Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Life in Heaven

It’s hard to put into words the intermingled feeling of happiness, freedom, comfort, peace and appreciation. I guess that is because there isn’t a word for feeling all those things and more at once, particularly at such a great level, for such a sustained amount of time. If I had to assign it a word, the word would be Heaven. I feel Heaven around me, always. How could I not, having eyes and ears and all. Heaven rustles the trees above me, bringing a coolness to the warm summer air. It twits through the branches, alighting soundlessly, but only for a moment. Heaven soars through the skies in slow motion, a tinge of purple against the pinks of the evening sky, shifting shape as it reflects the last of the day’s sunlight. Heaven rolls thick through the valley, translucent among the fields that fade into obscurity well before the tree line. It shines brightly in the eyes of fellow Heaven dwellers. Living in Heaven is a good way to be. This is the land in which my heart birthed its first notion of incomprehensible beauty. Beauty far beyond a pleasant sight. Beauty as an understanding, a feeling, a way of life. Endless and unknowable, even if studied for a lifetime. Dissatisfaction, sadness, loneliness and hopelessness are difficult to render in a place that is built of everything which cures such woes. I’ve hardly felt a twinge of their sting since I came to live in Heaven, quite possibly the best decision I’ve ever made. I cannot imagine life outside of Heaven at this point but I cannot rightfully scoff at those who live elsewhere. Many who live elsewhere dream of being in Heaven often, yet still cannot bring themselves to call it home. Everyone can plainly see the beauty of Heaven but from the outside it appears to come at a price. They feel that there is a lot to be sacrificed to live in Heaven. It is out of the way, far off the beaten path. It is a simple life. A slow life. A modest life. Some times in Heaven we lack the conveniences of life elsewhere, which society has long since convinced itself are necessities. Many people seem not able to detach from the fool’s gold of life elsewhere. In Heaven, the cars are old, some rusting. The clothes are ragged, work torn. The homes are small, needing maintenance. The sun is what shines here. The morning dew is what shimmers in the light. But because of that, life lived here is full and happy. For some reason, it is customary in our culture to live in Heaven only at the end of your life. Some do this as a reward for a life lived as one was told it is meant to be. For others, it is the first chance to finally escape the bindings of life, which seem to wither away as old age encroaches. Whatever the reason for delaying a life lived in utter beauty, I won’t settle for it. Still, I can’t scoff at those who live elsewhere because I suppose that if everyone lived in Heaven when they were as young as I, then Heaven would not be the word I would use for my home. I feel lucky to have found Heaven so early. I acknowledge its splendor and am endlessly grateful and indebted for being allowed a role in the inner workings of Heaven. I just wonder, why do we not all seek out and live in Heaven, making our life here on earth as rich and exquisite as I have found it to be? Why wait for Heaven?

Images From Heaven

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

A Month on the Mountain

I have been working at Mountain Crossings for a month now and I've concluded that I can't rightfully call it working. I get paid to sit in the shop all day for four days a week, but I but I can't say that talking to thru hikers, helping them rethink gear, work out a plan for the next few days or any of my down time tasks seem like something called work. I am a chosen one in the world to be paid to do something I love so much that it doesn't feel like work.

Mountain Crossings in nestled in Neels Gap at mile 31.7 on the Appalachian Trail
The feeling of it being work will be kicking in any day now. With all the snow and ice we had over the past two weeks, hikers got bottled up for a while, but they are now flowing into the shop and hostel in droves. It is that time of year any way. From March through April, we will be slammed with soggy, snowy and sweaty hikers.

The days start off slow. We open the shop at 8:30. Making coffee is always a priority, shortly followed by building a fire in the wood burning stove if it is a cold morning. Hikers who have stayed the night in the hostel are often waiting at the door to get in. I am reminded of all the old men hikers on my own thru hike who would be packed up and walking by 5:30 every morning. We try to open in peace. It's mostly flipping switched and booting the computer so it only takes moments. Still they are sometimes trying to slip in before you even get the door open. It calms down after the hostel folks leave and there is a short break before they start coming off of Blood Mountain.

Before we got 8" or so of snow, we got 2" or so of ice. It made for a lot of busting ass but it also made for great photos of encased trees once the skies cleared up. 
Once those few arrive, they stream in all day from south on the trail. Blood Mountain shelter first, followed by Woods Hole Shelter, then Jarrard Gap, Lance Creek, Woody Gap and even a few will make it from Gooch Gap. Most come in so worn out and disorientated that it takes them a moment to get themselves together. Others immediately sling down their soaking wet packs in the door way and begin barking out their needs. A few walk in smiling and ask where to set their pack and being checking out the food and gear in the shop.

We check them into their hostel. We show there where the resupply food is. We do a pack shakedown for the ones who are way over loaded and need to send some things home. We help them get rides or make plans or trouble shoot through some problem that has arisen. Before the hostel started filling up every night, we wold go down at night and play cards or board games and laugh and drink until the hikers were to tired to stay up any longer. Now, with 16 bodies bouncing around in the hostel, its too crowded for such things.

Life on the mountain is all I could want. I saddest part of leaving home and being somewhere else is that I feel strikingly not sad about it. My bedroom window and my front door both open up on the Appalachian Trail itself. I think Jason and I may be the only people in the world who can claim both of those things (that actually live in a solid structure). I was a couple of feet to work and some times I stand at the bay window and look out over the shop's porch and down into the valley.

After our big snow, which was after our little snow, which was after our major ice over, the sky broke for just a moment and I snapped this photo. 

When I go into town, I pass the iconic places of my childhood that we always visited on family camping trips. We camped at Vogel State Park once or twice a year more most of my childhood. We would stop by Sunrise Grocery to buy apples and Pappy's to buy fudge. My brother and dad would spend an obnoxious amount of time in the Owltown Baseball Card Shop. All of these things I see on my way to Blairsville for groceries. Every time I am reminded of what a privileged childhood I had to experience such a place and am consequently reminded of what a privileged adulthood I've led thus far as to be able to have thru hiked the AT and then return to work and live in the childhood stomping grounds that birthed the dream.

My life feel too good to be true. I left a lot behind in coming here, but in the past, when I have done the same, such sacrifice (always of people and relationships with them it seems) has always offered up such great return. Once again, it has happened. And it may happen again very, very soon.

This is what Mountain Crossings employees do on their day off. Unfortunately, I was working and didn't get to join in on the fun. 

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Winter Backpacking: Greyson Highlands

What is the first thing one does after quitting a job? Go backpacking, of course!

Despite it being January, despite the weather calling for snow, I jumped up to Greyson Highlands State Park in Virginia to meet a daring friend for a little winter backpacking. This was the first time I had ever willingly gone out knowing I was about to be trudging through snow. It was liberating to be prepared, unlike my first big snow experience in the Smokies. When thru hiking you just deal with what happens, this time I had the previous knowledge to reference and I could bring all the right gear for snow and leave all the wrong gear back at home. Such a nice feeling!

But, as one expects, things always get a little hairy when relying on the weather of the backcountry to go your way. I had set a meeting point in the park, the overnight backpacker's parking lot, but my car could not even make it up the road to the lot. My little car was spinning out far below the elevation of my final destination. I managed to turn back around with out getting stuck and ease my way back down to the ranger station to leave my car. I loaded up my pack, threw on my rain gear and set out into the freezing rain to start my backpacking trip with a nice road walk up to the parking lot. By this time it was far past our meeting time and it was only a short few hours until dark. I secretly hoped that my friend would be heading down the mountain soon to see if I was still alive and save me from a boring, slippery road walk. Sure enough, he did. Perks of having all wheel drive, I guess.

My car could never... 
We returned to the proper parking lot and walked up into the woods a bit to set up camp. Some good old stealth camping where it's illegal surely won't hurt anybody on a friday night in the snow and rain. Beer, whiskey, comics, cell phone tunes, and pee runs between rain breaks. It felt good to be backpacking again. The simple life always wins over for me.

We did the most fun thing the next morning a ripped down and tent whose poles were frozen together and we broke our little fingers trying to unclip the frozen plastic fasteners. My favorite wintertime backpacking task! It brought back all the mornings early on during the AT where I would have to take breaks to warm my hands up to functionality again.  That day our goal was Thomas Knob shelter. Back in the parking lot (after making coffee and breakfast in the back of the car like good, resourceful hiker trash does) we set out in a soft snow. I really should not have been so surprised, but I was. I have been to the Greyson's before and on a beautiful day I whined about the wind. I should have known better. I should have known!!

As soon as we jumped off the spur trail leading to the AT, we were standing at a socked in opening, being blasted by a violent wind, twirling around looking for a white blaze. On the sunny days I have been the highlands before, I don't recall yammering on in a rage about the necessity for more blazes, but I went through the list all those who could possibly be at fault. "The ATC needs to get on this! Who the hell is the trail maintenance crew around here?! Isn't the state park responsible for the safety of folks around here?! I can't believe the Virginia DCR let's this slide!" There is something about not being able to tell if I am standing on a trail that really pisses me off! But when your visibility is about fifteen feet ahead of you, it's a constant fight to stay on trail on a wide open rolling mountain top. It was only about 4 miles to the shelter but they were a brutal and scary and slow 4 miles of back tracking and double guessing and making sure that we hadn't taken the wrong way. What was a light snow in the parking lot was a winter storm up on the exposed ridges. It was easily the sort of situation that got backpackers lost and worse.

After much bitching and whining, after gasping into the mean wind as it knocks you off balance on the slick ice, after nearly breaking my leg off at the knee, after too many I-don't-think-this-is-it's, we finally made it to the shelter.

Much later after our arrival, I had the guts to go back outside and take some pictures when the storm died down. 
I just stood inside and puffed a bit, rubbing my hands together, twitching my legs in hopes of warmth. Thomas Knob is a two story shelter and standing there I suddenly remember something. Is this the place where Lady Grey said she had experienced her coldest night on the entire AT?! Don't I remember someone else saying that too? Saying that someone had it better -- the people on the top or the people on the bottom. But which was it? In remembering that I reckoned that it must have been in late April, around the same time I went through. I could only imagine what we were going to be up against in the middle of January. I voted on the top being warmer and slowly began to lay out camp in the loft. And then I didn't get out of my sleeping bag until I was forced by the need to pee.

Soon, a young guy and his dad showed up. Not long after that three older guys joined us up in the loft. It made me feel good to know that there were other potentially clinically insane people out there trudging through this mess, repeating under their labored breath, "I love hiking. I love the outdoors. This is fun." There is something about the camaraderie in a shelter after a bad storm that I know I'll never grow tired of. We sat and talked gear with the old guys, and swapped stories and cooked dinner until it was dark and then there was nothing to do but sleep. Just as we were settling in bed, I heard the son down below say, "My thermometer says 8°." "Yeah well, that doesn't even factor in wind chill," his father replied. I slipped in my ear plugs because I couldn't stand the sound of the wind berating the side of the little shelter. I was sure we were all coming down at some point in the night.

In the morning, the day before became well worth it. The sun rise from right behind the shelter was incredible!

Oh, what a couple of hours can do!

Seeing as we had had such a rough time the day before and I had seriously janked up my knee slipping and sliding around, we decided to head back to the parking lot. We knew there were hand dryers in the bathrooms down at the ranger station and that just sounded so good right then! Plus my sleeping bag was soaked from snow that had blown in through the cracks in the shelter all night and the tent was still frozen from the morning before. Drying these things off was a priority. If the hand dryers couldn't do it, then the sun could. We set off into the Narnia like wonderland.

The coolest thing about the Greyson Highlands, the real attraction, is the ponies! We had seen a cluster the day before and gotten a lot of glee from hearing one winnie (is that even how you spell that) but it was just too damn nasty out to actually play with any. But with no fierce weather in the way, we had plenty of fun with them!

Pony selfie. Jean Genie started it
 We made it back to the car and took the road back down to the ranger station. It was still closed (and had been since about 30 minutes before I needed a ride up the mountain a few days prior). So we laid our wet gear out in the empty parking lot. Just laying out in the warm sun on the pavement was an excellent feeling. That's one of the things that I love about backpacking. It transforms laying down on the ground, flat on your back from a childish act into an okay thing to do. Not only is it okay, it feels SO GOOD! What if we could just lay on the warm ground and feel good during our every day lives?!

But we didn't come just to lay down, we wanted to hike. So we hit the trail again after things dried up and headed to Wise shelter. This shelter sits on exactly mile 500.0 of the AT, or at least it did the year I hiked and the milage only ever changes by tenths of a mile. Needless to say, its always a big check point for thru hikers. I remember having a big party there when I passed by on my thru hike. A clip board back at the parking lot depicting the weather had told us that a front was moving in during the night but it was hard to believe. The sky was loosely dotted with puffy clouds and the sun was setting behind the ridges in a way that illuminated a golden line along their edges, silhouetting the naked trees. It didn't seem like a few more inches of snow could be on its way after such a beautiful day. Even at 1am in the morning, when I awoke to go to the bathroom, the sky was so clear and so dark in that way that seems to happen only in winter, that I could see the milky way defined against the splatter of all the other stars in the night.

Yet still, in the morning we woke to find a few more inches of snow and no sign of it slowing. We made a slow go of making coffee and breakfast and finally decided on a route for the day. That's the cool thing about backpacking now versus thru hiking. Taking your time and just enjoying the actions of being out in the wilderness and living off the of bare bones of things. When I thru hiked I ate a cold breakfast with no coffee and was walking less than thirty minutes after waking up. Some times you just want to sip black coffee from a titanium cup while watching the snow fall from inside your sleeping bag.

We chose a route that a fellow REI co-worker had said was his favorite in this area and it proved to be very beautiful. Instead of traipsing the exposed ridges of rolling mountains with rock outcroppings and tiny wind blasted shrubs, it followed a rhododendron sheltered trail over several creeks. I like this sort of trail so much better. I understand why people like the big vistas and all that, but there is something about the forest that I innately gravitate towards. It's intimate, it holds you in, it brushes up against you. My heart feels more open inside of it.

The snow fell with a consistency and the hiking was made hard by the general fact of hiking in winter. It's really cold so you wear several layers, so then you get hot and sweat and then you strip a layer but then the bottom layers are wet with sweat so you get cold and you put on the other layer and then you get hot again. There is no winning and you are generally uncomfortable no matter what. The upside of suffering through this is that if you are thinking "God, I'm too hot! Now I'm too cold!" then it means that you are not currently thinking "Is this still the trail?! Am I going to make it to the shelter?! Am I going to die out here?! This is how these types of stories start, isn't it?! There is going to be a dramatization on TV of this moment!" So, I guess being sweaty and cold at the same time isn't the worst thing ever. Also, you see beautiful things.

We made it to our intended camp spot but passed it by. We hadn't totally committed to it while looking at the map back at the shelter and when we came across it, it just seemed like such a hassle to set up a tent and then have to spend hours in it waiting for sleep. The alternative was a pretty good trek down the AT to the next shelter but my knee was still in bad shape. So we looped around to make a much shorter day and returned to the car. We had been out for four frozen days and though we both had the time take, we gave in. There is a fine line between scratching an itch and torturing yourself and winter backpacking skirts that line pretty well. We ended the journey properly by typing in 'mexican restaurant' into a gps and through some unlikely magic landed at a southwestern caribbean soulfood place tucked away in the mountains that catered perfectly to a hungry vegan and vegetarian. A different sort of trail magic than I usually see, but I'll take it.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Deeper Down the Rabbit Hole

When I finished thru hiking the Appalachian Trail, the only thing I wanted was a job at REI. I put in an application only days after getting off the trail, before I had even returned home from my brother's in New Jersey. I began going in the store and incessantly bothering whoever seemed to give me enough time of day. I must have left my name and number with about 5 different people. The shitlessness of thru hiking had not left me yet and I desperately wanted a job at REI the way I desperately wanted a ride into town from the trail and would schmooze up to day hikers when I knew the parking lot was coming up. Eventually, one day in November, well over two months after placing my application, I was in the store buying a down jacket for an upcoming backpacking trip. Mine had been lost in the mail when I sent it back home when summer hit Virginia and the purchase of a new one was my present to myself after receiving my first Starbucks paycheck. This purchase was rung out by the main hiring manager at REI and he seemed to remember my face and that I had been seeking employment. With my receipt, he also handed me his business card and told me to get in touch with him after I got back from my trip. From this was born an interview and from there I was given a job, but not quite that simply. In all, my efforts from placing an application to being offered a position took the same amount of time as thru hiking the Appalachian Trail did. Six months.

REI was my first dream job. The first job I really, really wanted because it aligned with my life choices, not because it paid me money and I had none. But after a year of being paid to talk about backpacking, camping, and thru hiking (once unimaginable things to me), I am no longer employed by REI. I usually love, absolutely love, quitting a job. It is a sign that new experiences are around the corner. This time around, it was more sad than it has ever been before. REI is an excellent company to work for but the idea of REI is not the hard part to leave behind. The entity of each store, the family unit of store #125, Kennesaw, is what hurts to leave behind. 

As I came off of the trail, I was splitting up with a family I had spent hundreds of miles walking along side with. We had spent months fighting the same exact battle in our lives. Suddenly, they were gone and I was lost back at home. Within a few months of working at REI, I was beginning to form new friendships with coworkers who shared a lot of common traits as me: big, big dreamers who loved the outdoors and would take on any adventure in order to just get out there. I fell in love with them as they rescued my heart from a dark, dark place. Leaving REI is sad because I am leaving a strong family. But much like the family I left on the trail, there are telephones and social media sites and cars and roads and intensely tight bonds that will keep us together over distance and time. 

I left my post thru hike dream job for a revised dream job. Another outfitter, but this one is more steeped in backpacking and thru hiking culture. I mentioned the place in my first blog post while on the AT back in 2013. Mountain Crossings is the first hostel and outfitter that one comes upon along the AT. It is a check point for many hikers to rethink their decision. On my own hike, I saw several hikers throw in the towel here. But I saw many more rethink their decision, get some help and recommit to their hike -- and finish. When Georganna, the one half of the current owners of Mountain Crossing, asked me to come work for her and her husband Logan, I immediately said yes. To live in the mountains, over an AT hostel, in a stone building whose door opens up literally onto the Appalachian Trail, which I will take a couple steps on each morning as I walk a few feet to work, where I will help out thru hikers all season long... would I like to? THIS EXISTS?! I CAN HAVE IT?! YES! INCREDIBLE! 

I will be starting this new phase of my life at the beginning of February. It is building off of the knowledge I gained at REI as a backpacker. Learning new techniques and memorizing gear specs has been my life for the past year. Now, all of that has been narrowed down and greatly deepened. Mountain Crossings is a well where as REI is a lake. Almost all the customers will be thru hikers on their journey northward. Some will only need a shower and a stay in the hostel. Others will need a resupply and a bit of encouragement. And still others will need us to comb through their backpacks and dispose of all the unneeded items holding them back from a more enjoyable experience on the trail. I will be a part of a small group of former thru hikers making up the employees at Mountain Crossings who will be working to help out the new flock of hikers in hopes of seeing them make it to Katahdin. 

I never fathomed I would walk 2,000+ miles through the Appalachian Mountains and I never would have thought that it would transform and enrapture the path that my life was headed down, but I am sure glad it has.