* * Mulling over pain

I awoke yesterday morning at 5:00 a.m. with one of the worst cases of gastrointestinal misery I’ve endured in many a year.  I’ll spare you the gory details and leave it to say that for awhile, seriously nasty things were coming out of both my intake and exhaust ends. Even to this moment, my gut is tight and uncomfortable.

Some years ago, a tenant in our building whose wife had died after a short illness. When I had the chance to speak with him about it months later, he said, “She was complaining of a pain in her gut on a Friday evening. She took some antacids on Saturday but when she wasn’t better by Monday morning, we took her to a doctor. By Tuesday afternoon, she’d been given a death sentence: pancreatic cancer. Within six weeks, she was dead.”

My first book, The Spine of the Virginias, was dedicated to Stuart McGehee, a history professor from Bluefield, West Virginia. Stuart’s input was absolutely critical to my understanding of the formation of West Virginia from Virginia during the Civil War. Stuart is dead now, the victim of suicide which he apparently decided to inflict upon himself when he learned he had pancreatic cancer.

It has been a busy last few weeks in the obituary pages. A friend from college lost his mother. A friend from Seattle lost her dad. A former insurance agent died. I spoke with my mom and she said she lost four friends within a month. She said the death of friends is an occupational hazard of growing old.

Meanwhile, I’m reading a book called The Road (which was also made into a movie) about a man and his son in an apocalyptic time, journeying to an unnamed destination southward. The book gives no reasons why society has disintegrated and I suspect there will be no real resolution. I’m reading it for two reasons: to try to learn some techniques from an established fiction writer and to understand this novelist’s perspective on what a societal collapse might look like. I have a new novel starting to form in my head and it will have elements of a societal collapse.

Since yesterday morning, I’ve been spending lots of time lying on my back. Sleeping has been a hit-or-miss proposition. I sleep when I’d like to be awake and I’m awake when I’d like to be sleeping. The dreams are vivid and mostly painful, due to the tightening of my gut. Physical pain seems to spawn subconscious turmoil. There are many dreams about illness and death. All of us will die someday but we all hope the pain associated with it will be minimal.

I think to myself that if the pain doesn’t subside within another day or two, I’ll go see my doctor. If I have a stomach virus, I’ll be better soon. But then again, if I have cancer, no cure will be available. Join me next week…



* * Hiking through the times of my life

The air is crisp and the sky clear as I get out of my car on State Route 621 at the trailhead of the Appalachian Trail in nearby Craig County.  Sounds of gunshots from distant hunters’ rifles echo through the hills.  I lace my hiking boots, throw my pack on my shoulders and begin my uphill trek.

For as long as I can remember, even since my childhood days, I have loved to hike in the mountains.  I have been blessed in life with good health and have been fortunate enough to hike in most of the major mountain ranges of America and in several more in Europe including the magnificent French and Swiss Alps.

I hike southbound on the Appalachian Trail, yet my direction is generally westward on the ascent of Gap Mountain.  At this time of year, most of the leaves had already fallen from the trees, which in this forest were generally a foot in diameter or smaller.  This was a typical Appalachian forest with predominantly hardwood trees but a smattering of pines.  Trail planners had done a good job of moderating the grade so as to not be overly steep at any particular point.

On one of our trips to the Alps, our daughter Whitney, who was probably seven or eight years old at the time, made an interesting observation that has since stuck with me.  She said, “When I am hiking, I spend a lot of time in my own head.”  My guess is that at the time she said it, she felt it to be a negative rather than positive aspect of the endeavor.  However, I have come to realize that she was astute beyond her modest years because I too spend a considerable amount of time in my own head when walking a mountain trail.

When hiking, a person's brain does interesting things. The eyes process stimuli but the brain unconsciously tells the body how to walk. With one's physical body being actively exercised, one's lungs are taking in large quantities of fresh mountain air.  The heart pumps blood quickly throughout the circulatory system, delivering nutrition and endorphins to the cells.  When I stop to take a break on this quiet day, I literally hear the sound of my own heartbeat.

I pass the Niday shelter, one of the many three-sided wooden structures along the Trail where hikers can spend the night away from the elements.  I take a quick break and gobble a snack before continuing my uphill journey.

I have hiked this particular section of Trail before.  It is always nice to hike a trail for the first time but hiking a familiar trail is not a problem for me.  Each of nature's seasons springs a new experience.  And in each of my own life seasons, I interact with nature and the trail in a new way.  Each hike is a new barometer for my own fitness and age condition.

From 1981 until 1991, I lived on the West Coast, in Seattle.  A friend of mine from college at Virginia Tech lives on the other side of the Olympic Peninsula from Seattle, in the rain forest, in a community called Quinault.  In the year I moved to Seattle, we climbed Colonel Bob Mountain, near his house.  Reaching the summit requires some 4500 feet of climbing.  The distance is over 7 miles each way.  So this is a very strenuous, all-day hike. There is a spectacular view from the top looking westward towards the Olympic rain forests and ultimately the Pacific Ocean, and eastward to the grand summit of Mount Olympus.

Ten years later, just before moving back to Virginia from Seattle, I did the same hike once again.  And then, in 2002, I did it for a third time.  This hike has become a symbolic bookmark for my life.  According to the schedule I have set for myself, I should probably hike it once again in the next year or two.  At some point, age will catch up and I will no longer be able to do this hike.  Father Time marches on.

As my body propels me steadily upward, my mind contemplates my books. I visualize my third book, Harmonic Highways, Motorcycling the Crooked Road, nearing completion and I begin to think about my fourth book.  My plan is to write another novel.  The time I spend in my own head helps my brain sort through a series of possible story scenarios.  Spending time in my own head is a pleasurable thing for me.

Eventually, I reach the ridge line of Gap Mountain.  The trail undulates with small rises and falls, but is generally level.  On this section of the mountain, there are several rock outcroppings, like molars protruding through a gum.  Unhappily, there are many shrubs with prickly barbs which tear at my shirt.  I find a nice rock outcropping with a commanding view to the south and I sit in the warming November sun in nothing more than a T-shirt and a pair of light shorts.  The sun beats down on my thighs and warms them.  There is not a breath of wind and there is no one around.  No animals move through the forests nor do any birds fly through the air.  The world is completely motionless.

I eat my lunch and make my retreat, my head now filled with new ideas and new possibilities to explore.



* * Getting pulled over

Travel of any kind brings joys and pitfalls, inherent in what makes an adventure an adventure.  Yesterday, a short trip by motorcycle brought an ample slice.

I was on my way to Troutville, on northeast end of Roanoke, to join my mates in Twin Valley Riders for one of the many breakfast gatherings.  It seemed cool when I left the house, but the dashboard thermometer on the 1998 Honda VFR dropped from 35% to 28F as I descended into the Roanoke River Valley at Ellett. I turned on North Fork Road, hoping the electric vest I’d worn would keep me warm enough.  Near Mason Cove, the first bit of excitement occurred, when a large deer ran briskly across the road in front of me, left to right.  She was a large doe and she dashed across before my brain had the chance to let her appearance register.  I never had time to touch the brake.

By the time I arrived at the Greenwood Restaurant, I was plenty cold and eager to get inside.

On the way home, the temperature had risen. It was still cold, but not as uncomfortable.  I drove Interstate 81 to the Ironto exit from where I got on North Fork Road again.  A slow-moving car was in front of me.  I hoped he’d turn off at Bradshaw Road so I made no attempt to pass. Instead, a second car turned in front of the first and it was going even slower. 

Often, when a vehicle is moving slower on a country road and there are no places to pass, I’ll simply pull over and wait, giving them some distance.  Then I’ll resume at my own pace.

At the place where I decided to pull over, a Montgomery County Deputy was pulling out.  I stopped for a moment, adjusted my sleeve that was letting in cold air, and then decided to follow, thinking if there was a cop in front of me, I’d like to keep track of him.  A mile or two later, he did a leap-frog, pulling over to allow me past.

Now mind you, I hadn’t done anything wrong. My driver’s license is up to date, my motorcycle’s tag is current, and I had broken no laws.  The slower driver was still in front, then me, then the cop.

After five miles or so of dawdling along, the cop squeaked his siren and flashed his blue lights.  I found a place where I could just edge off the pavement and stopped.  He walked towards me and I asked, “Am I legal?”

“When I called in your tag number, I couldn’t see it clearly and it looked like the ‘O’ was a ‘U’. The ‘year’ sticker is partially covering it.”

“The stickers are bigger than will fit on a motorcycle license.  I placed it where I could.”

“So why did you turn off and then back on so quickly a few miles back,” he asked.

“I was getting cold air under my sleeve and I stopped to adjust it.”

He got a big smile and apologized, “Sorry to have bothered you.”  He patted me on the shoulder and sent me on my way.

No harm done, of course.  But in hindsight, I got a pit peeved that I was stopped for such a weak reason. I’ve done my share of misbehavior in the past, but it seemed strange to have been stopped when I wasn’t misbehaving.  Maybe there’s a quota thing going on.



* * Learning Spanish: It's no laughing matter!

"Soy."  Nothing to it.  It is a salty brown liquid condiment made from soybeans.  Everybody knows that.  But I am studying Spanish in anticipation of my upcoming Rotary International sponsored visit to Bolivia where I am the leader of a team with 4 members.  In Spanish, “soy” means “I am.” 

This seems like such a simple thing to remember.  But at my current age, memorization does not come easily.

I recently met my daughter’s boyfriend's parents.  They are Dave and Diane.  This is easy for me because I know another couple named Dave and Diane, and I simply made that association.  I am a nuts and bolts thinker.  When I can piece together an association, I typically can remember things.  I have heard the Spanish term Cinco de Mayo.  When I finally got it through my thick skull that Cinco was the Spanish word for the number five, and that Mayo was the Spanish word for the month of May, I became able to remember both the number and the month.  Without these little clues, things are pretty hopeless.

The Rotary club has provided some money to pay for educational stipends for me and my team.  So I have hired a tutor.  My wife Jane has come along to these classes, ostensibly so that later on, she and I can converse in Spanish, building mutual skills.  She is infinitely more capable than I am with a background in languages including English, Latin, Russian, French, and Spanish.  All the years that she was learning this stuff, I was wasting my time learning things like the thermodynamics of industrial power plants.  (Note to my professors, I am just kidding about the wasting of time.  The thermodynamics of industrial power plants is phenomenally good knowledge to have.  I think.  And anyway, I’ve forgotten that, too.)  And let's be honest here: Jane is much smarter in the first place.

Our teacher is an adorable young woman who teaches Spanish for a living and lived in Spain for a few years.  She says complimentary things – “Muy buen!” – and giggles at my obvious struggles and bumbling inability to remember words for more than just a few seconds.  For example, three days ago I knew that the word “ensenar” means in Spanish to teach.  I knew this for about five minutes.  Yesterday, I also knew that the word “ensenar” means in Spanish to teach.  And I knew it for another five minutes.  At this very moment, I know that the word ensenar in Spanish means to teach.  In about fifteen minutes, if you ask me what the word ensenar in Spanish means, I won't have the foggiest idea.  Why?  Because it has no association in my simpleton's mind to teaching.

During class, Jane often looks at me with an outraged and unsympathetic expression of mixed astonishment and impatience as I fumble around trying to make sense of what seems so obvious to her.  “Me gusta cantar y bailar!” I exclaim proudly.  Then I forget what it means.  When I see sentences like, “Sally salta a la piscina con su perro,” and I don’t know a word or two, I’ll make up stuff.  “Sally likes salt when she eats her dog with her pincushion.”  More laughter.

It could be worse.  Some Rotary groups go to Japan or Israel and have to learn Japanese or Hebrew.  At least Spanish has the good manners of using the same alphabet as English.

On Tuesday, March 29, 2011, I will board an airplane at a nearby airport and many tired hours later will arrive in La Paz, Bolivia.  When I do, my team and I will be greeted by many smiling strangers who will be our hosts.  Likely, several of them will know some English but for the most part, they will better know Spanish.  By that time, I will probably have a rudimentary and somewhat comical grasp of this new language.  I will stumble along, say embarrassing things, and laugh and smile a lot.  Five weeks later, I will board another airplane in La Paz, Bolivia to return home.  By that time, I am certain I will have a much better grasp of Spanish.  Our Bolivian hosts will hopefully think our team is a wonderful group of attractive young people with exceptional talents and ambassadorial skills with a leader who is friendly if a bit slow on the uptake.

In the meantime, I will simply do the best I can, laugh and smile a lot, and hope not to embarrass myself, my team, or my country.  Strangely, I am looking forward to it with tremendous anticipation.

By the way, If you have a curious mind, "soy sauce" in Spanish is "salsa de soya."  Makes sense.  Tomorrow, ask me if I still remember it.

* * Hiking 3 days on the Appalachian Trail

I returned last evening from 3 days on the Appalachian Trail with my friend Jim Kline in the area around Mount Rogers, Virginia's highest peak.

Me (left) and Jim.

We began our journey at Elk Garden between Virginia's two highest peaks, Mount Rogers and Whitetop Mountain courtesy of a shuttle provided by a man from Marion.  We were hiking the Appalachian Trail northbound, immediately beginning the ascent of Mount Rogers.  The first 4 miles are a steady but gentle uphill grade.  A spur trail leads to the summit.  I had walked to the summit with my wife only a few weeks earlier, so this time Jim and I bypassed it and continued on across the great expanse of open terrain on the massif.  (A massif is a group of connected mountains that form a mountain range.)

This is a guess, but perhaps 95% of the Appalachian Trail in Virginia is through Appalachian hardwood forests.  Another 4% is through farmland and open pasture.  The last 1% is at the top of bald knobs.  Technically, no mountain in Virginia is above the tree-line, the upland elevation that ceases to provide enough of a growing season for any trees.  In fact, the summit of Mount Rogers is surrounded by a Northern spruce and hemlock forest.  However, the shoulders of Mount Rogers are open fields of grasses, heather, and shrubs.  A flock of wild ponies grazes this area and keeps the vegetation in check.

The Appalachian Trail through Virginia has many established shelters which are typically three sided buildings.  The highest elevation shelter in the state is Thomas Knob, situated in a copse of trees near the junction to the summit trail.  We stopped in the bright sunshine to chat with a group of 6 or 7 volunteer trail workers who were doing maintenance on the shelter.  Everyone commented on what a gorgeous day it was and how being on Virginia's highest peak was a great way to spend the day, regardless of whether one was hiking or working.

Jim still carries an old metal-frame pack

I had packed enough food for the three days we were to be out.  I had a new lightweight stove.  And I was sharing a tent with Jim.  So in contrast to the longer hikes of 7 to 9 days that I have done in recent years, my pack felt surprisingly light and manageable.  My trekking poles really helped with my balance, particularly on the rocky and rugged trail over the various false summits of Wilburn Ridge.

We passed the area where the trail intersects with a spur leading to Massey Gap at the Grayson Highlands State Park and shortly thereafter reentered a more typical Appalachian hardwood forest descending to our overnight stay at the Wise Shelter.  We had hiked about 9-1/2 miles for the day.

There were two other backpackers there when we arrived, a young couple from North Carolina and Tennessee who were hiking the entirety of the Appalachian Trail.  They were doing what they called a flip-flop, meaning they started their hike in Pearisburg, Virginia, and walked northward to the terminus at Mount Katahdin in Maine, then caught a shuttle back to Pearisburg and began hiking the southern section southbound.  They had already been on the trail for several months and had at least one more month before they would finish their journey.  They seemed to be in their early 20s and said they had just finished college and were doing the trail before their search for permanent work.  They were really an adorable couple.  After fixing themselves dinner, they set up their tent literally inside the shelter and they lay together for an hour or so reading aloud to one another from a book they were carrying.

It rained lightly most of the night.  I was glad we were in the shelter, warm and dry.

The next day, I packed and was on the trail before Jim. 

The trail descended a bit further and then began ascending again to a second area of open expanse.  The air was thick with fog and mist and reminded me of the moors of Scotland.  For the longest time, I hiked alone through the fields at the top of Virginia, with spitting rain dancing against my hat and only wild horses to accompany me.

When the drizzle stopped, I took an extended break in the woods. 

Jim still didn't arrive and so I continued on alone.  Finally, reaching my last high bald, I stopped for another break where he caught up with me.  By this time, the sky was clearing and extensive views began to open to the west towards ridge after ridge of golden-leaved forests.

We began the descent of the massif and crossed SR-603 and began climbing Hurricane Mountain.  Although it was getting late in the day, Jim and I reached a good pace and climbed the mountain briskly and without any difficulty.  Only a short way down the other side, we pitched our tent near a tiny rivulet of a stream.  We had walked about 11 miles.

Clumps of fungus on a tree

Yesterday's walk was entirely within hardwood forests.  The sun was bright, shining through the canopy above.  Leaves, mostly yellow, fell steadily from the trees almost like snow.  Jim and I abound along the trail happily, not really wanting it to end.  We reached the car after having walked about 6 miles, mostly either downhill or level.  This was a thoroughly pleasant and delightful trip that had us talking about how we might duplicate it again sometime soon.

Me, nearing the end

As I write this account, my calves are as tight as guitar strings, but I’m happy to have experienced this gorgeous walk in the Virginia Mountains.