This week I’m spreading out what I’m thankful for over four days. Today I’m devoting to family:
#8.I am blessed by the companionship, friendship and love of my wife: “A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.” (Proverbs 31:10-12)
#9.I am most grateful for the challenges and the blessings of being a father of four children. And my prayer is that they will know and love Jesus as the Father in heaven loves His own Son: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Jeremiah 6:16)
#10.I am blessed by a large extended family: “At that time Mary got ready and hurried to a town in the hill country of Judea where she entered Zechariah’s home and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit.” (Luke 1:39-41)
#5.I am grateful to God for hearing my cry for help when I was in great trouble: “. . . and call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you will honor me.” (Psalm 50:15)
#6.I am blessed by the gift of each day:
Lord, for tomorrow and its needs, I do not pray
Keep me, my God, from stain of sin just for today.
Let me both diligently work, and duly pray,
Let me be kind in word and deed, just for today.
Let me be slow to do my will, prompt to obey;
Help me to sacrifice myself just for today.
And if today my tide of life should ebb away,
Give me thy Sacraments divine, sweet Lord today.
So for tomorrow and its needs I do not pray,
But keep me, guide me, love me, Lord, just for today.
—“Just for Today,” Sister Mary Xavier (Sybil F. Partridge)
#7.I am thankful for Stanwich Church, its pastors and leaders: “And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.” (Matthew 16:18-19)
This week I’m devoting my blog to the many things I’m thankful for this season. To give them proper attention, I’m posting them in four parts:
#1.A General Thanksgiving: “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians: 5:16-18)
#2.I am thankful to God: “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits – who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” (Psalm 103:2-5)
#3.I am grateful for Jesus Christ: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.” (1 Corinthians 4:4-6)
#4.I am overwhelmingly thankful for the gift of the Holy Spirit: “Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.” (John 4:23-24)
I was traveling in my car back from western Virginia when around 5 pm news began filtering in over the radio of a shooting in Paris. The information was sketchy at first, but then, as new information streamed in, the extent of the horror became clearer.
When the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center, none of the reports assumed the worst. First reports suggested it was a small plane; then it became evident that to cause such damage it couldn’t have been a private aircraft. It had to be something much bigger. But no one knew for sure, until a second passenger jet smashed into the South Tower. Suddenly, everyone knew that something very new was happening.
In the aftermath of the events in Paris on Friday the thirteenth, the leaders in the West reverted to form. To quote Kevin Williamson in National Review:
“There was the usual sentimental outpouring on social media, the tricolors and the invocations of the Marquis de Lafayette and the Empire State Building lit in honorary blue, white, and red. Professor Ebony Elizabeth Thomas of the University of Pennsylvania chidingly reminded no one in particular to report anybody who was engaging in anti-Muslim rhetoric on Twitter. All of that is useless, of course, but one feels the need to do something.”
The lamentations and limp expressions of concern suggest that a sense of moral lassitude is enervating the leaders in Europe and America, as if these statesman cannot muster enough energy to even name the enemy. In 1941, Winston Churchill, one of the twentieth century’s greatest leaders, stated the principle underpinning his own actions in the face Hitler’s unstoppable armies when he spoke to the students at Harrow School:
“Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, – in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.”
It takes belief and historical and moral imagination to say, “never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense.”
In 1915, T.S. Eliot captured the turpitude of our Ruling Class and its contrasting indecision and inaction in the face of mortal danger:
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet…
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
—“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
The world as we have known it since the end of World War II has tilted off its axis. Moral clarity is gone and in its place desert weeds have grown. The French President declares the outrages of Friday night are an act of war; but what banner will he raise to mobilize his people to the very real dangers of our times? We shall see, but I will leave you with the words I read this morning written by Deana Chadwell on the American Thinker website:
“We can almost make a flow chart showing the paths through which the moral decline of America has traveled: from the church (ironic and horrifying as that might be) which early on began replacing morality and the love of God with social justice, to the schools where all societies, and all individual choices have been declared morally equivalent, to science which no longer used empiricism to learn about God and His creation, and instead used a warped version of the scientific method to erase Him, to the newsmen who learned in their schools to see journalism as a calling to change the world, not to merely record its events.”
The danger is real and growing. Will our leaders be able to act prudently but forcefully to save the world we grew up in or will they delay and dissemble as they wander about an empty room muttering, “Do I dare? Do I dare?”
It was the summer of 1992 and my three sons and I were attending a boys’ camp reunion at Camp Pemigewassett in New Hampshire. Outdoor activities filled each day. On the first day, we canoed down the Connecticut River north of Hanover. On the second full day, we had several options and I chose a hike up nearby Mt. Moosilauke. I had fond memories of family trips up Moosilauke as a child; my only worry was my youngest son Arthur being able to make it to the top and back. He had hiked before, but nothing as strenuous as this New Hampshire four-thousand footer. Its summit rose above the tree line into an exposed jumble of rock. Though he had a birthday coming up, Arthur was still just four years old. I could easily imagine hearing the plaintive cry that often came from the back seat of our car: “Dad, are we there yet?”
Moosilauke is the first high mountain on the Appalachian Trail north of Virginia. Hikers coming from the south look for it as a landmark as they push into the challenges of the White Mountains. The Gorge Brook Trail departs from the Ravine Lodge at the base of the mountain and is one of the easier ways to ascend, but it’s 7.4 miles round trip. For inexperienced hikers, that’s a full day venture.
As soon as we began, the two older boys, Alex and Peter, took off and quickly disappeared into the woods. We wouldn’t see them again for hours. That left me with Arthur and the fear that the inevitable cry, “Dad, carry me!” would soon pierce my ears. What would I do then?
But the cry never came. Instead, Arthur talked his way up the trail as if the climb was the most normal thing in the world. Motivated by a desire not to end up lugging him up three arduous miles, I joined in what became a lively continuous conversation. The big topic was his upcoming birthday. He was excited about the possibility of getting some Transformer Action toys, and he kept speculating about which one would be the best to get. Up and up we chattered until suddenly we were beyond the trees and near the open summit, the 3.7 miles behind us. Alex and Peter were waiting to greet us at the top.
We descended the mountain as a family, but Arthur’s non-stop birthday talk did not cease. In fact, about half way down, we met an older gentleman who stopped to say hello. Serendipitous encounters with strangers frequently happen on the Appalachian Trail and over the years I’ve come to expect, savor and cherish them. Arthur immediately brought our new friend into the birthday conversation and the kindly gentleman seemed to listen intently. It was a moment to remember. Even then, I recall thinking: maybe someday, in the distant future, Arthur would be ascending this same Gorge Brook Trail where he would come upon a family with a four year old. And I could imagine Arthur leaning over to hear the child talking and talking about his upcoming birthday and the wonderful gifts he might receive. My gift that day was the image of that moment on the mountain where generations intersected and a young boy shared his happy visions with someone just passing by.
As the Appalachian Trail wound down Mt. Guyot to Crawford Notch, it took me past the Zealand Fall Shelter to beautiful Ethan Pond where I spent the night. Rain made the hike a dreary slog, but the next morning cleared and I descended to the Notch that had once been a magnet for travelers and tourists seeking mountain relief from the summer heat of Boston and other cities to the south. The first transcontinental automobile road, The Theodore Roosevelt International Highway (now #302), went through Crawford Notch. In the early years of the twentieth century, the area boasted four Grand Hotels. Even in 1967, the Notch was still active with tourists, but the splendor of an earlier era had long vanished.
After crossing Route 302, the trail takes on a new character. It ascends the walls of Webster Cliffs on switchbacks. The exposure is moderate, but as you rise above the Notch, you enter a new world: the southern Presidentials, a prominent range of mountains named for American presidents that is notorious for having some of the worst weather on earth. Its high winds can produce winter-like conditions even in summer.
I crossed Mt. Jackson with its rocky top and pushed on through the low-lying pines to Mt. Pierce (also known as Mt. Clinton) that provides some good views far to the north of Mt. Washington, the tallest of the range at 6,288 feet, and its weather and radio towers.
Shortly after descending Mt. Pierce, the trail rises again above tree line and remains in the open over the next eleven miles of the rock and bolder strewn Presidential Range.
I spent the night at Lake of the Clouds Shelter near Mt. Washington where I heard rumors of an off trail shack on the edge of King Ravine on Mt. Adams. Later I would learn that the shack was Crag Camp. It had been privately constructed at a dramatic 4,200 feet in 1909 – the last of the high cabins – and was taken over in the 1930s by the Randolph Mountain Club. I was told that the camp could be accessed by the Spur Trail at Thunderstorm Junction below Mt. Adams.
My ankle had been acting up, so I decided to detour off the main route and descend to the Crag. I arrived in the rain. When I pushed opened the creaky door, I entered a hazy blur of people and smoke. All eyes turned to me as I tried to decide whether this was a vision of paradise or something more ominous. Then someone said, “Come on in and close the door.” I did as instructed and entered a world of camaraderie and warmth that came to represent everything I treasure about the trail.
The difference between normal life and trail life is that on the trail everything is compressed. In our everyday existence, time is elastic; it can seem to stretch on forever, but on the trail, time is a stern companion. You track when the sun rises and sets and live consciously by the cycle of each day. Hikers delight in fair weather but struggle under blasts of pelting rain and gusting wind. As the environment changes, so do your companions: they appear and disappear with regularity. We may have our own agenda, but nature and the trail are the ultimate schedulers.
My stay at Crag Camp lasted two nights. I left behind nameless friends and powerful memories but I had to push on. I climbed back up to Thunderstorm Junction, hiked up the rocky side of Mt. Adams and then over Mt. Madison before descending to Pinkham Notch and the long journey back to my future. But the memory of Crag Camp lives on. In fact, I could not stay away. I returned to Crag with my son Alex in 1995; two years before, the old cabin had been torn down and replaced by a very different version of the camp. It still rested spectacularly on the edge of King Ravine, but the new building was nothing like the ramshackle cabin I remembered from 1967. In most ways it was much better – by AT standards the cooking, dining and sleeping facilities are now luxurious – but even so, the memory of those few days at old Crag keeps me coming back again and again.
The Randolph Mountain Club’s video introduction to Crag Camp today.
The Appalachian Trail from the South Peak of Kinsman Mountain twisted relentlessly down, passing Lonesome Lake with its fine views of the Franconia Range down to Franconia Notch. The Notch is a mountain pass running north-south with 4,000-foot Cannon Mountain to the west and the 5,249 feet of Mount Lafayette guarding the east. It is an impressive geological region, particularly when viewed from the road.
The trail heads east up 4,459-foot Mount Liberty and then cuts north over the narrow ridge that separates the Notch from the 45,000 acres of the Pemigewassett Wilderness to the east. The ridge is steep in places, but never dangerous and when the weather is good, the views are some of the best in the eastern United States.
When I finally summited Mount Lafayette, I could have headed down to Greenleaf Shelter but decided to troop on to the next tent site near Mount Garfield, another 4,500-footer. This section from Lafayette to Galehead Hut is some of the roughest hiking on the entire Appalachian Trail.
I reached Galehead the next day and though the mileage was minimal, I was a bit tired. Luckily, I had choices: I could struggle up the 4,900 feet of South Twin with a full pack or I could spend the night at Galehead where I would get a bunk and be fed dinner and breakfast. While I had not been planning on staying at Galehead, the decision was ridiculously easy. I dropped my pack on the porch, found a nice bunk and settled in.
Often, the things a hiker remembers from the trail are the difficult or dangerous moments: A lightning storm, getting lost or even getting hurt. The normal daily grind of churning miles fades into the deeper recesses of memory. That would have been true of my Galehead stay, except for one thing that happened early the next morning.
The dawning light outside the window of the bunkroom suggested the sun would rise on a clear and mild mid-summer day. I lay awake in my bunk, savoring the moment and complimenting myself on the choice of staying at Galehead rather than pushing up to the summit of South Twin. Just then, I heard someone singing “Morning Has Broken.” I had not heard this song before (it was originally an English children’s hymn, “The Morning Song”), but from that moment the lyrics became imprinted in my mind and heart. Every time I hear it sung (usually by Cat Stevens) I think of that day in that place on the hike that would not end until forty-four years later. Here is the first stanza from the actual hymn:
Morning has broken like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing,
Praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.
Just south of Mount Moosilauke in New Hampshire’s White Mountains is the tiny village of Glencliff. Hiking through the town in the late afternoon during my very first Appalachian Trail adventure, I noticed an older man sitting on a chair on a dilapidated porch of an unpainted house. He was watching me with an air of suspicion, as if he was the Sheriff and I was trouble. When I heard him harrumph as I passed by, I got the message and simply asked if the Appalachian Trail was nearby. He gave me a nod and I was off to look for the white blaze that would lead me back into the woods.
Soon enough I happened upon an empty cabin just off the trail. It had been noted in the trail guide as owned and operated by the Dartmouth Outing Club, but it looked derelict to me. Nevertheless, I ventured inside and began unpacking. This dark, dank and uninviting shelter would be my place of rest for the night.
After a light dinner, I ventured out of the cold gloom of the cabin to take a short hike to an area that looked like an open meadow. As I drew close I could see that the light from the declining sun seemed to draw contrasting shadows against the bright yellows and greens of the high, uncut grass. I was the lone witness to this magical scene of natural tranquility and I soon felt as if I was melting into the beauty of this unexpected moment.
As I stood in the middle of this natural still life, I became aware of deer grazing in the far corner of the field. They had not yet noticed my presence and so I kept still and quietly savored this fortuitous scene of solitary beauty. Time seemed to suspend itself just for my own pleasure. Then a soft breeze startled the scene much as a pebble does when tossed innocently into a placid lake.
The deer lifted their heads in unison, sensing an intrusion. They hesitated another moment and then were gone. Suddenly I was alone again in a place that now was losing the warmth of the soft, summer colors that seemed so abundant just moments before. The field and the surrounding forests were turning dark as the encroaching dusk washed the landscape in its gray hues.
For a short interlude that day, I know I felt the glad presence of grace in that setting. As night descended, I had to leave, to turn back to the cold embrace of that solitary cabin that awaited me. Yet today my memory returns to the field and the deer and the lustrous serenity of that late afternoon. I remember that day as grace edged in darkness. The light of that grace has held my heart over the many intervening years.
As I entered the bus bound for Hanover, New Hampshire, I was leaving behind more than Providence, Rhode Island. I had finished college and stood on the precipice between the comforts of college life and the terra incognita of the rest of my life. So as war was escalating in the Far East and as the Beatles’ White Album was climbing the charts, I decided to embark on a month-long walk in the woods.
The Appalachian Trail enters New Hampshire where it crosses the Connecticut River at Hanover. After spending a final night of comfort in a Dartmouth dormitory, I began my trek at the water’s edge. The most difficult obstacle to peace and tranquility on the trail is acclimating to nights alone in the woods. Over time you realize that not every noise is a mortal threat, but early on, you try to sleep with one eye open.
But the days were glorious. I soon began meeting fellow hikers and we would often spend a day or two walking together. This temporal fellowship would become an enduring and cherished feature of the trail; just as one hiking friend vanished into memory, another would show up to fill the void and on we would go, talking and walking as if we had known each other our entire lives.
After crossing Mount Moosilauke, at the southwestern end of the White Mountains, the terrain becomes more challenging. One evening, after hiking all day alone, I arrived at Eliza Brook Shelterat the base of South Kinsman. I looked forward to a solo dinner and a good night’s sleep when suddenly I discovered a very chilling number of snakes hiding under a rock near the door of the shelter. Suddenly, Eliza was not the place I wanted to be; I quickly gathered my gear and took off even as dusk began to wash my surroundings in gray.
When motivated, you find unexpected resources within to achieve things you once thought impossible.
I tore up the mountain, often using my hands as well as my feet. The trail up South Kinsman is steep in parts, very steep as I recall, but that did not deter me. Up, up I went, past a picturesque pond to my left that I did not stop to photograph. Up past the tree line until I was standing alone in the dark on the summit of South Kinsman, one of the forty-eight four-thousand footers in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. But my adventure wasn’t over. I still had to get over to its neighbor, North Kinsman, and find my way to Kinsman Pond Shelter. It was a long night.
I recollect these challenging moments now with equanimity, but at the time I was discovering new emotions and new capabilities. Suddenly I had to get out of a place that changed in a flash from desirous to dangerous. I did not think about it; I just tackled every moment as problems arose. This was a rite of passage for me, an encounter with the unexpected which tested my knowledge of myself and my resolve. At Eliza Shelter I quickly decided to change my circumstances, even if that meant using all my physical and spiritual resources to somehow make things better. Encounters with the unexpected became an important theme of the Trail for me. How I responded would begin to shape my character and my life.
As someone who has hiked the entire Appalachian Trail (2,185 miles), I looked forward to seeing A Walk in the Woods, the new Ken Kwapis film based on the Bill Bryson book. Bryson’s tale recounts the adventures of two middle-aged guys (44 in the book) who set out on what turns out to be a comedy of errors from their first steps out of Amicalola Falls in Georgia to the Smoky Mountains and beyond.
In the movie Robert Redford, now 79, plays Bryson, and Nick Nolte, 74, plays his sidekick, the pseudonymous Stephen Katz (based on Bryson’s real life ne’er-do-well high school pal Matt Angerer). Katz and Bryson stumble through the trail and even though both succeed in struggling up the nine miles to the summit of Springer Mountain, their pain and suffering is only a comedic appetizer to what follows. As spun by Bryson, an infectious and inquisitive storyteller, the book is fun, hilarious and informative.
The movie tries mightily to replicate the charm of Bryson’s narrative. Sometimes, though, what’s funny on the page is difficult to translate onto the screen and good literary humor becomes slapstick and pratfalls. Unfortunately, this is often what happens with this film. Hopelessly out of place on the trail, Nolte is actually quite funny, always just one small step from total collapse or meltdown.
As Bryson, Redford has the straight man role. He participates in the action but the trail experience doesn’t appear to have much of an impact on his character. That is not my recollection of Bryson’s character in the book. I recall him as terrifically observant: He learns about his unfamiliar environment and wants us to learn with him as he bumbles along. That’s what makes his book so popular with trekkers, even though the two hike a mere fraction of the trail.
The movie does capture one aspect of the AT that made it worth the time and price of admission. The grandeur and beauty of the southern half of the trail are on full display. Although the film was mostly shot in Georgia’s Amicalola Falls State Park (where the trail begins), there are also breathtaking views of North Carolina’s Smoky Mountains and Fontana Dam. One aerial shot pans over Max Patch in North Carolina where on a good day a hiker can pause and marvel at the majestic mountains within the borders of Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Another reason I enjoyed the movie, despite it shortcomings, was my own relationship with the trail. After college, I hiked 115 miles of it in New Hampshire and then left the trail for almost 30 years before returning in the 1990s. I then “section hiked” the entire trail finishing in Maine in September, 2011. Along the way I had some amazing experiences, including one night lost in the rain on a mountain ridge shivering miserably in a soaked sleeping bag. I counted every hour as I waited stoically until the morning light allowed me to find my way to warmth and safety.
For the next several weeks, I plan to share some of the highlights of my own adventures on the Appalachian Trail. It should be fun.
This week I’m spreading out what I’m thankful for over four days. Today I’m devoting to family:
