Maybe the church was right. That two-toned car did have me feeling mighty proud—and wasn’t pride a sin?
One day I made an exhilarating discovery. It was Saturday, our routine car-washing day. I brought out the green hose and laid it on the ground, waiting for the sunshine to make the vinyl pliable enough to unroll. Then I climbed into the car and fiddled with the radio controls. Of course there was only static; even so, I still enjoyed pressing the buttons and moving back and forth across the dial. Later, as I washed the front fender, I heard a voice coming from inside the car. I had inadvertently rested my hand on the sad little nub that was all that remained of the radio antenna. When I pulled my hand away, the sound of the radio died. I touched the nub again, and the voice came from the dashboard. I was a human antenna. Never has there been an inventor more thrilled with his discovery.
———
After several hours of forbidden entertainment, I smugly joined my family at lunch with no intention of revealing my discovery. But it wasn’t long afterward that Dad came into the house, bewildered. The car wouldn’t start. Dead battery, he thought. Oops. I knew the cause, but I would not be confessing. Instead, I noted that if my secret entertainment was to continue, I would have to start the engine occasionally to keep that battery charged.
Of course, it’s impossible to keep secrets of this magnitude for very long. I couldn’t resist passing on my knowledge to friends at church, and they also became human antennae and were thus exposed to evil worldly influences like Cleveland Indians baseball, sports shows, mind-corroding country music, and seductive beer jingles.
Unfortunately, one of us Mennonite Marconis was eventually busted, and the preachers discovered our secret. A new edict came forth: whenever a car was purchased, the entire radio must be removed. Cars in the church parking lot now sported gaping holes in the dash.
The new policy came too late—we had been exposed to the influences of the world. There was no return to our pre-radio innocence. I was further modernized when a cousin in great emotional distress offered to sell me his eight-transistor AM/FM radio. Evidently the preaching had convinced him of his sinfulness, and under deep conviction he offered me the offending device for six dollars.
This was even better than secret sin in the Pontiac. Best of all, I was now mobile. In the woods, behind the barn, even climbing trees—I was never without my connection to the outside world. Yes, I confess: I listened to every Indians game and knew all the country music tunes. On Friday and Saturday nights, I would hide downstairs in the fruit cellar to listen to the Grand Ole Opry from Nashville.
But the constant sermonizing against the wiles of the devil eventually prodded me into compliance, and I decided it was time to end my disobedience. My rehabilitated conscience contrived a plan to destroy the evil thing.
My father, now a bona fide Pontiac man, had traded the ’56 for a newer, bigger ’59. I was allowed to drive the car on our property. I decided to crush the tempting radio by backing over it with the Pontiac. After one farewell twirl through the dial, I laid the offensive thing in the gravel behind the rear wheel and proceeded to back over it. For good measure, I drove forward and then backed over the defenseless little radio again. The poor thing was now completely smashed. I picked it up, and the 9-volt battery dangled by two wires connecting it to the transistor board. The white plastic body was completely destroyed, but the guts of the radio still clung together, tenaciously grasping at survival. On a whim, I flipped the on button, and to my surprise the radio came to life. “It’s a miracle!” I yelped. “God must not hate this radio after all.”
That was the sign I needed. The radio had survived the crushing weight of a monster ’59 Pontiac, and thus it must not be wrong for me to keep it. So I did. I carried the wounded thing in a little box to keep all the parts together.
Besides worldly cars and poison-spewing radios, there were many other insidious evils out to destroy us. We heard constant warnings from the pulpit. Television, for example, was moving into more liberal Mennonite churches but was strictly forbidden in our congregation. Our minister heard of a Mennonite family that actually had a TV in their basement. He predicted it would just be a matter of time until that television climbed those basement steps and settled into the living room. “Sin is creeping in,” was his constant lament. He was right, of course, and by some mysterious power that TV did eventually climb those stairs. Those preachers were right just often enough that I wondered if maybe they actually did have a special spiritual insight.
Another pulpit prophecy concerned head coverings and women’s hairstyles. Our church taught that outward appearance was to set us apart from the world, but I observed that the ladies carried the burden of this nonconformity requirement. The men were hardly discernible from their worldly neighbors, but the women were obedient from head to toe, to the point of wrapping themselves like mummies. The ladies may have looked happy, but I always thought their hair was combed and bobby-pinned so tightly that their smiles were stretched into place. And over this tightly bound coiffure, every woman was required to wear a head covering.
Once again, the liberal Mennonites in the community proved the prophetic foresight of my preacher. He predicted that when women were allowed to wear their hair down, in no time the hair would be cut and head coverings would get smaller and smaller. What he failed to see was that coverings would disappear altogether in many Mennonite churches. Today when you visit Amish Country, you’ll witness an amalgamation of religious headgear of all shapes and sizes.
———
As I matured, I began questioning the teachings of the church. For example, the preacher talked often about inviting Jesus into our hearts. I was a literal thinker and just could not grasp such a concept. Would He bring a moving van and set up residence in my physical heart? I recalled a young man in our church who went to the altar to receive Jesus into his heart almost every time an altar call was made. What had happened to Jesus? Was it so easy to lose Jesus that you had to ask Him repeatedly to return to His heart-home?
And I was troubled by a new fear. Preachers talked about the second coming of Jesus. Even when I thought I finally understood the concept of Christianity, I was not quite ready to accept it and live it. Now I was hearing that Jesus could return the second time before I had even accepted Him the first time.
One night when I was sixteen, I drove alone to church. (Dad was generous with the car, as long as my destination was church.) A visiting minister from Nebraska was holding a series of revival meetings, and he was a real pulpit-pounder. That memorable night, my body was in the pew, but my mind managed to escape and went roaming around the outside world. A sharp rapping on the podium brought mind back to body at once. That preacher had knuckles of steel. I have never heard such a riveting sound as those knuckles rapping on the wooden podium. Then, grasping both sides of the podium, he leaned forward and nearly shouted, “Jesus is coming soon! Get ready! He may come back tonight!”
That preacher and his rapping knuckles managed to scare several of my friends into the kingdom, but I held out. As I drove home later, gripping the wheel with both hands, I looked nervously up into the night sky, expecting Jesus to burst through at any moment. I was scared. I begged Him not to come back just yet. I still wanted to experience a number of things, and I doubted that Jesus would want to be anywhere near my heart while I was testing life.
That first rainy, sleepless night on the AT, I reflected on the restrictions I still felt on my path to everlasting life. I had left my parents’ church and married a “liberal” Mennonite girl, who did indeed cut her hair and phase out her head covering. I owned a television and bought any kind of car I could afford. I went to Cleveland Indians games and even movies. I embraced Christianity in a form different from the conservative church’s. Yet still I felt precarious, on that balance beam, fearful of any misstep.
I had a vague expectation that the Appalachian Trail might lead me through experiences that would push out the tight boundaries of my life. In the
early hours of the morning, I made my resolution. On this trek, I would submerge myself in the traditions and life of the trail, and openly meet new thoughts and ideas.
And I would leave behind my lifelong traveling companion, Guilt.
A thud brought me out of fitful sleep. Marathon Man had deposited my food bag outside my tent. I was not ready to get up; even though I had slept little, my aching body was cozy and warm in the sleeping bag, and I could still hear rain bouncing off the tent cover.
Reluctantly, I unzipped the tent and stuck my head out to greet my second day on the trail. Rain and mist swirled through the small clearing. I moved my food bag into the tent and retreated again into the warmth of my sleeping bag. I knew the trail saying, “No rain, no Maine,” but my daydreams had painted a trail warmed with sunshine. I was not mentally prepared to hike in rain at the outset of my journey.
Voices broke the silence of the wet morning. Marathon Man and Lion King were collapsing their tents. Reluctantly, I shed the warm comfort of my sleeping bag and slipped into my rain gear.
After all those trial packings and unpackings as I prepared for the trail, I had decided to stow my tent at the bottom of my backpack. So this morning I stashed all my other belongings beside a tree, exposed to the rain, and as quickly as possible collapsed and folded Big Agnes, wiping off most of the water with a chamois cloth. Even so, I was still carrying an extra pound or two of moisture when I finally hoisted the full pack.
Lion King also had a restless night; his tent had not sealed properly and his sleeping bag was now waterlogged. “Happy April Fools’ Day,” I mumbled to myself. It was the first day of April, and only a fool would have quit a good job to hike out here in this rain.
Several climbs lay ahead of us that morning, but none appeared too difficult. Sassafras and Justus Mountains were both in the 3,300 foot elevation range. The trail would stay at an elevation of 2,500 to 3,700 feet until the following day, when towering Blood Mountain awaited us.
Although the trail was not muddy, the rain had created slippery conditions and I moved cautiously. Wet leaves and slick rocks waited everywhere to trip me up. In all my previous hikes in Zion and the Grand Canyon, I had never used hiking poles. Fortunately, my outfitting advisor had convinced me hiking poles were essential. The morning hike was barely under way, and the poles had already saved me from several tumbles; I silently thanked him for his advice.
On the path to Maine, the Appalachian Trail passes through six national parks and eight national forests. We were hiking through the first of the forests today, the Chattahoochee National Forest.
We tapped Lion King, the eldest in our group, as our leader. At seventy, he was the second-oldest hiker I’d encounter on my hike. He was also in incredible shape, and Marathon Man and I had to hustle to keep up with him.
Lion King had set his sights on Maine, and I wondered why he was on the trail. His answer was one I would hear numerous times during my hike. “My wife passed away recently, and I’m trying to find peace and healing.” Although this man owned several homes in Hawaii and was quite wealthy, his possessions and money mattered little now. In search of contentment, he had traveled across America, living out of his car. Finally the call of the trail brought him here, where he sought the healing that was so elusive. He carried a palpable sadness and loneliness, and I felt a kinship to his sorrow. His story was a reminder that the message I carried held universal truth. We spend a lifetime working hard to accumulate homes and possessions that we believe are vital for comfort and security, only to discover those material accumulations are quite meaningless in our darkest hour of sadness and need.
Another thing made us kindred spirits—Lion King had owned several restaurants, and so we both understood the demands of the business and knew the personal price paid for such a career. We chuckled over stories and commiserated over frustrations.
———
By noon we arrived at Gooch Mountain Shelter. Over 250 of these primitive structures are scattered at intervals along the trail. My small thru-hiker’s handbook showed each shelter’s location, many fairly close to the AT, some up to half a mile off the trail. Most are three-sided structures with a lean-to roof and an open front. When possible, the shelters were constructed near a spring or other water source and also offered the small luxury of a nearby privy. This early in the hiking season, the shelters would fill up early in the afternoon, especially on rainy days.
My guidebook said the Gooch Shelter was two hundred yards from the trail, with a spring nearby. Ready for a break, we settled on Gooch as a lunch stop. Just a short distance down a side trail, we found the small spring; fresh water bubbled out from beneath a rock formation. This part of Georgia had been very dry the past winter, and hikers were concerned about the availability of water. However, recent rains had filled every spring and small brook, and we never suffered lack of water in Georgia.
One of the greatest pleasures on the trail is that first drink of cold, filtered spring water. When you’ve hiked for hours, body aching and throat parched, nothing is better than the splash of that fresh water as you tip your bottle upward and coolness flows down your dry throat and refreshes both body and spirit.
Back at the shelter, I rummaged through my food bag for lunch. Breakfast had been one Pop-Tart. I’d never eaten a Pop-Tart before, but the picture on the wrapper had looked promising. It was not nearly as good as I had imagined.
A thru-hiker will burn anywhere from 5,000 to 7,000 calories a day, requiring intake of several pounds of food. My pre-hike calculations led me to believe that I could do with considerably fewer calories, since I was carrying those extra twenty pounds. Those calculations were in serious error, and I needed to adjust my calorie intake plan quickly.
———
While we relaxed on the shelter floor, a newcomer appeared. He had started his hike a day before ours, hiking the eight-mile approach trail. The newcomer introduced himself as hailing from Michigan, but I thought something about his speech pattern suggested that Michigan was not his original home. As we prepared to leave, he asked to join our group; none of us objected, so we now numbered four.
Solo or partner? It’s a key decision when planning a long-distance hike. There is no “best” way; each choice has advantages. Partnering with another hiker gives the obvious benefit of shared common items, such as tents and cooking equipment. That translates into less weight each hiker must carry. A hiking partner can ease the loneliness that lies in wait along the trail. But unless you choose a partner wisely, your partnership may not survive the trials and tribulations of a thru-hike. Suppose, for example, you wish to hike twenty miles in one day, but your partner is finished at ten?
Going solo can cause anxiety, but you’ll likely encounter fellow hikers with whom you are comfortable, and you’ll hike stretches together simply because the company is enjoyable. Many different personalities and characters walk the trail, everyone with a unique hiking style. You’ll welcome the company of some hikers; others will drive you crazy.
There are a few strategies to politely separate yourself from a hiker who makes you uncomfortable. One ploy is to drop back and hike so slowly that your unchosen partner initiates the separation himself, out of the frustration of waiting for you. Or, at the end of the day, when your unwanted companion is dead tired and has his tent already set up, kick into a jumping jack routine and declare that you’re not tired and are going to hike several more miles. If you’re close to town and need to resupply, the strategy might be to take a zero day. (A zero day on the trail is when a hiker does just that—zero miles.) That will put some distance between you and the offensive hiker. Sadly, a true hanger-on will probably also decide to take a zero with you. You may have to resort to honesty to gain your freedom, but sometimes even blunt truth goes unheeded. In such an extreme instance, you’ll have to bring out the ultimate weapon: a crazed look (practice this look in advance) will cross your face, and you’ll tell him, brokenly, that the many years spent in solitary confinement in pri
son turned you into a loner, unable to interact acceptably with other humans. You’ll be free of your hanger-on. You’ll also likely be free of any future personal interaction—the trail grapevine works its magic quickly.
I felt myself fortunate; I hiked with many different partners and never took offense if anyone hiked away from me. Although I had a definite mission and a goal to achieve, I also believed I could find joy in each mile of the journey; the many interesting personalities I encountered only added pleasure to my trek.
Our newcomer was approximately my age. His trail name was Sailor. “I’ve enjoyed sailing ever since I was a boy on Cape Cod,” he said. That explained the accent. It also took me back many years to several wonderful days Mary and I had spent exploring the coastline of Cape Cod, all the way to Provincetown at the very tip. Meeting Sailor and listening to that accent awakened many precious memories from a time long ago, when life seemed uncomplicated.
Sailor and I would hike together for the next 740 miles. I have no idea of his social status or if he was wealthy or broke. Social status does not matter in the woods and mountains. The trail is a great equalizer. We were all simply thru-hikers with a single goal: reach the summit of Mt. Katahdin, two thousand miles away. And although I knew nothing about Sailor’s bank account, I do know he was the richest man I met on the trail. Those riches were not dollars, but precious experiences on the AT with his family. Several times on his thru-hike, Sailor was met by his two sons who both hiked with him for extended periods. His wife hiked through New York with him. Those gifts of the trail cannot be measured in dollars.
Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail Page 4
