Mac considered the idea for a moment. “It’s the perfect trail for a boy his age. Not too strenuous and something to look forward to at the end. I can come pick him up early Saturday morning.”
“No, no. I’ll drive him to Dennison Springs, but could you bring him home?”
“That will be fine. Can you have him here at eight o’clock? It’s a full day’s outing.”
“Yes. Once Hunter finds out about this he will be wide awake by six-thirty.”
The mountains of north Georgia had been logged by timber companies around the turn of the century, and the massive old-growth timber that amazed the first settlers in the region was lost forever. However, with nature’s relentless persistence and the protection of the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, the forest was making a comeback, and there were groves of one-hundred-year-old trees atop the steep ridges and along the river valleys created by the Conasauga and Jacks Rivers. If left alone for another hundred years, the glory of the primeval, southern Appalachian forest might be restored to the region known as the Cohutta Wilderness. But Mac and Hunter couldn’t wait that long. Forty-five minutes after leaving Dennison Springs they bounced along on a gravel road that led toward the entrance to the wilderness area.
“How much farther is it?” Hunter asked through rattling teeth as they drove over a recently washed-out section of road that created a scrubboard effect of rapid bumps.
“You can’t drive sixty miles per hour on this road. Average speed is about fifteen, and we have ten miles to go before we reach the trailhead.”
“About forty-five minutes?” Hunter asked in a few seconds.
“Yeah,” Mac said with an approving look. “We should be there in another forty-five minutes.”
Their first view of the river was from an old iron bridge. Mac slowed to a stop in the middle of the span, and they listened to the sound of water rushing over and around the rock-filled stream.
“In the spring and summer, people will come from all over to fish along here,” Mac said.
“It doesn’t look very deep.”
“That’s because the water is so clear. Several times I’ve stepped off a rock thinking the water was a few inches deep and found out it was two feet deep.”
“Will we wade across the river on the hike?”
“No, only cross a few little tributaries that are very shallow. If you’re careful you won’t even get your feet wet.”
Fifteen trails crisscrossed the wilderness. One of the most popular followed the river basin for fourteen miles and required hikers and backpackers to wet their thighs forty times at fords along the rocky waterway. If a summer thunderstorm dumped a quick inch or two of rain, the river could become impassable in a matter of minutes, stranding hikers for hours until the water receded.
Mac had chosen a much easier access route for Hunter. Pulling into the parking lot for the Beech Bottom Trail, he set the emergency brake on the truck.
“Last stop for civilization. It’s a four-mile hike from here to the falls.”
Hunter grabbed his backpack from behind the seat in the truck.
“One rule of the trail is never carry anything you don’t need,” Mac said.
Putting down the gate on the old pickup, he put his pack on it and motioned for Hunter to do the same.
“Whose pack do you want to check out first? Mine or yours?” he asked.
“Let’s do one thing from yours and one from mine,” Hunter said.
“Okay. Water bottle.” Mac pulled out a thirty-two-ounce water bottle.
“Water bottle.” Hunter had a smaller one.
“Trail map.”
“Compass.”
“Two apples,” Mac said.
“Three apples,” Hunter responded. “I think I can eat three.”
“If you carry them, you can eat them. Four granola bars.”
“Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
Mac held up the plastic bag containing the sandwich, which was neatly cut into four squares. “Good-looking sandwich. Could I trade you a granola bar for one of these squares?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Hunter said.
“No pressure. Extra pair of socks in case I slip into the stream.”
“My mom made me bring an extra pair of socks, too.”
“Your mom is a smart woman. University of Georgia hat.”
“University of Tennessee hat.”
Mac cringed at the sight of the offensive orange cap. “Do you have another hat?”
“No, sir. I like Tennessee. I watched the game on TV a few weeks ago when they beat Georgia.”
“We won’t talk about that here on neutral territory. I’ll do my best to tolerate the hat. Half-used roll of toilet paper.”
“My mom said you would bring some toilet paper.”
“What else?”
“I have my knife.”
Mac inspected the red-handled pocketknife. The edge was shiny. “Did you sharpen it yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. It has a lock blade.”
The little boy pulled out a backpacker’s poncho stuffed into a bag the size of a man’s hand. “Plastic poncho.”
“I forgot my poncho. I hope it doesn’t rain.”
“I also brought a little boat to float in the river.”
“We’d better leave that behind. It would get away from us and end up along the bank downstream. I’ve also brought some twine and a few feathers.”
“Why?”
“In case we need to trade with the Indians.”
“No, tell me.”
“You’ll see later. Anything else?”
“I have eight homemade chocolate-chip cookies.” Hunter showed the bag to Mac, whose mouth watered.
“Okay.”
“Four for me and four for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Aunt Jean made extra.”
“Do you want me to carry the cookies in my pack?” Mac asked.
“That’s okay. They’re not heavy.”
“All I have left is a water purifier,” Mac said. “We will drink the water in our bottles and then get some from the river.”
“We can’t drink the water in the river?” Hunter asked. “I thought you said it was clean.”
“It’s clear but not safe to drink. I’ll show you how the purifier works.”
“That’s all.”
“Good job. Let’s go.”
Beech Bottom Trail wound southeast along an old roadbed. Multicolored leaves still covered many of the limbs, and Mac pointed out the different types of trees and the resulting variations in color. Birch, yellow poplar, several varieties of oak, basswood, maple, and hickory trees lined the trail and paraded up the hillside to the left and stair-stepped down the slope to the right. After walking gently downhill for half an hour, they climbed sharply up and followed the path as it hopped from hilltop to hilltop. Mac loved ridge trails, especially in winter when the trees were bare and the view in two directions unobstructed by leaves.
“Break time,” Mac said.
Sitting on a log, they drank some water and each ate an apple.
“I’m thirsty. It’s a good thing you brought your water thing,” Hunter said.
“The purifier? Without it we’d have to use iodine tablets to kill the bacteria and germs.”
Once they resumed their hike, the trail began a long gradual descent to the river. Hunter stayed beside Mac and matched his pace.
Mac limped slightly.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Hunter asked.
“It aches every so often but not enough to keep me home.” Mac stopped. “Listen.”
They stood still. As the rustle of the leaves died down, Mac asked, “Do you hear it?”
Hunter looked through the trees. “I hear something. What is it?”
“The waterfall. We won’t be there for another forty-five minutes, but you can hear it from here.”
It took another thirty minutes to reach Beech B
ottom, the trail’s namesake and the site of an old homestead that had been abandoned for many years. The wooden buildings had long ago served as supper for woodland termites, and the forest had reclaimed most of the evidence of man’s intrusion.
“In the spring, daffodils planted by a rugged pioneer woman more than one hundred years ago bloom here,” Mac said.
Not far from the homestead, they crossed two tiny streams by stepping from rock to rock.
“It’s not far now,” Mac said.
In fifteen minutes they stood on the banks of the river. The Jacks River was really a large mountain stream, no more than thirty to forty feet wide and four to five feet deep. There were a few pools over a man’s head, but in most spots the stream could be crossed by someone not intimidated by the prospect of risking a spill on the slick rocks.
Mac and Hunter followed a trail along the river for half a mile to their destination—the Jacks River Falls. They left the trail and climbed up on a large rock.
“That’s it,” Mac said.
“I can feel the spray on my face from here,” Hunter responded.
The scene wouldn’t rival Livingston’s first glimpse of Victoria Falls on the Zambezi, but for an Appalachian mountain river, the explosive twenty-five-foot freefall of water between two massive boulders was worth the three-hour trek. Other hikers were spread out on the surrounding rocks, enjoying the sun and the scenery. Mac let Hunter select a resting place on a large boulder above the falls. They took off their backpacks and sat down so they could watch the river as it rocketed down the steeply ridged gorge. No place on earth was more beautiful to Mac than a mountain stream in the woods.
“Do you have enough water?” he asked Hunter.
“Yes. I’ll need more after we eat.”
They unpacked all the food. Mac was about to bite into a granola bar when Hunter asked, “Are you going to pray?”
“Sure. Take off your hat.”
Mac started to close his eyes but changed his mind. Hunter’s brown head was bowed. Mac looked up into the clear sky and said, “God, thank you for this place you created. Thank you for this food. Thank you for Hunter. Keep him safe. Amen.”
Hunter started eating his sandwich, but Mac sat still, suddenly remembering another crisp fall day many years before when he sat on a nearby rock with two brown-haired boys and watched them eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Forgotten memories bubbled to the surface. They too had walked Beech Bottom trail together, stopped on the hillside to listen for the distant roar of the waterfall, and talked for a minute at the old homestead. Mac and Ben made it across the two little streams, but Zach had slipped and soaked a pair of old tennis shoes. When they reached the falls, Zach took off his shoes and socks, laid them on a warm rock to dry, and wiggled his white toes in the sun.
Mac watched his boys that day and wondered what they would become, what paths they would follow, what mountains they would climb, where the river of life would take them. He even wondered if someday he would bring grandsons and granddaughters down the familiar trail and point out the places he had first shown their fathers.
His loss was more than he could bear.
Mac turned away from Hunter and looked upstream. Eighteen years earlier he had not foreseen the Niagara-like precipice that would sweep his family to sudden destruction. What would he have done differently if he had known that death lay in ambush only a few years in the future? Could he have done anything? Was it all his fault? Tears stung his eyes. Grief was not unfamiliar to him, but it had a thousand different faces. Today, it pierced his soul through memories triggered by the brown head of a little boy on the rocks above Jacks River Falls. Was there no healing for inner wounds by the balm of time? Who could blame him if he chose to stop the pain?
“I’ll trade you a square of my sandwich for a granola bar.” The boy’s voice called him back.
Pretending to squint into the sun, Mac turned around and handed Hunter a granola bar and received the sticky sandwich. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely.
They ate in silence. When they finished, Mac refilled their water bottles with cold water pumped quickly through his purifier. Leaving the rock, they walked a few hundred yards downstream. Mac stopped beside the trail.
“Let me use your knife for a minute,” he said.
He cut a three-foot section of a slender sapling, sat down beside the path, and sliced notches in each end of the flexible piece of wood.
“What are you making?” Hunter asked.
“You’ll see.”
Unzipping his backpack, he took out the piece of twine and looped a hitch around one end of the stick.
“A bow and arrow,” Hunter said.
“That’s right. While I finish the bow, you look for some straight sticks for arrows.”
Hunter returned with various sticks, some straighter than others, and Mac selected the three best ones. He let Hunter sharpen one end of each stick and showed him how to cut slits for the feathers. Nearby was a deserted campsite that offered an open space for target practice. They took turns trying to hit a large poplar tree and a bear-size rock.
“This is neat,” Hunter said after hitting the “bear” in the hindquarters.
“The feathers are the key. They don’t seem important, but they keep the arrows on a straight flight.”
“My mom could make a lesson out of that.”
“What would she say?” Mac asked.
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”
“Speaking of your mom, it’s time to start back so I can take you home.”
They retraced their steps to the waterfall and climbed steadily out of the river valley. Hunter didn’t stay as close to Mac on the return journey. This was familiar territory to him now, and he would run ahead, shoot an arrow or two, and wait for Mac to catch up. He lost one arrow but found two more sticks, and when they stopped for a drink, Mac helped him outfit two new arrows.
It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the truck and jerked and bumped down the road to civilization. Once they reached a paved road, Mac stopped at a country store and bought Hunter a snack and drink. The owner also worked as a taxidermist, so the store was filled with animals trapped or killed in the nearby forests. Hunter asked question after question.
The sun had set by the time they reached Chattanooga, and a tired Hunter, his hand wrapped around his best arrow, was asleep with his head on the seat next to Mac. Pulling into the driveway, Mac gently shook him.
“Wake up, you’re home.”
Hunter stretched. Mac carried the boy’s backpack and followed him into the garage and then into the kitchen.
“I’m home,” Hunter called.
Anna greeted Hunter with a hug and Mac with a smile.
“Come in.”
Hunter showed her his bow and began describing the trip. When he finished, he said, “Thanks, Mr. McClain.” He ran upstairs to show his bow and arrows to Jean.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Anna asked.
“No, thanks. I need to go home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Another time. I enjoyed Hunter.”
“Thanks for giving him a day to remember.”
Mac’s face grew serious. “I hope he has this memory for a long, long time.”
24
Great is thy faithfulness.
LAMENTATIONS 3:23 (KJV)
Mac had programmed his VCR to record the Georgia football game while he was on the hike with Hunter. After he fed and watered Flo and Sue, he watched the first two quarters of the contest before his eyelids grew heavy. He fast-forwarded to the last two minutes of the fourth quarter. His beloved Bulldogs won on a last-second field goal, and he rolled into bed, determined to go to Sunday school in the morning.
Mac’s Sunday school class turned out en masse wearing their triumphant red jackets. It was a joyful time. Mac decided not to skip the eleven o’clock church service, and as he sat in the pew before the start of the service, he thought about David Moreland’s claim th
at God communicated with him.
Of course, Mac had his doubts about David’s theories, but he decided to give the Almighty an opportunity to speak to him during the next hour. God, he said internally, I’m listening.
The minister of Poplar Avenue Presbyterian Church was Reverend Archibald Faircloth, a jovial, bearded man from Wilmington, North Carolina. Everyone who knew the minister called him Archie. Reverend Faircloth didn’t fit his looks or his personality, and no one had called him Archibald since his mother summoned him into the house for a spanking when he was eight.
The church bulletin on the pew beside Mac announced that today’s sermon, “Tasting God,” would be based on Psalm 34:1–8. Mac listened to the minister read the Scripture passage with special emphasis on verse 8— “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” To Mac, the concept of tasting God was as ephemeral as a bag of cotton candy at the county fair.
After several minutes of background information, Archie asked the question of the morning. “How do you taste and see that the Lord is good?” He then gave a number of possible answers, including the opinions of two famous theologians whose names were completely unfamiliar to Mac. Continuing, he said, “I’ve thought about this question myself, and although my purpose this morning is not to criticize the ideas of other people, their explanations of this verse left me, shall I say, still hungry.
“Let me ask a personal question. It’s not designed to shock you but to give you a perspective. Did your mother try to poison you at the dinner table when you were growing up? If so, raise your hand.” He waited but had no takers. “No, you trusted your mother’s cooking because you knew that no one loved and cared for you more than she did. She fed you good food, and, for the most part, what she fed you tasted good and established preferences that remain with you today.
“It’s the same with the Lord. Some of you view God with as much desire as you did Brussels sprouts when you were a child. ‘There’s no way I’m putting that slimy green thing in my mouth. It’ll kill me.’” A few laughs came from the pews. “Now, I won’t debate the flavor of Brussels sprouts with you this morning, but I am asking you not to believe any lies about how the presence of God will taste to your soul. You can trust your Creator to give you something good more than the most loving earthly mother. Open your spiritual mouth and say, ‘Come in, Lord Jesus.’ Taste, and you will see that he is very, very good.
The Trial Page 20
