20 Miles Later

I have a few blisters on my left foot from the last part of the hike. But the first 17 miles went really well! Becky coordinated a backpacking trip with Katie and Mindy (professionals compared to me!) and myself this weekend. On Friday afternoon we were just getting our bags packed, and my Friday evening we were still crawling along in traffic making our way to Port Clinton. We did not start hiking until 8:30pm! A thunderstorm had just finished, and the sky was clear as could be as we made an ascent up switchbacks to inaugurate our fresh beginning. Two miles later, headlamps illuminated and sweat pouring from...everywhere, we set up camp at the top of the ridge, a mile before the next spring. Becky managed to get a modest fire going after struggles. Later, we packed the food in the bear bag, only then realizing that we had far more than enough food for four people and three days. We needed two bear bags. And we were too tired to actually hoist them. So we set them far off, and laid down beneath the stars. Becky and I hastily set up the tent beside our tarp, just in case someone might chicken out through the night, and seek more secure lodgings.

Saturday was beautiful. The breeze blew as we made our way out around 9:30. It was a good thing we got moving that early, because we had a pretty strenuous hike ahead: at least 10 miles (we never were quite sure), and lots of it uphill. The trail grew rockier and rockier. We stopped at Pulpit Rock. I thought it was the Pinnacle at first, not sure how anything could be grander, but no: the Pinnacle and our lunch stop still lay 2.4 miles ahead, according to the other hikers about. And there were plenty of other hikers around on Saturday and Sunday. I don't know if ya'll have noticed, but it's been raining nonstop this June! This was the first suitable weekend for backpacking, and everyone and their dog was taking advantage of it. Having reached the Pinnacle, we stopped for an hour's rest to eat lunch. I pulled out George MacDonald for the first time on the trip. What a lovely hour. Hawks soared at my feet in a blue sky that reached the whole way to another range of mountains. The sun warmed my back after the breeze had chilled it, and I guarded my peeling (no longer red) legs in the shade of the protruding maze of rocks, trying not to think much about the rattlesnake spotted just down the trail. After the Pinnacle, Saturday ended in a beautiful three miles of spacious trail with few rocks. Katie was relieved most, having only brought trail runners. Her feet were howling and we were ready to eat again. That night we ate as much of our supply as we could: rice and beans, mashed potatoes, hot dogs, s'mores, I'm not even kidding.

Sunday, we had little idea what the trail looked like ahead. The guidebook became somewhat more vague, and the mileage ahead was also questionable. Even so, we did not leave our campsite before we had consumed a multi-course brunch: oranges, muffins (baked in the orange rinds), oatmeal, pudding (made with french vanilla creamer and water), granola, this is not a joke.

Sunday's first miles were smooth. Then we climbed steeply, not descending often, but coming to ridges only to ascend again. Soon my right knee started to be painful during descents, a dull aching at first. I am mostly convinced that it was just tired. But we were not simply going to set up camp; we were going to keep going, and so was my knee. It only grew angrier, though, apparently deaf to all inner pleading, so I began to plead outwardly. I'm sorry to say that I started to cry during our last descent. We took a break, and my companions all took various objects from my pack, and the pack itself. During this interlude, a fellow about our age was climbing up the same trail, a guitar visible from his pack. We all had enough time to joke about him playing me a song to make me feel better before he was within hearing range. Upon seeing our distress, he offered whatever help he could, his hand down the mountain, reassurance that our goal was not too far; even his mobile number, in case we should suddenly have need of it; he offered everything, that is, except to play a song. In the end, Mindy and I headed down the mountain arm in arm, Becky and Katie gerryrigged my pack to Becky's pack, and the mountain minstrel continued on his kind way up the mountain. He had lifted our spirits; just what we needed. The way up the River of Rocks trail was arduous, I daresay a good deal more arduous for my companions with the added weight. I limped blithely along, admiring the river bed that was made of nothing but large rocks. I kept thinking about what it would be like to encounter a "river" actually made of moving, flowing rocks. Painful, probably. We played the word association game. We counted steps. We counted rocks. We drank water. And more water. And still we had more up to go. When we saw cars above us, we took heart. With more water and one last, steep push upward we arrived at a third lookout (not rivaling the Pinnacle, but probably worth the seven bucks they charge at the entrance, through which we left, and so were not charged.) Our elation was visible. It may have scared the little children, actually, with their kind parents, out to enjoy the Sunday afternoon, to be set upon by four boisterous, unshowered hikers who had never been more satisfied to reach their destination.

A few minutes later, our packs safely smelly in Mindy's trunk, rain began in a short, earnest burst. Thank you, Lord, for holding onto the rain's tail just long enough not to endanger our adventure!

Boston in June

I left early Friday morning, the 12th, and drove to BWI and flew to see Lisa and Chris in Boston. I haven't often had the opportunity to travel alone, but I prefer it to the larger group traveling I've done. This is so much less complicated, and there's less cushioning--the insulation of a group can dull the experience of travel. I took the T into the city, that is, the Boston public transportation system, specifically the subway, I think. I had no trouble finding their office building near the Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus. I took the elevator up 12 floors, carrying my backpack, dressed in a purple sweatshirt, sneakers and jeans with holes. As I tried in vain to fix my hair in the reflective walls, the guy in the elevator asked if I was going to an interview. "Dressed like this?! I would hope not!" I replied. Lisa and Chris said that that is normal attire for the people in their building, and the interviewers in the vicinity don't look more favorably on less comfortable, dressier interview outfits, so it's just as well to dress casually. Culture.

I spent the morning finding breakfast around Northeastern University, and the afternoon in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Most of the artwork in my art history textbook from last fall was taken from the BMFA, so I had a certain familiarity with the works. It was like seeing old friends, whose names I mostly didn't remember...

After four hours in the museum, I had seen most of what there was to see, and I was tired. So I searched for a nice bench to nap on in the warm sunlight. I found a beautiful rose garden instead. Dozens of rose bushes in full bloom. Dozens. The rain had just ceased an hour ago, and the sun shone bright on the wet petals, filling the air with perfume that is not for sale.

I slept on a bench later, near Lisa's office building, in the midst of a Filipino cultural celebration. Great music. I explored the MIT bookstore then met up with Lisa for coffee. We waited for Chris then headed all together to Wellesley, two train rides outside the city. We ate Thai Friday night, and I enjoyed Thai iced tea (!).

Saturday, I added another state to my "visited" list: we drove to Connecticut for their haircuts and a visit to Chris' parents. It just so happens that Connecticut is absolutely beautiful, like Massachusetts, although my acquaintance is still limited to what I could see from the highways, between sunny naps and intriguing conversation. The rest of the weekend was peppered with watching Firefly episodes (I admit it! I'm a fan. A big fan. There.) and eating Chris' gourmet cooking. Their church was beautiful and pristine, built in that square meetinghouse fashion that I will always associate with New England. The parishioners were kind, and the service was short.

On a walk, we talked about the Twilight series, which I have not read yet, and Chris finally vocalized what I have suspected for some time: the books are compelling, but not particularly well written; Edward Cullen has every quality of an emotionally abusive boyfriend; Stephanie Meyer might do well to examine her ideals in relationships, as she seems to write unaware of Edward's frightening qualities, vampire-status notwithstanding.

It was so good to talk to Lisa face-to-face.

Together

Your hands look like they could use the company of my own.
I will bring them from your sides and hold them.
Then tell you to hold me tight.
Closer than you think you should.
Doesn't that fit just right?
I could get used to this, if you could.
Maybe forever.
Is this a bad time for such words?
With so many places to go, things to see, yourself to learn?
But I think it will be just fine
to keep
these hands together,
as we wander together.

Red Legs

Monday, my housemates and I went to Cape Henlopen and thoroughly loved every minute of it! That is, excluding the scalding showers. I mean, children were crying, they were so hot. But the beach is beautiful, and the sky was blue and clear. We saw dolphins just yards from where we were swimming, and the waves were the unexciting type, like those of a smallish lake. We tossed frisbee in the water, and played paddleball on the sand. We ate hummus (yummus!) and took naps.

It was during these naps that I overexposed the backs of my legs, which now refuse to bend without crying out in pain. I have used several ounces of aloe lotion and plan on using several more before I can jog or crouch again.

But it was worth it. I love the ocean. Especially when it seems to love me back.

Belleville

On Memorial Day weekend, I visited Stephen, Megan, Aida, and my Dad in Burnham. I had such a good time playing with Aida (nearing four years!) and her two friends, Braden and Cameron. I just loved rough-housing with them and pretending to be fish! On Monday Stephen, Meg, Aida and I spent the day in Boalsburg, the "birthplace of Memorial Day." They have lots of events and a carnival and vendors galore for Memorial Day--in all of the U.S., it was the place to be! My Dad couldn't join us because he wasn't feeling well, but we got to hang out together in Stephen's garden next to the creek below their house (prepositional overload!: out, in, next to, below). We didn't talk about anything new. My Dad likes to talk about guns, my brother likes to humor my Dad, Aida takes her mother's attention. I looked at the sunset as it shone golden and splendid through the trees just above us. Then the gold melted through the lowest-hanging branches into the dark trees lining a meadow across the creek. Creeks gurgle. They really do.

Driving out of Burnham an hour later, I decided to follow through with the plan inside my head since the night before: I would visit Belleville before turning home to Lancaster. Belleville is where I lived with Stephen and my Mom from ages one to six. I still remember the outline of the little town, although it's been over ten years since I last saw the place.

I wish I could better describe the reasons I had for visiting Belleville. I wanted to see Belleville with that self-conscious desire we all have to reread our favorite book as a kid: will it still be funny? will it still make me cry? will I still worry about the dog finding its real mother? I guess I wanted to check to make sure that there was indeed a reality at the center of the memories I retain of my first few years of life. I have a surprising number of memories for a child under the age of seven. I'm told we don't remember our experiences much before age seven. But I do! Sometimes I remember whole conversations. Off track.

I parked at Union Elementary and got out. I turned toward the school and to the area near a tree that the first grade girls used as stables for their My Little Ponies [TM]. I remembered a moment from first grade when I had brought my ponies to school to play with these girls. I came over with my tattered ponies, and asked to play with them. They refused, "No. You can't come play." I don't remember my reaction exactly, but I think it was shame and anger. I may have told them I would make them play with me. But instead I took my ponies and my heavy heart to the playground. Looking back at six-year-old me was strange. That hesitation and insecurity is not gone entirely, but what do I have at age 20 that I didn't have then? The ability to forgive those girls. So I did that, and committed to keep on doing that as I continued my walk through the past.

I went down the little hill of the school toward the lane leading to the Orchard Apartments. There was a stable (a real one) at the corner where I had always been so thrilled to see the head of an old gray horse protruding from a small window on the corner of the building. I walked around the building in the twilight, searching with a sense of eeriness for a phantom horse to pop his head out of one of the windows on the side of the stable. As I turned the corner, I gave a jump! A tall chestnut horse leaned her long head out of the window, nostrils at my eye level. It was the same jump as 14 years ago! She even consented to letting me rub her head as she licked my open palm, wondering where the food was.

I walked around little Belleville in the dusk, seeing only one other person the whole time. The town seemed to be deserted at only 8:30 in the evening. I headed back to my car as I noticed the baseball fields past the school. I headed up the footpath and watched the mountain pull down the very last remnants of color from the sky. But the only song I could think of was about a lakeshore, not mountains. So I sang it anyway, and headed to the car, and to 322 Eastbound, and to Lancaster, and my feather comforter, and statistics homework.

I've been working on this thought for a while now, and it's so simple. Life is building. Each day adds another brick to the structure, and only repetition will create something, good or bad. But how quickly we find ourselves in a whole other wing of the building that is ourselves! There's an uncontrollable continuity of the bricks: each day is 24 hours. And sometimes it seems as though whole months are exactly the same, one after another. But we are moving very quickly, I feel. Even if the scenery looks the same for a while. This may not make sense yet, due to the conflicting metaphors that I have tried unsuccessfully to avoid. But I may revisit this "aloud" in the future. In the words of my stats teacher, "this is just something I love to think about!"