A Family Christmas
Last year I started a tradition for myself. Since I have no family near where I live and Christmas is such a family time, I hike a long trail on Christmas and think of everyone I meet as my family. Last year, it was the Appalachian Trail from Newfound Gap to Charlies Bunion and back. This year it was the popular Alum Cave to LeConte Lodge trail.
Not too many days ago Alum Cave trail was covered in ice above the bluff, but warmer temperatures created no need for micro spikes, even though I carried them just in case. Technically a challenging trail, it is five miles from the parking lot in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park to the Lodge. The first almost half of the journey is a very popular destination—to Alum Cave Bluff. So, the parking lot is almost always full and the trail busy below this area. There is an elevation gain of 2661 feet from the trail head to the Lodge. It’s hard. Even below the bluff, it’s challenging and only gets more so past the bluff. But enough of the technical details.
There’s usually a good many solo hikers on Christmas Day. I especially feel compassion for them because I understand being alone and wanting to do something fun and beautiful to enrich my life on a day that can be challenging to be alone. So, I’m not alone. They are not alone.
On yesterday’s hike, it was a global family I met. Many languages were heard…English, Russian, Spanish, Thai, Japanese, Hindi, and others. Solo hikers, couples, and large families shared the trail. There were Christmas sweaters, Christmas hats, jingle bells, new shoes and boots (evidenced by lack of muddiness on a very muddy trail), and a sense of joy and happiness with everyone. No matter what holiday people celebrated or the spiritual tradition they followed, everyone shared this season of light with smiles.
Folks ascending from Alum Cave Bluff to LeConte Lodge are often tourists and don’t understand the challenges of the steep, rugged, rocky, strenuous trail. They start later in the day and with shorter, winter days, don’t realize how dangerous that can be. Temperatures drop, the sun sets early, and cell phones aren’t dependable lights for a descent through rough terrain in the dark.
On my way down yesterday, I started at 12.30pm from the Lodge. It wasn’t as crowded yesterday, but there were several people hiking up. Many of them stopped me and asked how far it was to the top. I always take time to chat because many are not prepared. One young woman had a large water bottle but was shocked to learn there’s no water available during the off season as guest services are shut off. So she’d have no water coming down the five miles. She was trying to decide if she should try to make it to Myrtle Point, an observation point past the lodge. We discussed her options and resources. A young couple asked me how far it was to the lodge and if could they make it. I asked them questions about their provisions and the important questions: do you have a flashlight and water? They wanted to know why about the light. By then, it was nearing 2pm and they were an hour away from the Lodge. That gave them 2 hours to get down the trail. It takes me 2 ½ hours to get down the trail and I’m very familiar with it. I asked them if they were prepared to hike down in the dark. Gently, of course. But they were my family, so I wanted them to be safe.
And so, the afternoon went as I descended through clouds. Saying hello, wishing folks a Merry Christmas, and enjoying my family Christmas hike.
There’s the family we are born into, the friends that become family along the way, and then there’s the global family that isn’t defined by boundaries, languages, spiritual practices, or rules. We are one human family.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the family of trees and rocks and creeks that we are all part of. So to those large hemlocks, spruce, and fir trees that remind me every time I’m on this trail to slow down…I love you and am glad to be part of your family. To the rocks that glisten in rain or snow, thanks for being part of my family. To the mountains, who provide life for all of this beauty…I’m so grateful to be part of your family. The red squirrels who chitter and chatter, I love you brothers and sisters. To the ravens that call out as they soar between ridges….I love you winged ones. All the deer and bears that are shy and usually hide, I know you are there and am grateful to be part of your family. To the grasses and flowering plants, the rhododendrons and mountain laurel, thank you for letting me sit at your table of abundant beauty.
King of the Forest
He burst around a bend in the trail, running full speed, and skidded to a stop 15 feet from me. Our eyes locked. His were wide and filled with fear. His sides heaved as his breath came in deep pants. He was soaked, dripping with water or sweat, I couldn’t tell. Long strings of drool dripped from his mouth as his antlers crowned his magnificent head.
It was obvious something had been chasing him. And I was in his way. He took two steps toward me and lowered his antlers a bit. I calmly said, “It’s okay. I’m not who’s trying to hurt you. Run on. Go fast.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and then leaped down the steep mountainside.
I stood there listening to him move through the woods and creek below. Maybe three minutes later, I heard dogs barking. As they came closer, I started yelling at them. Of course that did nothing to stop them. They were huge, black dogs and even though I caused them to pause, they doubled back and ran on. When they picked up his scent, they screamed their barks and crashed through the creek far below.
Fury arose in me. This is a national park. Hunting is illegal, so is running dogs through it. These dogs didn’t have collars, like the usual hunting dogs have that run through the park terrorizing wildlife. I don’t know what they were except hell-bent on catching the deer.
I was almost two miles from my car, so couldn’t help the deer by running back to call for a ranger. I hoped the eight-point buck outwitted the dogs. How I hoped that, for him and his potential descendants.
Even now, many hours after the encounter, I feel that buck’s fear–but more than that–I feel his strength and stamina, his defiance as he stepped towards me, and then his trust that I wasn’t his enemy.
When faced with a panicked, wild animal, I never know how I will react, but some higher part of me stepped in to connect with the buck. I didn’t have time to feel afraid. I had to reassure him that I was no threat…quickly…but encourage him to keep moving because whatever was chasing him was surely coming.
The experience awakened some strength in me that rose above fear. The deer and I connected profoundly in those moments. He gifted me with something I feel deeply in my bones, but I struggle to assign words to. I am wilder, stronger, smarter, wiser for the momentary communion with this king of the forest.
Can’t Fight Gravity
Perfect stillness. That was my experience as I laid under a clear sky with stars, planets, galaxies, and nebula sparkling overhead. The air was still. The woods were still. Not a crackle in the leaves from animals on their night journeys. I was still. At peace. Calm from my core.
A little over a year ago I started using a Seestar telescope, which is an amazing gadget that takes images of deep space objects without complicated setups with regular telescopes and cameras. And the images turn out fine for what I want. It was easy learning to use it with the help of YouTube and a little study. What wasn’t easy was learning how to be still and patient as the telescope gathered photons. And I was shocked at my discomfort.
I’ve photographed the night sky for decades, but in the last year took my passion for nocturnal sky adventures to a deeper level. At first, a five minute image was a stretch as I wanted to explore more and see more and jump to the next target. But then, as I learned to sink into myself deeper, I became fascinated with the details that an hour-long image revealed. Or gasp, an even longer exposure.
My skills for landscape astrophotography have expanded as well. I started programming my camera remote and setting it up with a lens warmer (to prevent dewy fogging) and power bank and let my Nikon capture star trails as the Earth rotates. As the camera and little telescope do their thing, I’ve learned to be still.
By relaxing and observing the night sky, I’ve seen amazing meteors that I would have missed had I been staring at my screen, looking for the next target to image. But more than that, I’ve seen a calmer side of myself that I really, really like.
Earth rotates making the stars and planets appear to move and what I’ve learned to do is let this magnificent planet carry me without trying to force myself to go faster or fight against gravity. As if. Who else out there on this spinning blue sphere has tried to defeat gravity by operating at break-neck speed with your mind? When we do that, we live in a constant fight with space and time. And I think we all know what will win.
Last night I celebrated the stars, planets, galaxies, nebula, and the surrender to stillness…to gravity…I’ve found within myself. And it felt really good.
Music of the Spheres
I walked up the rocky hill in blackness. Only a dimmed light pointed at my feet kept me on the path. In the distance I could hear the Atlantic Ocean pounding the cliffs. Rabbits skittered out of the way and cows appeared from the inky night, barely illuminated by the muted light. I was alone, but not really.
The trail was wet and slippery as I neared the arch in the rock wall. I paused to request permission to enter the 5000 year old stone fort and felt no resistance to my being there. I turned off the faint light, walked through the threshold, and felt myself enter a different dimension, one ruled by elemental beings.
The inner circle whispered a welcome, so I walked through the lush grass and found a place to lay down in the center. The only human-created light was a buoy offshore that warned of the cliffs. Dark sky magic weaved me into its spell. But it wasn’t just the stars and planets overhead that awed me, it was everything: Earth Mother anchoring me, wild wind, waves pounding the cliff, and fire of the stars.
As I rested on my back, I felt the reverberation of the ocean through the ground as it shook the bluff. It was as if every blade of grass was vibrating the story of the sea as it embraced the shore of Inis Mor, Ireland. Sky and Earth spiraled through me as I opened to the beauty.
Old metal fence pipes, with holes drilled into them, became flutes for the wind as they stood as sentinels just outside the fort. We are like those ‘flutes,’ available to be instruments of love and light if we simply open and avail ourselves to light, to love, to the Music of the Spheres.
I think Pythagoras had it right when he said the movements of the celestial bodies create a divine, inaudible harmony. The only thing I disagree with is the inaudible part. For times like this morning, when I was reclined under the late night/pre-dawn sky here in the Smoky Mountains, I hear that harmony as it arises within me as a reflection from the heavens.