Adventure is for the adventurous.

Adventure is for the adventurous.
My face is set.
I go to make my destiny.
May many another youth be by me inspired to leave the snug safety of his rut,
and follow fortune to other lands.

by Everett Ruess

Priest Shelter.

A moonless, starless March night near the Priest Shelter on the Appalachian Trail, already settled in and zipped up inside a warm tent:

me: Did you bring your chapstick in?

big village: No, don’t need it either.

m: Sure you do, your lips looked pretty dry earlier.

bv: Nope, I’m good ‘til morning. I’ll tell you where it’s at though if you wanna go get it.

m: You don’t want me going through your stuff, messing everything up trying to find a little tube of chapstick.

bv: It’s right on top, easy to find.

m: Well, since it’s yours why not just go get it?

bv: Nope, don’t need it.

m: But if you had it in here you would use it.

bv: Yep.

m: So go get it.

bv: Don’t need it.

m: Ok, where’s it at?

(waiting until I’m out of my sleeping bag and have already pulled on my camp shoes)
bv: I don’t know, you’ll have to dig around my stuff to find it.

m: You suck.

bv: Yeah, but my lips are gonna feel good in a few minutes.

m: I thought you didn’t need it until morning.

bv: Yep.

(staring now at the zipper dangling from the top of the tent)
m: What would you do if I opened the tent and there was a toothless hillbilly staring back at me?

bv: I don’t know.

m: What would you do if I opened the tent and there was a bear staring back at me?

bv: Same thing as I would if a hillbilly was there.

At that I yanked on the zipper, sprang from the tent, rushed over to our packs, found the chapstick relatively easily and dove back into the tent zipping it closed behind me and welcomed the safety of my sleeping bag. I don’t know why I got so freaked out. Maybe because I had the theme music from Deliverance stuck in my head earlier during the day.

Disclaimer: don’t get mad or offended by the hillbilly reference above. I’m a native Mountaineer so I have permission to call ‘em like I see ‘em. Not that people living in the Blue Ridge Mountains are hillbillies; seriously, just think Deliverance.

[originally posted June 2006]

Into my own.

INTO MY OWN by Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
      So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
      Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
      But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day                            ⁵
      Into their vastness I should steal away,
      Fearless of ever finding open land,
      Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
      Or those should not set forth upon my track                    ¹⁰
      To overtake me, who should miss me here
      And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew -
      Only more sure of all I thought was true.

Solitude of fog.

Its wetness permeating my skin
     now wrapped around me as a veil.

Solitude forming the disguise of comfort,
     choking my every breath.

Muting the pigment, slowing the pace,
     where mind controls span and reason.

Alone in woods where no other mortal can be found,
     my solitude.

On struggle…

We’re told to seek forgiveness from God for our own shortcomings.

We’re told God only gives us as much as we can handle.

What comfort is it to a 6-yr old child, used for sex, to be told God wouldn’t let it happen unless she could handle it?

When will God ask for our forgiveness?

To forgive you, #3.

What would it take to forgive you?
—To the one who tried to ask.—

Did you really think after two decades it would be enough to offer me $100 to buy my love? One Christmas in all those years would really be enough to make it up to me? The years you missed with me are worth far more than that. Had I accepted, you would’ve gotten a bargain. You, however are not worth a fraction of your offer. No, I won’t even consider accepting.

To forgive you, #2.

What would it take to forgive you?
—To the one who almost asked.—

You came to the door today, I wasn’t supposed to be here, you were expecting someone else to answer. A moment of panic for us both. No words said, and eye contact narrowly avoided as you handed the small box of my belongings to me. Behind the closed door, through a part in the window curtain, I watched you get into your car. You sat there looking back at the house and for a second I thought you might work up the nerve to turn around and come back to my door. I could see the struggle in your face as you made the decision to turn on your car and drive away.

To forgive you, #1.

What would it take to forgive you?
—To the one who never asked.—

If you showed up at my door today, unannounced, after nearly ten years of absence, would I let you in? I willingly admit I still love you. When you disappeared on me, I thought I would never get over it, never get over you. I am over you, yet I still miss the way you made me feel. If you could promise to make me feel that way again, even if for a small moment, I would let you in. But would that be enough to forgive you for the way you make me feel in your absence?

Waking up.

I’ve been asleep for years. I’ve been afraid to embrace life, friendships, lovers, etc… Someone woke me up.

I’ve been asleep for years. I haven’t been moving. Life is moving all around me, the sounds and visions make it through to my subconscious but I do not participate. I am breathing, my heart is beating but my eyes are closed. I am aware.

I’ve been afraid to embrace life, friendships, lovers, etc… I am aware. People surround me and I call many by titles such as friend and lover. I do not embrace these titles or participate or believe or reciprocate. I know I need to embrace, but I do not trust.

Someone woke me up. One person, one moment, my eye lids lifted. I saw with my eyes, I saw with my heart. I saw, for the first time, the visions and sounds that were available only to my subconscious and I began to participate. I began to embrace, believe and trust. I began to move.

Someone woke me up. It began with “Please trust me.” It began when fear ended.

Traveling Home, part 3 – “If These Walls Could Talk”

I sit surrounded by the craftsmanship of my grandfather in a bedroom built for my mother.  I admire the skill and patience applied by hand to the joints and corners of a room that has undergone frequent improvements, transforming it from the years my mother spent here.  I try to imagine the teenage heart throbs pictured in posters above her bed.  Then I smile, realizing the transformation their faces, too, have undergone.  Names and faces I recognize these many years later as legends in entertainment.

I remember the walls as they were during my summers spent here as a child, my mother’s room becoming my own.  Covered not in posters, but in outdated, gray paneling.  I shared this room from time to time with cousins, siblings, companions and cowboys and Indians.  Aboard stagecoaches, rocket ships and pirate ships, our bunk beds served as passage to endless adventures and explorations.  Closing my eyes now, I can almost smell the freshly dug earth beneath the hoofs of the rocking horse which led the charge against marauding natives.

Opening my eyes, I expect to find a plastic cowboy hat and cap pistol in their place and my hand tightly clinched on a braided mane.  But I’m not on my rocking horse, instead I find a room much more suited for grandchildren, now grown, returning with lovers and children of their own.  I no longer find the company of imaginary landscapes and the dark, dated paneling is gone, replaced by bright, fresh paint trimmed by decorative crown molding.  Where rocking horses, bunk beds and toy chests once stood, sit delicate antique furniture arranged in a comfortable lounge.  Were I still a child, I’m sure the area with its lace tablecloths and silk throw pillows would be off-limits to my touch.

Over several decades this old room slowly gave way to modern accessories, giving up its relics one by one.  I no longer struggle in the dark waving hand over head searching for the string to turn on a single, exposed light bulb hanging from the ceiling.  It has been traded-up for a proper light switch convenient to the door and an energy-saving fixture mounted in its place.  I smile and wonder if my mother ever felt the dreaded sense of rush and adrenalin standing at the edge of the dark room.  Mustering the courage to leap from door to light switch hoping the light replaces shadows before feet hit the floor.  I also wondered if she ever had to stand facing my grandfather with broken chain in one hand and an apology in the other, as I did on more than one occasion.  His response was always the same, “You’re much too old for such behavior.”  Admittedly, I remained afraid of the dark in that room for several years until after installation of the new switch.

I smile again and dare myself now to take a peak at the shadows beneath the bed!

— Others in this series —
Traveling Home, part 1 “Our Woods, Our Adventures and Our Mountains”
Traveling Home, part 2 “My Grandmother”
Traveling Home, part 3 “If These Walls Could Talk”

For my eyes only…

For my eyes only nature’s beauty given to interpretation.

Traveling Home, part 2 – “My Grandmother”

There’s so much to read here.  On every wall inspiration in the form of scripture or quotes.  I want to write all these beautiful words down and file them away to be accessed at appropriate times in the future.  Times when I’ll need a bit of encouragement.  Instead, I read as much as I can and soak it all in.  When I lack encouragement in the future, I’ll think of the face of my grandma.  The woman who took the time to write down these pieces of gold, to mount, frame and hang them.  I won’t remember exact words, but in my grandmother’s face I’ll remember the feelings inspired by the words I read now and draw my encouragement from knowing the woman she is.

— Others in this series —
Traveling Home, part 1 “Our Woods, Our Adventures and Our Mountains”
Traveling Home, part 2 “My Grandmother”
Traveling Home, part 3 “If These Walls Could Talk”

Hollow.

What makes it hollow
Makes it hard to swallow
I turn away from You again
And burn the knife into my skin
Fallen and forgotten
Heavy, under an empty coffin
Take me away from this place
And make me numb to the taste
What makes it hollow
Makes it hard to swallow

[circa June 2002]

Excess Baggage.

The little pink card on her cage read, “2-yrs old, ridgeback/lab mix, gets along well with other dogs, loves kids, cats unknown”.  Her name was Bonnie.  We called her the Big Red Dog.

Given up by a single father with a disabled child, Bonnie came to the shelter by order of the county Center for Disease Control office – for quarantine from a possible exposure to rabies.  What the card didn’t mention was Bonnie’s talent for escaping.  Or, that she absolutely hated other dogs and would viciously attack them.  Or, that her 97-lb frame could overpower and knock the average adult, hanging desperately to the end of her leash, off their feet in a matter of seconds.  Or, that the number 2 in her age had previously been a 7 made to look like a 2; seems ‘senior’ dogs don’t have the chance at adoption that younger dogs do.

Believing the little pink card to be true, I naively adopted the Big Red Dog and brought her home to finish out the remaining 30-days of her quarantine, working closely with the CDC case worker to meet all requirements.  Thirty days to receive a clean bill of health and 30-days to stamp herself permanently on my heart.

I kept Bonnie away from all other animals, except for my own.  “Cats unknown” should have read, “Great with cats!”  And she did in fact love kids, she was wonderful with them.  She’d grown up around a disabled child and seemed to prefer children to adults.  She was shy and timid at first.  Afraid to misbehave, unsure how I’d react.  She didn’t jump on furniture.  Didn’t dumpster dive or counter surf.  She did have a propensity to get excited and bang her tail against walls and furniture, breaking the tip leaving a spattered mess, resembling a crime scene.

At the end of our first 30-days, I introduced Bonnie to a dog on our street.  They’d seen each other from a distance but had never gotten closer than 3 or 4 blocks.  It went horribly.  But the card said, “gets along well with other dogs,” surely there was some misunderstanding.

There was no misunderstanding between these two dogs.  They understood each other quite well.  Nine months full of behavior specialists, intensive reconditioning, thousands of dollars spent in training, and working closely with the shelter I’d adopted her from, Bonnie just could not adjust.  The shelter, about 3-months into training, admitted they’d lied on Bonnie’s card.  They couldn’t afford the space to keep her for the full 45-day quarantine.  They weren’t permitted to put her down due to some county regulation requiring behavior testing following the quarantine.  What a sucker I was for those big, brown eyes.  What a sucker I was to believe the humane society wouldn’t mislead me.

I wanted to give Bonnie a 2nd chance.  A little thing like strict regulations during the quarantine didn’t make her any less deserving than the dog in the next cage.  Except she had those eyes.  Sad and afraid.  Bonnie had almost no self-confidence when she first came home with me.  It was an amazing thing to see her sense of self-worth grow as she developed into a well-loved member of a family.  Relegated to the yard or basement, she hadn’t been part of the family in her previous home.  With me she was included.  In some sense you can teach an old dog new tricks, all her faults were cured minus the aggression towards other dogs.

I had a dog on my hands who could barely leave the house without causing some extreme scene in a neighborhood full of other dogs.  I couldn’t live my active lifestyle not being able to take her out in public.  Walks were limited to areas with no chance of running into other dogs.  Late at night, early in the morning and rarely somewhere she could actually get any good exercise.  We were both frustrated and trapped.  She not being welcome in public and me not wanting to leave her home alone so I could socialize.

One occasion a young girl walking her dog was almost injured when Bonnie knocked me off my feet in effort to attack the other dog.  They came around the corner out of now where and I hadn’t had the chance to brace myself.  The girl, trying to protect her dog, put her self directly in Bonnie’s path.  It was a very close call and was also the last straw for me.  It is one thing to deal with the frustrations of an aggressive dog for as long as it only impacts my life, but when a child, or any other person for that matter, is at risk, it becomes too much to continue.

Bonnie was put down shortly after.  The humane society so generously offered to perform euthanasia free of charge to me.  What was $20 compared to what I’d already spent in time, money and heartache?  It felt like a slap in the face after all they’d put me through because they decided to be deceitful.  That $20 did not make it up to me, not even close.  It didn’t make it up to Bonnie either.  What made it up to Bonnie is the time she spent in a happy house where she was included as part of the family and not simply turned out to the yard and ignored as she’d spent the previous 7-years of her life.

Bonnie had baggage and lots of it.

My anger towards the humane society for putting me through heartache soon turned into a realization that I too have baggage.  Eventually I stopped blaming them for carelessly adopting a dog who had no chance at success and began thanking them for haphazardly giving an undeserving dog a chance.  I say undeserving because had they properly tested her, she would never have been a candidate for adoption.  They encouraged me to give up on Bonnie long before I did.  They were willing to let me ‘trade her in’ for a replacement.  As if the first 30-days of seeing her come out of her shell meant nothing.

I too have baggage as do many people in my life.  We’re all searching for someone to come along, fall for our puppy dog eyes and give us a chance.  A chance to develop a sense of self-worth.  A chance to reform our undesired behaviors.  A chance to meet our full potential.  The lesson Bonnie left me with was more than an adoption story.  It’s a story about loving people when they don’t deserve it.  When their problems seem bigger than we can manage.  And in the end, what matters is not that we fixed the problem, but that we cared enough to try.

Traveling home, part 1 – “Our Woods, Our Adventures and Our Mountains”

I’ve been back to my home state many times in the recent past, but it has been quite a long time since I’ve returned to the places I grew up.  To the places I remember as far back as memory began it’s first tings of recognition in the recesses of my mind.  Memories that formed long before emotion or personality came to identify me.

I recall eating raw cucumber for the first time, picked directly from the garden, as a happy, pony-tailed toddler before I can remember the first recognition of my own mother’s face.  The definition of ‘home’, to me, is more important than even family.  Family stays with me no matter where I travel, but home is defined by one single place which can not be compared to any other.  It is defined by the memories I carry with me throughout my life of that place.  A place I am always trying to find my way back to.  It’s a place I recognize myself in and I recognize within my own self.

The things I remember are the fear of snapping turtles in Brushy Fork Creek-turtles legend states could swallow a child whole-and a fear of falling from the narrow stone bridge which crosses that stream.  There was an unspoken understanding that the ‘junk graveyard’ on the ridge opposite our homestead was strictly off limits.  The wild horses still sometimes seen there were not to be ridden.  The hollowed out Model-T’s, Iceboxes and other such decaying rarities found in our woods were not to be recommissioned for use in our adventures, though this is a rule that was broken on many occasions.  The doors to Iceboxes [modern day's equivalent is known as the refrigerator] made fantastic sleds in the winter.  It is lucky such doors could be found in random abundance throughout the countryside because they were too heavy to haul back up the faces of our mountains for another wild and out of control ride dodging trees down and down towards the valley below.

How those junk graveyards made their way into the woods, miles from anything, is still a mystery to me.  Each generation blames the one before for depositing this trash, though at some point the generation at blame becomes older than the inventor of each item and no one has taken credit.   The children only two decades before me would not have hesitated to harness the ancestors of our wild horses to the windshield of an old automobile and “see where we end up.”  It is that sense of adventure which led my generation to follow in their footsteps.

Our mountains were broken by our valleys.  Our valleys gave access to our world.  We traveled on foot, made trails where none existed, poked our heads into fox holes on steep cliff sides that would make experienced mountain climbers think twice before scaling.  In our world there were no limits.  Everything was there for our exploration and there were no boundaries laid out before us.

We learned about natural resources unique to our mountains.  We watched the arm on a gas well pumping methodically away as each member of our gang tried to mount it.  We searched endlessly for the opening to a coal mine, just one ridge away from the gas well.  All we found were rotting picnic tables where coal miners spent their lunch hours several decades before us.

The memories of these things cause excitement to well up inside me to the point I can barely stand it.  I’m going home tomorrow.  I’m excited, anxious and nervous.  I remember our world quite differently than it is now.  I know exactly when to roll down my car windows to be welcomed home by that familiar scent, which means I’m finally there.  That is something which has never changed.  But each stint between visits home grows longer and longer.

It is hard for me now to see how different reality is from my memories, which contributes in part to my hesitancy in planning trips home.  There are boundaries now.  I can no longer take off in one direction for days at a time.  I can barely walk an hour before wondering if the owner of the land beyond a fence line is friendly.  There was a time when a name meant everything in our community.  If found trespassing, upon discovery of what family I belonged to, I was welcomed on any man’s land.  There is no such recognition anylonger.  Neighbors are strangers.  Strangers are not welcome.

I sometimes feel a stranger when I return home, even in the secret places most familiar to me.  The world around me there has changed, but my mountains are still there.  They hold the same memories I do.  They hold the memories of my grandfather before me.  My favorite tree is still there, though the brook which runs beside it has long since dried up.  I am too big to fit through the trap door to my tree house though I will still climb the ladder and open the door to poke my head inside.  There are no more Model-T’s to be found on my ridge.  My fear of gravity, developed as an adult, will keep me from my fox holes.

Though this current stretch between visits home has been the longest ever, I fear the next will be even longer.  I am losing the memories of my childhood to reality.  I do not want to return again so soon as to lose more memories to the changes I am confronted with every time I wonder those woods.

Tomorrow I will travel home to my hillsides.  I will walk them alone since my gang has long since grown and moved away, as have I.   My grandfather is still there, but he is far too old to set foot on those hillsides and must now recall his own memories through my adventures.  I’m excited, anxious and nervous to be returning home tomorrow.

— Others in this series —
Traveling Home, part 1 “Our Woods, Our Adventures and Our Mountains”
Traveling Home, part 2 “My Grandmother”
Traveling Home, part 3 “If These Walls Could Talk”