In one sense – I admit it – I go to the mountains, the forests, the rivers, the coastline, to hide.
Some might say I’m avoiding the troublesome world that demands we do this and say that, protest, wave signs, get involved, rally and generally roll up our sleeves.
I do roll up my sleeves. Because I have applied mosquito repellant, or I’m sweating, or just plain enjoying where I’m at as I continue backpacking solo this summer, closing in on 100 miles.
I’m just so very happy out there. No, it’s not the political or cultural landscape. But it’s the landscape where I belong, where beauty unfolds mile after mile.
Ever since I lost my wife of 50 years married to cancer, I lost my edge. What matters anymore is my heart, trying to mend it back together, filling the emptiness with memories of some of the places where we’d been, and thus where I’m returning, and venturing out on new trails where I’d never been before.
And from recreating those memories by wandering the wilderness, I journal. Because my guess is there are others, many others, who like me need encouragement, not to move on, but to move up, as the trail – I admit it, and all those who’ve lived, and loved, and lost will also acknowledge it – is often steep, difficult, where every carefully placed step matters.
Even the three miles (of nine) of ‘trail’ along the remote shoreline I hiked recently.
The map said to turn left upon reaching the coast. More than once as I encountered huge trees that had fallen from the cliffs above, or rock-strewn tidal pools requiring I retrace my steps to find surer, safer footing, I rechecked that map: ‘can this be right?’
And there were warnings in the ‘trail’ description.
“The traveling continues to be rather laborious as the trail rounds the next headland. Here isolated spires rise in a surreal landscape like forgotten chessmen on an enormous board.
“Hikers can be easily isolated at high tide, so it is imperative to pay close attention to tide levels while exploring this area.”
If trapped here, then up on the very cliff that has blocked your progress, you must go.
Where waiting, resting, and beholding the beauty your warned and worried and hurried travel may not otherwise have allowed you to see.
It’s your hiding place.
Love what you write, David. I love to hike too, and almost feel like I am hiking with you.
Thank you for writing your stories for us, who can no longer hike, feel like we can..
Thank you so much Evelyn for ‘joining’ me on my journey!