Ain't No River Wide Enough

If Wellies worked for hiking, perhaps tackling Little Devils Stairs two days after torrential rains wouldn't be an idiotic idea. The quiet parking lot on the east side of Shenandoah National Park only had two cars in it at 9am on a spring-ish morning. Could that have been a clue, Watson? Perhaps hikers with half a brain (or a healthy sense of self-preservation) were covering less treacherous trails.

As for me, I had to go for it. It isn't often this mama has no kid, clear skies, and enough energy to dive into the Appalachians. But even my determination was tested by repeated crossings over a swollen river. So much for my leisurely, rejuvenating day hike. Little Devils Stairs? Aptly named. Except for the "little" part.

Just 25 yards from the trailhead, I found myself on the bank of Keyser Run without a way across. Every stone and tree used by previous hikers to manage this daunting task had either been washed away or was submerged under a foot of rushing water.  After several adjustments to my position and a stern conversation with my spine, I made to the other side. Little did I know my victory was just a warmup. Little Devil Stairs is nothing more than a snaking hike up a steep creek gorge. Every time the trail crossed the river -- and it did so more than a dozen times -- I had to stop, assess, and concoct a way across. This meant tramping up and downstream at every juncture to compare downed trees, slick boulders, and water volume.

On several occasions, the only option was a narrow limb jutting out from a root-ball on one crumbling bank and balanced on the teetering rocks near the other. I am not usually prone to vertigo, but even I had to sit down on my rear and scootch most of the way across. This ridiculous sight of this tactic is one reason I prefer hiking alone.

At one of the more upright sections of the staircase, I found myself stranded in the middle of the river. The stone I had just slid from was clattering away downstream, and the bank was still five feet away. I squatted on a slick rock with white water roaring on both sides of me. A water-heavy log bobbed nearby. It seemed my best chance. I gritted my teeth and grappled with the monstrous thing until I got a grip. I hauled the log up against the current and pushed it into a more useful position. For some strange reason, gravity chose not to punish me for that moronic feat.

It was on about the ninth crossing when she finally decided to have her giggle at my expense. My foot punched right through a rotted log. Down I tumbled into the mud and frigid wet. Fortunately, my right shin bore the brunt of the fall. I was drenched to the calves but upright, and I gotta tell you, there's nothing that kicks a person past the momentary paralysis of a fall quite like coming to rest in ice water. It also turns out that having a quart of it stored in each boot makes navigating the rest of the crossings a bit easier. Only a bit. It's still incredibly difficult to make oneself step right into white, rushing water, no matter how wet the feet already are. This gal had some words for that river. Not ones I'd want any of my loved ones to overhear.

Having not hiked in any meaningful way since abandoning the Adirondacks, I had a small learning curve to navigate. Double-blazes mean a turn ahead. It took me a few baffled meanders into tangled underbrush to remember this. As each trail turn plunged me back down the river for yet another crossing, I quickly developed an unfortunate pavlovian response to the markers.  Poor river. She's probably still blushing from the fervor of my profanity.

With my legs a-shaking and my gumption well-tested only a couple miles into the hike, I came upon yet another double blaze. After a stream of invectives, I barreled on, only to discover the turn heading up and away from the river. I have never been so happy to see a switchback in my life.

For most of the rest of the hike, I slogged happily along muddy trails in my drenched leather, smartwool, and fleece. Synthetics preserved me from both chill and blisters until the sun came out to lend a hand. It turns out that with the right socks, wet boots are rather spongy and bouyant.

At a juncture with the fire road, I decided to give those low hills the old what-for. I took the extra loop and added another 2.3 miles onto the hike. It turns out I also added three more opportunities to re-experience my earlier delight. Taking the Piney Branch loop forced me to criss-cross an even wider tributary of Keyser Run. Despite my most damning vitriol, neither ferryman nor magic carpet appeared at my feet. I just had to tramp and shimmy and wobble my way to dry ground.

Which I somehow managed to do.

Four hours, 7.8 miles,  16-odd river crossings, only 3 other humans witnessed (one was a park ranger: "What, didja swim across?").

Wild? Check.
Solitude? Check.
The bruises to prove it? Check.

Alas, Poor Yorick

The morning after, nothing is left but the bones. The soft flesh was only paper and pulp after all. One quick conflagration, and the pretense of substance is ash.

“You used to be kind.”

Kindling and flint.

“Here’s what I hate.”

Dry twigs.

“The problem with you is. . .”

So fleeting a spark, you almost miss it. You walk on. Behind you, it catches. It is the ones who know us best of all who find the most flammable acre. They drop the match exactly there. They call it an accident.

Would you know me from my dental records? Could you identify me from the scraps of DNA? I don’t know what’s become of my tender organs. I can’t seem to find my heart.

The morning after, what remains of me arises despite the stink and grit. Small rituals are the only saving grace. Keep the practice up when you are well, and it will force you into motion when the roof caves in. Go to work, hug the kid, force the feet across the dance floor. Smooth balm on the wounds. Floss. Never mind the sudden sobbing in the bathroom stall, the hollow eyes, the ghoulish smile. Walk the skeleton across the day. It will keep your kid in shoes and shelter. It will earn you one more chance to slap some on some plaster and pray the golem to life.

Whatever you do, don’t ask the question: Was there anything on these bones to begin with? Was the best of me just paper and pretense all along?

(I wouldn’t dare let such a thought work its way into the marrow.)

Then at work, a card arrives. Strange thing, a card. Who sends these anymore? Who sends them to an office? It is from a man whose name I know, but even that is fleeting. When I have dug deep for the energy to move my creaking frame to the contra dance, this man has taken my hand and twirled the joints loose. I know very little. He is married, he works with students in some capacity. He has a fine smile and an even finer swing. I have seen him maybe two times in as many months.

And yet, despite all the night-before evidence suggesting the figure bearing my name is both broken and broke, the morning after, a card arrives from a virtual stranger.

It reads:

“There are people whom one loves and appreciates immediately and forever. Even to know they are alive in the world is quite enough."

Sometimes I do not have the courage to lift the burnt, barren edge to see the extent of the damage. But something akin to soft skin remains. If I can still feel its pulse, then it still lives. Grafting and new growth might occur yet. One inch, one breath, one touch at a time. The heart may take a little time to dig out of this rubble, but it has been seen. I have a witness.

Category: Self-Help

Sacred Marriage. Vixen Diaries. Love Yourself First. Live Juicy. A wall of titles, towering, closing in. Each one of these books, a brick pressing in, right against the gut. I had approached this section ("Self-Improvement?" Holy Toledo!) seeking something about. . . what? Gratitude and appreciation? Clearing away the debris? Getting eight hours of sleep?

This section of the books store has always been my secret indulgence. While I pretend I am a history buff and will plow through a biography of Jonas Salk just because it matters, the shelves I visit when craving comfort food offer a thousand ways to mend ragged love and ease stiff perception. By following the training regimens of gurus and quacks, I seek escape from the commonplace. A simple set of exercises has the power to give each moment a jolt of clarity. Perhaps by following this five-step plan or repeating that mantra, I will unearth my calling, my companion, my faith? When I stumble across a new title on mindfulness or forgiveness, my mouth waters. What new practice shall I sink my teeth into today? How can I learn to look up and discover my way?

But now. Gads. Now that the core relationships of my life are in a jumble and I need the help more than ever, all I experience as I approach this wailing wall is sheer vertigo. Confession and prayer, careful attention to each intimate detail. . . these tasks are about as compelling as scaling a rock-face teeming with snakes. I cannot, physically cannot step within arm's length of the shelves. I stand at a safe-ish distance, assessing the spines. Each seems more coolly dangerous than the last. Relationship Rescue. Collaborative Divorce.

It appears the vast array of options for reflection and recovery is no longer a delicious smorgasbord of self-discovery. Whatever exists between those blessedly closed covers suddenly seems too much. Too much self-absorption, too much spiraling diagnosis. Too much savoring the flavor of one's own cud. Just Too. Damned. Much.

Because I cannot take one step closer, I back away, reeling, and spin into another aisle. Cookbooks, travel guides, coffee-table volumes of English gardens and lightning storms. What other skills shall I develop instead? This is the habit for a gal like me. Allow someone else to give me a prompt, a purpose, a compass point. Seek and absorb. But what of the path I have already cleared away? What of the practices I have spent the better part of three decades learning to cultivate?

I stop. Catch my breath. Enough, lady. You know where to go. It's really not so hard one you just say yes. Yes, I know my heart and I know my mind. These two are my own trusty guides.

They nudge my feet in the direction of the stationery section. Bound books. Blank parchment. There, I find the one I seek. A flashy spiral filled with lined sheets, a slick chick in a bikini on the cover sipping a martini. I pay my $10 -- too much for blank pages, but not for the lease -- and slip over to the cozy chairs to inhabit the empty rooms between the college rule. One word at a time, I fill them. This is my own text. My own story. A self-improvement section crafted by these hands.

As I begin to write, a man near me strikes up a conversation. Following a health scare, he has begun to keep a journal for the first time in his life. "What do you say in those things?" He asks, gesturing towards my book. We talk of writing whatever pulls us to the page. He tells his story about traveling the world for work, then retiring with just enough in the bank to buy into a ranch in Colorado. There, the waiting horses, the endless acres. I listen. He is hungry for an ear. I feed him mine. Little does he know, I am filling my own belly with crumbs of adventures I have not yet imagined. My journal only contains four lines, but it is fat with the nourishment I came in seeking. Before I go, I remind the fella to keep writing. He tells me the same.

It is a blessing to know simple things. Make poetry. Share bread. It is not so very hard to love this big old world when returning to what is already known. They say the only way to learn how to write is to write. Perhaps the only way to find one's way is to take a step.

Like You

Like you I

love love, life, the sweet smell

of things, the sky-blue

landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up

and I laugh through eyes

that have known the buds of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful

and the poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don't end in me

but in the unanimous blood

of those who struggle for life,

love,

little things,

landscape and bread,

the poetry of everyone.

- Roque Dalton