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.