My name is Emil and I'm a creature of habit. Should you ask me I'd say ritual. Has a more respectable ring to it. Like a man of God in touch with the inner, unseen workings of the universe. But habit's more accurate. Closer to the ground I'm walking. Not that habit's a bad thing. No sir. Takes a lifetime of sifting through possibility to find the things that're most valuable to a man. Find 'em, grab 'em, hold on to them, cherish them, polish them to a fine sheen. Now and then add a new one or modify an old.
Anyhow, repetition was on my mind as I set off in the morning to the tune of a tailwind. 'Course in the woods there's no such thing as a true tailwind. Just a tendency. Trees play havoc with a breeze. Bend it, twist it, turn it upside down. Down at foot level, she comes at you four ways at once. Five on a Sunday. Definitely no pattern. Figured to do the same myself when finding tonight's campsite. Two overnights on Drumstick was fine, almost a pleasure. But had no intention to repeat any sites on my way home. The question was, long day or short day to get me started and out of sync? Since I was on the trail before eight and feeling spry and being who I am, there was only one answer. Besides, two extra miles got me that much closer to home. Not that I'm not happy to be where I am but I can feel the gravity of the cabin. And the closer I got, the stronger it'd be.
Once in stride I turned my thoughts back to last night's letter. Not so much the dysentery, more the dilemma of war and the idiots who get us into such fixes. Behind the nobility of any cause stands a bully with a gun. What we did in WWII was truly good. Returned order to the world. But would have been unnecessary without thugs like Tojo, Hitler and their henchmen. How in the hell do such people come to power? And what's to keep us from allowing those kind of people from ruining our lives here in America? Frustrating. Even more so when you're like me and don't have an answer. And here I am, winding along the solitude of the Kekekabic, conflicted thoughts running through my head. Platitudes of newsmen and philosophers clouding a perfectly fine day. No white steed or shining suit of armor in sight. Couldn't ride down into the maelstrom and bring good to the world on the tip of my lance even if I wanted. May as well go back to breathing and walking. Absorb the day around me.
Took a break after crossing the log bridge. Lot of work went into carving that log and all for a handful of hikers like me. A few moments of thought seemed the least I could do to repay the effort and skill. 'Course good intentions come on faster feet than mine….
Wrote this story in journal form. Yeah, that's what it is, mostly. Started off back at the cabin with intentions of writing in detail all that happened, as it happened. Or, at the least, writing up some detailed notes every evening. Photographs of words. In years to come, as my memory clouded, I'd be able to pull out these pages and relive the walk many times. Good intentions, a little weak as to results. Did make a few notes every night. Well, most every night. Would've written more but tired feet, tired mind and a sixty-three year old body said to take it easy. But I do have a good memory. Those few notes were outline enough to flesh out my steps while sitting above in my lookout. What's on these pages is pretty much what happened. Truthful as I could make it.
Then, in desperation, at a loss for words of truth, I strayed from the path. Ran amok on a convoluted story of my brothers Bud and Rich that never happened. Oh it was a funny story alright, slapstick and biblical all rolled into one. Right up there with some of my best. But none of it ever happened. Would have left it in had I not had the dream of last night. By now you must know I listen to my dreams. Most are lightweight corrections to keep me from falling off the tight rope. Last night's was a welter, maybe even a middleweight. Was building either a small cabin or garage. Kind of like the little tale I'm constructing. She was framed up nice, from the ground up to putting on the roof trusses. At the last moment I decided to give the roof two parallel peaks. Like the letter M. Well, that created some serious problems. Would've leaked in the valley and the eaves were all catty-wampus. Don't know who it was that pointed out how messed up my roof was. Voice of truth and reason probably. Looked like a man I once worked with. Didn't much care for him but he had no problem speaking his mind. Knew I had to gut the roof. Tear it down and start over. Keep it simple and get it right. But sure as heck didn't want to. Woke up trying not to listen to the dream but it wouldn't leave me alone. Went for a walk. Came back and deep-sixed close to three pages of work. Oh me, oh my. Never done that before but, once done, it sure felt good. But left the title. I like the sound of it.
So, consider this side step to be a part of the hike. I do. And want to remember it as such. A man's life doesn't always move in a line. Moves more like interlaced fingers, back and forth, back and forth. Now here, now yesterday, sometimes tomorrow.
Always liked the sound of rushing water. A hundred voices, each whispering different songs, stories. All in different keys. Song of water, rocks, earth, plants, froth. Reflections of broken sky and treetops dancing on the flow. Galloping downhill in a crowd. A few stragglers eddying back along the shore. Dissonant, yet somehow those many voices fit together. Can't explain it but sure do like it. Sat there, pack off and gape-jawed my way through the concert.
A walk like mine doesn't travel by the hour. The feet do but not me. My passage was five minutes of attention here, one there. Together my feet and thoughts moved like a man with an easily distracted dog on a long leash. Spent a lot of time on the trails chasing the scent of days no longer there.
Finally rose from my haze, shouldered my pack and moved on. No hurry. Yeah, there was a part of me wanting to be home. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Mister Hurry-up was another side saying I'd be a fool to rush the miles. To this point I'd walked in both sun and rain. Warm and cold. No matter the conditions I'd managed to get through each day. Still had plenty of food and fuel. Also a last resupply no more than two days away. Plan was simple, don't do anything stupid and enjoy the scenery. Harness Lake tonight. The site'd looked good a couple of days earlier, no reason it wouldn't today. Continuity in the universe is a good thing. Nice to know where the kitchen'll be when the lights are off.
Week and a day since I set foot out of the cabin. Yet it feels like I just started. Time passes in the wink of an eye. Augenblick in German. Nice word. And on the nail. Two weeks seemed a long time looking up the trail from the fresh shoes of those first footsteps. A wink as a memory. Must be some kind of mental effect. Maybe like the Doppler one with sound. The road of time looks a long way to the next curve. Shorter than hell in the rearview mirror. Eeeeeeeeeeeoww.
Longest and shortest days of my life were back in the war. Time on ship from one island to the next stretched to the blue horizon. Then came time to load in the LSTs and time slowed to a crawl. Each moment an eternity. Did some reading a few years back on Zen Buddhism and how their form of meditation is simple awareness. That and a guy in a robe slapping you on the back of the head with a stick when your mind starts to drift into how good that supper bowl of pickled radishes'll taste. Awareness? Don't need any reminders when the bullets snap past your ears. Time? A thing of the past. Once thought to look at my watch when we were in the thick of it. Yeah, it wasn't moving at all. Time at a standstill. At least until I wound it. Got a chuckle out of that.
The site on Harness Lake wasn't much but enough. Lake wasn't much more than an aggravated puddle. Red-black with bog stain, a good sign as to water quality. Shore was jagged rubble, tough to walk on barefoot. Ouched my way to knee deep water, there to dip my aluminum pot. Kept my shoes off knowing a second trip was in order. Then a third to clean up. Come morning I'd settle for a simple face washing.
Thought hit me while washing, how much water, trees and earth love sunlight. Can't do without it. Me too. Lifts my spirits. Carries some of the weight of my pack when it dapples down through the trees. Might even get me floating if the pines and popples weren't stealing so many of the rays. Yeah, those branches grab the light like a kid with access to a cookie jar. Good thing for me they have butter fingers and bobble enough beams to brighten my steps.
Stood there in the stained water a few minutes simply enjoying. Light breeze, low autumn sun, minnows tickling my toes.
Once in stride I turned my thoughts back to last night's letter. Not so much the dysentery, more the dilemma of war and the idiots who get us into such fixes. Behind the nobility of any cause stands a bully with a gun. What we did in WWII was truly good. Returned order to the world. But would have been unnecessary without thugs like Tojo, Hitler and their henchmen. How in the hell do such people come to power? And what's to keep us from allowing those kind of people from ruining our lives here in America? Frustrating. Even more so when you're like me and don't have an answer. And here I am, winding along the solitude of the Kekekabic, conflicted thoughts running through my head. Platitudes of newsmen and philosophers clouding a perfectly fine day. No white steed or shining suit of armor in sight. Couldn't ride down into the maelstrom and bring good to the world on the tip of my lance even if I wanted. May as well go back to breathing and walking. Absorb the day around me.
Took a break after crossing the log bridge. Lot of work went into carving that log and all for a handful of hikers like me. A few moments of thought seemed the least I could do to repay the effort and skill. 'Course good intentions come on faster feet than mine….
Wrote this story in journal form. Yeah, that's what it is, mostly. Started off back at the cabin with intentions of writing in detail all that happened, as it happened. Or, at the least, writing up some detailed notes every evening. Photographs of words. In years to come, as my memory clouded, I'd be able to pull out these pages and relive the walk many times. Good intentions, a little weak as to results. Did make a few notes every night. Well, most every night. Would've written more but tired feet, tired mind and a sixty-three year old body said to take it easy. But I do have a good memory. Those few notes were outline enough to flesh out my steps while sitting above in my lookout. What's on these pages is pretty much what happened. Truthful as I could make it.
Then, in desperation, at a loss for words of truth, I strayed from the path. Ran amok on a convoluted story of my brothers Bud and Rich that never happened. Oh it was a funny story alright, slapstick and biblical all rolled into one. Right up there with some of my best. But none of it ever happened. Would have left it in had I not had the dream of last night. By now you must know I listen to my dreams. Most are lightweight corrections to keep me from falling off the tight rope. Last night's was a welter, maybe even a middleweight. Was building either a small cabin or garage. Kind of like the little tale I'm constructing. She was framed up nice, from the ground up to putting on the roof trusses. At the last moment I decided to give the roof two parallel peaks. Like the letter M. Well, that created some serious problems. Would've leaked in the valley and the eaves were all catty-wampus. Don't know who it was that pointed out how messed up my roof was. Voice of truth and reason probably. Looked like a man I once worked with. Didn't much care for him but he had no problem speaking his mind. Knew I had to gut the roof. Tear it down and start over. Keep it simple and get it right. But sure as heck didn't want to. Woke up trying not to listen to the dream but it wouldn't leave me alone. Went for a walk. Came back and deep-sixed close to three pages of work. Oh me, oh my. Never done that before but, once done, it sure felt good. But left the title. I like the sound of it.
So, consider this side step to be a part of the hike. I do. And want to remember it as such. A man's life doesn't always move in a line. Moves more like interlaced fingers, back and forth, back and forth. Now here, now yesterday, sometimes tomorrow.
Always liked the sound of rushing water. A hundred voices, each whispering different songs, stories. All in different keys. Song of water, rocks, earth, plants, froth. Reflections of broken sky and treetops dancing on the flow. Galloping downhill in a crowd. A few stragglers eddying back along the shore. Dissonant, yet somehow those many voices fit together. Can't explain it but sure do like it. Sat there, pack off and gape-jawed my way through the concert.
A walk like mine doesn't travel by the hour. The feet do but not me. My passage was five minutes of attention here, one there. Together my feet and thoughts moved like a man with an easily distracted dog on a long leash. Spent a lot of time on the trails chasing the scent of days no longer there.
Finally rose from my haze, shouldered my pack and moved on. No hurry. Yeah, there was a part of me wanting to be home. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Mister Hurry-up was another side saying I'd be a fool to rush the miles. To this point I'd walked in both sun and rain. Warm and cold. No matter the conditions I'd managed to get through each day. Still had plenty of food and fuel. Also a last resupply no more than two days away. Plan was simple, don't do anything stupid and enjoy the scenery. Harness Lake tonight. The site'd looked good a couple of days earlier, no reason it wouldn't today. Continuity in the universe is a good thing. Nice to know where the kitchen'll be when the lights are off.
Week and a day since I set foot out of the cabin. Yet it feels like I just started. Time passes in the wink of an eye. Augenblick in German. Nice word. And on the nail. Two weeks seemed a long time looking up the trail from the fresh shoes of those first footsteps. A wink as a memory. Must be some kind of mental effect. Maybe like the Doppler one with sound. The road of time looks a long way to the next curve. Shorter than hell in the rearview mirror. Eeeeeeeeeeeoww.
Longest and shortest days of my life were back in the war. Time on ship from one island to the next stretched to the blue horizon. Then came time to load in the LSTs and time slowed to a crawl. Each moment an eternity. Did some reading a few years back on Zen Buddhism and how their form of meditation is simple awareness. That and a guy in a robe slapping you on the back of the head with a stick when your mind starts to drift into how good that supper bowl of pickled radishes'll taste. Awareness? Don't need any reminders when the bullets snap past your ears. Time? A thing of the past. Once thought to look at my watch when we were in the thick of it. Yeah, it wasn't moving at all. Time at a standstill. At least until I wound it. Got a chuckle out of that.
The site on Harness Lake wasn't much but enough. Lake wasn't much more than an aggravated puddle. Red-black with bog stain, a good sign as to water quality. Shore was jagged rubble, tough to walk on barefoot. Ouched my way to knee deep water, there to dip my aluminum pot. Kept my shoes off knowing a second trip was in order. Then a third to clean up. Come morning I'd settle for a simple face washing.
Thought hit me while washing, how much water, trees and earth love sunlight. Can't do without it. Me too. Lifts my spirits. Carries some of the weight of my pack when it dapples down through the trees. Might even get me floating if the pines and popples weren't stealing so many of the rays. Yeah, those branches grab the light like a kid with access to a cookie jar. Good thing for me they have butter fingers and bobble enough beams to brighten my steps.
Stood there in the stained water a few minutes simply enjoying. Light breeze, low autumn sun, minnows tickling my toes.
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