Notes On Distance

Bridging the gap between endeavor and meaning.

I thought we’d try something a little different today. In today’s political landscape it’s increasingly difficult to have hope for the future of society. However, that’s not to say I don’t have enormous optimism for life and the art of living. So, that is what this next piece will focus on. In an effort to not appear too demanding of your time I’ve split it into two parts so you can read it at your leisure, but if you’d like to read this piece uninterrupted and without cliffhangers (there are none) you can disregard this message and wait for the second installment to arrive in your inbox. In part, this piece deals with the importance of endeavor and in part delayed gratification and how that relates to meaning. In short, it seems to me that the distance of effort and time spent correlate positively with value and satisfaction. It seemed to me I could literally illustrate this formulation by writing about a camping trip I took earlier this year. I’ll be back next week with Part Two, and in lieu of camping, if that’s not your bag, may I suggest you put on a record, brew a cup of coffee and watch it percolate, or fall in love with a stranger and build an indestructible bond with them over the course of the next decade. I find all of these to work well.

~FA

Somewhere in South Cumberland // Photo by my pa, David Arnold

J.R. picked me up outside of the house early in the morning in his white pickup. I packed my bag mostly the night before, but I gathered the last bit of my food when I woke up that morning.  I hadn’t intended on waking my wife but she got up anyways, and helped me pack.  I tend to leave things like this a little late, but this time despite my delay I was pretty well prepared.  I had been to the grocery the night before, and bought way too much of what I thought I would need.  Instant mashed potatoes, hot dogs, nuts and dried fruit, oatmeal in a mason jar, a candy bar, a little flask of whiskey and a lot of water.  It’s hard to plan out exactly what you’ll need on a given weekend - so that you don’t end up with excess - unless you sit down and really give it some thought which I hadn’t.  So, in the pack it all went.

Part of the appeal of backpacking, it seems to me, is exchanging reviews of each other’s gear.  Asking and giving advice on this product or another, have you had those boots long?, do you like that tent?, how warm is that bag?  Camping with friends can be expensive if you haven’t bought anything in a while; the easily swayed inevitably come away with a laundry list of items they need to add or upgrade.  

I threw my pack and boots next to his bag that looked like it must’ve come from military surplus, a big square as wide as it was tall, in his truck bed and we bumbled out of the neighborhood.  When we got to the gas station, Shay had already arrived and was waiting for us.  He parked his truck next to a parking spot that looked like someone (or someones) had been living in for weeks.  It seemed like a gamble his truck be there, let alone unsullied, when we got back at the end of the weekend.  Anyway, he didn’t seem too concerned, tossed his bag in with ours and we were off.  

We had been planning a backpacking trip down in Savage Gulf for a little while now.  A few of the guys work together and when they were considering invites my name was brought up.  Coon told me that they weren’t sure if I’d hiked that much before but they’d agreed I was the type to get it done regardless.  I was pleased to hear that was my reputation if only in part.  It was a little over an hour’s drive to South Cumberland and when we met up with with the rest of the guys it was still early in the morning.  We dropped J.R.’s truck off at where we’d be exiting the trail the day after, and Coon picked us up in his new used Impala with police wheels that he’s awfully proud of and took us to the trailhead.  

At the trailhead, we all unloaded, ate a banana or two, made final adjustments to our packs - weighed each others to see who was in for it the worst - tied up our boots and set off.  Someone we met at the trail entrance take a picture of us before we set out, all clean and chipper and sweat free.  

The six of us just rolled along those first few miles on top of the plateau like a regular freight train.  Everyone had hiking poles but me, I’d never used them - didn’t see the point really - but by the end of the trip was thinking of getting some of my own.  It was a rather forgiving late May morning.  It hadn’t rained in the last week so the trail on top of the ridge was nice and dry.  The tree canopy was thick with heavy green leaves that sheltered us from the sun until we came to a clearing or an overlook, or enough wind would blow so that little sun rays would sneak in tapping our shoulders and the backs of our necks.  The mountain laurels were in full bloom breathing happy pink and white sighs as we brushed passed.  We were making great time whipping through the little ups and downs and curves of the ridgeline, setting a pace that would lead you to believe we’d have it done and dusted in no time.  Only thing we were missing was a whistle to blow steam and warn fellow travelers to get off the tracks.

Single file with Coon in front of me we were talking back and forth, him over his shoulder, and me straight out front at the back of his head.  Coon talked about how special the woods were, how it’s a way of getting in touch with the world.  And I launched into one of my unsolicited sermons on how it’s easy finding that out here where it’s all so obvious; that the tough part, the less assuming part, is to find that same feeling in the mundane of the everyday.  “That taking what you’ve found out here and looking for it back at home is the difficult, necessary thing”, I said to the back of his head, in between breaths.  “You know?” Continuing, “finding meaning in the meaningless, recognizing beauty when it’s not just screaming at you.”  I think he agreed and I didn’t want to belabor my point as I often feel like I do and we marched on along the ridge peering into the deep green valley when we were afforded the view.  In the spring and summer it’s all just continuous shades of silent green camouflaging the forest floor that logic would suggest must be teeming with movement and sound.  But looking out at the valley from the top of the ridge you’d guess nothing was stirring in all of the land and everything stays put exactly where it is, not a twig or leaf out of place.  The only thing that betrays this stoicism of the hollows are the red tailed hawks floating high above the treetops searching for their next meal that lies below.

Photo by David Arnold

We took a break at Hobbs Cabin just before the trail descends off the ridge to eat a snack and get some water from the spring that runs nearby.  It had started to heat up, and we weren’t sure when we’d run into the next creek.  Brah and Bryan went to find the spring which turned out to be not very springing at all.  We all still had water so we weren’t too disappointed but were relying on finding running water down below.  The structure itself is a small wooden box with one window and a stone fireplace poking out the metal roof.  Inside the wooden cabin was dark, and stale with wooden bunks lining the walls.  We were all glad not to be staying there for the night.  My dad once stayed the night there when he was younger.  It was him and a wily ol’ Vietnam veteran with a nervous laugh named Bill Herser, plus one stranger who lumbered in after nightfall.  Bill and my dad both were students of Wado Ryu Karate but their years of training proved to be little help dispelling the unease of sleeping alone with a stranger in a glorified lean-to.  Bill disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving my dad, peeping through his eyelids, alone with the stranger asleep in the bunk opposite him.  Bill returned by morning reassuring my dad he had just gone out for a walk.  They left camp before their bunkmate was up.  No doubt a stranger would be intimidated by our group’s shear number if we were to stay the night, but no one liked the thought of sleeping there regardless and there was still a whole valley in between us and camp.  We had our snacks, and a sit-down. Bryan thought he saw figures moving in the woods and that was our cue to leave.  We swung our packs back on and dropped down the mountain.  

It’s always nice to be with friends that are fully formed, rounded out human beings, not those half-full half-interested types of which the world has far too many.  Shay and I talked about his kids and his wife and their land. He had been considering growing a field full of lavender or dahlias on an extra parcel they have for a little extra money and the general aesthetics.  He explained to me why he wants sheep again instead of the goats he has now.  Shay’s got a way of hmm-ing and uhh-ing when he speaks, like little involuntary mindless ōms ellipsizing his speech. Rounding an overlook we talked about a new global corporate tax they’ve been suggesting in Washington.  He said it was an interesting idea, and I said I thought it was pointless.  Seems funny to talk about such manmade conventions when you’re churning out miles in the woods, but I can’t help myself most of the time.  

The sun hung a little higher in the sky as it crept past noon.  At one of our stops, Brah pointed out a couple of ticks, one of the real downsides of Tennessee in the summertime, on my inner leg that I plucked off cleanly between my forefinger and thumb,.  I’ve got love and patience for all God’s creations but parasites are a real head-scratcher.  

Everybody’s got their own style getting down steep trail, some picking each step carefully and some skipping and jumping from rock to rock.  I’ve always preferred a version of the latter, letting gravity pull me over the boulders and undulations of the trail like water rushing in a stream letting my feet fall where the current takes me.  We clambered over rock gardens sometimes on all fours with your pack square on the flat of your back.  The temperature dropped at the forest floor where it smelled cooler, and the undergrowth became more spaced out as competition for sunlight had increased.  The mountain laurels of mountaintops gave way to waxy rhododendron and leafy ferns and dark soft soil.  

We kept our balance across swinging wood plank and rope bridges over dry creek beds with large toppled stones and deadfall washed into the ravine from when the heavy rains came.  With the exception of the past several days it had been a wet spring so we all scratched our heads in bewilderment as we sucked our bottles and bladders dry looking at the boney quiet pile of rocks underneath us.  No choice but to keep going trudging through the valley and up the other side.  Our packs were little lighter without all the water but we were all starting to miss the weight by now.  Several times we convinced ourselves we heard water rushing in the distance but it must have been the wind rustling the leaves or a total fabrication of desire.  It was a couple of more hours before we came up on a true running spring a quarter way up the mountain.  Quickened with relief we set about collecting enough water for the rest of the hike and enough to cook and drink at camp.  I walked up the little stream to fill my bottles up and listen to the little brook talk to us all the while we were there.  We met a young man and his shepherd dog going the opposite way at the bend in the mountainside; we advised him and his dog to fill up there while he could since he’d be sorely disappointed his next several miles.  He filled up his bottle and filled up a little bowl for his dog.  He was planning on staying at Hobbs Cabin that night, best of luck to him.  Shay, looking at the dog said, “I had thought about bringing my dog this weekend.”

J.R. responded, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

It was sometime around then we had the realization that our original estimates of a solid twelve mile hike that day were decidedly underestimated.  Now, easily halfway up to the ridge, on double track of roots and small round rocks, we were nearing our twelfth mile but were not so near to camp. With the mountain wall to our left and the deep ravine to our right and the unrelenting climb ahead of us we started to break up a little bit.  Like going down the trail you gotta find your own rhythm going up, too.  I was paying for all my skipping and jumping a couple of hours earlier as I put my head down, shifting the weight higher on my back I could hear the spring water I’d just collected sloshing around, and put one foot in front of the other.  The six of us must’ve spanned a quarter mile at one point up that last climb.  Our rubber band stretched but never broke proving to ourselves we were all strong men that day.  We passed by an old stagecoach road built in the 19th century and little waterfalls trickling down the rock face but were all too weary to appreciate it.