Yesterday, I served as a pallbearer for my wife’s grandmother’s
funeral. Eldora was born in Little Wolf, Wisconsin in 1918 and was
buried in Little Wolf, Wisconsin. She was 99 years old and lived in her
own house until she was 90. She polka danced until she was 97. And
she loved to drink a half-glass of my home-brewed beer at special family
gatherings. As a recent commenter pointed out, none of us knows what
the future holds, but Eldora was a standard setter for living life
fully.
Art on the Trail
This is an event in Lodi,
Wisconsin during May, celebrating art, poetry, music, and musings. The
opening was held last night at D Squared Studios
and Spring Creek Art Works. After our long drive yesterday to the
funeral and back home, we stretched our legs on the Gibraltar Rock
segment.
This
morning, we woke up at sunrise and hiked the Slack’s Hill segment from
the Merrimac Ferry. All along the trail, artists have strategically
placed works of art, reminding us of the connection between nature and
art. Some of the art requires sharp eyes, as it is designed to blend
into the surroundings or disappear over time.
Decorated wood rounds are dispersed along the trail with famous quotes and not-so-famous quotes.
This one was my favorite by a guy I want to learn more about:
Finally,
I leave you with a piece of art that my wife Julia has been working
on. She has learned to weave over the last few years. We still have to
find a place on the trail for it.
Winter has finally passed. The last vestiges of snow have melted
from our north-facing hillside. This morning I rose early, made
sourdough pancakes and coffee, and took service dog Elvis for a long
walk into town.
I walked past the church that I once attended and served as deacon
and into an older neighborhood with beautifully restored Victorian
homes. Today is garage sale weekend, so the yards and streets were
busy. The birds were singing. I could hear children playing. One
house was silent. The paint on the house was starting to peel. My
friend Jon was found dead in that house yesterday.
Jon grew up in that town. He was a high school football star,
graduated from college, earned a commission as a captain in the Army
Rangers, and served in combat in Grenada and Panama, making dozens of
jumps during his military stint at high altitude and low altitude. Jon
married a local girl, had two great sons, and worked as a
stockbroker/financial adviser for many years.
I met Jon at my coffee shop and roastery. He was widely traveled and
loved coffee. Jon was a frequent participant at the “smart table” that
met every morning to discuss the world and local problems of the day.
He was interested in the roasting process and would join me in the
roasting room early in the morning before opening to talk and joke while
I roasted. He scared the crap out of me early one morning by putting a
laser sight on my chest while he hid out in the back parking lot. Jon
did have a weird sense of humor.
I knew him as a friend in the shop and outside the shop. One time,
while I was working on a slow afternoon, he brought me a plate of
freshly prepared wild game and wild rice, explaining how he harvested
and prepared each of the samples on the plate. He was a great cook, and
it was delicious. Jon also invited me to bring my kids to his home for
a family fish fry–bluegill that he and his boys had caught. It was an
occasion that I’ll always remember. From the outside, everything looked
completely happy and normal.
Around that time, Jon told me he would do anything for me. I kind of
laughed it off, but I think he was serious. All i needed to do was
ask. Jon was that kind of person.
I knew that Jon had back problems–partly due to parachute jumps when
he was in the military. He’d had one surgery to fuse vertebra. Then,
after saving a large, sinking man in a lake during a triathlon, Jon blew
out his back again. He needed another surgery, and Jon was never the
same after that second surgery.
I went hiking with him once, taking Jon to the secret waterfall near
Leland, Wisconsin. He told me that he later took his family on that
hike to show them the waterfall. On the drive, I introduced him to the
folk singer Tom Russell. Jon seemed to really enjoy the music,
especially the sad song, “”California Snow.”
Alcohol had always been part of Jon’s life, although he never let me
see him intoxicated. He introduced me to Eagle Rare bourbon by giving
me a bottle although he refused to drink it with me. I’m not sure I
ever shared a drink with him. Jon invited me to meet his parents, and
his dad poured me a small glass of rye, but I don’t remember Jon having
any.
As Jon’s back problems grew worse, doctors couldn’t find a way to fix
him. The two surgeries had left Jon in frequent pain, but there wasn’t
a viable treatment at that point. There was an experimental surgery,
but Jon didn’t trust it. So the doctors offered pain medication, which
Jon hated. Instead, he self-medicated with alcohol. That was the drug
he knew and trusted, but it took its toll. Jon’s wife divorced him. Jon
eventually became unable to work and found himself in a fight with the
private disability insurer to whom he had paid premiums for decades.
During the last couple of years, there was a gap between what Jon
told me and what I believed to be true. He was keeping up a front about
what was happening in the divorce case and the disability insurance
case and about how he was dealing with the pain. Jon stopped inviting
me into his house or even answering the door. He didn’t have voice mail
set up and refused to text. He would sometimes call me up on the phone
when it was clear that he was intoxicated. More often, he would show
up at my house completely sober and in obvious pain. Jon would mention
that alcohol had been a problem but one that he had overcome.
Last Thanksgiving, another friend called to tell me that Jon was in
the hospital and might not make it. The doctors were giving him a 4%
chance of survival and admitted him for hospice care. His skin was a
deep yellow. Both his liver and kidneys were failing. Jon was a
fighter and beat the odds. He eventually transferred to a local nursing
home and then miraculously back home to live independently. Jon knew
that drinking again would kill him. We talked about it–at least three
times in the last couple of months. He told me that he had found
spirituality and was committed to spending his remaining days wisely.
About a month ago, Jon came by my house to visit while another mutual
friend was here. We shot the crap about old times. His color was much
better–nearly normal. We drank coffee and told Jon how glad we were that
he had made it back. Jon was going to get a puppy. Things were
looking up. A few days later, I stopped by at Jon’s house, and he
wouldn’t answer the locked door. I drove back home, and the telephone
rang. It was Jon, and he was off. I didn’t know if it was pain
medication or alcohol, but my heart sank. I couldn’t be totally
positive what was going on, so I didn’t say anything directly to him
during the phone call. Maybe I should have.
Two weeks ago, Jon called and said he was feeling down. I invited
him to come over while I moved firewood into the pole shed. Jon asked
if he could bring soup from the Chinese restaurant in town. Jon also
brought his new puppy, and we sat on the hill in the sunshine, eating
our soup and watching the puppy play in the grass. I never did get a
good photo of it; the puppy was in constant motion.
We
talked about better days: the hike to the hidden waterfall, dogs,
coffee. He was sober, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling great. Jon
didn’t eat much of his soup.
A few days later, Jon called to talk, and I invited him to come over
for coffee. It was a miserable cool and wet day. He complained about
feeling cold and wondered if I would build a fire. I threw on some
fresh wood into the wood stove, and he sat by the fire in the rocking
chair, warming his bones and drinking the coffee. Jon said it was the
best coffee that he’d ever had. He usually said that to me.
Jon called
me up on the next day to say how much he enjoyed the coffee and the
fire. That would be the last time I talked to Jon.
As I suspected, Jon went back to drinking to ease the pain. When
I heard the news of his death yesterday, I was angry and sad–mostly
angry. Today, I have the same emotions, but I am mostly sad. The family decided not to have a funeral. The world has lost a good guy.
I will be sticking around south-central Wisconsin for the next six
weeks. There is much to do with the process to get my son ready for
independent living and college, along with a high school graduation
party to plan. In the meantime, I also have some planning, preparation
and modifications on my Scamp trailer–the Brew Hut. I won’t have time
for much Scamping this summer, due to other travel plans, but I do have
plans for an extended fall trip.
Modifications under consideration are upgrading the battery,
replacing the carpet with vinyl plank flooring, upgrading the mattress,
changing out the dinette table, deciding whether or not to get a
generator and/or an inverter, and a few other things.
We had another six inches plus of snow today. Last year, we had a
few days in the 70’s by this time of year. What started out as a fairly
mild winter has seemed to go on forever. The wood stove is warming my
old bones tonight, but I’m ready for a little “screened porch time”
and warmer weather. The weatherman promises changes soon for the better.
Tonight,
I made Moroccan slow cooker chicken for the family. Julia celebrated
the continuation of winter with a glass of Castle Rock Pinot Noir, while
I sipped on a Deschutes Black Butte Porter.
Justin is pretending not to mind all of the vegetables on his plate.
(This is the final installment of my recent trip to the Roan Highlands–one of the highest points on the Appalachian Trail).
I don’t always get a good night’s sleep in my tent, but I slept hard
on my last night’s stay at Roan Mountain State Park, waking at dawn.
After a quick breakfast of hot oatmeal and cocoa, I was driving back to
Carver’s Gap for what I expected to be my most challenging hike to the
top of the Roan Highlands: Roan High Knob. The
parking lot was empty again, except for a lone vehicle with windows
coated by condensation (evidence that someone was sleeping inside).
My first problem was to find where the trail went off to the south. I
was wandering around by the outhouse and public informational signs,
but the trail southbound was actually a few dozen yards back towards the
way I had come from the state park. Temps were slightly above
freezing. The trail started off with a few scattered icy spots, but
quickly became more difficult with long stretches of ice made more
slippery by melt. I passed thee thru-hkers going up, a solo woman who
had just made it through the ice and a couple of guys in the middle of
the worst part. It was manageable and clearly more difficult going down
fast than going up slow.
There
was an overnight shelter towards the top of the ascent, but it was off
the main trail, so I didn’t stop to visit. Instead, I continued hiking
to the top until I found a side trail taking me to the former site of
the Cloudland Hotel.
Cloudland
was a luxury hotel built in the 1880’s above 6000 feet. There is still
a road that reaches Roan High Knob, although it is seasonal and was
still closed in late March. I’ve hiked hard trails to the top of
mountains that people could access by car or rail, such as Mount
Washington in New Hampshire, and it’s never quite the same experience.
As the father to a son in a power wheelchair, I understand more than
most that access to nature is difficult for some people. It’s so
important for more people to get out in nature, including mountaintop
views. However, I can’t say that I am sad that a luxury hotel doesn’t
sit on top of Roan High Knob anymore.
After a tough climb, I wasn’t in a
mood to share my view with people who drove to the top or who had slept
on comfortable beds. The Cloudland Hotel lasted only 20 years before
being dismantled in 1914.
High Knob was windy, cold, and beautiful. Even though it was Friday,
which tends to see more people on popular trails than mid-week, no one
else was around. I sat behind some rocks and lingered, reflecting on
the natural beauty and my hiking trip in general. We tend to get
comfortable in our mostly sedentary lives. This had been the perfect
trip to shake me out of my doldrums.
I continued hiking southbound off the Knob for awhile before
realizing that the next major peak was going to be quite a distance down
and then back up again. I decided to end my time on the Appalachian
Trail and head back to the Knob and to Carver’s Gap. I picked my way
slowly down the icy trail and was back to my truck before noon. I had
reached all of my goals, so I went back to Dairyland in the town of Roan
Mountain and had a celebratory bbq pork sandwich.
I hiked a few short
trails in Roan Mountain State Park, checked out some exhibits at the
Visitor’s Center, and settled back in for my last night at the
campsite. On the next morning, the road back to Wisconsin would be
waiting.
When I finished my hike back into Carvers’ Gap on the 27th, I talked
to two older thru-hikers who described the opposite side of the gap as
“horrible” due to icy conditions. The weather forecast was for warmer
conditions for the rest of the week, so I decided to put off my climb up
to Roan High Knob.
I left my car at the Station
parking lot at about 8:30 a.m. They charge $10 for overnight or day
parking/security, which rattled my frugal nature, but small businesses
on the trail needs to make money in order to survive. Unlike a Carver’s
Gap, there is no large parking lot here at the trail crossing. Running a
craft beer taproom/hiker hostel/shuttle service is no picnic, so I
didn’t let the fee linger in my thoughts too long.
It was about a half mile road walk downhill on Hwy 19E to the trail
crossing. The elevation here is much lower than Carver’s Gap, which
meant I would be climbing all day to my destination at the top of
Houston Ridge. As I hiked, I quickly realized that I was overdressed for
the lower elevation and warmer day. I went from full gear to a t shirt
and long pants in about an hour. I was running into thru-hikers who
were down to shorts.
After a couple of miles, I left the woods and entered a clearing
called “Doll Flats.” It basically looks like a relatively flat farm
field on top of the mountain, overlooking a steep drop off to small
farms far below. The faint call of a rooster let me know that I had not
left civilization–yet.
I continued my ascent through the woods on the other side of Doll Flats, crossing from Tennessee into North Carolina.
This
above sign is a fairly typical “highway sign” on the Appalachian
Trail. The translation is that, yes, you are on the A.T in North
Carolina, and a water source is off to the right. There is also an
implication that this would be a good time to “water up” because there
might not be additional water for awhile (up on the ridge). I was still
carrying 1.5 liters of water, so I kept going.
Soon, I was hiking above the trees on the long ascent up Houston Ridge.
Even
though the temperatures were much warmer than the day before, the high
winds caused me to put on another layer of clothes and my hat. This
particular stretch of trail was the primary reason that I traveled to
the Roan Highlands. The wind, the views, the solitude all combined to
make me feel more alive than I had in sometime.
About
halfway up the ridge, I saw a little dot on top of the mountain that I
thought was a hiker coming towards me, but the dot stopped moving. Then
I saw it was an animal moving slowly back and forth (maybe a dog?)
Finally, I climbed high enough to see that it was a deer, standing like a
king overlooking his domain. I never did get close enough to
photograph him. I was worried he was going to run off while I retrieved
my camera, so I just kept going, hoping that he would still be there
when I got to the top. The final ascent blocked my view of him, and
then I joined him at the top. He was motionless for an instant, making
eye contact with me. And then he trotted nonchalantly off into the woods
on the right, leaving the summit for me. I have to admit that shivers
went down my spine. For a moment, I imagined being that deer, living
on top of the world in that desolate, windy place. Free.
Then the moment was gone. I sat down behind a rock outcropping for
some wind protection and ate my lunch (trail mix and water) I lingered
up there for about an hour, not another human in sight the entire time.
The
trip down was much faster than the ascent. I was back at the Station
for a beer by 2 pm, ate a bbq sandwich in Roan Mountain at Dairyland
(really good at $4.99, including cole slaw), bought groceries and
firewood, and was back at the campground while the afternoon was still
warm. I cooked up the fixings for beef burritos and then sat by the
fire with a water bottle of Ginger Ale and a splash of bourbon. I would
be ready for the other side of Carver’s Gap on my final day. Life was
good.
March 27th:
I woke to a light drizzle and made a quick breakfast of fruit, hot
oatmeal, and cocoa. No one was up and moving at the campground;
everyone was tucked into their heated RV’s. But I was on the road by 8
a.m. The drive to Carver’s Gap was only about 15 minutes from the
campground.
As
you can see from the photo above, there were plenty of parking spots
available. In fact, I didn’t see anyone actually hiking for about the
first three hours. Hiking conditions were not ideal. The climb out of
the gap was about 700 vertical feet of icy switchbacks. The reward was a
view of the cloud that covered the top of the mountain.
The Roan Highlands are known for grassy mountain tops (balds) and
grassy ridges. In most of the southern Appalachians, mountain tops tend
to be heavily wooded and without views. In the northern Appalachians,
tree line can be as low as 4000 feet with views for forever from rocky,
bare mountaintops. Although it appears from my photos that there is
just a heavy stationary cloud, the winds were actually blowing about 40
mph, so the clouds were in rapid motion. Down at Carver’s Gap, the
thermometer indicated about 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Up on top, it felt
like the low 20’s with colder wind chill. I was dressed with long
underwear (top and bottom), two sets of socks, t-shirt, heavy fleece
sweater, rain jacket, and knit cap. There was a light drizzle at the
gap and a stinging sleet on top.
I passed Round Bald and Jane Bald before descending back into the
woods. I passed an abandoned Coleman tent that was apparently not quite
up to the conditions.
At just over 3 miles, I was excited to see my first trail shelter in
over 20 years. My excitement diminished when I got up close and saw
that someone had taken over the entire shelter by putting up their tent
in the shelter. I had planned to sign the trail register, but whoever
was in the shelter was still inside the tent with the trail register at
10 a.m. Some things don’t change. On my thru hike, I was always first
up in the shelter and on the trail. I was typically finished by 2 or 3
pm after a 15-20 mile day. Many of the twenty somethings hiked the
same distance but didn’t get started until late morning (or later) and
didn’t get to the shelter until after dark.
I
continued hiking on. The trail traveled back and forth from winter to
spring and back again, depending on where I was on the mountain. I also
passed a marker for Yellow Mountain Gap where a group of mountain men
traveled in 1780 to defeat the British soldiers during the Revolutionary
War. Finally, I reached my second shelter, Overland Shelter, and
signed the trail register: “Quid Pro Quo Returns” GA>ME ’96.
Translation: my thru-hiker nickname was Quid Pro Quo, and I hiked
northbound from Georgia to Maine in 1996.
The Overland Shelter is a converted barn and has sleeping quarters on
two floors. A lone section hiker in his 20’s was present when I
arrived. He told me that he had been section hiking the Appalachian
Trail for about eight years.
After eating my lunch of trail mix and water, I said goodbye and
started on the return trip to Carver’s Gap. The folks tenting in the
first shelter had woken up and were having breakfast (at noon). I waved
hello/goodbye and headed back up into the balds. The view had
improved.
As
I crossed the balds and down the mountain (southbound), I did run into
several thru-hikers who were northbound. I could tell they instantly
dismissed me as a day hiker who was not one of them. And they were
right. My time as a thru-hiker has passed. It still felt wonderful to
be “back on the trail.” My hike finished up at 13 miles for the day.
My feet were sore, and I was ready for a beer.
I drove to the Station,
which is a newish hiker taproom/hostel on Hwy 19e just east of Roan
Moiuntain, TN . The bartender, who was nicknamed “Crazy”, gave me a
couple of samples of Tennessee IPA’s. I selected the Scatterbrain IPA
by Bearded Iris Brewing of Nashville. “Crazy” called it one of the top
three IPA’s in the country. I agree that it was a great IPA and drank
two of them. We shared some hiking stories and I arranged to use their
parking services for the next day’s hike.
