Gorgeous Hike, But in The End a Sad Tail

I've been sick on and off for far too long, and was totally having stomach ailments all weekend. However, I got some time to tromp around totally alone in big stretches of forest on the Maine coast and during those walks I didn't think about how I felt sick, I just examined old stone walls and poked a milk snake with a stick and photographed mushrooms.



I bushwhacked through brush and saw a squirrel fall down from a tree on a broken branch. I kept to the gorgeous shoreline on one side and never worried about being lost.

There was much evidence of deer and rabbits and that odd, wonderful presence of the woods. There were tons of birds singing everywhere and it seemed like every tree next to me had several chickadee, at least one busy little nuthatch and a junco or else a solo Downey woodpecker hopping about. I flushed what I expected to be a grouse but had a big beak like a rail? (in the woods by the ocean?) and crows croaked to each other above me.



Things seemed magical and suspended.



I saw this perfect hiding tree -- it was hollow like a dug out canoe. And it had a long slit you could watch the water from.



While examining it, I saw I was not alone. A sleeping raccoon!



But alas, as I took a good look through the camera at the angle of that paw, and after the fifth acorn I threw actually hit her and she didn't move, I realized this sleeping beauty was never going to find her masked prince. And when I couldn't think of any other likely way for a raccoon to have died in a spot like that besides being shot by a hunter and then not falling down as expected, well I noticed how sick I was feeling again, and very tiredly slogged my way back.

Can't Touch This

Since the question comes up every single summer, here's a reminder. This is poison ivy.

Carnivorous!

Noticed some pitcher plants in the woods today. I love plants and trees with such obvious adaptations.

If you're not familiar with these plants, they grow in boggy areas and attract insects who then slip slide into the tube and are eaten. Yum!

Gulf Hagas

Last weekend I finally made it to Gulf Hagas, a wonderful gorge in Maine that I've meant to visit for years. My hubby and friend joined me and we drove up into the area past the Katahdin Ironworks checkpoint to the spot I reserved months ago. It was excellent car camping – we seemed to be nearly a quarter mile away from the closest site and were quite wildernessy and situated just above a roaring river.



We had some rain just before we set camp and just after we cooked dinner, so it worked out beautifully. The rest of our trip had picture perfect weather and starry skies.



The next day we hiked into the gulf, first crossing a small river and then striding through The Hermitage, a Nature Conservancy preserve of King's Pines and along the Pleasant River where there were more camp sites. Eventually we hooked up with the Gulf Rim trail, a wonderful side trail off the Appalachian Trail.



Here at Gulf Hagas (which locals seemed to say as "Haygus"), the Pleasant River drops and the rock cliffs rise about 400 feet. As a result, the rim trail is a rocky, rooted, mossy place overlooking steep drops and visiting multiple waterfalls.



One of the bigger falls here is Screw Auger Falls. There is actually a more well known set of falls with the same name in Grafton Notch. This one is about 30 feet of serious rushing water landing in a deep rock bowl. I wanted to swim in all of the falls but was a bit over tired and battling some abdominal pain. But on the way back I asked my friend to peer pressure me into it and he started ripping off his clothes and mercilessly goading me. It worked, see the splash?





It was an unbelievable thrill with the excitement of the rushing water. Many of the other falls had good pools or fun eddies to play in, but this one was the big rush. I'll definitely return.

If you go, you can call the Katahdin Ironworks Checkpoint and reserve sites. Some were along the river, some along falls, and some required crossing the river with your gear. It was only mildly buggy in early August, fires were permitted (bringing some wood is a good idea if you're driving to your site), and there were clean outhouses. No man made running water is available. The trail is not steep but is very rocky and can be extremely slippery.

Castle in the Sky

Dear Jim,

Another hike without you, yet your voice remains strong in my head. It's all the exuberance you taught me, how you would marvel at the world around you, and share it, and take time to let it move you and consider it. I've never known another soul like you.

Ted and I had slightly different ideas of where to leave your ashes according to your wishes, but we picked a nice spot. It's like a private turret in a mountain castle, overlooking the ridge where you dodged death in a lightening storm once. I think you'll really like the view, and especially the storms.

We built a cairn with rocks from the area, a few brought up especially for it, including one from your garden that Susan chose. From the other side of the "turret" we could see the pond where she and two other friends had a manageable flat hike.

Nine of us that made it up to the heights with you on Ted's back in your old red backpack. I bet you never imagined that kind of turn out when you told us we could bring anyone who wanted to come. It was a very hot and humid day.


We kept in contact with those below by walkie talkie and then turned it off as we readied your resting spot. Then together we faced the pond and whooped down to them, and magically. . . they whooped back. We could hear each other across a couple of miles. A small hawk circled in the wind.


Ted and I released your ashes over the edge and on the cairn. I hope to visit with you there in the coming years and tell you about my life and ask you some questions. I sure wish I could share it with you for real, but you gave me so much in the 15 years we did share, and I am so grateful.

I cruised down the mountain by myself, and I had a thousand selfish sad thoughts, all related to how much I missed you. I waited awhile at a cross path until a couple more comrades were down and we took a detour and sat in the pond before meeting up with the rest of the crew as they all gathered. We went to dinner together and toasted you. And by doing that we celebrated knowing each other.

Thank you, I love you, and maybe I'll see you down the trail.

Franconia Ridge

Here is the Cramwell Snacks team that showed up when I suggested we take advantage of the long daylight hours and do a longer hike. It was in the nineties and a fine day to hike ten times longer than we have yet this year. We had dorky hats. We had sunscreen. We had three kinds of what we fondly call CRAM. And we had more bad eighties songs to torture each other with than seem humanly possible.

And so, onward ho. Over the rivers...

...and through the woods. We took the Falling Waters Trail from the Lafayette Campground parking lot on Rt. 93.

Eventually we made it up on the Franconia Ridge, at the top of Little Haystack Mountain, and things got a little trippy in the heat.

We began the mile-plus ridge hike alongside odd rock formations over to Lincoln. Or at least it kept seeming we were at Lincoln and then we weren't yet. "Only three more false peaks to go!" was a mantra.

We watched beetles, were bitten by other bugs, admired rock sculptures, watched ravens chase a bald eagle, and attempted to force feed another hiker Advil.

We finally made it to Lafayette, and we could see the AMC's Greenleaf hut a mile downhill. Powered by discussions of political outrage and thoughts of possible lemonade at the hut we made it there by about 5pm. Five glasses of lemonade later we limped our way down to the Old Bridle Path.
It was another few miles of mountain to go. By now we were in giggling fits. "Shut your cram hole!" and "You make me think of all the colors of the cramblow," being some of our feeble minded witicisms. We eventually made it down and found an outdoor table in Lincoln and ate back all the calories we'd burned in about two minutes.
It was a good day.

37

(Dennis with a particularly challenging golf shot)

Once while I was in high school I participated in a guided meditation. We were guided through a series of visualizations, and then we were to think of a question. We were to open a closed door in front of us, and ask our question of the higher power that we found beyond the door. I opened the door. I found . . . a potted plant.

One day I will have enough sunshine to have potted plants and to avoid existential crises on my birthday. Today I had enough sunshine for a short mountain hike and some miniature golf with dear friends -- thanks.

I miss a lot of people today.

Jim Moran

My dear friend and hiking partner, Jim Moran, died last Thursday night. His wife Susan and I were with him. It was a difficult death from lung cancer, and it was unbearable seeing him in so much pain. Though he had not been able to open his eyes all day, at the very last minute before he left, he opened his eyes wide, looked at Susan and repeated three sounds that were undoubtedly "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His memorial was held on Saturday. He designed it, music, speakers and all. A friend read "Do Not Go Gently," three other friends reflected on their friendship and whatever topic Jim assigned them. His brother spoke. We listened to, and in some cases sang along to, songs. A letter was read to Susan that Jim wrote for the occasion. After all of that, I had to find a voice and speak. It was really hard. Jim asked me to speak on our friendship and on sobriety. At his death he was 18 years clean and sober, and this included cigarettes. Here's what I read:


I taught writing in the early nineties, and had one student who added a real charge to the class. By opening up, he created an atmosphere of trust in the room.

He wrote an essay about storm watching on Black Rock Beach near his old apartment in Cohasset. It had the kind of carefully chosen details we were working toward, the kind that require a real presence and awareness. And he included some confessional musing about being sober that clearly took courage. I wrote in the margin of his essay that I'd shared some similarly "sobering" experiences.

We didn't care that I was the teacher, that he was 26 years older than me, that we were male and female. We just found each other, worked on creative projects, stayed sober, and started climbing mountains.

In other words, we routinely exposed our souls, stayed alive together, and were humbled by forces bigger than ourselves. It was a very powerful recipe for friendship and for life. Some of the purest moments of joy in my life have just hit me out of the blue while walking along a trail with Jim.

Jim and I helped keep each other on the path for the next 15 years. We showed up and tried to be present for spiritual, physical, and psychological hurdles, constantly arming ourselves with new tools for expression. And we supported each other unconditionally in these endeavors. New forms, new media, new people, new programs, new languages.

This support was possibly my first real understanding of the idea of unconditional love. It's astounding how many people he gave this to.

He also taught me not to bottle up positive feelings. He would be talking about how glowy the light in here is or "look at that stained glass with the little dots in it!" and then probably take up stained glass. He never seemed to take anything for granted. Jim could add celebration to your world the minute you walked in a room "Beth-a-ny!" he'd exclaim, grinning like a fool. He said I was his tracker, keeping him on trail. If I was his tracker, he was my compass.

We spent weekends, sober anniversaries, and holidays together. And one year while five miles up Mt. Carrigan in a hailstorm, we found some shelter, he had me turn away, and he surprised me with tall, strawberry shortcake with whipped cream for my birthday.

We contemplated a great number of things in cars, over coffee, and on the trail. We discussed:
Whether art might be the difference between being dissatisfied and doing something about it.
Or, if you change yourself, and you give yourself to the community as a whole through your service, whether you may indeed be changing the world.
Whether it's possible you need to have lost someone you care about to learn real compassion.
And most importantly, just what would happen if a priest, a duck, and a mouse walked into a bar . . .

Jim had attained a certain degree of self-awareness that allowed him to tap into his core and while sometimes he struggled with what he found in this well, there were also these big bubbles of mirth that rose up. We giggled together with abandon, child-like awe, and total goofiness. And I think the risk taking involved in being sober, the facing and talking about difficult things and walking through them to the other side is what allowed us this gift of humor and fun.

One time when I arrived home alone after camping in Alaska for two weeks, I played my answering machine messages and heard, "Hi Mr. and Mrs. Ericson, this is Jim Moran, a friend of Bethany's. I am so sorry Beth was eaten by that bear. I just wanted you to know that before she left she told me that if anything were to happen to her that I should have all of her camping equipment."

His humor gave him an incredible attitude during physical hardships. I remember when I took him to the pharmacy after he hurt his shoulder and he'd drawn a smiley face on the tennis ball his hand held while his arm was splinted. The tennis ball had a very funny discussion with the pharmacist about Jim's needs.

And he could even laugh in the face of cancer. I was with him on one of his earliest of many scary meetings about his prognosis. The doctor was flustered. "Hello James. I see you've brought your. . .your. . . a um, well I see you've brought a young lady with you." The doctor then explained how a person can get lung cancer 18 years after quitting, and stopped after each point and looked at me and explained the equivalent in breast cancer. We burst out laughing when he left the room.

After waiting too long in the VA clinic one day we had a loud mock fight pretending he gave me his cancer cooties. I told people he got his cancer on www.cancer.com. We arrived nervously for one of his P.E.T. scans under a sign that read Boston PET Center, and laughed our way in the door. When he told me last month that he wanted Ted and I to bring some of his ashes to Mt. Osceola, I complained that he was just trying to get us to finally carry him Up a mountain.

Jim was my role model, and he fought for life every last inch of the way. He and Susan's love for each other and the work they did to make sure each other knew it has been incredible to witness. Jim once told me about the idea that hope manifests in us as long as we have a voice in what happens to us. The fact that I am speaking in a memorial he designed, says his hope was so strong it outlived him. When he asked me to speak he told me sternly "you have five minutes." We stared silently at each other. Then we burst out laughing.

When Jim was given four months to live in July, he said he'd just live his life in four-month increments until he was in his eighties. It wasn't until a month ago that he and I had a discussion about his impending death rather than impending life. He felt that what would happen after death was that he would live on as energy in other people, slowly fading out over time.

I am forever grateful Jim walked next to me for a while. And his energy connects this whole room full of people, and many, many more. This connection is possibly one of his greatest achievements. Don't leave him here. Bring him along with you: Live every day fiercely present, with grace, honesty, and humor.