“My whole tube-self is on airplane mode right now.” -Funkmaster Suburbs
It’s as if someone took the contrast dial, cranked it to ten and then ripped the whole control module to pieces and set it on fire. Let me tell you we had plans, but Mother Nature and the literal earth beneath your feet can reveal the frailties of the human body and mind. The difference between the first pair of days and the last were as wide as the Pacific Ocean.
The western approach of the 77 mile long Foothills Trail is as remote and rugged as it is beautiful. We had just spent the previous days crushing miles across some of South Appalachia’s less forgiving terrain from the mighty Chattooga River corridor and the Ellicott Rock Wilderness straight across the high peaks of the Dark Corner of South Carolina and plunging down along the cascades of the Whitewater River, sacrificing bits and pieces of ourselves along the way. We were machines optimized for performance. Calories counted like stock portfolios, distance and time carefully considered to maximize efficient movement with the idea that life’s challenges can be reduced down to simple mathematics.
But by the third morning we were faced with diminishing returns. Feet, knees, and other human infrastructure were failing on us and the psychology of thru-hiking when the autumnal light makes every daylight hour feel like dinner time pulverized our plan to bits. Our feral trio found itself huddled around a life-giving campfire just east of the tallest waterfall this side of the Rocky Mountains with a decision forced upon us: barrel forward in the foolish pursuit of metrics and status or stop and simply exist in the splendor of creation.
We chose the latter and opted for a journey of the mind instead, where a one mile walk to a scenic overlook became an intolerable assault of euphoria. Each step, more oppressive than the next. I was dissociating higher and higher into the tree canopy leaving my lead-heavy feet behind before I was compelled to release all of the pressure of the past months and years in a single spasm of bile and earth out of the front end of a fleshy tube designed for consumption.
I collected what was left of myself and from there we simply existed joyfully as humans have since humans first became a thing. We were, for a time, a trio of apes cackling in the woods over the oppressive nature of tube-based life: a state of being predicated on the mindless consumption, processing, and ejection of nutrient.
Delicate wisps of clouds flirted with the light as the sun moved low in the autumnal sky. The deciduous forest after “peak color” offers special surprises with the late turning red maples and yellow beech delivering splashes of color against the grays and browns of oncoming winter.
At the careening end of my 30s I’m finding myself tired of the constant journey. The never ending path. The unrelenting assault of metrics and performance. I don’t want to stop for good, there’s still too much to see and experience, but an emotional homestead is necessary. All who wander are not lost, but some are and it’s ok to stake out shelter with a close companion against the unrelenting cold. Humans succeeded in this world together, not alone.
Ultimately we managed 36-ish miles of the 77 mile long Foothills Trail after the fall equinox when light and warmth are scarce commodities. Personally, I have attempted the whole course four times now and only succeeded crossing the finish line once. This trail has become king metaphor for me for concepts like harmony, humility, compassion, and just simply learning to slow down and be fully present in the world. Hubris and ego are mind and body killers.
The trail will always be here as long as there are humans to walk the path. We’ll get to the end before too long, but maybe at a slower pace.