Traces

I often toy with starting over, with shucking this blog to my past and beginning again with an aim, a focus, a reason for writing. In fact, I have started over once but abandoned it after an afternoon, forgot about it because I didn't want to erase or deny the history that I'd already built here.

The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.

As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.

It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.

Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.

But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.

What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.

As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.

Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.

That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.