We tried to outrun a storm to Nantahala and lost.  But we dodged a cold night that lurked behind it…tucked in warm and comfy at our friends’ house in Bryson City.

The low point for me occurred on the endless approach to Wayah Bald.  It was the end of an 18 mile day.  Pouring rain. Wind.  We just wanted to top the bald and find a camp site,  but the trail had other ideas.  We hit a slick stretch, an evil product of a recent fire, and Sarah fell.  My mind went into a tailspin: how much more of the trail would be like this? Would Sarah keep falling until she hurt herself?  How could I keep her warm during the hours it would take for search and rescue to reach us?  It was way too steep and rocky to pitch our tent.

We continued, trying to keep our feet under us, concentrating on the feel of the uneven, slippery muck. Finally, across the burn and climbing once again on leafy tread, a movement ahead startled me.  A black shape, size of a big dog but way too stocky.  Peering through the rain and mist, I saw a wild boar with two young.  They were busily rooting for acorns, snuffling snouts plowing the leaf litter.  Their nonchalance in the storm bolstered me.  Sarah hadn’t fallen again.  We would make it…eventually.  And we had been blessed.

The day had arrived. Jay and Sarah were ready to embark on their AT journey. We stopped at the Amicalola State Park Visitor Center, and they signed in as numbers 107 and 108.

The drive from Tennessee had been solid rain, but as we walked out to the arch for pictures, a quiet mist descended. Our climb began.

At the stairs, I noticed the braille-like texture on the edge of each metal grid step. As steps and breathing found their rhythm, I looked upward at the mist-shrouded falls. We continued climbing and saw that the wet stairs had bits of shining water dripping through the grids as if they were hung with wavering lights.

Mist, lights, rhythm and the roar of the waterfall gave a dramatic beginning for this new adventure!

February 12, 2017

Damp dead leaves cushioned my footsteps on the approach trail to Springer Mtn.  We had been planning this for so long, and now I was actually here!  But even as I inhaled soft forest air, the moment of departure had not yet come.  For I was hiking without my pack, accompanied by my sister, Helen, and her husband, Mark, and Jay was languishing in the Lodge at Amicalola with a pounding headache, sore throat, and sinus misery.   The germs had abruptly materialized as we drove from Tennessee to Georgia.  A week of recuperation loomed, for which my sister had kindly offered a refuge at her home.

Suddenly, over the hill, through the conversation of my companions, I heard a faint, garbled trumpeting, undulating through the air.  “Listen!” I exclaimed.  “Can you hear it?”

Helen, Mark, and I stopped, ears straining.  A mixture of rattles, honks, squeaks – it almost sounded like a group of school children having a high old time with a basket of rhythm instruments!  The cacaphony crescendoed, and suddenly, a flock of sandhill cranes crested the hill!  The swoosh of huge wings beat the air.   I wanted to lift my arms and join them, leap into the blue sky.

Yes!  Head north!  Take me with you!

As the last straggler of the migrating flock passed overhead to wing beyond the horizon, I was filled with a clarifying joy.  Earlier this morning my parents had given Jay and me a parting blessing, the last verse from the 1715 hymn, “I Sing the Mighty Power of God” by Isaac Watts.  The words resounded through my being:

 There’s not a plant or flower below, but makes thy glories known.

And clouds arise, and tempests blow, by order from thy throne.

While all that borrows life from thee is ever in thy care,

And everywhere that we can be, thou, God, art present there.