Aug 20 2009
Hello everyone. I’m Walt’s stepson and admin for this wonderful blog. Walt is off hiking in Maine for a while and we thought we would share these pictures depicting his departure on the 100 mile trail. I’m sure everyone is looking forward to his blog posts about the trip when he returns. I know I am. Enjoy!
Aug 14 2009
I visited a sacred place the other day – a place I hadn’t visited in a long while. It’s a wild and beautiful place tucked away in the woods. Oddly enough, it’s not far from a road. I’m sure others know about it but I’ve never seen a boot print there, much less another person. It’s hard to say whether I intentionally sought out the place or simply ended up there. As soon as one uses words like “sacred,” the mind unhinges from a strictly rational view of things.
A place isn’t sacred just because it’s wild and beautiful. An aesthetic reaction to a place shouldn’t be confused with deep reverence. I’ve made that mistake many times. Yet you know a place is sacred when you sense the presence of the divine in it – the presence of something unspeakably real. You know you’re in a sacred place when suddenly you sense life’s merry-go-round coming to a screeching halt. It’s best not to ignore this signal. As such times, in such places, the world itself is calling you.
A sacred place can be a mountain outcrop, a meadow, or a gorge along the brook. In such a place I find it very easy pray, meditate, reflect, or simply contemplate existence. I’ve found many things in a sacred place: morsels of insight, a good idea, a sense of perspective, sometimes even a profound sense of well being. But sometimes I find nothing at all, and that’s okay. What you won’t find in such a place is that self-destructive madness that some people call sin. That’s why the word “sacred” is appropriate here, I think.
What’s that I hear? – More rational minds are scoffing. A psychologist tells me that it’s all in my head. A logician points out the apparent flaws in my thinking. Others insist that I’m just being emotional. Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. But none of this means anything on those rare occasions when I stand face-to-face with the divine. At such times, I put my faith in the unspeakable, fully aware that reason has its limits.
I didn’t linger the other day. I stayed in that place long enough only to reacquaint myself with the real. But when I walked away, my life began anew. When I was younger, I used to think that every encounter with the sacred necessarily triggers great change. Now I know better. It only signals a fresh start, similar to getting out of bed in the morning. Yet somehow that’s enough.
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Aug 09 2009
Earlier this week my granddaughter, Kaylee, and I found a couple crayfish in a sinkhole next to a stream. While sitting on our porch, my wife and I spotted a yellow flicker in nearby trees – a bird I haven’t seen in years. I saw some kind of blue orchid in full bloom while hiking Jay Peak the other day. A barred owl suddenly appeared a few yards off trail while I was hiking Aldis Hill a few weeks ago. I saw a red fox and her two kits there once. I want to say that such sightings are uncommon but that’s not the case. They occur on a regular basis. It’s just that they always catch me off guard. Why is that?
Often I venture into the woods with binoculars or a field guide in hand, looking for the rare and beautiful. I am usually disappointed. Nearly every attempt I’ve made to track down large animals – bear, moose, or deer – has come to nothing. Yet I bump into wildlife frequently enough. I’ve never been able to see a mink on cue, but I see them every once in a while as I’m fishing. Same goes for eagles, otters and pine martens. I can spot a chipmunk or squirrel a few minutes after stepping into the woods, but running into a coyote is always a fluke. It’s almost as if I see more of the wild when I’m not looking for it.
Why are these encounters so unexpected? I’m not sure but I suspect it has something to do with the assumptions that we make. We go about our business, immersed in a world of our own making, going in and out of buildings, negotiating a complex network of streets and roads, entertaining ourselves electronically, and it appears that existence is all about us. Everything else is peripheral. Everything else is, well, inconsequential – there only to meet our needs. The whole universe revolves around us. Isn’t it obvious? In this context, it’s hard to imagine plants and animals having a life of their own.
We go to zoos to see animals, and gardens to see plants. But we venture into the wild to be surprised. Sometimes we are surprised by what we don’t find there. Almost always something pops up that we haven’t anticipated. Remarkably, we often miss the unexpected because our thoughts are elsewhere. This is the curse of having so much gray matter between the ears. Our lives are more abstract than we realize.
As a philosopher – a ponderer of things to the point of absurdity – I am more guilty than most of missing what’s right in front of me. Consequently, when I’m in the woods I am more surprised. The wild never ceases to amaze me. Waterfalls, rainbows, red efts on the trail, and bizarre-looking mushrooms arising overnight – all this should be expected. Yet I’m surprised. Oddly enough, encounters such as these are what I live for. Go figure.
Aug 05 2009
Over dinner last night, Judy used the “f” word. She asked me point blank how I intended to ford the bigger streams during my upcoming trek, considering all the rain that has fallen this summer. I was hoping to avoid this conversation but there it landed in my lap, between a bite of hamburger and two swigs of beer. My wife recently googled “100 Mile Wilderness,” so there was no point trying to make light of the matter. The sin of omission: I was caught in the lie that I didn’t tell.
Fording and dread. That’s the name of a great essay by Jim Harrison, which is more about steeling oneself for action than the actual mechanics of river crossing. “Where is the best place in a river to get across?” Harrison asks, and here we have the perfect metaphor for all the obstacles that we face in life – perfect because it underscores risk and good judgment as well as resolve. And yes, fording does involve risk. Anyone can see that.
I like to hike alone, deep in the forest. I’m getting older, more brittle, less sure on my feet. I fell down a month ago and my side still aches from it. My physician recently gave me a clean bill of health, but all bets are off when one is trekking a muddy, rock-strewn path with a sixty-pound pack. I’ll be taking chances when I hike the 100 Mile Wilderness. It may be a foolish undertaking, but I’d be even more of a fool if I denied the risks involved.
The other day, when I picked up my patched hiking pants, the tailor asked me if I was worried about bears. I laughed at that. The chances of being attacked by a bear are roughly the same as being struck by lightning. But hikers slip and fall in the mud all the time. Broken bones are common on the trail. Gaining wisdom isn’t about avoiding risk, but knowing where the risks are.
I use trekking poles nowadays, whenever I hike more than twenty miles. I carry a large first aid kit, food, water and enough gear to get by for days wherever I land, in whatever weather. I know my limits when it comes to climbing mountains or fording streams, and am not too proud to abort. More importantly, I know how to assess risk. “Just do it” is a credo for children and fools.
Judy knows what I’m up against, and I don’t insult her intelligence by denying it. Yes, it has been a very wet summer and those streams will be running high. Maybe I’ll get across them, maybe I won’t. According to my map, there’s a logging road running parallel to the trail for the last 15 miles. I’ll drop down to that if I have to. One must be prepared to fail. In real life, contrary to the movies, it happens all the time. The trick is to not let it defeat you.
Jul 27 2009
From what I can tell, there are two prevailing approaches to nature these days: the holistic and the rationalistic. Those who take the holistic approach perceive nature as a seamless whole, which holds itself in eternal balance – when undisturbed by humans that is. Those who take the rationalistic approach assert that there is a logical explanation for everything in nature, even the allegedly erratic behavior of individual plants, animals and people. This is the fundamental difference between East and West, between the philosophies of the Orient and those that arose from ancient Greece. Or so we are told. But I don’t buy it.
In the 21st Century, a third approach is emerging – one that fuses the holistic with the rationalistic, the East with the West, the right brain with the left. In this approach, Mother Earth is respected even as science is embraced. Taking this approach, reasonable men and women work as stewards, helping nature restore itself to its proper balance. But I don’t buy this, either.
There is, of course, that old-time view of nature as a world “red in tooth and claw,” where strong prevail and weak perish, but aside from a handful of libertarian anarchists, I’ve never met anyone who truly believes this. The problem with this approach is that civilization keeps getting in the way. What room is there for civility in such a world, for law and order?
The way I see it, the wild has no place in any of these views. And when I say “wild” here, I mean truly wild – wild in a way that no theologian, scientist, or philosopher could ever fully explain. The wild as fundamental contradiction, as aberration of nature, as inherent absurdity. I seem to be one of the few people who believe that wildness of this sort exists.
After several decades of rumination, I have reached the conclusion that nature is predicated by the irrational. I don’t think there can be any serious discussion about nature without the thorny issue of wildness being addressed, first and foremost. And yes, I suspect that wildness and irrationality are cut from the same cloth, that all deviations from the norm are, in fact, as much a part of nature as the norm itself. In other words, nothing stands outside of nature.
So go ahead and call me a Pantheist. I won’t deny it. It would be irrational for me to do so. Then again, it’s hard to say how I’ll react to any box drawn around me. And this is precisely why wildness, human or otherwise, is so dangerous.
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Jul 21 2009
A few weeks ago, when Mason turned five, I promised my grandson that I would take him hiking and fishing for a day. Just the two of us – no brother or sister along. Incessant rain and my busy work schedule made it difficult to make good on the promise right away, though. When finally a rain-free day appeared on my weather website, I called Mason’s mom to arrange an outing. I picked up Mason right after breakfast and we headed for the nearest body of water.
We caught a few sunfish at Arrowhead Lake, but it wasn’t the kind of rock-and-roll action I’d been hoping for so we drove over to the Lamoille River. Didn’t do any better there. Surprisingly, Mason didn’t complain. When I suggested that we go for a hike next, he was all for it. We went to Niquette Bay State Park and hiked down the broad, flat path towards the beach. Mason shouldered a teardrop pack loaded with all kinds of stuff, keeping the park map firmly in hand. I carried along a fishing rod, just in case.
While standing on the shores of Lake Champlain, we saw the forested point where the park attendant told us to fish. We headed for the point, walking the beach until it disappeared into reeds. The lake is high this year, due to heavy rains. No matter. Mason charged up a goat path heading straight uphill. I warned him that it looked like a tough climb but he didn’t care. He was ready for the adventure so up we went, huffing and puffing, our feet slipping in sandy, loose soil all the way. At last reaching the Beach Bypass Trail on top, we took a break. We drank water and ate trail mix and talked about stuff until we were ready to go again. I said we could take the easy path back to the car if he was tired, but Mason wanted to keep going to the point. Okay then.
Beyond a deep ravine, the path narrowed as it wound up and down through woods and rocks until we reached the point. There a broad, flat rock dropped into deep water and, sure enough, we got into a few more fish. But it was nothing to brag about. We were distracted once by a frog leaping across the rock and again by a gaggle of teenage girls nearby who started jumping into the water. Mason wanted to do the same, but I reminded him that we didn’t have bathing suits with us – truly an oversight on such a warm, sunny day.
While hiking out, Mason and I took turns spotting chipmunks and red squirrels half hidden in the surrounding forest. “Good eye!” I told him. Then we talked about coming back here with his mom and brother and sister someday. I took a deep breath, then exhaled, saying how much I love the smell of the woods. Mason did the same. Then I mentioned how lucky we were, with all the rain lately, to have such good weather to hike. “Yeah,” Mason said, “It’s a perfect day!” I smiled at that, all the while thinking how the day could have been better. Then I agreed.
Jul 14 2009
A month from now, I’ll be commencing a long walk through the Maine woods. Since this particular trip poses several logistical difficulties, it’s not too soon to prepare. The section of the Appalachian Trail that I intend to hike is called the 100-Mile Wilderness because one can’t resupply along the way. That’s means I’ll have to carry everything, including all my food – a true challenge for a hiker who moves as slowly as I do. To further complicate matters, I’ll be taking my dog, Matika, with me.
To a casual observer it would appear that I like to make things difficult for myself. Truth is, I’m willing to go to great lengths to spend a big a chunk of time in deep woods. As for taking Matika with me, well, I couldn’t deprive her of the experience. She loves the wild as much as I do. Besides, she’s the ideal hiking companion. She doesn’t talk.
Dog food is bulky so I’ve introduced dehydrated food to Matika’s diet. I thought she’d resist it but, to my great surprise, she gobbles it right down. Altering my own diet won’t be so easy. After working out some calorie-per-pound calculations, I have reached a conclusion that is sure to make the readers of my Long Trail book laugh: I’ll have to carry a lot of nuts. Back in ’95, I swore I’d never do this to myself again. But nuts are the perfect solution to the logistical problem at hand.
Clothing isn’t as much a matter of weight as it is bulk. The solution is simple. It’s all about the ability to stay warm so cottons must be kept to a minimum. Cotton is comfortable but useless when it’s wet, and this is a wet year. Besides, it takes forever to dry out.
Cooking. I’ll build campfires whenever I can, carrying as little stove fuel as possible. But, like I said, this is a wet year. Hope I don’t regret this decision.
Shelter: a tarp only. To keep it from tearing apart in a storm, I’ll reinforce the grommets with duct tape. This spark of genius came to me while I was driving home from work a few weeks ago. What’s that? You think I’m crazy? Hey, don’t underestimate the power of duct tape.
Luxuries, only one: binoculars. I expect to see some wildlife on this trip. Okay, maybe two: a disposable camera. No, my journal isn’t a luxury. That’s how I stay sane, both in and out of the woods.
What else? There are a thousand details. A long walk in deep woods isn’t quite as simple as it sounds. A first aid kit, an emergency blanket, a full set of maps, a backup compass, a solid-shank knife, water filter, and water purification tablets just in case. Yeah, I can’t wait to get out there. I like being completely self-sufficient. It feels like… freedom. There’s really no other word for it.
Jul 07 2009
Yesterday I slipped into the woods with my dog, Matika, hungry for a challenging hike. I went to a nearby patch of wild country called French Hill. Since it’s only a few miles square, and familiar terrain for the most part, I didn’t bother carrying a compass. After all, I’ve been in there many times before.
When I was younger, I religiously carried a compass even on familiar trails. My hiking companions have marveled at this quirk over the years. It seems so unnecessarily cautious. But I know from experience how easy it is to get turned around in the woods, especially if one is in the habit of leaving the trail and bushwhacking cross country as I am. On lengthy excursions into big woods, I still carry a compass. Locally though, I’ve gotten into the habit of doing without.
Frogs and toads jumped out of the way as Matika and I charged down the overgrown logging trail. A great deal of rain has fallen in Vermont during the past couple months and the understory is thicker than usual. No matter. We forged ahead, dodging ruts full of water as we ventured deep into the woods. We picked up a fresh set of moose tracks and followed them even deeper, both of us excited when we passed a fresh pile of droppings. Then I lost the moose tracks along with any semblance of a trail. No matter. I navigated by sun, gradually bearing south towards a known beaver pond. I was confident that I’d stumble into familiar turf soon.
French Hill is more of a long, wide ridge than a hill, with plenty of knolls and ravines. It’s a good place to get turned around, actually, and that’s exactly what happened when the sun slipped behind the clouds. The maze of ATV trails that I ran into didn’t help. I followed them until I was thoroughly disoriented. I kept reaching for the compass that wasn’t there. Still, I was too proud to pop out of the woods when I spotted a house. I knew there would be a road just beyond it, but I was determined to exit the woods at the same point where I had entered. So I turned away.
I wandered around for a while, ripping my pants in some thick brambles and taking lots of scratches. I kept my cool, still confident that I’d stumble into familiar terrain. Then I slipped in a mud hole and fell down, ramming the butt of a downed tree into my side. That’s when I took the situation seriously. I sat down and carefully considered my next move.
Matika was not happy. Neither was I. With a heavy sigh, I accepted the fact that it was time to follow a “lost azimuth” due south to the road. I used the moss growing at the base of trees to maintain a steady southern bearing. Imagine my chagrin when I popped out of the woods at the exact same house I’d turned away from an hour earlier.
Yeah, I got my challenging hike, and then some. Good workout, and good training for a big hike in Maine next month. But never again will I enter the woods without my compass. Let my hiking companions marvel at the primitive device dangling from a lanyard around my neck – I don’t care. No bushwacker with any sense steps into backcountry without one.
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Jun 30 2009
Once a year, Judy and I run a summer camp for our older grandkids, ages 4 through 12. No parents allowed. We’ve been doing this since 2004 and each year our plans get a little more sophisticated, with organized games, arts and crafts, and a theme of some sort. But it’s the simple things that make the get-together work – things like running barefoot in the grass, being goofy, and drinking lemonade in the shade of our old maple tree. The rest is just window dressing.
This year, I went a little crazy building a temporary, two-story playhouse out of wood that I called a space ship. Judy spent the better part of an afternoon painting it. The kids loved it, of course, but not as much as sleeping in the tent, swimming or fishing. These activities are the staples of summer camp despite our elaborate constructs.
I took some of the kids for a hike up Aldis Hill while Judy picked strawberries with the rest. The girls picked daisies from our wildflower garden and put them in the playhouse. Several days later, the flowers are still there, still blooming in a paper cup full of water. On the last day of summer camp, the kids collected shells and rocks while Judy and I set up a picnic lunch on the shore of Lake Champlain. I showed the youngest ones how to skip stones across the water’s surface. This is a skill every child should have.
Electronic devices are encroaching upon summer camp. Judy and I are doing our best to keep them at bay. It isn’t easy. Cell phones, ipods and hand-held computer games are a big part of a child’s world these days. All the same, a boy or a girl will drop everything and chase a frog halfway across the yard when given the chance. If they’ve learned how to spot it, that is.
Our day lilies opened up the same day that the Virginia half of the family arrived. Hummingbirds visited Judy’s feeder while they were here, as well. Bees gathered pollen from the flowers in the front yard garden. Thunderstorms came and went. We casually pointed out the beauty and wonder of all these things as the children played. It’s a subtle form of indoctrination, I suppose.
Judy and I don’t care if the kids remember the details of our annual get-togethers or not, as long as they remember the laughter, loving and all encompassing green. Various phrases are used to describe this somewhat complex concept but, in my humble opinion, it all comes down to one word: summer. Let the children know that much and the world will be a better place. Sometimes it’s the simple things that make the difference.
Jun 15 2009
Last week I hiked up Bamforth Ridge. Stretching six miles from the Winooski River to the top of Camel’s Hump, this ridge is the longest, hardest base-to-summit climb in Vermont. I figured it would be a good place to train for my upcoming Maine trek – a good place to test my limits, that is. On that count I wasn’t disappointed.
I puffed halfway up the ridge before the hike became difficult. Then I pushed myself another mile uphill, overcoming gravity by sheer force of will until reaching an exposed knob with a nearly 360-degree view. Good enough. I broke for lunch with the summit still looming large in front of me. Then I turned back.
Going uphill was relatively easy – just a matter of will. Going downhill was another matter. Knees don’t lie. With each step they reminded me that my strongest hiking days have passed. A walking stick helped, but there’s no getting around the physical reality of a half century of wear and tear, as much as a forever-young Baby Boomer like me wants to deny it.
Yesterday I finished reading a book by Lester Brown called Eco-Economy. It’s a rehash of his somewhat Malthusian notions concerning the limits of growth – concepts that I first encountered back in college in the 70s. Industrialization and population are outpacing food production and other natural resources. No big news there. But what bothered me is just how little progress we’ve made during the past thirty-odd years. Well into the 21st Century now, we’re still having the same eco-arguments. Meanwhile, the math worsens and collective human misery keeps rising. Being that I belong to the sixth of humanity that’s on top of the heap, I probably shouldn’t worry about it. But I do.
My grandson, Mason, came to me the other day wearing a green bush hat and said with a great big smile: “I’m just like you, Grandpa!” I nodded my head, acknowledging that he is. Mason loves being outdoors. When he was three, he cried when his Mommy made him go back inside. At five, he’s ready to plunge deep into the woods, to take on the world. Soon he’ll be on the trail with me.
I still have work to do. I don’t know how but somehow I have to help break the deadlock that exists in human affairs. Old arguments, polarized stances and antiquated worldviews must be abandoned in favor of something that actually works – something that will make the world a better place for all the Masons out there. The time has come to be pragmatic, meet enemies halfway, and get things done. Thirty years of the same old eco-arguments, for chrissakes. Talk is cheap.
Bamforth Ridge kicked my ass, but I’m ready to do it all over again. I’m ready for another big hike. I’m still moving despite the passage of time. Hard to say whether my kind and I will ever get anywhere, but we’re moving all the same. No sense stopping. And when we’re done, Mason and his generation will carry on. Why shouldn’t they? Time passes, but it’s never too late to take on the world.
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Backcountry traveler, freelance writer, and philosopher of wildness, McLaughlin has ventured into the wilds of Southeast Alaska and New York’s Adirondacks as well as the forests of northern New England. More about Walt.
