Green Moss and crazy memories

 All of the pictures are from Mt. Collins to Mt. LeConte, when I hiked with two of my kids.

Today the walking I have done measures a year long total of 203.72 miles. If I was on the AT I would be staying at the Mt. Collins shelter, which is down a side trail not far from Clingman’s Dome. My parents and I hiked there in the 1970”s, and my main memory of that camping area was the deep green moss growing on fallen tree trunks. It felt very Middle Earth, almost jungle like and drippy with water. As a matter of fact it rained the entire day, and the day before, and drizzled on us while we sat around at the site. Dad always carried more than his share of weight in his backpack, and he was worn out, then the cold rain lowered his resistance. He began shivering even though it wasn’t that cold to me. I remember sitting on a damp mossy log and watching mom boil water to try and warm him up. He drank some soup for calories and warmth, but that didn’t help. It was summer, and we didn’t have hot chocolate with us.  Mom heated up water and mixed it with lemonade, and we all sipped on the sweet hot drink. At the time I thought it was the most creative and tasty warm drink ever. Dad slipped into his sleeping bag and finally stopped shivering, as he warmed up and rested. We had been planning on a week of hiking. 

Mom cooked some pancakes, and I ate them sitting on that wet log, and sipped my hot lemonade. In the morning mom and dad decided it was best to hike out, to go on home. The only problem was our car was in Deep Creek campground, on the other side of Cherokee. We were nearer to Gatlinburg, and would have to find some kind of ride to our car. I wanted to keep hiking, but that wasn’t possible with dad having suffered from hypothermia and all our blisters and wet socks. So, we packed up, and hiked down towards the Newfound Gap parking area. I think we arrived around lunch time, and dad set out trying to find someone to give us a ride. Mom and I rested beside our packs. Two Hari Krishna men in robes were selling books in the parking lot and I watched a man buy one, look it over and then demand his money back. While this was going on dad returned with the news, we had a ride. We walked over to a pick up truck, with an older couple in the front seat. We tossed our packs in the back and climbed in with them, and sat, backs against the cab of the truck. 

The man in the truck drove along the curvy mountain road, faster and faster, slinging us around in the back. Maybe he was a retired race car driver. I heard mom, over the wind, say, “At least we have identification with us if…” and dad looked at me. Mom tried to see our speed, but the man’s arm was in the way of her view. To me, a young teenager, the ride was fun. As soon as we reached the town of Cherokee dad banged on the truck, he stopped and we hopped out. We still had to cross through the town, walking on asphalt beside the road, but my parents felt safer walking beside the road full of tourists. As the truck roared off, we began walking, passing restaurants, tourist shops and gas stations.  One of the gas stations had a caged bear for people to look at. and maybe feed.  I was outraged and began yelling, “Let that bear go!”  “Cruel and unusual treatment!”  My parents told me to be quiet, the station owner was giving us angry looks. I walked on, stomping my indignation. Not long after that a van stopped, offering us a ride. We climbed in, and found seats in the carpeted and fringed decorated back of the van. The driver, a Cherokee, chatted with us and played really cool music. He ended up driving us all the way to our car, and wished us a wonderful day.

Many years later my two youngest kids and I went backpacking, and the second or third night was spent at Mt. Collins. I told them my strongest memory was how green the area was, and we all were happy to see it was still true. The camping area looked like giant trees from years ago had all fallen down, and moss had settled on the trunks, the ground, the roof of the camping lean to, and if we sat still too long, the moss would begin to settle on us. My daughter Anna celebrated her (I think) 27th birthday at that shelter. We sang happy birthday, and another camper heard us singing and brought over a cookie for her. It was a happy evening, and the next day we hiked up to Clingman’s Dome, leaving our packs at the shelter. 

This part of the trail has some of my happiest memories. I am so glad my parents took us backpacking, and I am glad my kids want to go with me. 

All my actual walks have been near my home, either in the neighborhood and park nearby, or along a trail along the Tennessee River. My walking buddy has mostly been my dog, and sometimes my oldest kid. It has been a rainy month, and we have walked through mud puddles and pond run off, but at the end of the day we go home, take off our wet shoes and settle down with a book and hot tea. I have discovered that hot lemonade is one of those treats that only tastes good on the trail.

Happy walking!

Joy is Resistance or Why I love NPR

 

                                                    Joy is Resistance

It has been about two weeks since I wrote last. I have been walking, some, and reading a lot and watching hiking YouTube. My favorite mother daughter hiking pair had an interesting video yesterday in which the mom talked about hiking gatekeeping. Just like in every group there are some people that judge other members, and she had run into that. If you don’t hike the trail the right way, or if you only do parts, or if you do only day hikes, you can’t call yourself a trail hiker. She talked about not paying attention to those types, to how these judgements usually are just on social media and not in person, and finally she said, “It’s not that deep. Just hike. You do you. Enjoy”  

I was substitute teaching one day and I saw a sign on the wall of the classroom. It said, “How to be a math person. Be a person. Do math.”  So, how are we a hiking person. Same advice, be a person and hike. If you like to read, read what you like. If you like to, fill in the blank, do the thing. Worrying about what other people think, or letting them steal your joy is a mistake. We are in this life, this one life, to find our own way. We don’t need permission from others to exist, and we don’t need the gatekeeping of others to determine our way. I just finished a garden class. I am not one of those people with neat tidy lawns, straight borders and long lasting blooming plants in my yard. I worried about saying I am now a Master Gardener because my yard is a little wild. But, I wanted to learn more about gardening, especially native plants, plants for pollinators and growing food. Working in the dirt makes me happy. I will do it my way.

                                                

Joy is resistance. I got very down watching the news yesterday, and then after watching the hiking video and going for a nice walk, I realized my joy in life is my resistance. I want to share something that brings me joy.  I love Public Radio. NPR is always on my car radio and I have heard the most interesting stories, great music and local public service announcements. Where else can you listen to a show called Philosophy Talks, followed by Moth Radio hour and then the history of Jazz. NPR makes me late to places I am going. I pulled into the tennis parking lot as an interviewer was asking children what they think about rules. I sat in my carport finishing a Moth radio hour talk about a man that had been in jail, and then found meaning in life. Last night I heard an interview with a poet, a Vietnamese American first generation man who described how he discovered that being a poet was a thing one could do. He went from reading the lines of a 16th century poet and asking which band he wrote for, to studying English in University, once he realized it wasn’t a degree for people wanting to learn to speak the language. The interview ended with him singing an old Appalachian folk tune that sent shivers up my spine because it was so beautiful. Where else would an interview like that exist, but for NPR?

No where else can I turn on a radio and listen to classical music. No where else can I turn on a radio and listen to Beethoven, Mozart, Hayden, and on and on. If I came from a family that only listened to pop music, or country and rock, what are the chances I might get exposed to such variety, to flutes and violins and explanations about the music and musicians? yesterday an NPR segment brought me to tears. I listened to Fresh Air with Terry Gross. She talked about the passing of her husband, a Jazz critic and writer. She interspersed the remembrances with actual music, quotes from his writing and stories of their life together. I have been listening to Fresh Air for years, it is one of my favorite programs, but this episode was special. I take Joy in NPR. I take Joy in PBS. I take joy in my public libraries. My first act whenever we move to a new town is to get my library card. The second is to find my local NPR station. 

These last weeks have been busy with the garden class and the volunteer hours that are part of earning the certificate, so walking has been slow.  In two weeks I walked 20.13 miles, some of them just walking back and forth at the plant sales I worked. This puts me at 189.44 miles, or at the Derrick Knob shelter. I have been there, in high school. The shelter before that one, Spence Fields, is where I saw skunks meandering through the campsite. During the night a skunk got into the shelter, and sat on me, on my sleeping bag. My parents were afraid to wake me up, because if I jumped or screamed the skunk might have sprayed us. Luckily he just sniffed around some and then ran off. I was glad I slept through it. Derrick Knob is a pretty section, so I am glad to (pretend to) be there. Happy hiking, happy reading, happy listening! Joy is Resistance!