June 2010 - Minos Cluster, Outer Rim
The corridor was dark when we entered, illuminated by a single, blinking red light. Bits of detritus floated by us as we exited the airlock. Eric pushed past the body of a Rodian, sending it bouncing aimlessly down the long, empty hall. The metal buckle of its belt clanged against a consol, echoing listlessly throughout the ship. As Adam, Laura, Tomek and I entered, we noticed a strange mossy fungus covering the the walls and floors. I made an attempt to gather a sample of the substance, but clumsily bounced off the ceiling, not used to the lack of gravity. After a few minutes, we gathered our wits and made way to the control deck to assess what had happened to the large cruiser (and hopefully turn the gravity back on). As we made our way down the corridor, we saw the body of the Rodian still floating ahead of us. Adam stopped short; the body had moved, he swore. Eric, Adam and Laura drew their blasters and I, my light saber. I searched around for something to steady myself on and grabbed onto a pipe. Tomek floated around behind us, unsure of what to do. The body moved again, slowly coming to life. Suddenly, and with great speed, the Rodian launched itself towards us. Adam and Eric began to fire quickly while Laura still looked for a place to plant herself. Their shots did not land and the Rodian continued towards us.
"Wait," asked Eric. "What's the modifier for shooting in zero grav?"
Nick, the game master, looked up from the map on the coffee table, annoyed. He picked up the large Star Wars: The Role Playing Game book and placed it in front of Eric.
"Look it up." Nick said, for perhaps the tenth time that night.
The six of us sat around the clustered table in our incense smoke-filled living room in Allston, surrounded by cans of PBR and Rolling Rock. It was Friday night, we'd been rolling 20-sided die for a few hours and Nick was growing tired. We were half a year into our campaign, but still looked to our veteran game master for answers to our endless questions, instead of looking them up ourselves; it wore on Nick's generous patience. We felt helpless without his leadership, as he was well versed in the ways of the RPG -- he had brought us into this new world and taught us everything we knew, holding our hand as we learned. We played a few more rounds, killed some space zombies (leave it to Nick to combine Star Wars and the undead), and called it a night. Normally, we could play our elaborate drinking game/RPG well into the evening, but we had to wake early the next morning. We were going camping in the White Mountains, and we had a special guest.
It'd been about a month since Steph and I had come back from Arizona. While there, we noticed her brother Matt seemed subdued, listless. He was coming into his teenage years and was in search of something. It was weighing on him, and we decided time away from Arizona might benefit him. In late June, around his sister's birthday, Matt flew out to stay with Steph in Allston for a few weeks (along with her four female room mates; not a bad deal). Nothing like a humid summer vacation in New England to do the soul some good.
Upon learning about Matt's trip, Eric, Adam, Tom and Nick schemed to show him what we good ol' yankees do for fun. They began to research potential places to camp up in the White Mountains and chose a trail that was thought to be well suited for a novice hiker: Kinsman Mountain. When Matt met the boys for the first time, they told him of their plan. He accepted the challenge, not unenthusiastically, but more like someone tasked with watering house plants. His disinterest mattered little to us. We were excited enough for him.
So, on a muggy Saturday morning in June, we loaded our gear into two cars and made way for New Hampshire. Driving in Adam's car up 93, playing leapfrog with Tomek's Corolla on the sun-drenched highway, Adam and Matt got to know each other while I made faces at the other car. They discussed topics that all adolescent males are familiar with: South Park, pyromania, and firing potato cannons at the Jehovah's Witness compound across the canal in your backyard (ok, that one might be a bit specific to Matt). Driving between Mount Cannon and Mount Lafayette, I paused from looking at our printed out MapQuest directions to peer up at the towering monoliths that surrounded us. I urged Matt to look up, but he seemed unimpressed (he is from "the Grand Canyon State", after all).
We pulled off 93 and began traveling up the windy Kancamagus Highway, passing a brown "White Mountain National Forest" sign. Our surroundings were a blur of lush green; beech, birch, maple and oak melted together indiscernibly as the sweet smell of photosynthesis seeped in through our open windows. The mountains surrounding us were blocked by the shroud of trees. We began to climb up a soft incline, buzzing past a group cyclists in spandex. Ahead, an asphalt clearing appeared on the right. Tomek's trusty Corolla pulled in and we followed suit. Pulling our packs out of the trunks of our respective cars, we all paused to watch a parade of zipping Mini Coopers make their way up the road. While Nick and Eric studied the trail map, Tomek and Matt sat on a nearby stone wall, enjoying the sun and taking in the view of a wildflower field before them, and the Presidential Range beyond. Nick hollered to us and, with an eager smile on his face, told us to get our asses in gear.
We crossed the Highway and walked down the side of the road for about a quarter of a mile, searching for the Hancock Loop trailhead. Already sweating, we finally discovered it nestled between a few aged beech trees. The temperature dropped once we entered the cover of the forest and we made our way comfortably through the woods. The bits of sun that peeked through the canopy soon vanished and a dismal gray cover could be made out above. The humidity seemed to rise, but the hiking was easy going. We pointed out different plants to Matt, identified certain bird calls, told him about the merits of Indian fern as a bug repellant, and did our best to share our trail smarts with him in the hopes of stirring some primordial feelings buried deep in his teenage brain. He nodded politely, indicating that he had heard us, and continued up the trail.
After an hour, we paused for a short water break amongst tall ferns near a clear, stony brook. A man with a greying beard and tan baseball cap passed, crunching his walking poles into the gravely path, and asked how we were coming along, what trails we were doing. We exchanged pleasantries for a moment and he moved on. We allowed room to grow between us and him before pulling our backpacks on and following him up the mountain. A chill ran down my back as my pack pushed my cool, wet shirt against my bare skin. We crossed the stream and looked up at the cloudy sky above. The air was growing colder and I threw a flannel shirt on, buttoning it only at the very top.
We crossed a swampy area over some "sex planks"* and found the middle-aged gentleman on the other side, taking his own water break. We said hello and he raised his water bottle in salute. As we moved ahead, he called to us that he hoped we had rain gear, the sky appeared imposing. The trail maintained a shallow incline and we stopped again at another opening for water and a snack. Matt noticed, with a start, that a long snake was crossing the trail ahead of us. I hopped up and ran to the serpent, snatching it up quickly before it could escape into the sanctuary of the underbrush. It was a garter snake, about a foot and a half in length. I brought it back to the group to show Matt, who had never seen a garter snake before (while common in the East, they don't exist in Arizona).
Preoccupied with the critter, I didn't notice that the older man had caught up with us. He saw the snake and joked that my hands would smell like shit for the rest of the day, lest I release the animal. He chuckled as my eyes widened and he continued up the trail. Garter snakes, when threatened, secrete a foul, musky discharge from glands on their underside. In my excitement at finding this animal, I hadn't remembered this important tid bit. I carefully placed the snake on the ground and smelled my hands as it slithered away into the underbrush. Fuck, I thought. My hands smell awful. The only thing fouler than the scent of the snake's musk was the knowledge that no amount of soap or washing would remove the odor from my hands. Matt inquisitively asked what it smelled like, and I shoved my hands in his face. He wiped his face vigorously, like one trying to fend off mosquitos, and facetiously thanked me for sharing. Nick and Tom laughed at my misfortune.
"Man, that guy knows what he's doing," Eric said. "Good thing he told you about the snake. He's like our trail dad."
We leap frogged with Trail Dad a few more times as the trail grew steeper and muddier. For an older fella, he sure kept a fast pace. Clearly, he was no stranger to this land. Each time we'd come across him, we would speak briefly before passing one another and he would impress us with some new nugget of thought.
Our shins were caked in dirt and our shirts were moist with sweat, when we came to a turn in the trail. Not left or right, but up. Before us, the trail became a rock scramble straight up the side of the Kinsman. We paused only momentarily before heading up the rocky traverse, hand over hand. The trail was soggy from recent rains and the rocks fit loosely into the mountainside, giving way a little bit with each foot. The scramble was only about three quarters of a mile, but it took about an hour to conquer. Red in the face and winded, we found our way to the flat ground at the top of the northern peak. The trail snaked through a hemlock grove and took us to a large rock promontory. A cool breeze greeted us and we threw our packs haphazardly about the clearing. We took our seats and pulled out well-deserved sandwiches and apples, not noticing that the rock was already claimed by a young couple seated nearby. They don't own the mountain, we grumbled, carrying on as if we hadn't intruded on some moment. Matt and Tomek stood in the refreshing wind, looking out at the cloud-covered peaks in front of us, while Eric and I eavesdropped on the nearby couple, who seemed to have been fighting when we arrived. Anger could be heard in their muffled talk and they soon left the rock to continue their battle elsewhere.
We all sat silently, watching the ship-gray clouds glide over the Appalachians. A stick snapped under an unknown weight behind us, calling our attention out of our collective daze. It was Trail Dad. Like an old friend, he sat down amongst us and told us stories of his youth in the Whites while we laughed at his jovial misfortunes. How he and a friend had spent a day in the late Fall hiking and toking up Tuckerman's Ravine on Mount Washington. Enjoying a good joint at the top, they lost track of time and began their descent too late. Past the AMC lodge, the sun set and no moon appeared to guide them. Stoned, without a flashlight, and crawling, they made their way to the parking lot, using the sound of passing cars on the highway to guide them -- for once, leaf peepers served a purpose!
We had a small fifth of cheap bourbon and passed it to him as he shared his wisdom with us. He took a short pull and made no grimace as the caramel liquor passed into his throat. He was a sensible man, likely had a decent job and, like us, had probably headed to the mountains to escape the drudgery of his everyday life, if but for a few, sweet hours. Beads of drizzle began collecting on his beard and he decided to make his way to the southern peak and, hopefully, to his car before getting caught in any foul weather. Before he left, he told us he was heading to the Woodstock Inn Brewery for a burger and beer after the hike, and that we should join him. We told him we would try, and we watched him disappear between the hemlock. Slowly packing our things, we pondered our fate at having discovered this humble hiker, appearing like some bizarre future version of ourselves.
We continued along the narrow trail to the South Peak. There was no grand view, just a gap between the pine and hemlock where one could not see past the clouds. We paused only for a minute before continuing down the trail. And down we went, indeed. Our descent from Kinsman was no less daunting than our way up the mountain. Had it not been for the rocks on the trail, we would have likely slid down the mountainside, for the ground was as muddy as it was steep. An unforgiving climb it had been. But soon, the ground leveled out and we walked simply down the wooded path.
We had no more lessons for Matt, and he had no more patience for us. He was driven by the desire for dry socks, a place to sit, and little more. He was close to completing this arduous chore he had politely accepted and was ready for campfire and sleep, unmoved by wilderness around us. We, too, were ready to be done with this trail. It had been difficult for a medly of reasons and now we were worried about rain. The sky had fists and no one likes hiking in the rain. No one.
Pausing for water, Matt took off one of his shoes and noticed a large blister. Nick handed him a bandaid and Matt tried his best to fight the urge to pop it. While Matt tied his shoe, Eric took off at a spring and disappeared. We followed him at an easier pace and, after what seemed like an hour, we began to hear cars. Ahead, we spotted Eric leaning against a large tree, staring out at the bright asphalt in front of him. We'd made it out, and it was sunny.
Back in the parking lot, we took off our wet shoes and felt the warmth of the pavement seep through our pruned feet. Tomek massaged his legs while Nick and Adam rested in the car. Nick and I passed a cigarette and stared out at the mountains. A disconnected feeling of bliss overcame me and I laid down on the stone wall, pretending I was gliding out as a disembodied entity into the eternity of the wild lands before us. Nick sat up abruptly and shouted out to us.
"Where did Trail Dad say he was going for beer?"
We looked at one another, panicked and puzzled. Did anyone remember?
"I have no idea." Matt said, resting his aching feet next to Eric. "I don't even really know where we are."
We waited in the parking lot for a bit, hoping maybe he would magically appear again. He did not, and we headed to our campground, sullen.
We arrived at the campground and set to work pitching tents. We tried to involve Matt in getting the camp ready, but he was unenthusiastic about the prospect. He gathered kindling for the fire and Nick started to get the fire going, fruitlessly. Tom and Adam helped in the endeavor and got it burning, not a moment before the skies finally opened with a torrential vengeance. We rushed to set up rain flies to keep the camp dry and the fire alive. Water dripped from our wet hair as we prepared a small dinner. We tried to show Matt a good time, but sleep soon overtook him and I brought him to a tent. The day had done a number on him and no one could blame him for succumbing to his fatigue. We continued our fraternal gathering before falling victim to sleepiness ourselves. Adam noticed that Matt was not only in the wrong tent, but had fallen asleep on Adam's sleeping bag. Like some party magician, he pulled the bag and sleeping mat out from the unsuspecting teen and took it back to the other tent. Matt was none the wiser. My sleep was plagued with heat and dreams and I woke frequently, twisted in my sweaty sleeping bag.
It was bright and cold when I woke to Matt poking me. Some inconsiderate bird was chirping nearby and Eric emitted shallow snores next to me. I turned to Matt and asked what was up.
"What happened to my sleeping bag?"
"It's in the other tent. You fell asleep on Adam's gear and he took it."
"What? Why?"
"He was going to bed, I guess."
"Oh," Matt said. "I'm cold."
"I believe it." I said, passing him a blanket.
He took it and laid back down. After a moment, he sat up and prodded me again.
"Yeah?" I grumbled
"Camping is what poor people do for vacation."
"Sure is." I said before rolling over and drifting back to a fitful sleep. Eric tried to disguise his chuckles as snores.
We woke a few hours later and noshed on a breakfast of granola bars, nursing our sore feet and aching heads with coffee and advil. I was disappointed. We had failed to impress Matt with our woodsy manliness. When I was a youngster, I had spent every waking moment in the woods, searching for frogs and salamanders, and building forts out of felled pine branches with my sister, Chloe. During my teen years, I had denied this part of my life and identified with punk rock, defining who I was with Casualties CDs and Elmer's glue-soaked hair (side note: that stuff is ideal for mohawks). In college, that identity fell to the side and, while trying to find who I was, I rediscovered my love of the outdoors with the help of my dear friends. I recalled lessons learned from years in the scouts and I was fulfilled by a new sense of meaning. I didn't need some god damned hair style or an up-the-punx leather jacket to show people who I was; I didn't need to show others anything. I could be what I always was, a kid who loved being outside. When I'd seen Matt's disposition in Arizona, I figured that he was going through a similar identity crisis and I hoped that this hike might be therapeutic for him. It was not; I was merely projecting. I had wanted to be his trail dad, to give him a means of escaping from the drudgery of his teen years.
Driving back tired and disappointed, I tried to recall how I was at Matt's age. I was chubby, clothed in fatigues and Beatles t-shirts -- the most stylish kid in my middle school, no doubt! (I really don't know what I was going for with that style...) I was trying to figure out who I was. And I hated hiking. At this point in my life, I now recalled, I had been such a bitch boy on every scout hike I'd been on in those years, always wanting to know if we were almost done and when we'd get to eat. Remembering this, I smiled as we sped down the highway back to Boston. It wasn't so bad, I supposed. I hadn't changed Matt's life for the better, but then I reckoned that another person can't do that for you. The people who surround you can only be catalysts for change, but you have to be the one to find out who you are, what you're made of. Along the way, you'll find people who may inspire you and share themselves with you. And, one day after you figure out who you are, you can be that person, giving wisdom to others in the hopes of helping them along the trail. And that's all a Trail Dad can be, not an arbiter of change, but just someone you meet along your way to finding yourself.
*On the AT, boards used to traverse consistently muddy sections of trails are referred to as "sex planks," because after hiking for hours over rocky, uneven ground, crossing these boards is supposed to be "better than sex."
In the unlikely event that someone reads this and thinks, "Hey, Trail Dad sounds like someone I know," feel free to put him in contact with us. He was a hell of a guy and Eric, Tomek, Adam, Nick and I would all like to finally grab that beer with him.
Photos: View from the parking lot; Me with the garter snake; The group on top of Kinsman Mountain's North Peak (left to right: Adam, Nick, Matt, Tom, Eric); Matt and Eric resting their feet in the parking lot.
"Wait," asked Eric. "What's the modifier for shooting in zero grav?"
Nick, the game master, looked up from the map on the coffee table, annoyed. He picked up the large Star Wars: The Role Playing Game book and placed it in front of Eric.
"Look it up." Nick said, for perhaps the tenth time that night.
The six of us sat around the clustered table in our incense smoke-filled living room in Allston, surrounded by cans of PBR and Rolling Rock. It was Friday night, we'd been rolling 20-sided die for a few hours and Nick was growing tired. We were half a year into our campaign, but still looked to our veteran game master for answers to our endless questions, instead of looking them up ourselves; it wore on Nick's generous patience. We felt helpless without his leadership, as he was well versed in the ways of the RPG -- he had brought us into this new world and taught us everything we knew, holding our hand as we learned. We played a few more rounds, killed some space zombies (leave it to Nick to combine Star Wars and the undead), and called it a night. Normally, we could play our elaborate drinking game/RPG well into the evening, but we had to wake early the next morning. We were going camping in the White Mountains, and we had a special guest.
It'd been about a month since Steph and I had come back from Arizona. While there, we noticed her brother Matt seemed subdued, listless. He was coming into his teenage years and was in search of something. It was weighing on him, and we decided time away from Arizona might benefit him. In late June, around his sister's birthday, Matt flew out to stay with Steph in Allston for a few weeks (along with her four female room mates; not a bad deal). Nothing like a humid summer vacation in New England to do the soul some good.
Upon learning about Matt's trip, Eric, Adam, Tom and Nick schemed to show him what we good ol' yankees do for fun. They began to research potential places to camp up in the White Mountains and chose a trail that was thought to be well suited for a novice hiker: Kinsman Mountain. When Matt met the boys for the first time, they told him of their plan. He accepted the challenge, not unenthusiastically, but more like someone tasked with watering house plants. His disinterest mattered little to us. We were excited enough for him.
So, on a muggy Saturday morning in June, we loaded our gear into two cars and made way for New Hampshire. Driving in Adam's car up 93, playing leapfrog with Tomek's Corolla on the sun-drenched highway, Adam and Matt got to know each other while I made faces at the other car. They discussed topics that all adolescent males are familiar with: South Park, pyromania, and firing potato cannons at the Jehovah's Witness compound across the canal in your backyard (ok, that one might be a bit specific to Matt). Driving between Mount Cannon and Mount Lafayette, I paused from looking at our printed out MapQuest directions to peer up at the towering monoliths that surrounded us. I urged Matt to look up, but he seemed unimpressed (he is from "the Grand Canyon State", after all).
June 2010 - White Mountains, New Hampshire
We pulled off 93 and began traveling up the windy Kancamagus Highway, passing a brown "White Mountain National Forest" sign. Our surroundings were a blur of lush green; beech, birch, maple and oak melted together indiscernibly as the sweet smell of photosynthesis seeped in through our open windows. The mountains surrounding us were blocked by the shroud of trees. We began to climb up a soft incline, buzzing past a group cyclists in spandex. Ahead, an asphalt clearing appeared on the right. Tomek's trusty Corolla pulled in and we followed suit. Pulling our packs out of the trunks of our respective cars, we all paused to watch a parade of zipping Mini Coopers make their way up the road. While Nick and Eric studied the trail map, Tomek and Matt sat on a nearby stone wall, enjoying the sun and taking in the view of a wildflower field before them, and the Presidential Range beyond. Nick hollered to us and, with an eager smile on his face, told us to get our asses in gear.We crossed the Highway and walked down the side of the road for about a quarter of a mile, searching for the Hancock Loop trailhead. Already sweating, we finally discovered it nestled between a few aged beech trees. The temperature dropped once we entered the cover of the forest and we made our way comfortably through the woods. The bits of sun that peeked through the canopy soon vanished and a dismal gray cover could be made out above. The humidity seemed to rise, but the hiking was easy going. We pointed out different plants to Matt, identified certain bird calls, told him about the merits of Indian fern as a bug repellant, and did our best to share our trail smarts with him in the hopes of stirring some primordial feelings buried deep in his teenage brain. He nodded politely, indicating that he had heard us, and continued up the trail.
After an hour, we paused for a short water break amongst tall ferns near a clear, stony brook. A man with a greying beard and tan baseball cap passed, crunching his walking poles into the gravely path, and asked how we were coming along, what trails we were doing. We exchanged pleasantries for a moment and he moved on. We allowed room to grow between us and him before pulling our backpacks on and following him up the mountain. A chill ran down my back as my pack pushed my cool, wet shirt against my bare skin. We crossed the stream and looked up at the cloudy sky above. The air was growing colder and I threw a flannel shirt on, buttoning it only at the very top.
We crossed a swampy area over some "sex planks"* and found the middle-aged gentleman on the other side, taking his own water break. We said hello and he raised his water bottle in salute. As we moved ahead, he called to us that he hoped we had rain gear, the sky appeared imposing. The trail maintained a shallow incline and we stopped again at another opening for water and a snack. Matt noticed, with a start, that a long snake was crossing the trail ahead of us. I hopped up and ran to the serpent, snatching it up quickly before it could escape into the sanctuary of the underbrush. It was a garter snake, about a foot and a half in length. I brought it back to the group to show Matt, who had never seen a garter snake before (while common in the East, they don't exist in Arizona).
Preoccupied with the critter, I didn't notice that the older man had caught up with us. He saw the snake and joked that my hands would smell like shit for the rest of the day, lest I release the animal. He chuckled as my eyes widened and he continued up the trail. Garter snakes, when threatened, secrete a foul, musky discharge from glands on their underside. In my excitement at finding this animal, I hadn't remembered this important tid bit. I carefully placed the snake on the ground and smelled my hands as it slithered away into the underbrush. Fuck, I thought. My hands smell awful. The only thing fouler than the scent of the snake's musk was the knowledge that no amount of soap or washing would remove the odor from my hands. Matt inquisitively asked what it smelled like, and I shoved my hands in his face. He wiped his face vigorously, like one trying to fend off mosquitos, and facetiously thanked me for sharing. Nick and Tom laughed at my misfortune."Man, that guy knows what he's doing," Eric said. "Good thing he told you about the snake. He's like our trail dad."
We leap frogged with Trail Dad a few more times as the trail grew steeper and muddier. For an older fella, he sure kept a fast pace. Clearly, he was no stranger to this land. Each time we'd come across him, we would speak briefly before passing one another and he would impress us with some new nugget of thought.
Our shins were caked in dirt and our shirts were moist with sweat, when we came to a turn in the trail. Not left or right, but up. Before us, the trail became a rock scramble straight up the side of the Kinsman. We paused only momentarily before heading up the rocky traverse, hand over hand. The trail was soggy from recent rains and the rocks fit loosely into the mountainside, giving way a little bit with each foot. The scramble was only about three quarters of a mile, but it took about an hour to conquer. Red in the face and winded, we found our way to the flat ground at the top of the northern peak. The trail snaked through a hemlock grove and took us to a large rock promontory. A cool breeze greeted us and we threw our packs haphazardly about the clearing. We took our seats and pulled out well-deserved sandwiches and apples, not noticing that the rock was already claimed by a young couple seated nearby. They don't own the mountain, we grumbled, carrying on as if we hadn't intruded on some moment. Matt and Tomek stood in the refreshing wind, looking out at the cloud-covered peaks in front of us, while Eric and I eavesdropped on the nearby couple, who seemed to have been fighting when we arrived. Anger could be heard in their muffled talk and they soon left the rock to continue their battle elsewhere.
We all sat silently, watching the ship-gray clouds glide over the Appalachians. A stick snapped under an unknown weight behind us, calling our attention out of our collective daze. It was Trail Dad. Like an old friend, he sat down amongst us and told us stories of his youth in the Whites while we laughed at his jovial misfortunes. How he and a friend had spent a day in the late Fall hiking and toking up Tuckerman's Ravine on Mount Washington. Enjoying a good joint at the top, they lost track of time and began their descent too late. Past the AMC lodge, the sun set and no moon appeared to guide them. Stoned, without a flashlight, and crawling, they made their way to the parking lot, using the sound of passing cars on the highway to guide them -- for once, leaf peepers served a purpose!
We had a small fifth of cheap bourbon and passed it to him as he shared his wisdom with us. He took a short pull and made no grimace as the caramel liquor passed into his throat. He was a sensible man, likely had a decent job and, like us, had probably headed to the mountains to escape the drudgery of his everyday life, if but for a few, sweet hours. Beads of drizzle began collecting on his beard and he decided to make his way to the southern peak and, hopefully, to his car before getting caught in any foul weather. Before he left, he told us he was heading to the Woodstock Inn Brewery for a burger and beer after the hike, and that we should join him. We told him we would try, and we watched him disappear between the hemlock. Slowly packing our things, we pondered our fate at having discovered this humble hiker, appearing like some bizarre future version of ourselves.
We continued along the narrow trail to the South Peak. There was no grand view, just a gap between the pine and hemlock where one could not see past the clouds. We paused only for a minute before continuing down the trail. And down we went, indeed. Our descent from Kinsman was no less daunting than our way up the mountain. Had it not been for the rocks on the trail, we would have likely slid down the mountainside, for the ground was as muddy as it was steep. An unforgiving climb it had been. But soon, the ground leveled out and we walked simply down the wooded path.
We had no more lessons for Matt, and he had no more patience for us. He was driven by the desire for dry socks, a place to sit, and little more. He was close to completing this arduous chore he had politely accepted and was ready for campfire and sleep, unmoved by wilderness around us. We, too, were ready to be done with this trail. It had been difficult for a medly of reasons and now we were worried about rain. The sky had fists and no one likes hiking in the rain. No one.
Pausing for water, Matt took off one of his shoes and noticed a large blister. Nick handed him a bandaid and Matt tried his best to fight the urge to pop it. While Matt tied his shoe, Eric took off at a spring and disappeared. We followed him at an easier pace and, after what seemed like an hour, we began to hear cars. Ahead, we spotted Eric leaning against a large tree, staring out at the bright asphalt in front of him. We'd made it out, and it was sunny.
Back in the parking lot, we took off our wet shoes and felt the warmth of the pavement seep through our pruned feet. Tomek massaged his legs while Nick and Adam rested in the car. Nick and I passed a cigarette and stared out at the mountains. A disconnected feeling of bliss overcame me and I laid down on the stone wall, pretending I was gliding out as a disembodied entity into the eternity of the wild lands before us. Nick sat up abruptly and shouted out to us."Where did Trail Dad say he was going for beer?"
We looked at one another, panicked and puzzled. Did anyone remember?
"I have no idea." Matt said, resting his aching feet next to Eric. "I don't even really know where we are."
We waited in the parking lot for a bit, hoping maybe he would magically appear again. He did not, and we headed to our campground, sullen.
We arrived at the campground and set to work pitching tents. We tried to involve Matt in getting the camp ready, but he was unenthusiastic about the prospect. He gathered kindling for the fire and Nick started to get the fire going, fruitlessly. Tom and Adam helped in the endeavor and got it burning, not a moment before the skies finally opened with a torrential vengeance. We rushed to set up rain flies to keep the camp dry and the fire alive. Water dripped from our wet hair as we prepared a small dinner. We tried to show Matt a good time, but sleep soon overtook him and I brought him to a tent. The day had done a number on him and no one could blame him for succumbing to his fatigue. We continued our fraternal gathering before falling victim to sleepiness ourselves. Adam noticed that Matt was not only in the wrong tent, but had fallen asleep on Adam's sleeping bag. Like some party magician, he pulled the bag and sleeping mat out from the unsuspecting teen and took it back to the other tent. Matt was none the wiser. My sleep was plagued with heat and dreams and I woke frequently, twisted in my sweaty sleeping bag.
It was bright and cold when I woke to Matt poking me. Some inconsiderate bird was chirping nearby and Eric emitted shallow snores next to me. I turned to Matt and asked what was up.
"What happened to my sleeping bag?"
"It's in the other tent. You fell asleep on Adam's gear and he took it."
"What? Why?"
"He was going to bed, I guess."
"Oh," Matt said. "I'm cold."
"I believe it." I said, passing him a blanket.
He took it and laid back down. After a moment, he sat up and prodded me again.
"Yeah?" I grumbled
"Camping is what poor people do for vacation."
"Sure is." I said before rolling over and drifting back to a fitful sleep. Eric tried to disguise his chuckles as snores.
We woke a few hours later and noshed on a breakfast of granola bars, nursing our sore feet and aching heads with coffee and advil. I was disappointed. We had failed to impress Matt with our woodsy manliness. When I was a youngster, I had spent every waking moment in the woods, searching for frogs and salamanders, and building forts out of felled pine branches with my sister, Chloe. During my teen years, I had denied this part of my life and identified with punk rock, defining who I was with Casualties CDs and Elmer's glue-soaked hair (side note: that stuff is ideal for mohawks). In college, that identity fell to the side and, while trying to find who I was, I rediscovered my love of the outdoors with the help of my dear friends. I recalled lessons learned from years in the scouts and I was fulfilled by a new sense of meaning. I didn't need some god damned hair style or an up-the-punx leather jacket to show people who I was; I didn't need to show others anything. I could be what I always was, a kid who loved being outside. When I'd seen Matt's disposition in Arizona, I figured that he was going through a similar identity crisis and I hoped that this hike might be therapeutic for him. It was not; I was merely projecting. I had wanted to be his trail dad, to give him a means of escaping from the drudgery of his teen years.
Driving back tired and disappointed, I tried to recall how I was at Matt's age. I was chubby, clothed in fatigues and Beatles t-shirts -- the most stylish kid in my middle school, no doubt! (I really don't know what I was going for with that style...) I was trying to figure out who I was. And I hated hiking. At this point in my life, I now recalled, I had been such a bitch boy on every scout hike I'd been on in those years, always wanting to know if we were almost done and when we'd get to eat. Remembering this, I smiled as we sped down the highway back to Boston. It wasn't so bad, I supposed. I hadn't changed Matt's life for the better, but then I reckoned that another person can't do that for you. The people who surround you can only be catalysts for change, but you have to be the one to find out who you are, what you're made of. Along the way, you'll find people who may inspire you and share themselves with you. And, one day after you figure out who you are, you can be that person, giving wisdom to others in the hopes of helping them along the trail. And that's all a Trail Dad can be, not an arbiter of change, but just someone you meet along your way to finding yourself.
*****
A few months ago, the K's graciously invited me to join them on their family vacation to Glacier National Park (story to come). Matt was going to USC in the fall, and they wanted one last big family outing before he launched himself into adulthood. Matt, now 18, had grown a lot in the years since our adventure in New Hampshire. He had a sharp wit and a never ending flow of confidence. I wouldn't say that he's a big outdoorsman now, but his teen angst has fallen to the wayside and he seems sure of himself, comfortable in his own skin and ready to begin the next stage of his life. And damn was he eager to leave Arizona.
*On the AT, boards used to traverse consistently muddy sections of trails are referred to as "sex planks," because after hiking for hours over rocky, uneven ground, crossing these boards is supposed to be "better than sex."
In the unlikely event that someone reads this and thinks, "Hey, Trail Dad sounds like someone I know," feel free to put him in contact with us. He was a hell of a guy and Eric, Tomek, Adam, Nick and I would all like to finally grab that beer with him.
Photos: View from the parking lot; Me with the garter snake; The group on top of Kinsman Mountain's North Peak (left to right: Adam, Nick, Matt, Tom, Eric); Matt and Eric resting their feet in the parking lot.
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