thin sheet of ice covering the outside. So we made a fire, then took a little extra time for everything to dry before figuring out how to get it all stuffed in our backpacks the same way it came out the day before. We talked about the ‘wildness’ of the night, and several of us had the revelation that we could leave our backpacks in the cars and hike the next ten miles with simply our trekking poles.
A small amount of guilt found its way into my consciousness since the whole idea of this was to challenge myself. But I was still feeling the effects of the day before, two sleepless nights, and I had several more adventures planned for the weeks ahead. So I opted for the trekking poles and never looked back. And I was completely in awe of those who still stayed way ahead of me with fully loaded backpacks. I focused on the rhythm of my steps and imagined myself by the end of the summer being like the others—a seasoned backpacker with muscular legs…tight glutes…sunkissed skin.
As we approached the last few miles of our journey, it was as if we magically crossed over into the foothills of the mountains. There were beautiful sandy bottom streams and tiny waterfalls. We were actually climbing hills, and our straight trails through the pine forests became narrow paths emulating winding road switchbacks flanked by mountain laurel. Thick tree roots provided steps as the elevations climbed higher, and we were forced to do the same. In contrast to the sprayed-on trail blazes we found on the trees, hand-carved wooden signs now marked the way home to Poinsett State Park with names like Whippoorwill and Coquina brightly painted in tropical colors. And the warm sun had coaxed families and day hikers onto the trails as this lazy Sunday afternoon lingered, and we finally made our way across the dam to our very real ‘Land of Oz.’
Logistics made it difficult for everyone to gather as a group at the end, but we said our goodbyes and hugged those we could. I had picked up quite a few balls of my dignity during these 20 miles of hiking and backpacking, and my surroundings were becoming more aesthetically pleasing. But more importantly, I was beginning to gain a more beautiful perspective of myself and my new life in the great outdoors.
3
Serenity on the Suwannee
“I put in a request to take a Friday and Monday off from work in mid-February. My adventure trip just happened to fall on Valentine’s Day weekend. Perfect timing since there hadn’t been a 'significant other’ in my life for quite some time. I needed this reprieve from dealing with an entire day devoted to love when I knew I wasn't capable of loving anyone right now, nor did I think anyone was capable of loving me.”
I had made the decision to let 44 miles of the Suwannee River use its healing powers and rescue me from the river of pain where I almost drowned during the last few years of my marriage. But this kayak trip was going to take courage and a great deal of planning. I owned nothing in the way of outdoor river gear, with the exception of two 15-year-old kayaks I had originally bought for my children.
So I opened my laptop and began watching YouTube videos. I compiled a detailed list of what was required to kayak down a river and camp in outdoor platforms along the way. I borrowed pieces and parts from friends. I scoured local outdoor shops to touch and feel everything that was so unfamiliar. And I promised myself I was going to make it down this river.
A friend, who had decided to make the trip with me, came over to discuss logistics before the big weekend. He took my perfectly researched list and literally tore it to pieces. He expected me to strap a heavy cooler to the top of my already bulging kayak, and he yelled at me when I expressed concern. After hours spent trying to engineer a way for two kayaks to fit on top of my small SUV, he failed miserably. In one short afternoon, he had taken all the joy out of an adventure I had been looking forward to for months.
I decided to tell him, as diplomatically as I could, that I would be making the trip without him. I realized how quickly I was falling back into the same pattern of allowing someone else to control my life, and take care of things that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And my past experience with anger from men was enough to last a lifetime. I just wanted peace, and I wanted to do this on my own. So, for the most part, I did.
The organizer of our group had a slight change in plans and asked if I would like to ride down with him. He would take care of travel expenses if I would rent a kayak when we arrived—he possessed a 21’ hand-carved beauty, which left no room on top of his car for my 9’ plastic stepchild. I vacillated, wanting to make sure I wasn’t redoing what I had just undone when it came to men. I finally said “yes” and began focusing on other things like the efficiency of securing everything in dry bags in case my experience of paddling around in the neighborhood lakes didn’t live up to the standards of this renowned river.
After a delightful conversation down I95, we arrived at Big Shoals State Park where we hiked alongside the river for a few miles. The rapids were fascinating to watch as they feistily churned up the coffee-colored water over a 9’ drop and roared loudly to claim their territory. Thankfully, my research had shown our trip beginning well past these last rapids, as that was a feat I had no desire to accomplish.
We met our fellow kayakers from Hilton Head at the end of the trail, as the only other female and I laughed about being the sole women who had kept their commitment to this trip. We then drove around the quaint little town of White Springs, Florida to locate the boat landing where we would all meet in the morning, and stopped by American Canoe Adventures to check out a kayak. I reserved a blue one with a pink whistle that resembled mine at home, and we headed down the road to set up our tents at Steven Foster State Park for our only night of car camping.
Out of 23 people who signed up for the trip, only nine of us (and Buddy, the dog) gathered together on Saturday morning to launch our kayaks—two of which opted for a tandem canoe. A winter storm was moving through, and the below-freezing temperatures had deterred most from embarking on a river and camping outside for three nights. One by one we pushed off from the landing and the current began taking us on an unforgettable adventure down a river that held something amazing, inspiring, and uniquely suited to each one of us.
There were miles of moss-laden trees, a sandbar we selected for a quick lunch break, banks of interesting shapes formed from limestone deposits, and the pure sound of silence I hadn’t experienced in what seemed like years. My mind was so far away I almost missed the kayaks ahead pulling up to a wooden ramp that zigzagged up the side of the riverbank. We had reached our destination for the night, and a friendly park ranger greeted us with wagons to take our gear up to the platforms.
Woods Ferry River Camp sat high above the river, so we pulled everything up the 550 feet of ramp and along the sidewalks to reach our reserved spots. The platforms were screened and equipped with ceiling fans and electric outlets to charge our phones. Each came with its own picnic table and fire ring, and they were clustered together at the edge of the forest so we could keep our group together. As I made my way to the bathhouse, I was happy to find the showers had ‘fresh out of the package’ curtains and everything was super clean!
While a few of us safely secured our kayaks along the ramp, the rest began setting up sleeping arrangements in the platforms, or tents in nearby open spaces. Several of the guys opted for a trail hike and I happily went along. We began our walk on a quiet country dirt road that eventually circled around and ended at the banks of the river, just upstream from our campsite.
As we admired the view and then turned to head back in the direction we came, someone suggested a shortcut through the woods where you could see some semblance of an old trail. Immediately, fallen trees were straddled and small tributaries of the river were traversed while we each enjoyed the lush, green fan palms that gave the forest its color during this bleak winter season. We stopped to photograph the swamps edged with cypress knees, but kept our group tightly together since our trail had long been missing.
As anticipated, a road soon appeared that took us directly to our platforms, and we joined the others by the campfire who were already comparing their cooking methods and chosen meals for the night. The next few hours were memories in the making. We laughed and told really funny stories. We laughed more and teased each other to test our personalities. We laughed harder and bonded. Then we laughed hysterically and lost all our inhibitions as we formed meaningful friendships. We said goodnight and figured out a way to keep ourselves warm while we drifted off to sleep in anticipation of another awe-inspiring day on the beautifully stunning Suwannee River.
By the next morning, we all had it down…we could pack our dry bags and compression sacks in under thirty, stuff everything in our kayaks, and be on the river in less than an hour. Day two held just as much surprise around every corner as day one. We let the river carry us every now and then when we wanted to photograph the cradling arms of the majestic trees as they reached out low over the banks, or the mouth-dropping tree house built high on a bluff where a rich family history made us yearn to experience the view and a moment back in time.
I knew I was the slowest paddler in the group, but everyone took turns hanging back with me, pretending they just wanted a slower pace for a while. This was easy to figure out early on, but I enjoyed the one-on-one time I was getting with the kind of people I realized had been missing from my life for a very long time. And each person thoughtfully gave me a tip on paddling. I tried each suggestion and slowly fell into a groove where, for a few miles of the trip, I no longer lagged behind the others.
Maybe it was the vibe I felt just being on the river with people I already liked—new friends who, if only for a few days, had helped me forget what I’d been through. Or maybe the river truly moved me, both physically and emotionally, as I realized I was allowing myself to cry for the first time in months. I rested the paddle on my lap, wiped the tears from my face, and placed my hands in the frigid water. Then I closed my eyes, letting the river absorb my tears and take me where it needed me to go.
Just around the next bend, a large sandbar marked the entrance to the Holton Creek River Camp for our second night of camping. Very similar to the first, we hauled our gear to the platforms, heated our dinners over a roaring fire, and laughed heartily way into the night.
Early the next morning, we pushed our kayaks away from the bank just ahead of a young Boy Scout troop to begin the final leg of our journey. The morning began lazily, but we soon began to kick into a higher gear as we realized the wind had really been the first one on the river. It had plans to go north and we were all headed south. The river also had its own agenda as it swirled and tugged at our kayaks, almost sensing it was our last mile and attempting to keep us from leaving. We struggled to keep a straight path, but one by one we slid our kayaks onto the paved landing at the Suwannee River State Park.
There was a short time to unwind and regroup as we patiently waited for our shuttle to arrive and take us back to White Springs. Everyone posed for pictures and gloated about what we had all accomplished over these past few days. Stories began to unfold about the dangers of those last swirls, and we soon learned that the river landing was closing shortly due to the water rising above safe levels. All of us were so thankful for the timing of it all and held great respect for a river that had safely carried us 44.23 miles.
It was obvious as we slowly hoisted our tired bodies into the outfitter’s van that this river had taken so much out of each of us, but it was also obvious how much more it had given back in return. As we pulled away from the landing, I peered out the window and silently thanked the Suwannee River for taking on part of the burden of my grief and being such a wonderful part of my personal journey to happiness. Then I softly blew it a kiss…for teaching me how to love myself on Valentine’s Day.
4
Beyond the Asphalt
“As a creature of habit, I am oftentimes oblivious to signs or roads leading somewhere other than the places I originally intend to go. Or I’m simply a passenger in life, literally and figuratively, so I just ‘wonder’ what could possibly warrant a permanent roadside sign. And I only ‘imagine’ the beauty that awaits me past the winding dirt roads—the ones that might ultimately morph into an avenue of majestic oaks and lead to some incredibly unexpected surprise.”
The brown sign that reads SANTEE COASTAL RESERVE stood overlooked time and time again as I made my way north on Highway 17, just past the quaint fishing village of McClellanville, SC. I was never the one driving, so the slight yield to my right was never taken, and I had no idea of the allure that existed beyond that point. But when my adventure group chose this spot as their Saturday morning cycling destination, I tossed my bike in the back of my SUV and set out to experience what lay beyond the asphalt.
It all began as a shady country road. Then one sharp turn transformed into a long and scenic dirt lane bordered by tall, longleaf pine trees. The underbrush was low, so the view continued deep into the forest. Slowly, the pines became interspersed with oaks, and just like one would imagine, the oaks began forming a distinct pattern on either side of the road.
We parked our cars by a designated camping area and unloaded our bikes. The sandy soil made riding a little difficult at first, but soon we purposefully stopped in our tracks to watch two bald eagles just a short distance away. They created a majestic dance through the sky as they passionately soared towards each other - briefly interacting and only parting to begin the ritual again. This rare opportunity of nature was just the beginning of our wildlife sightings as we rode across the dikes of former rice fields and watched the oversized lethargic alligators slide into the waters just ahead of our bikes.
About halfway through our eight-mile ride, we dismounted and climbed 61 steps to the top of an old lookout tower once used by the forestry department to watch for wildfires. As two owls darted into the trees from a nesting box at the top of the tower, I suddenly remembered it was the beginning of spring. Mating season. And for the first time in years, I realized I was perfectly okay without having a mate. Even if this feeling was temporary, I was actually enjoying the simplicity of life by myself. There were no expectations, which ultimately resulted in no disappointments. I stayed a few minutes and took in an artistic interpretation of the Santee River to my left and the Intracoastal Waterway to my right. The canvas had no edges, making the image very difficult to leave behind.
Before long, we had successfully completed our way across the dikes and were sitting in rocking chairs, enjoying our lunch on the porch of the former gun club. It was perfectly suited to the site as the colors of the wood subtly blended into the landscape of moss-laden oaks. And the design provided a view of the river from the large, open living area, complete with oversized leather sofas and a huge stone fireplace. We lingered awhile after lunch and savored the cool porch shade after our day of a sun-filled bike ride.
Our final treat in the reserve was a short walk in the woods that suddenly transformed into a green carpet of duckweed, entirely camouflaging what we knew to be dark swampy water below. A long wooden boardwalk beckoned us across if we were curious as to the view it offered over 500 feet away. We each cautiously took the dare and marveled at the contorted shapes of the cypress knees that popped up through the millions of tiny plants and laughed about all the vintage wooden lamps that quickly came to mind for those of us who had personally experienced the 70s.
After a few photos in our lush environment, we made our way back to the campsite and loaded up bikes to head home. We had all experienced a great deal of beauty in these few short hours. Organic beauty. The kind we all possess but oftentimes lose sight of in such a competitive body image-driven world.
So I left this natural wildlife reserve, mentally taking some of nature’s beauty with me. I plan on letting it spread through my body and my life...organically…the way it was naturally intended. And if I ever need to replenish my supply, I know I only need to take a slight yield beyond the asphalt.
5
The Art of Unpacking
“I close my eyes and relish the sensation of the warm water as it falls from my shower head and slowly trickles down my body. I need a few more minutes to just stand here and relax before I begin the weekend camping trip to Lake Jocassee with my adventure group. Everything is packed so I’m physically ready to go. But I have never completely finished the emotional unpacking of all the previous trips to this family vacation spot with a man who was as unpredictable as the violent storms that quickly appear from behind the mountains - displaying the power of their dark and menacing side.”
Journal entry - Lake Jocassee Family Vacation, 2011
Every morning I take the manmade steps carved from the packed clay that lead to the water’s edge of Lake Jocassee. Coffee in hand, I begin my cleanup of the debris that has found its way to our tiny little beach behind the cabin.
I move heavy logs and pieces of wood. I scoop up twigs and leaves. It’s a cleansing for me from all the clutter and conflict that has gathered in my soul from the few days we’ve been here. I then sit to reflect on my vacation…my marriage…my choices in life.
With every passing boat, the debris finds its way to me again. But it calms me because it’s an easy cleanup. It comes often, but the periods in-between are tidy and orderly. Perfectly clear water shows me exactly what’s underneath.
Before I take a step, I know which rocks will cause me pain and those I can expect to be smooth and soothing. I notice where the lake begins its descent so I can brace myself for cooler waters. And I sense when I can no longer touch its sandy bottom and need to swim, hold on to an anchor, or just allow the water to take me and render the peace I long for in a world that knows nothing more.
The expansive body of indigo blue glass and the layers of colorfully painted mountain ranges that hugged it so closely offered everything in the way of a peaceful and reflective setting. But instead, each time I had vacationed here, the trip had been interspersed with purposeless screaming and cursing, angry fists forced their way through hollow doors. There was senseless pummeling between step-children I wanted so desperately to accept and love, along with belittling remarks directed towards me that required long solitary walks to cry and decide if I loved deeply enough to weather the damage that I knew couldn’t always be repaired.
As soon as our adventure group put this trip together at Devil's Fork State Park on Lake Jocassee, I strategically chose my campsite. It was across the lake and the furthest away from the cabins I had always shared with my former husband, children, and multiple friends. I faced my tent towards the cove and focused my views across the water towards the mountains.
So far, this strategy was working, and I hadn’t had one nostalgic moment since I arrived early that afternoon. The site was the largest of all the others and encompassed the point of the campground. Although I was sharing it with my friend, she and I agreed there was still plenty of room to invite everyone else over and make it the designated "Party on the Point” gathering spot for our nightly campfires.
"Party on the Point" was an understatement. The light meals we had packed didn’t begin to absorb the alcohol we began to consume, which was completely out of character for us both. It had been a while since I had lived in the moment. I always worried about what people thought, and I kept my guard up so I wouldn’t give anyone a reason to whisper as I walked away. But I wasn’t with those types of people anymore. No one was judging me, and you could feel the unanimous acceptance of each of us.
So I lived. I embraced the attention of a much younger man with no inhibitions and no regrets. I found joy in not having to search so hard to find honesty and trustworthiness. It was right here in this intimate group of amazing people.
Still sluggish from our adventurous night, the sun rose early over the mountains the next morning and had to urge us to take advantage of its glory. We hiked the trails in search of the infamous (but very tiny) Bell Flower and took a leisurely paddle on the lake in my friend’s tandem kayak we had brought along. It was an effort to get it here, but necessary to maintain the confidence I’d been working so hard on to trust my own securing of such a large object on top of my car. And it was an important part of regaining some pieces of myself I had lost here over the years.
While we marveled over the beautiful homes that dotted the edge of the lake and played with the wind to reach the other side, others in our group decided to enjoy the local festival and took a scenic boat tour of waterfalls and other areas of this seemingly edgeless bowl of crystal clear water.
As our campfire group formed again for the second night, I opted for a calmer evening. We played cards and found humor in the mishaps of those who had fallen in the water or forgotten their tent poles. We tried hard to obey the ‘quiet hour’, but didn’t want our night to end. It was fun. Fun in the way vacations and weekend getaways are supposed to be. There was no anger or stress, no need to take a walk and gather myself back together…because no one was tearing me apart.
Just as quickly as the weekend came, I realized it was over as I peered through the screen of my tent and once again watched the sky take on its soft, warm morning glow. I packed the last of my camping gear and walked to the edge of the water – knowing this was what I had needed to do for quite some time. I had been desperate to take back and claim a place whose beauty should have overshadowed any pain I had ever endured here.
And it suddenly occurred to me that it wouldn’t be necessary to unpack the emotional bag I had been lugging around for years. The new friends I had met on this trip had already done that for me, and my bag was now empty. Worn out from years of holding more than I should have ever allowed myself to pack inside.
So I left Lake Jocassee and watched my painful memories scatter themselves like ashes across the water and my empty bag sink deep into its heart. It was an amazing feeling knowing this special place could handle it. And I now have a much better understanding of what not to pack.
6
Mental Notes
“I was strongly questioning my decision to go car camping with a new adventure group, although a fellow backpacker had assured me there was some hiking involved. But it was about more than that. It was the therapy that came with challenging yourself both physically and mentally and I was going in the wrong direction. Then something began tugging at me. I knew, for some reason, he didn't want to be alone."
My acceptance of this trip began to gain some momentum when I finally left the interstate just before Charlotte, NC. Rolling hills bound by white wooden fences suddenly appeared on either side of the two-lane road. And the flowering dogwoods added depth to the painted landscape as they jumped from the canvas against their lush green background. They emulated the essence of spring, and it made me happy to finally be out in the country.
I met my friend at Kings Mountain State Park. He had thoughtfully changed our campsite location to one that backed up to the woods instead of one next to the many large RVs, complete with a family of three kids and a dog. We set up our tents and headed over to meet the organizer of the group and hear about the plans for the weekend.
As we got out of the car, I felt like I had stepped right onto the set of an old John Candy movie. Parked in front of me was an RV with its striped awning rolled out to deter any rays of sun from reaching anything or anyone residing underneath. And there sat our organizer in a camping chair with green plastic grass beneath her flip-flopped feet. An overweight ‘wiener’ dog sat nestled in her lap, wearing a sweater, which I was certain had been lovingly hand knitted by the owner herself. The husband was firing up the large gas grill, much like the one I had back home.
We were made to feel very welcomed as we quickly went through the usual small talk, then mentioned our proposed hike on the trails the next day and asked if any of the others in the group had plans to join us.
“Nope…don’t think anybody has plans for tomorrow. We’re probably just gonna sit around here all day. But now, ya’ll don’t forget about the Mexican fiesta potluck dinner tomorrow night. It starts at 7:00, and we’d love to have ya join us!”
We graciously accepted the dinner invitation and then politely excused ourselves to get back to our campsite and cook our dinner over an open fire. We held our laughter and comments, which ended up being the bulk of the conversation for the rest of the weekend. My friend had obviously not done his research when he decided this would be a great group to join for some new hiking adventures. Their idea of adventure was checking out the other RVs at the campground and wondering what ‘lucky’ dish their friends would bring to the potluck.
The next morning, in our search for something to contribute to dinner, we stumbled onto a local tractor show complete with food trucks and trinket vendors. I was coerced into stopping just to see if they had some great local barbecue. They didn’t. Instead, we were bombarded by local candidates running for sheriff, petted some baby goats, and witnessed the most giant inflatable tractor slide known to man. It was definitely time to hit the trails.
A layered wall of stone created a cascading waterfall at the foot of the trail, and just the sound of it relaxed my mood. We hiked along the stream for a short distance before heading up into the woods. The dogwoods appeared again to make their contribution to the scenery, and we occasionally spotted wild azaleas, thistles, and periwinkle. We stopped in an open field for lunch and lazily sipped on a beer we had decided to bring as our treat, but which was also crucial to making it through the evening potluck.
My friend and I had only been on two other adventures together, but we just seemed to click for whatever reason. I really did enjoy his company and had always believed that if you got through life with just the number of friends you could count on one hand, you’d lived a great one. So we began a conversation on the way back to the campsite. We divulged the true reason we had joined our original group and why we needed these trips. We told secrets that had shaped our lives and the demons we were fighting inside our heads because of them. I silently cried at the reality of his painful and abusive past and felt ashamed that mine seemed so trivial in comparison.
Engrossed in our conversation, we took a wrong turn and hiked two miles more than we had planned. Still thinking we had time for a quick shower before dinner, we reached our campsite to find a note taped to my tent door. Dinner initially planned for 7:00, had been moved up by two hours.
We were late! There was no time for a shower, so we grabbed our contributions of bean salad and beer and headed in the direction of Site #94, still sweaty from our eight-mile hike. It was almost 6:00.
As we introduced ourselves to the others in the group, it was even more obvious that this was not the type of weekend I had envisioned. Hardly anyone moved out of his or her chairs, which had been permanently placed in a circle around the campfire. There were several dogs roaming from one person to the next, and they quickly became the focus of everyone’s attention as the conversation revolved around stories of them instead of the people we had intended to get to know.
I was very thankful for our beautiful hike and the engaging conversation with my friend. Still, there were twinges of disappointment in myself for faltering on one of the reasons I had begun this segment of my life. I was still struggling with allowing other people to persuade me to do things when I would have chosen something different.
So on my drive home, I exited the interstate just before Columbia. I didn’t turn on my GPS. I just took the backroads and headed in the direction I thought was closest to southeast. There was no one waiting on my return or calling to see why I wasn’t home yet. No one else was driving and making the decision to just stay on the interstate so they could get home faster. I was in control, and it felt really good as I witnessed the allure of this part of our state.
I crossed over the Congaree River and mentally filed a note to suggest this as a possible kayak trip. I rolled down my windows and took in the scents of freshly plowed fields, slowed down to watch herds of cows lazily grazing on the hillsides, and then I reached the quaint little farming community of Saint Matthews. I found myself completely in awe of its natural beauty. Huge fields extended as far as you could see, newly planted, so there were only large machines that rolled across the fields to supply water to the new growth as they towered majestically up into the soft blue sky.
As I crested a hill, I spotted something very colorful to my left. The closer I got, the more excited I was to see the most beautiful purple flowers, so dense the field took on a blanket of intense color beyond any I had ever seen. Directly beside it was yet another field planted in something of wispy soft yellows and greens. I just wanted to stop and wallow in their grandeur, enveloping myself in their unexpected splendor.
Aware that my daylight hours were quickly eluding me, I reluctantly drove back to the interstate for the duration of my trip back to Charleston. But I was okay with that. The short bypass I had taken was all I needed right now. It had been my decision and one that brought me that short burst of happiness to calm my spirit and partially salvage my weekend.
I jotted down another mental note to remember how good this feels and learn to laugh at myself when I do make mistakes. But most importantly, I must come to the realization that although I'm on a mission, it's important to stay intuitive to the silent tears.
7
A Breath of Fresh Air
“Reluctantly, I agreed to meet a complete stranger for a drink. I still hadn’t met anyone online that held my attention beyond a phone conversation, but he was being persistent—funny, actually. He finally wooed me with a promise of a beautiful sunset overlooking the Charleston harbor, and I knew immediately I was glad I came.”
I had been working on my independent self for so long that I wasn’t sure I remembered how to share this evolving person with anyone else again. But we fell for each other rather quickly. Then he ended things rather abruptly. Here was yet another rejection searing a painful brand on my heart.
I knew the upcoming weekend would fill Charleston with a soulful blend of bluegrass and country music. It was a concert he and I had shared early on in our brief relationship and one that held fond memories for me of a time when he seemed happy to have me in his life. I had patiently waited for months…hoping he’d call to ask me to join him again—for old time's sake. But the phone call never came, and I silently knew it never would.
So I signed up for a weekend backpacking trip and contacted a fellow adventurer to carpool to the mountains of North Carolina. We had gotten a later start than I had originally planned due to his work schedule, but I enjoyed his company and felt comfort in him being with me if we had to hike to our campsite in the dark. After several traffic delays and a GPS that was determined to test our patience by persistently guiding us away from our destination, we arrived in time to check in with the Park Ranger and get a map of South Mountains State Park.
We began to discuss the weight of our backpacks as we changed into our hiking boots. Although we had several trips marked off our list, we just couldn’t seem to get the weight down to a comfortable number. We used the tailgate of his pickup truck to hoist them onto our backs and headed up the trail as the sun momentarily rested at the top of the tree line.
It wasn’t a long hike, but it was definitely an uphill climb. The beginning ran along a wide stream, and we listened to the sound of the water as it found a way around and over the multitude of rocks that filled its bed. We rounded a curve and were quiet as we saved our strength for the anticipated elevation and reveled in the peacefulness of this expansive park.
Then we heard voices. Familiar voices. Two people in our group had come to find us since the sun was making more headway than we were. And so another adventure began as we all hugged and the others led us up the hill to our campsite.
We soon took a shortcut through the woods and entered an open meadow with the same stream running along one side. I set up my tent close to the water so its fast and steady movement would hopefully lull me to sleep. My friend from the previous ‘car camping’ weekend was there and had hung his hammock between the trees just to the left of my tent. Everyone else was scattered but close by. And a large Boy Scout troop had set up their camp at the other end of the meadow.
It was primitive camping and miles away from any other park activity. But I felt so safe…protected by people who cared about me and those I didn’t even know. There was an unspoken camaraderie among us, and it was comforting after another stretch of solitude in my personal life.
As I climbed into my tent, I turned to see the Boy Scouts forming a circle and holding hands around their campfire. I fell asleep to their distant songs, listening to that melodious sound only young voices can produce.
After a very cold but uneventful night, we woke to a gorgeous sunny morning and packed our day bags for a long hike. The elevations were more than any of us were used to, so we laughed and teased each other, agreeing that we were completely out of shape! But the vistas were more beautiful with each trail, so we kept climbing. We stopped for lunch and sat on a large cluster of overhanging rocks at the edge of the mountain, letting our tired bodies absorb the sun so it could replenish and push us to our next destination. Finally, after the most intense climb of the day, we stood on a wooden bridge that traversed the top of a stunning 80’ waterfall. As exhausted as we were, it was a proud moment knowing we had reached our ‘lofty’ goal.
Back at our campsite, we pulled off our hiking boots and sweaty socks and waded in the ice-cold stream to the large flat rocks in its center. It was there that we again relaxed and warmed our bodies in preparation for another cold night ahead. What we didn’t prepare for was the invasion of a rather large raccoon that seemed to know exactly which backpack held the tastiest meal or the tiny mouse that almost managed to chew its way inside a tent. We had all learned a valuable lesson about complacency as we repaired the tent and found an alternative replacement for the stolen breakfast.
On the hike back to our cars, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been lonely all weekend. Even when I zipped up my tent and lay there alone in the dark, I felt the air envelop me like a blanket—still filled with the breath of those who had wished me goodnight and the boys that sang with such angelic voices. The air lingered as if I needed it to say more—but I knew that wasn’t necessary. This feeling of inner warmth would always be there, even through the coldest and loneliest nights. And I was secure in knowing these friendships and the goodness that was surrounding me would never end abruptly. Actually, I somehow knew it would never end at all.
8
Forwardly Looking Back
“It’s been exactly two years since I stood in the courthouse sobbing in the arms of my new ex-husband. Dysfunction at its best, even after the fact. I don’t want to always remember this date. I want to forget it. It will come every year with its pain, anger, and regrets. I know that. And I also know I have to break this vicious cycle.”
I called someone I had backpacked with before. He was leading a group on a section hike of the AT in Virginia at Mount Rogers. It was guaranteed to be the hardest trip I had made yet, encompassing three days of backpacking and two overnights of remote camping. There was one spot left, and he signed me up with reassurance that I would be just fine. I thanked him and began preparing for my diversion. It would be my first hike on the renowned Appalachian Trail. A date I wanted to remember.
Carpools began in Columbia, as we then picked up others in Charlotte and continued north past picturesque farmland complete with my favorite cows. We arrived at Grindstone Campground in Grayson Highlands State Park and quickly readied ourselves for three days in the wilderness. My backpack was still heavier than it should be…but I was continuously working on that.
As we began our first ascent, I realized I needed to pace myself. Almost immediately, there were four in the group who hiked in sync—faster and more sure-footed than the others, so they trudged on ahead. Then there were two who struggled to keep up, leaving me somewhere in between. It couldn’t have been a more perfect situation. I enjoyed the small amount of time I had on the trails and at the campsites with new friends–bonding over similarities with past relationships or personal lives or trying to find humor in the fact that our leader referred to this climb as ‘moderate.’ But I also cherished the time I had alone. It was my time to reflect and enjoy being in the moment…being somewhere void of memories.
I spent much of the first afternoon reveling in the fact that I was backpacking on the AT. I had talked about it for almost two years, and now here I was, actually doing it. As we all reached the first shelter, hiking the last mile up to the campsite was an option. It was the most difficult mile of the day, but we all made the decision to continue on. We camped in an open pasture on top of the mountain and saw our first wild ponies of the trip. They kept their distance as we made our dinners and watched them graze on the hillside.
As our campfire waned, we hung the remainder of our food supply in a nearby tree and crawled into our respective tents before the sun went down. Tomorrow’s hike was offering up twice the distance we had covered the first day, and I was already exhausted…but extremely happy and perfectly content.
Day two provided the same scenario of allowing me to basically hike by myself. I checked in with our organizer and asked for landmarks so I’d know I was still going in the right direction, and promised to wait at designated points. Much of the trail was like a rocky riverbed—making every step a thought process and quick decision, so I kept my head down and tried to stay focused. Eventually, I came out of the woods and hit a sunny stretch along the edge of the mountain. I glanced up to see my first mountain vista of the hike, and I wasn’t expecting it to be so beautiful.
I guess I had become visible to those below as I heard someone calling my name, so I continued down the hill to join a few in our group waiting inside a horse paddock. As they taught me how to open the gate by pushing up the silver O-rings, I told them I wanted to keep going while they waited for the others. I had noticed the really steep climb past the paddock and thought a head start would be a great idea since being last was still not on my agenda. I closed the outer gate, adjusted my backpack, which seemed slightly lighter than the day before, and began my breathing exercises. I then heard my name being called again.
“Hey, Sonya! When you get to the top, don’t forget to turn around and look back.”
I lifted my hand in the air with fingers formed in the universal ‘ok’ and began the slow and steady climb. When I finally reached the top, I did as I had been told—I turned and looked back towards the mountains I’d hiked through the day before. Everywhere I looked, the views were simply stunning! And coupled with the silence, I felt the natural high I’d heard about all my life. No anxiety. No sadness. No pain. I suddenly felt weightless, and I could have stood there forever.
The remainder of the day brought about multiple challenges of climbing over large rock formations, literally squeezing through the AT Rite of Passage (or “Fat Man’s Squeeze” as it’s commonly known), and wondering if the mountain was growing taller with each one of my steps. When I finally reached the ridge, I stopped again to take it all in. But how could I? With just so much as a cloud movement, the scene changed and gave me a different perspective. It was amazing in every way…the views…the warm breeze…and that pure silence.
I thought about my life and how much easier it might have been if I could have changed my own perspective so quickly and so frequently. For the last eight years, I felt like rain clouds had set in for the duration. No matter what issue I somehow managed to get through, there were always so many more hanging over my head—dark and ominous.
It was late afternoon when I reached the last shelter and caught up with a few more in our group. We hiked together to the last water source of the day and filtered water into every available container. We drenched our bandanas in the cold mountain spring and wiped the dirt and sweat from our faces, then forged ahead to our final campsite on top of Pine Mountain. A herd of wild ponies greeted us, a much friendlier group than the night before, and insisted on helping us set up our tents. We later discovered that, unlike cows, these ponies frolic through the pasture all night–stopping to chew heartily on the grass as close as they could get to our sleeping bodies, and several attempted to join us inside our tents. But it was comforting knowing they were there, and I finally fell asleep to their gentle mowing.
After a second cup of coffee and a perfect mountain view from the comfort of my tent, we packed our bags and headed up a steep hill to exit the pasture and enter the woods for our last few miles of the trip. The rocky trails soon gave way to a flat-packed surface with an easy descent. We picked up the pace and soon found ourselves back at the campground under a spray of hot water–inhaling the scents of aromatic shampoos and citrus-infused soaps. I air-dried my hair in the warm sun as I chatted with the other freshly showered backpackers, and we honed in on our lunch spot to bring our trip to a close.
As we drove back through the winding roads of Virginia and watched the Christmas tree farms and lush rolling landscape grow smaller in the rearview mirror, I wished I hadn’t waited so long to backpack the AT. I had always heard of the amazing and positive changes this hike had made for so many people. I get it. I just need to constantly remind myself that although there’s beauty in where I’m going, there’s also beauty in where I’ve been. And the farther I travel, the lighter my backpack will feel...assuring me that time does dull the pain and will eventually heal my wounds.
So I’m learning that I should always look back. I hope those views will constantly remind me that there's a more positive and renewed perspective ahead so I can continue to move forward in life and in love.
9
Band of Secrets
“I still catch myself taking my thumb and rubbing the underside of my ring finger. I used to think it was just a nervous habit. I now know it’s because I’ve never gotten used to my hands being void of these precious jewels. Although free of broken vows and bonds, it is forever empty of belonging and commitment."
I haven’t worn a wedding ring in over two years, so I’ve decided it’s time to sell them—all of them; a stunning collection of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, gold, and platinum. I’ll never be able to wear them again, but at least on these backpacking trips, no one else wears one either. Our marital status doesn’t matter because no lines are ever crossed. It just somehow allows us to get to know each other as a whole person—not half a person with the balance left at home. Everyone’s all here. Mind. Body. Soul. Spirit. And over time, we talk. We divulge our secret home life—and why those with spouses most often come alone.
As we cat herded everyone together from neighboring states, logistics were formulated so that six of us would begin our backpacking trip on the Bartram Trail heading south, and five would head north. South bounders drove northbound cars just above Highlands, NC, and the north bounders left southbound cars outside of Clayton, GA. There would be a key swap at the camp spot that night. Thank goodness I didn’t have to wrap my head around this—it was already spinning from just the north/south thing.
New members were now joining our escapades, along with those whose path I had yet to cross. I loved this part. I savored these new friendships—always knowing a bond would form just like it had with everyone else. And I knew these bonds were very different from those associated with my rings. So as my half of the group began our journey, I pictured all the wedding rings left at home—wondering what it felt like for each person. The secrets each piece held. I thought about the happiness of my new friends and if they, too, rubbed the underside of their ring fingers as they hiked along these trails—missing the feeling of belonging or being relieved of their responsibilities for just a few short days.
Apparently, we north bounders got handed the most beautiful part of the trail on the first day. Just when I thought I was in heaven, crossing over a bridge with the roar of water passing quickly underneath, another one would appear out of nowhere. And mushrooms flourished in this cool, misty environment. We began to name them as they took on shapes and colors of cake pops, bagels, and pancakes. Or just maybe we had eaten them and were hallucinating—salivating over foods we craved that didn’t exist in our backpacks!
As usual, I eventually managed to distance myself between the faster hikers and a couple making a mushroom photo album. A left them messages carved in the dirt with my trekking pole so they would know I had gone the right way. I stopped at a couple of scenic views and sat down for a while to call my son. I knew he and my daughter were so proud of how far I’d come in my personal journey, and I hoped that one day they’d be sitting right here with me and sharing these incredible vistas from the same viewpoint.
For the next mile or so, the trail widened. A trickle of water flowed towards me and soon became a small rushing stream full of rocks that I chose carefully for balance so my boots could stay dry. My heavy backpack didn’t allow it, but I really just wanted to skip across the rocks with the innocence of a small child. I longed for that youthful feeling with no haunting past and no remorse from failed relationships. I no longer wanted to harbor secrets—I only wanted to imagine a fairy tale life. So for another mile or so, I did. I slowed down and pretended that my life was perfect…the mirage of wedding rings once again glistening in the sun, proving someone loved me and only me.
The stream eventually disappeared, as did my mirage, and wound its way back up into the mountain. I continued on the trail, soon finding the others at our campsite for the night. I set up my tent so close to the stream that if we had gotten any significant amount of rain, I probably would have drowned. I didn’t care...as long as the only noise I heard all night was that of water—rushing to find its way over the rocks and through the woods. I slept soundly, but only after waiting up to make sure the south bounders made it to camp. Their section was four miles longer than ours, with little to no water sources. They arrived just before dark—dehydrated, hungry, and tired. I knew tomorrow would be a very long day.
I left camp the next morning with one other hiker. Engrossed in conversation, we disobeyed a golden rule, and both stepped right over a pile of neatly stacked sticks—taking us off the trail and down a hill until we no longer knew where to take the next step. Since it was pretty obvious we were off track, we turned around to see a very steep set of steps leading upward. Our day had begun. We literally stopped at the crest of every incline just to regain a normal breathing pattern. Either we got used to trudging uphill, or the elevation began to level out, but eventually, I was breathing easily enough to carry on a conversation with another hiker and walk at the same time.
The two of us had been on quite a few hikes together, but never where we ended up in the same place for such a long time. We had at least six more miles to reach our car, so we let the others spread out and opened up about our personal lives—about the rings that were missing from our fingers—about the differences in the reasons why. We took turns listening to each other’s long stories, asking questions to make sure we understood those ever-important details.
I could almost hear my own thoughts echoing—bouncing scenarios off each other—mulling things over—ruminating. This was the second person who had revealed their ‘not so perfect’ home life. I honestly wondered if my wedding rings held any more secrets than all the ones that would be slipped back on fingers at the end of the day...hiding within them love so densely interspersed with varying types and degrees of emotions that the process had simply become a routine. And the few days in between, a sanctuary, just like it had become for me.
I went home and pulled my wedding rings out of the bag I had waiting to take to the jeweler. I curled up on the sofa for what seemed like forever, slid the precious gems on my finger, and listened to all the secrets one last time. Tears fell at some of their pettiness. Anger erupted at some of their truths. Smiles formed at some of their happier moments.
I missed wearing this showy symbol of proof that I had someone significant in my life, but I was also okay with my finger being unadorned for now. For all the jewels in the world, I would rather the proof of true love be found in a man not sitting at home but hiking these trails right beside me—sharing my interests and passions. Someone that fits more like a glove and whose warmth would always surpass the coolness of any precious jewels adorning my ring finger.
10
The Puppy Dog Effect
“Up until a few years ago, I have always been in a relationship—be it dating or marriage. And with each relationship comes a man that always finds it necessary to be in control. They are always the ones in the driver’s seat of every car…every boat. They grab my hand and pull me along at golf tournaments and parties. They take the lead on bike rides and runs. I blame myself for allowing this to happen—for allowing myself to get caught up in the ‘puppy dog effect’ as I so endearingly term it. They always lead the way. I simply follow. So maybe the fact that I have no sense of direction isn’t a naturally born flaw. Just maybe it’s because I never have to figure out how to get anywhere on my own. I know I have literally lost my way—and I’m determined more than ever to find it again.”
The hot spots on my feet were still raw and angry from the 21 miles I had recently hiked on my first AT trip, along with an additional section of about the same distance. But here I was again—eager to get started on what I now knew was equally as beautiful as it was challenging. Only this time, I was challenging myself in a different way. Literally.
The details of my earlier trip on this particular section of the AT had oozed out of me as soon as I got back home to Charleston. I gave descriptive accounts of the views, the tranquil settings, and the abundance of wild ponies to anyone who would listen. So one dear friend begged me to take her, and I thought if I did it right on the heels of returning, I might be able to remember the way. I unfolded the map of the trail and began jotting down notes. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize where I entered the woods, the gates I passed through, and the large trees I climbed over. We had known each other a long time, and she knew I was directionally challenged, but she also knew how important this would be for me. She arrived at my house at 6:00 the following Friday morning, full of trust and confidence in my ability to lead her all by myself on this amazing trail.
I had brought along a copy of the trail map and detailed specifics of the loop we would be taking, along with the personal notes I had made. Even with all of the above, I wasn’t sure how to start the trail. I remembered there were two options, and we had taken the one through the woods. I just couldn’t remember where it was. After following the printed details (complete with color photos), something still didn’t feel right. We walked a little farther down a paralleling road, and I recognized the short boardwalk into the woods. Confident this was the entrance we had taken, I soon doubted my decision as I realized this was actually the way we had exited the woods at the end of the trip. I didn’t remember going in the same way.
I decided it might be best if we just started over and walked down the road to a place I really did remember. It was a shaky start, with the hot asphalt and equally intense sun beaming down on us for about a quarter of a mile, but I found the trail and regained some of my confidence. And my friend never complained or appeared the least bit frustrated – unlike my former husband, who screamed at me on vacation because I couldn’t find a road based on the map I had been given in a foreign country. My friend and I actually began to laugh as I confused a small stream for one I remembered being deeper with rushing water—panicking about the low water supply, or when I was so sure we needed to take a right, and the sign clearly said the AT was to the left. Slowly but surely, I recognized more and more landmarks as they appeared in our path, and we soon walked out of the woods and into the familiar open field to find a campsite for the night.
Only a handful of other hikers had set up in the same location, and given the fact that it was a very large open field, we still felt pretty isolated. We gathered enough tree limbs to start a small fire and warm our dinner. We then treated ourselves to a hot cup of coffee, and my friend encouraged a walk down a graveled road that we assumed could only lead to something wonderful. We were right, as every turn in the road presented a more beautiful view of the surrounding mountains. We kept going until we began to see tiny lights in the towns below and realized the sun was beginning its bedtime routine.
We returned to our campsite and added the last of the limbs to reignite the fire. Then we noticed something large moving through the shrubs. A solo pony had made his way down the hillside from the others who had now gathered for their evening meal. He was beautiful with variations of grey, black, and white coloring. His mane was long and thick, and it appeared he’d been around for quite a few years. But there was something interesting about the way he so majestically stood there—not eating—just slowly pacing back and forth, then stopping to meet our stare. It was a strange feeling as my friend then concluded it was her mother watching over us. I laughed and voiced my skepticism since her mother was still alive, but we both agreed it was a sign of protection. We slept very soundly that night.
After enjoying a leisurely morning with more coffee, we hit the trails (in the right direction) for a full day of backpacking. I was excited to share and revisit the most beautiful part of the trip. This time, an entire herd of Longhorn cattle was grazing on the hill opposite the horse paddock. We admired them from a distance and were thankful an old barbed wire fence separated us from their enormous and potentially dangerous horns.
The magnificent views, the light breeze mixed with warm rays of sunshine, the steep climbs that worked every muscle in our bodies, the cold and refreshing taste of the mountain streams, and the abundance of wild ponies—were all just as welcomed and appreciated as they had been the weeks before. It was a perfect day in a more than perfect place, and we suddenly found ourselves again arriving in a picturesque open field with mountain vistas to all the valleys below. Day two was behind us, and I had gotten us there with no hesitation and no wrong turns.
We dropped our gear and walked around to find the best place to set up camp. I remembered it being quite windy, so we chose a downhill spot and staked our tents as aerodynamically as possible. As my friend photographed and played with the ponies that were literally chewing at her skirt, I sipped on a fresh cup of coffee and took in the views for the last time that day. We ate our dinners and called it a night…until the wind suddenly changed directions.
There may have been some warning if I’d actually paid attention to the weather reports, but just after midnight, 30 to 40-mph winds came out of nowhere. The fly on my tent flapped hard on both sides, and the vestibule had come loose from the center stake. I peered out to see my friend’s tent puffed out like a balloon but still tethered from all directions. I laid back down, but my one-man tent now seemed smaller—more narrow than usual. I had lost a corner stake. I quickly shoved my sleeping pad and bag in that corner and pushed my back up tightly against the side of the tent. I should have reset the stakes, but I knew if I got out, there would be nothing to hold it down. I also knew we were in for a very long night as I stayed awake and fought the pressure of the wind behind my back.
It appeared the sun was as lazy as I was the next morning, and the wind had never gone to sleep. When daylight finally came, I packed up everything inside my tent and then went over to check on my friend. She had just dozed off after a night similar to mine, but I woke her, and we finished packing quickly to head for the trail and out of the wind. We found a nice spot to stop and make our coffee before finishing the trail loop. It was a nice reprieve, and so was the smooth pine needle-laden path that would take us back to our car.
As we neared our destination, a very handsome backpacker appeared behind us, and we stopped to let him pass through. We saw him again as we reached our cars, and each of us had a lovely conversation with ‘Will.’ He was the last to hit the showers and emerged with nothing more than a white towel wrapped around his waist. With broad, tanned shoulders and a head of dark thick hair, I wasn’t even sure he was the same person. Flustered, I quickly wrote down the info for our adventure group and handed it over.
I guess I was gloating a little on the way home. I was proud of myself for being the leader of our trip and actually getting us back to the same place we started. It was liberating and a very proud accomplishment for me. But I’m also able to recognize those rare moments when a great guy steps in front of me—and I can very quickly come to the realization that, much like a puppy dog, I’d be willing to follow him anywhere…and that might not always be such a bad thing.
11
Caught In The Middle
“I’m so afraid of having weekend days on my calendar with blank, white spaces that I hit the ‘accept’ button on the adventure group site the moment someone posts a new event. It’s June...the month when everyone you know is going on vacation with their family—and I’m reminded my daughter lives on the other side of the country, my son is off at college taking summer classes, and I don’t have a husband to whisk me off to some tropical paradise.
So I pack a backpack instead of a suitcase, bug spray instead of sunscreen, and hiking boots instead of flip-flops. I’m going backpacking with the only other person desperate enough to settle for a weekend in the middle of a pine forest...in the middle of the summer...in the middle of South Carolina.”
The Buncombe Trail had gotten great reviews, and many had it on their hiking to-do list. It would be easy—a short distance with minimal inclines if any. But backpacking through a thick forest with little airflow presented a different challenge--sweltering heat with high humidity...and lots of bugs.
Since there were only two of us, and I didn’t want the pressure of setting the pace, I insisted my friend lead the way. Little did I know he would be the one constantly plucking thick, sticky spider webbing from his face as the oversized, archaic creatures glared at us for undoing their morning’s work. And we were both blown away as we waded through calf-high grass and realized multitudes of small ticks had quickly attached themselves to his obviously more attractive hairy legs versus my smooth, newly shaven ones. These two situations alone made me determined not to lose my place in line, and I was much obliged to my male trail mate for showing such chivalry with very little complaining.
If it hadn’t been for his easy-going nature and pleasant conversation, I might have opted to go home. But I had no other agenda, and I still found myself being happier in the outdoors than anywhere else...no matter what the conditions. I had begun to attribute part of that feeling to simplicity. I couldn’t shower or wash my hair, so it stayed braided into neat little pigtails for days. And I was perfectly happy eating tuna from a foil packet. I had no decisions to make, and my mind could wander for hours. It allowed me time for reflection and replenished what was constantly being depleted through my indecisiveness regarding looking for a more rewarding job, finding a new place to live so I could be closer to my children, and deciding once and for all if I really wanted to continue searching for love. I was teetering on the highest ledge of middle age, so I couldn’t wait forever to make a decision on which way to go.
Throughout the day, I determined the trail was not clearly marked, or maybe it was just me still not knowing how to read a trail map. This was yet another thing I felt grateful for...someone I trusted to get us out of the woods. I had already proved I could lead a hike, and since it was hot, I was putting aside my “I want to figure this out all by myself” attitude for at least this weekend. And water sources (according to my standards) were almost becoming nonexistent. We both had water filtering systems, but I refused to drink water, filtered or not, from a warm and stagnant pool with tadpoles swimming around!
A short reprieve from the heat soon came as we entered a lush section of the forest. It was such a stark contrast from the rest with its intense color and density, obscuring whatever richness had given it such luster. The tree barks were dark - as if wet from a long soaking summer rain. And perfectly straight, like an artist had simply pulled his paintbrush in one long stroke from the clouds down to the intense green ground cover below. It felt moist and cool here, so we slowed our pace and enjoyed the classic Bob Ross painting.
We eventually found water that was trickling along at a speed suitable for me to drink and then chose a spot to set up our tents. We gathered what we could to make a fire, only to steer away any bugs that may have followed us down the trail. This was the third adventure I’d taken with my fellow backpacker, so conversations continued to come easy. As total darkness eventually closed in around us, I fell asleep to the sound of his stories...with no fears or worries. I found comfort in him being just a few feet away.
Unlike most of our other backpacking trips, there was no rush to get up early the next morning and hit the trail. And with the exception of one distant coyote skirmish, nothing had woken me during the night. I felt rested and prepared for the second day of our journey—realizing this was a good thing as I opened my tent to a wall of thick air the sun had already graciously heated.
As the day wore on, my friend surmised that if we got off the trail for a little while, it would be a great shortcut and put us on the road in time for a late lunch in Columbia. I was in! He checked the map and then his compass, explaining how the two could work together and knowing I was clueless about directions in any form of the word. We moved off course and quickly arrived at a large but very shallow stream. The water level was so low that we actually walked down the riverbed for a while. I eagerly but cautiously continued to follow him through the unchartered territory as we traversed the tall grass and clicked our trekking poles to frighten away snakes that were inevitably hiding nearby. Then, just as promised, we were on the Palmetto Trail as the shortcut had lived up to its name—and much closer to our final destination.
We chose a small pub off the beaten path, and each quickly ordered a burger and a beer. The bartender laughed as we suggested she not get too close to our ‘two-day backpacking’ bodies. It felt great to be so comfortable with myself—a feeling I didn’t experience very often. I can’t remember ever going out in public unbathed...no makeup...dirty hair. But I quickly remembered my fellow backpacker never judged me, nor I he. And we knew we had just accomplished more in one Saturday than anyone else sitting at the bar had probably accomplished all week.
So I may not have figured out much over the last two days, but I was content knowing at least one thing: If you put me in the middle of nature—in the middle of my life—in the middle of huge decisions...chances are I’ll be just fine. I will always return home with a renewed spirit to work on those ‘middle’ life crises...which I’ve come to realize literally mean I’m already halfway there. And I know I will always have lifelong friends on either side.
12
The Hills Are Alive
“I haven’t been backpacking in over a month and beginning to have some serious withdrawals. It appears to be the only satisfying thing in my life at the moment. I’d been working on my novel, but with its long and arduous process, I knew I probably wouldn’t reap any personal rewards for quite some time. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush or even spent more than five minutes in my art room in an entire year, and I still haven’t found anyone I’m remotely interested in dating. So the only thing that seems to bring me instant gratification and what I know beyond a doubt will be a sure thing...is backpacking on these picturesque trails.”
Quite a number of us in the adventure group had anxiously awaited the trip to Roan Mountain in Tennessee. It was infamous for being one of the most beautiful sections of the Appalachian Trail, so imagine our disappointment when it was canceled due to inclement weather. Later, it was reposted by another group and even opened up for the waitlist. I got in, along with a friend, and we ventured out early and headed to Columbia to meet up with the others.
At the suggestion of someone who’d been there before, we stopped for lunch at a nondescript roadside restaurant, which appeared to be very much a staple in its tiny town. Everyone knew each other and felt perfectly at home as generations sat at the same table—the men folk talking about hunting or fishing while a new mother breastfed her baby with no modesty whatsoever. An adjacent room held a more boisterous group with customers yelling from one table to the next.
“Roy, if you ain’t gonna eat them there taters, hand ‘em over!”
We weren’t about to share, so we wrapped our leftovers to go and headed down the road to work off a few of the calories we had just consumed.
The carpools were coming from all directions, but we somehow made it to the parking lot of the Mountain Harbour Bed and Breakfast at the same time. A couple of scheduled vans took us to the trailhead at Carver's Gap. We snapped a quick group photo and hit the trail. The distance on the first day was short, but it was the 4th of July weekend, so there was no certainty of space once we reached the bald, where we planned to camp for the first night. The trail was tight, steep, and somewhat crowded, but we took our time and enjoyed the beauty of the surrounding mountain vistas.
We arrived to find that most of the crowds were just day hikers, and we were thrilled to discover plenty of space to spread out. My friend and I got a weather tip from one of them on how the wind and cold could dominate on these balds, so we weren’t taking any chances and settled on the decision to pitch our tents down in a grove of trees.
It appeared I was the only one who needed my beauty sleep as I cozied myself in my tent and listened while the others watched the fireworks display from the towns below. I don’t know why I was so tired unless it was just mental exhaustion. I had recently joined yet another dating site, even after my last experience of getting my heart broken in a few short months. And, as always, I was still exasperated with the quality of men. I finally had high hopes for just one man until he told me he was “more married than single.” I was dying inside—a feeling I was afraid couldn’t be brought back to life if there was nothing and no one to resuscitate me.
The following morning everyone headed out at their own pace. We had a lot of ground to cover but a long summer day to do it. Verbal directions from our organizer led us to a barn where we gathered for lunch. We met some young thru-hikers and leisurely ate while we looked out over fields of wildflowers and distant mountains—listening to every detail of their personal journeys. The next section was a long, gradual incline, and the extended break had been perfect timing for the energy required to get us through the rest of the day.
I remember enjoying the coolness of the woods when the temperature suddenly warmed, and I found myself standing in the most picture-perfect open meadow. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn The Sound of Music had been filmed from my very footprints! Brightly colored flowers dotted the hillsides as a small winding path took its guests to the very top of the highest mountain. Everywhere I looked, there was more beauty beyond what I had ever imagined for this trip. We all waited on each other at the peak just so we could enjoy its magnificence together. We stretched out on the grass, and I quickly fell asleep for a few short minutes. We toyed with the idea of camping there, but the more experienced in our group knew better than to expose ourselves to summer storms on the top of such a high mountain.
I didn’t want to leave. Suddenly I really did feel alive again, and all it had taken was this amazing change of scenery. A new perspective. A different mindset. I felt as if no man could ever bring this much beauty into my life. And it was available. As long as I could hike up this mountain, it was mine...no wife attached.
We reluctantly got up, one by one, readjusted our packs and headed down the other side of the mountain for the last five miles of the day. Every moment still took my breath away, and I made numerous stops to admire the view, snap some photos, or just enjoy being in this wonderland. There was so much life here. Everything was moving. The grass, the flowers, the butterflies, the clouds, and of course, the speckling of backpackers you could see spread out along the tiny trail...growing smaller as they transgressed towards the bottom of the hill. But just as I had experienced so many times before on these glorious trails, there was no noise. All this undulation. All this life. And yet there was this perfect silence. It was indescribable. I decided joining a monastery might not be a bad idea if this type of solitude was part of the deal.
As the terrain of the mountains gradually leveled out into mildly sloping hillsides, a small hay field with (of course) a mountain view became my accommodations. Naturally, someone snored all night—continuously, until the hard rains finally arrived to drown out the loud rhythm of those throaty breaths.
At some point during the previous evening, a lone few had decided they wanted to experience the world-renowned breakfast from the Mountain Harbour B&B. I just wanted a good cup of coffee, which meant we would need to pack up and hike in the dark in order to get there when the line of hungry hikers began to form. So with just a hint of sleep, the alarm went off in the next tent, and we used our headlamps to stuff everything in our packs and hit the dark, wet, and very slippery downhill trail.
It was slow-moving, and I literally ‘hugged’ a tree on several occasions to keep from joining the rocks beneath my boots. Backpacking in the dark was a new experience for me, but I began to enjoy the challenge and the satisfaction of already having a few miles under my belt so early in the morning. We reached the B&B in plenty of time for the huge spread of artery-clogging sustenance, and I smiled to see the row of large metal canisters—knowing they were filled with freshly made, aromatic coffee.
I sat on the porch swing with my warm mug while the others went back for seconds and pondered over the last couple of days. I knew I was kidding about the monastery. But I wasn’t kidding about the amount of beauty I always found on these trails, how it made me feel, and the kind of beauty I was beginning to think no man could ever match. But maybe my life had just been void of love and attention for so long that I didn’t realize I was talking about two completely different emotions. Nature will always provide me with happiness that touches my senses, but a kind and loving man will provide me with happiness that touches my heart.
So with the virtue of patience, perhaps one day I’ll come across the right man walking these very same trails, one who admires and appreciates this beauty so that it parallels my own. And once again, I will come back alive...like the hills in The Sound of Music...like fireworks on the 4th of July.
