Outcome Uncertain

 Knees sing a symphony of sunset pinks and electric blues. Too many miles over too many years. Too much weight born. Too much trauma stored.

There’s a head full of life experience. Memories of lost glory. Memories of a body that would answer the call of adventure without hesitation. Memories of maybe too many heavy packs pounding down on back and knees and ankles and heels. Memories of not feeling the weight or the miles so acutely.

I sit on my pack in the middle of the trail, dripping sweat, swatting weakly at the deerflies. The truth is, I want to turn around and give up. I hang my head and laugh to myself, almost trying to force a sob. I shake my head and grit my teeth. Sweat splats in the dry dirt between my feet. I glance up at what was supposed to be a water source. It’s as dry as a cotton mouth. There is—hopefully—a more reliable water source further down the trail, farther from the trailhead.

If I go back now I have time before dark to get to my waiting pile of rust, my tetanus wagon, the ol’ truck that barely wheezed to the top of Letcher Gap two and a half hours earlier.

I poke a finger in the gaping sidewall of my approach shoes. I had not intended to wear the worn out La Sportivas, but I was twenty minutes from home when I realized I had left proper footwear by my kitchen door. What a poor, dumb dingus I am!

Blown out shoes. Blown out old truck. Blown out body. Blown out mind. The shoes are a year old. The truck is twenty five. The rest is twice that. The trail is supposedly fit for “experienced adventurers.” I have gear older than many who would consider themselves worthy of that title.

It’s dangerously warm on Pine Mountain. There are many “experienced adventurers” who would question my judgement at setting out for an overnight backpacking trip in the middle of July in Kentucky along a high country ridge with sparse water. I’m not crazy. I know what I’m getting myself into. At least I remember the knowledge of what I’m getting myself into if not the immediate suffering of this endeavor to reclaim my mojo. 

I’ve been here before. Not here, but in similar places in similar conditions when I was stronger, with more stamina and less experience. How do you think I became a fifty year old guy who sets out solo in bear country to tackle a rugged jaunt into the unknown? I’ve done it all before. Just not lately. Just not at this weight, this age, and this mental state. 

At least there’s no young folk to see me sitting in the trail sweating out all of my energy and contemplating trip suicide. Young folk who would stride past with their heads held high and bodies held firm by youth and muscle tone I haven’t had in a mighty long time.

Near Letcher Gap heading east

Near High Rock

High Rock 2,939'

I’ve made a mistake photocopying the map and a small section is missing. If I hadn’t I would see another water source about a mile east. It’s not the promise of water that gets me up. It’s this thought…if you can’t do this hike, on this day, you are never going to be able to reach your more ambitious goals: the summit of the Grand Teton and thru-hiking the Sheltowee Trace. 

Up I go, creaking like the Tin Man, and I shoulder the damp pack and grind on down the trail. I’ll find water. I’ll find my terminus before sunset even though it’s not the trail shelter I set out to reach. In the end it will be a good night out alone on top of Pine Mountain with the sounds of folk down in the valley rising up like a warm summer wind to lull me. Sleep would be elusive in the humidity and the cloud of anxiety I brought with me that grew with each pile of scat I stepped around in the trail. No bears would trouble me on this trip except in my imagination.

In fact, almost all of my troubles were those I carried within the container of my skull. Those worries and perceived threats that dried like peppers in the sun still holding their potency even as the last bits of moisture was expelled from my lungs into the high country air.

Swindall Campsite

Sinking sun from Swindall overlook

I wasn’t as sore as I expected to be when I crawled into the tent. I wasn’t as sore as I expected when I crawled out of the tent a few hours later to catch the sunrise over the lowlands to the north. I wasn’t as sore as I expected after the ordeal was all over once the hiking was put to bed and I nursed the rust bucket two (nay three) hours home.

I think I found what I needed to find up there on Pine Mountain. I may not have as many years left ahead of me to adventure as I have squandered in my past trying to live up to society’s expectations, but I’m rebuilding the mental framework that collapsed under years of trauma and depression and physical decline. All is not lost.

There is a trail through the woods that beckons. There is a ridge lying there under the stars, overlooking the world that oppresses our minds. There are feet that can still carry me. There is a back that can still bear a pack. There are eyes still to see the wonders the world has to offer. There are hands to touch the earth, and lungs to take in great gulps of free air. And there is a heart, and soul, and mind that cares enough to keep on finding adventures on this side of the chasm I thought would swallow me up long ago.

Part of me still lives up on that ridge. The memory of that trip is still bright and crisp in my mind. I’ll visit that part of me I left behind often. I will haunt that memory so I can stop haunting darker places full of pain.

That is why.

Dome of the Nada

 I know, I never followed up on the Whereabouts Unknown saga.  You must be looking for some kind of closure.  I understand.  I will continue this tale when there are updates.  Life got hot, and I'm still nursing a chronic case of decrepitude.

In the interim I want to share some tales of exploration from my earlier years.  Particularly, I want to share snippets of adventures from what I call Star Gap Ridge.  It's the big ridge on the west side of Tunnel Ridge with an old road through an old campground and passes by several (formerly) scenic overlooks and lots of exposed rock.  It's always been one of my favorite areas in the Gorge. 

In the '90s, my cousin Dustin and I checked out any bare chunk of rock we could find.  And I have a pinnacle fetish.  We scouted out the Three Pinnacles and climbed First Pinnacle which I remember as being a fun adventure.

After visiting the pinnacles, we explored further out the ridge.  We called this one formation "Nada Dome" partly for its shape and partly in honor of the perpetual basketball game that seemed to be going on at the time down in the community of Nada at a ball goal that overhung the main road. Nada Dome was the next most attractive thing out there, so we scrambled down the exposed slab to the saddle between the main ridge and the rock and found a 4th class scramble up on the dome proper.  We dropped a top rope on a few lines and moved on.  I also did a top rope solo line out on the end of the ridge on the formation we always called Titanic Rock.

Fast forward maybe five years and I’m hiking out that ridge with my dog Roger.  Roger was a seventy-five-pound lab/Newfoundland mix, and he was a big baby.  Wouldn’t let me out of his sight.

Anyway, I decided I was going to scope out Nada Dome again and scooted down the exposed slab and kept telling him to stay.  I hopped off the slab onto the narrow part of the saddle and as I started walking toward the dome hear my big dumb dog scooting down the slab too.  And before I could stop him, he hopped down onto the saddle.

I hadn’t had a cell phone very long, but I had one and was shocked to discover I had service.  I called my then wife and told her the dog and I might be late getting home.

There was no way to get Roger back up the slab.  It was too sketchy, and he was too big.

I went Touching the Void mode and started looking for a way down off the formation.  The best spot I found was a steep gully down to a six-foot cliff at the bottom and onto the forest floor.

I put a short lead on Roger and held onto the end as I scrambled down.  The big oaf stayed close to the edge because he didn’t want me to get away, but when I got to the ground, I started reeling him in and he started backpedaling and fighting me, but I had the advantage of gravity and pulled him off on top of me and somehow caught his fluffy ass.  It’s no wonder I have back problems now.

I assumed we’d end up having to hike down to Nada Tunnel Road and then have to hike up the far side of the tunnel to get back on the ridge, but fortunately there’s a walk up not far from the base of Nada Dome so what might have ended up being an hours long detour ended up being maybe only an hour.

Maybe this place has bad juju for me.  Another time I was by myself hiking and at the top of the slab down to the saddle and the loop of my bootlace snagged on the opposite quick lace hook and I almost launched headfirst off the Nada Dome overlook.  I truly don’t know how I didn’t die that day.

I could also tell of the time I got rained on while hiking in the area and had to strip naked to dry out all my clothes after the sun came out and after a few minutes realized I could see the road below from where I lay in the sun.  Another time I hiked out to Titanic Rock and picked up a bad case of turkey mites.  

Anyway, maybe it's time to head back out there.