A Long Uphill Ahead
8/8-11/2016: My first backpack trip after retirement in March, 2016. It was a wonderful and beautiful trip. The next-to-last day I hiked 23 miles. I should have slowed down and smelled the roses. Next time…
Full report of this trip can be found here.
Marg’s Notes: Marg was still working.
Rod’s Ramblings from the Trail:
Pondering on the Sisters Loop
This is my hardest ponderment, simply because there is a lot to say – to ponder – but I am not sure how to say it or, honestly, even what I want to say. It’s brewing, I suppose, and as Marguerite well knows, sometimes things take a very long time to brew in my head – my head, in particular. I suppose, sometimes, you just say what is on your mind and let the truth of the matter find its own path, its own end.
“Well, this hurts,” I told myself on about mile 21 of my 23-mile day. “What am I doing this for?” I didn’t mean the hiking; I meant the 23-mile day. Sure, it was only supposed to be 19, but that was also a long way. Why? Why do I have to go so far and so hard? Isn’t there a trite little thing: stop and smell the roses? Yeah, maybe I should do that…but it’s getting dark; better keep moving.
Certainly, the day had afforded a bunch of nice roses: Wickiup Plains, obsidian flows, little Reese Lake, lava-field passes, long views, snow fields, pure water, stunning flowers, and mountains, mountains, mountains. Yep, a bunch of roses indeed. Stop. Take a picture. Take a bite to eat and a drink of water. Move on. Gotta get there…where?
And that’s the thing: Where? Technically, yep, gotta find a place to sleep. But that really isn’t that big of a deal: find a flat spot off the trail, pitch the tent and go to sleep. I did that the previous night and only had my stomach growls to contend with. But tonight would be my last night of this trip; the more miles today, the fewer (and easier) tomorrow. I wanted to keep on going, to take that next step, over and over and over – fewer tomorrow. Why?
And that’s the bigger thing: Why? I know why; I know exactly why: each step I take puts me closer to home; closer to my friend. I miss my friend.
But if I am always going home, to my friend, then why even take the journey?
It is not important to do great things, but it is important that the things we do, we do with great love
No, that is not my own, but from Pencils of Promise author Adam Braun.
I do tend to chat people up a lot on the trail. I am curious about their trips, where they are coming from, where they are going to, how many bears they have seen and what their base weight is. Those questions can start all kinds of conversation. Thru hikers don’t often like to talk much though; they are in a hurry.
I’ve wanted to do great things. No, hiking the PCT is not a great thing; it is a cool thing, something I still want to do (although I am once again recovering from an injury), but not great. What makes great? Why is a person great? My ponderment, my realization, during the Sisters Loop hike was just that: why are some people great? Is there something that I can do that is great?
Truly, greatness is in the eyes of the beholder. So, I, as the beholder and the only one to ponder with during my hike, wrestled with those questions. I tried to break it down starting with, who is “great” to me?
At first, I thought, well, to be great you have to have a far-reaching effect. Of course, having time and miles on my hands, I pondered ‘far-reaching.’ My thinking, as usual, spiraled out of control and I would lose my train of thought – I do that a lot. Where was I? Who is great to me?
Small – in the eyes of the world in general – people have played the largest roles – in the eyes of this beholder – in my life and I suspect yours. For me, the top of the list includes Dad, Mom, Mammaw (grandma) Lewis, Mammaw Roberson, Aunt Leora, Mammaw Newman, my father-in-law, my high school freshman basketball coach, Steve, my first-grade teacher, and my Fiji Parents. And I would guess that the world in general does not know them. No, they are my village, my mentors, my…
Dad helped me make a model car, took me fishing, and held my hand.
Mom kissed the wounds and held my hand double hard when dad no longer could.
Mammaw Newman (I had three Mammaws) took me up, held me in her country-strong arms and told me to “Pray for your daddy, honey,” while mom sped away to the hospital that first time.
Mammaw Lewis loved and lost so hard and so much that it finally broke her.
Mammaw Roberson held my jar of fireflies, gazed at the jar, then to me, smiled, and said, “God sure does make beautiful miracles.” I realized years later just what she meant.
Aunt Leora (Mammaw Roberson’s sister) who taught me how to squeeze in beside a plump old woman (her), take a bunch of green beans, plop them in my lap and string and snap them, and then join her and Mammaw Roberson in a truly bumpy version of the Old Rugged Cross. She smiled a lot.
My revered freshman basketball coach, Coach Rice, who patiently earned my respect and that of every player on his team, making us a better team than we probably were.
Steve, the best (guy) friend I ever had, lounging so long ago on the hood of his car at the sewer treatment plant, pondering the stars, drinking beer. I told him he was the best friend I ever had. He said, “maybe, but someday you will find your lady; she will be your best friend.” He was right – wise then, as he is now.
Seva and Paulina Tabua, my second (maybe third) dad and mom in Fiji, who joked with me about sneaking a smoke and drinking Yagona while my friend slept on the floor of their home in Nayavu Village.
The night of my wedding to my friend, I was standing outside, alone, wishing my dad was here to see my new bride, missing him as much as I ever had. My father-in-law, Win, stepped into the light, I walked to him, lay my head on his shoulder and cried as hard as I ever have. He told me later that he thought, “Wow, I have a son.” I was thinking, “Wow, I have a dad again.”
Those quiet moments are moments for all of us, not just me, we all have them. They are stories waiting to be written, said or, perhaps, just remembered. But they are the stories made possible by great people, usually small, great people, but none greater to me, to you, than they.
We all have that group that, when we think hard on it, we know they are the ones that influenced our lives the most, regardless of how large they are in the eyes of the world.
All these people did what they did “with great love.” The things they did may not have been great, but perhaps they were. To me, there are no greater people than them (and a few others that I just didn’t share).
Created: 2023