Hiking and scrambling up the east fork of Styx Branch, I was
struggling more than usual. In fact, this trip was the first time I had the
thought: Will this be the last time I make this trip? That’s a dark cloud that
casts a gloomy shadow, and while I don’t live under that shadow on a regular
basis, I do catch a glimpse of it every now and then… like today, on Styx
Branch. At the Climbing Wall I almost told Greg that I had gone as far as I
could, and I’d head back to the car while he went on to Myrtle Point, but I was
afraid that if I did that, then I’d never come back and do this trip again.
This would become my final trip to Styx, and I just couldn’t bear the thought
of that. So to paraphrase the gladiators in Gladiator:
“Someday I’ll make my last trip to Styx… but not yet. Not yet.”
After the Climbing Wall we were still in the scoured rock of the scar,
but the incline was about 45 degrees, so we were able to revert to feet-only as
we searched for sharp spots to plant our feet as we zig-zagged our way up the
fragile, broken Anakeesta rock face. We stopped often, to let me catch my
breath but also to turn around and appreciate the sky and the open view that
every landslide scar affords. It’s the kind of moment of magnificence that will
– if you have any sense of gratitude for life’s simple gifts – bring tears to
your eyes.
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| A photo moment on Styx |
Eventually the scar began to give way to soil, grass, and a young, fir
forest which produces that “Christmas tree smell” that anyone who has ever had
a real Christmas tree would recognize. There aren’t many things that we
encounter in the wilderness that remind us of our other, civilized life – which
is exactly as we’d like it to be. After all, we go to the woods to escape the
trappings of that other life. Planes flying overhead and loud motorcycles on
Newfound Gap Road are the most common artifacts of civilization that we
encounter in the mountains. So, the Christmas tree smell is an exception to
these occasional interruptions from civilization. It’s a pleasant reminder of a
pleasant part of our other life.
After weaving our way through the fragrant, fir forest, we arrived at
Myrtle Point about an hour before sunset. It was cold and windy, so we donned
our jackets for the first time since the Climbing Wall several hours earlier. I
had never really thought of it this way before, but Myrtle Point is the
epicenter of our Smokies playground. From it we can see from Greenbrier
Pinnacle to the Appalachian Trail to Mount Kephart to the Chimneys, a huge bowl
of ridges and valleys, places that have become almost sacred in their meaning
to our lives. It’s undoubtedly places like this that gave birth to the phrase
“mountain top experience.”
As we sat on the open rocks of Myrtle Point we had the same
conversation we always have when we sit here: To live simply is to live well; that
man is richest whose pleasures are the simplest; if you’ll put yourself in a
position for good things to happen, you’ll be pleasantly surprised how often
they do.
As I think about it, the theme of that conversation at Myrtle Point
has become a prominent theme in our other, civilized life, too. Most of life’s
gifts to us are simple gifts, so one key
to happiness is to learn to be satisfied with life’s simple, wholesome
pleasures, like the fellowship of friends, the innocence of children, the words
of your favorite poet, the purity of an azure sky, the song of crickets in the
evening or wrens at sunrise, layers of blue ridges piling up to the horizon, or
green ridges turning honey-gold from the light of the setting sun. Thankfully,
these are things that require an investment of time and attention, but money
can’t buy. They are gifts that are simple and free… and abundant, if we’ll but
shift our gaze from the dozens of daily tasks rudely demanding our obedience,
and focus instead on the thousands of humble, simple gifts, asking in a barely
audible whisper for just a moment of our time.
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