Winning

I've always had a fucked up view of winning. As an awkward kid with twiggy legs and spindly arms, I played team sports and almost always on the best teams. Unfortunately, however I was typically among the top three worst athletes and most of the time, the coaches were cliche assholes (if you are reading... well... you were) so even when the team celebrated a victory, I found myself on the outside of the victorious dog pile, closer in feeling tone to the losing team, but without a team to lean on.

As a result I hated teams. Still do. I would no sooner play on a basketball team than pursue a career in aerodynamic engineering. On the rare occasion that I'm forced into something where I have to rely on someone else's athleticism or intellect to win something, I almost feel my weight plummet, my legs shrink to pencils and my ability to contribute wane to almost nothing. I go from a fit, confident guy with grand ambition to a tea cup poodle.

With team sports out of the question, I played games like tennis. This seemed like something I could do well. I was on the court alone, so there was no one to compare myself to physically. Tennis players were typically alienated kids so I found myself in the company of other loners which was nice because I could be around people but didn't have to actually talk to them. The really great thing was that I was actually good at tennis. I could spend hours at a time hitting a ball against a backboard or hitting serves and in my mind was a champion every day. When I lost, it was my battle to lose but at least I didn't have to have be the worst guy on the winning team. When I won, I won.

My social insecurity carried from the basketball courts and school into the rest of my life and it was no different in Oklahoma City than it was where my family spent their summers in Northern Michigan. The only difference was that in Michigan, given the town's country club pedigree, individual sports such as tennis among good athletes were encouraged. At this club, we were forced to play in all white clothes as our parents watched our practice over a club sandwich and a cocktail under a pool side umbrella as they discussed the stock market and their golf game.

While I hated being back amongst judgmental piers, the good news was that at least when it came to tennis, I could hold my own, though it didn't allow me any social graces. A strong serve doesn't put hair on your arms and a good forearm doesn't mean make you appealing to the opposite sex. Basically I was back to feeling like shit about myself.

Most of these club members were millionaires many times over and though they owned fortune five hundred companies, for whatever reason, nothing was bigger (or so it felt) than the summer tennis tournament. Most summers, my family had returned home by the time this massive event rolled around but one summer I was there for it and among the most likely to win. That didn't speak well. Especially to parents who put great expectations on their children. WInning every year, was Alexander, cliche-ly nicknamed Alexander the Great.

I have never wanted a victory so much in my life. While most kids lived on the water, my family was up on the "Bluff." which to me was like the hood. Alexander being the cool kid, had all his buddies to hit with and I had my dad or a wall. I felt like Rocky in Rocky Four when all he had was a barn and the Russian had machines, coaches and medicine. Much like Rocky, however I had the unconditional love and support of my family who wanted me to win perhaps more than I did.

I easily made it to the finals and it was me verses Alexander. Word got out that it would be a good match and suddenly the court was surrounded by upwards of 100 people which felt like the entire world. In my own insecure head, I was certain that spare my own family, NO ONE, especially my piers were cheering for me. Luckily, my mom, dad, sister, and grandmother there. Also in attendance, was my grandfather, a war hero and the only person that I genuinely wanted to impress.

We played two out of three sets and Alexander won the first easily. Half way through the second, I was losing steam and it was assumed that he would win. Used to losing, I felt at ease resigning myself to a silver. with one point left to win the entire match, I began to come back. Before long I had won the set. I will never forget winning it and hearing the majority of the kids my age collectively cry "shit!" as their hero lost the set. For the first time I was angry at their discuss and so I fought back.

I came back with a strong game and beat him up until finally I won. I couldn't believe it. I made my way to center court as my piers scowled at me. Mike, the affable tennis instructor smiled and gave me my trophy to some good applause from the parents and then I made my way off the court and as I did, every single kid my age walked past me without so much as eye contact. I found my parents and asked where my grandfather was and they told me he had given up on me earlier in the match and gone home. My parents were then leaving to drive back to Oklahoma City, leaving me there for the rest of the summer.

They took off and I walked to my bike alone. Around the corner, I heard Alexander's mother screaming at him and calling him a loser. I watched this kid who had always been so popular get crucified by his mom. I listened to what she called me and what she called my family and I thought, I should have just let the kid win.

I rode home and as I passed one kid's house, they threw a football at my bike causing me to almost drop my trophy. i remember wanting to just give it to them. I walked into the house where my grandfather had just woken from a nap. "I'm sorry you lost," he said. I told him I had actually won. His face spoke of profound disappointment and though he was disappointed in himself for having given up on me early, that is how I read it. Somehow in the convulsion of my mind, even in victory, I had been defeated.

That night, I lay in bed and listened to kids play tee-ball and read a manuscript my grandfather had given me about his experience as a Prisoner of War in Japan, my trophy on the wicker table next to my bed. I thought about how his hope had left the world with such a powerful story about making it even when everyone had given up on you... About how victory is internal and in that moment, I won. I wanted to write like he did. I just needed to live a life telling about.

Death and Disney: An Alternate Perspective

Today I went to Disneyland and it was terrifying! First, I went on a boat ride through the jungle. The elephants were really cool, but it got a little weird towards the end. Some native had used a magic powder to shrink a guy's head and then he chopped it off and was trying to convince me to buy it.

Next, and slightly unnerved by the post-decapitation that I had just witnessed, I headed over to Pirates of the Caribbean.... and I thought that unruly Native was scary. These pirates are nuts. Two pirates hung a man by his neck and were dangling him in a wishing well. Even when the Pirates were themselves reduced to skeletons (de-fleshed mammals are very popular here), they still wanted to get drunk and kill one another. And another thing about pirates... They love rape.

After that it was the haunted house and while I understand that it is supposed to be scary, I was shaken up by the skeleton hanging from the ceiling in the entry way. Sadder still were all the lost souls and they aimlessly tried to get to heaven but couldn't. Someone should pray for them.

More skeletons were buried in walls in the Indiana Jones ride. Some of them were people (sad that their families will never know what happened to their bodies) and some were animals. At Big Thunder Mountain, the skeletal remains of perhaps a dinosaur are prominently featured on the wall of the hillside.

After my terrifying run through Adventure and Frontier Land, I sought refuge from so much death. I bought a piece of a dismembered turkey and made my way towards Fantasyland. Surely that wouldn't be as terrifying, but it was. There were more pirates, one of whom wanted to murder small children. Thankfully one of the children could fly. Shortly after that, I was forced to contemplate the fate of the turkey I had just consumed as I was eaten by a giant whale and the theme of decapitation was revisited as some crazy witch shouted "Off with their heads..."

Finally I made it to Tomorrowland and was happy to learn that in the future, Michael Jackson comes back to life, only he is black again and lives in space where he works as a ship captain. It got a little weird when in Buzz Lightyear, I became a murderer myself, killing several critters and people alike. Despite the popular song lyric, "the future is so bright, I gotta wear shades," according to disney, that isn't true. The future is very dark because you are in space. There is no grass or trees. That is for sure. Just space ships. Earth was nice while it lasted.

Exhausted from all of this death, it was time to leave. On my way out where a giant rodent tried to give me a huge hug. I got home to find that mouse snapped in two by a mousetrap. Apparently the Disney Mouse went on the Jungle Ride where he was shrunk and decapitated. Glad I got out of there alive.

I can't wait to get a season pass!

Matt Payne: Food Critic

The dining room was expansive but comfortable. I was not.

Entering from the hotel lobby into the elegant restaurant overlooking Atlanta's Olympic park, I was greeted by a three man wait staff with a warm hello and handshake. In route to my table at this steakhouse, I exchanged nods with the chef and his team as they participated in a well choreographed culinary dance around a spit and a grill in an open kitchen, nervously watching my every step.

Three months ago, my average day was writing screenplays at my office in Studio City. Three WEEKS ago, my average day was about the same, but here I was, in Georgia, escorted to my beautifully sat table of one. Job title? Food and Restaurant critic.

I had just spent four days in the wilderness and upon my return to civilization, for lunch ate voraciously at a drive-thru called Bojangles which specialized in fried chicken and biscuits. So good was my cajun chicken in a biscuit sandwich that I had hoped that somewhere on this elegant menu in front of me that I could find it again, but to no avail.

Dressed in my old blue beater sport coat and a pair of jeans, I sat down. Perfectly-lined silverware, a crispy folded napkin, and several glasses sat before me. The bow-tied waiter, with a thick and unfamiliar accent, approached me like a a man in front of a parole board and took my wine order.

"Would you like an appetizer, sir?" he asked.

"Sure, how about the scallops" I said.

"That is a good choice," he affirmed and then said "Can I also bring you the crab cake?"

"If it's free," I thought, but instead I furrowed my brow. If this man thought I was a food critic, I should act like one. "I don't know," I synthetically pondered.... "It's served with a chutney..."

He looked nervous. If he only knew that I wasn't even sure what chutney was, and I was hoping he'd explain it to me. "I assure you it is a magnificent chutney." He says.

"Well... if it's magnificent..."

"And for your salad?" He asked.

I paused. Was I expected to eat two appetizers and a salad and then move onto a giant entree followed by a desert that I had already been assured that was to die for?

"Arugala with walnuts, please."

"Would you like extra bacon and the bacon vinaigrette?"

"That would be fine," as I contemplated the sudden and unexpected influx of pork into my meal.

I sat at the table by myself as the staff watched me. I would occasionally glance around at the decor, pucker my lips as though comparing it to some other magical restaurant and then nod to myself. I'd pick up a roll and stare at it, then butter it slowly, watching them watch me from out of the corner of my eye. Then I'd take a bit and give a satisfactory smile. Catching the bread boy's eye, I gave a thumbs up. He seemed happy.

The appetizers were great. I ate all of them. And my salad. Now they watched me curiously as a small crew cleared my plates. "I see you liked the appetizers," said my waiter.

I responded with something like "how robust that salad was," hoping it carried some sophistication.

"You must be a big eater," he replied. "Of course I am...." I chuckled. "I'm a food critic."

Not sure what to do, as I sat there while Yo Yo Ma played away on his cello through the sound system, I began to fiddle with my phone and as I did, got nervous. I had ordered a sixteen ounce rib eye (The only thing on the menu that I knew I would like). They insisted upon sides, so served with my massive slab of cow were eight thick asparagus spears an a potato. And let us not
forget, desert was just around the corner.



At first, the steak was mind-blowing. This could be because it was well prepared but I remember having a similar affection for steaks cooked over charcoal and marinated in every spice and alcoholic beverage in the kitchen back in my college days.

While the meat was good, my stomach hurt. I tried a small bite of the asparagus and a small bite of the potato and that was it. The waiter came over, concerned and asked if I was unsatisfied. SHIT. No, I told him. Just taking a breath. I patted my stomach and went back to work.

Finally, it was gone. All the food and I felt like I was going to die, but still, by myself at the candle lit table, the whole place watching, had to keep my composure. Sweat beads formed on my forehead and my stomach turned. I accepted a cup of coffee, hoping it would settle my full belly.

Along with the coffee, came the desert. A sampling of every single desert on the menu. There were seven, one of which was key lime pie. I hate key lime pie. The waiter smiled... again.... and told me watching people try the deserts was his favorite part. I swallowed and picked up a spoon and tried the chocolate mousse.... Yummmm.... I said.



The waiter walked away and I frantically scooped bites from two of the less appealing deserts, including the keylime pie and put them in my napkin, hoping that the restaurant didn't have cameras. The waiter returned, satisfied that I had tried them all but noticed that I hadn't finished the key lime. "I'm good," I said.

"No please..." He said, still smiling.

I picked up my spoon, hand shaking, and put it into my mouth. A tidal wave of pre-vomit saliva washed through teeth like a tidal wave.

"Aren't you glad you did that?" he asked.

"Can I use your restroom?" I asked, voice trembling.

"It's across the hotel lobby. I will have someone walk with you," and with that, as I waited to expel five pounds and two hundred dollars of free food, I made the two hundred yard walk, with the manager to the bathroom.

"So you're from Los Angeles and you're a writer," he said.

"Yes."

"How do you like Atlanta? Have you been to any other restaurants?"

"Bojangles," I said. He laughed uncomfortably as I tried not to vomit.

"How was it?"

"Delicious."

As we rounded the corner I could see the bathroom and as it appeared, my stomach lost it's last stand against my massive meal. I broke away into a sprint and made it into the bathroom where a minor apocalypse occurred. When it ended, I sat there, feeling empty. Cool, on the tile of the bathroom floor. I took several deep breaths and the world returned to normal.

As we walked back, we chatted more. I told him that the food had been delightful. I sat back down at the table where the desert still sat. I picked up my spoon and took one last bite of the chocolate mousse, and I must say, it was delicious.

I made my way up to my room, pleased that I was now officially a food critic. I wrote about how wonderful the meal had been and how nice the service was and then, just before bed, set out to look for another Bojangles as I figured it would be hard to sleep on an empty stomach.

Cat Dude

First of all, if you are a "dude" and you own a cat, use the word "dude" a lot. Dudes use the word "dude."

The discovery that a male friend owns a cat is not unlike pulling along side a a shit-talking co-worker from your Fantasy Football Team at a stoplight only to see that he drives a yellow VW Bug convertible or going through your golf buddy's ipod and notice that the majority of his music has been nominated for a Tony Award. You could have watched that friend blow through five hundred dollars the previous night at the strip club, but no amount of shed singles can change how you feel about that chipper dashboard daisy.

Eight years ago, for reasons to this day, I do not fully grasp, I got a cat. I don't use the term "adopted" because to say "I adopted a cat," is akin to saying "My favorite musician is Lady Gaga" so I use the term "got" and from now on, instead of referring to him as his species of animal, I'll call him by his name, "Howard," a name given in the spirit of such classic lady's men as director Howard Hawks, the insane, but equally wealthy and promiscuous Howard Hughes, and the pervy seafaring fowl, Howard the Duck.

Howard is a brown tabby cat with a white chest and grey and brown stripes. When describing him in public, however, there are only two words. Fat Ass. Why do I describe him this way? Because to describe him as "overweight" implies maternal concern. To describe his as "chubby" would be no different than driving that VW slug bug. If I said he was handsome or god-forbid, beautiful I'd never be invited anywhere again.

There was a period of time that I found myself creating a personality for Howard. I envisioned a scotch drinking, cigarette smoking, elitist who frowned upon technology, thought the world was going to end and believed that American Youth didn't "get it." I thought of him as an obese, lazy movie buff who sits around his midwest apartment all day eating popcorn, masturbating, and talking about how Hollywood has gone to shit and how one day, his autobiographical, Fellini-inspired masterpiece will get made and all will be right in the world. I even thought about making him an aspiring serial killer who sends daunting, typewriter written letters to the editor of the New York Times but whose agoraphobia prevents him from doing any harm to anyone. Even with these personas, I realized that I was still playing some type of sick "dress up" with an animal that would typically find refuge with old ladies who have, by no choice of their own, reclaimed their virginity.

Now, when referring to Howard in casual conversation, I refer to him only by name and when discussing his relationship to me, I use only the term "roommate." When describing him, I pepper my description with complaints including poor restroom habits, sloppy table manners and a lack of respect for personal space. I mention that he constantly talks about wanting to go "hunting" but never gets off the couch. I also mention that he has no sense of humor. When the reveal that this individual is a feline, it is met with far less albeit still some judgment.

Howard is cool because he doesn't care about going on a walk. When I eat pizza or a steak or a burger, he thinks I should simplify my life and limit my diet to one dish. He's totally cool with drinking water out of the fountain and even though he shits in the house, he's nice enough to do it in a box designed for that purpose. He doesn't hump my leg, though I'm fairly certain he watches porn, and if I leave my tennis shoes out for a day, I don't have to worry about them being destroyed when I come home.

When guests come over to my house, they are usually shocked when they see Howard's fat ass making a break to the bedroom (he's hardly a guard cat). It is in this moment of truth, that I feel my face becoming flush and I stammer to answer the question "Was that a cat?" At this point, all I can do is go to the fridge, get my guest a beer, go to the medicine cabinet and grab them an allergy pill and hope for the best...

...and the truth is, if that person has issue with the fact that I live with an obese, aspiring serial killer, fuck em. When they leave, Howard and I will flip on a old Howard Hawks film, talk about how hot bitches used to be back in the 40's days and make it a dude's night...

It's Monday.....: Matt's Guide to Tweets and Status Updates

As on-line social networking continues to become more and more popular with Tweets and Status updates etc., there are various groups of specific types of tweeters that are emerging. Some of these are people who post articulately conceived statements bringing into our cyberworld nuggets of wisdom, humor or even a life-affirmation . We know who these people are and those 150 letter words are the small puffs of wind that catch our sails and push us through the monotony of daily life.

That said, there are other types of tweeters. There are individuals who feel compelled to remind us what day it is and what they hate about that particular day. Don't get me wrong. Social networking is a great place to express periodic disdain. For instance, after reading a particularly horrible article about how individuals are suffering from depression as a result of the movie AVATAR, I felt compelled to publicly vent about this absurdity. That said, my rear window motor has broken and I have to ritually duct tape it shut on an almost daily basis. While this is frustrating to me, I will not make it my practice to let every one of my nearly 700 close and not so close friends just how much I hate it.

Here is the worst status update ever.

"It's Monday..."

First of all, as working human-beings, we have collectively agreed upon a seven day week. Everyone knows it is Monday. Everyone. Perhaps somewhere in your friends list is an individual who lives in a constant state of "stay-cation" and doesn't track the day, but for the most part, we don't need to be reminded by anything other than an unwelcome alarm clock as to what day it is.

Secondly it is vague. It's Monday without anything beyond it falls into the same category as the absurd posts where people simply type the word "is." It's Monday and what? Are you happy? Is this something you didn't realize until you looked at your calendar? Are you expecting some big announcement that has you eager or do you love your job so much that you can't wait to get back to it after a couple of restful days off. It's Monday means nothing.

If one were to make an assumption about this status, it would be that the individual with so little to say, but loves to express that vacancy none-the-less, it would be that they are bitching. Facebook status complaining is like news feed pollution unless of course it is hilarious. "Sitting next to a Funoin eating, finger-licking gassy fat guy, heading into hour two in line at the DMV and I just realized I have jury duty tomorrow" makes me laugh. A running complaint about your neighbors vocal sexual escapes or a chance encounter with the world's grumpiest grocery checker can be amusing. The fact that you are bored at work, however simply makes other people bored at work. No one cares that you are bored.

Here are a few other do's and don'ts of the update world.

We get that you love your pets, but the bi-hourly update of the Adventures of Milo the Super Pup can get tiring. Especially if Milo's day to day activity doesn't extend beyond a walk, some kibble and self grooming. That said, if Milo The Super Pup managed to chase away an invader from outer space or you woke up at 3am just as Milo placed the last piece of a 5000 piece puzzle, by all means... Let us know!

Motivational phrases. I am all for the periodic inspiring word. That said, when a tweet like Ghandi's "Be change you want to see in the world" falls between the updates "I FUCKING HATE MY BOYFRIEND" and "Super hungover.... and it's Monday" it becomes difficult to take such a profound quote (or you) seriously.

Cutting loose and late night drunken pictures are one of life's true joys, but if you have 908 photos and there isn't one where you're not drinking, or you tweet "......tiredddd of puking goodnight lol" at 4am, you may wind up on textsfromlastnight.com, but don't be puzzled when you learn you didn't "get the job."

You've hated the last fifteen dates you went on and every girl (or guy) in your city is totally lame. Don't be surprised if after you add someone that you DO like and they read how fickle you are, when your friend count went from 302 to 301 and your plans for Saturday have suddenly fallen through leaving you to tweet about how much guys suck and the grooming habits of your cat.

Life is at it's best when it's centered around good stories, fresh ideas, and new spins on old ones. I love and have enjoyed status updates since they first came out. I am certain that in pious moments I encouraged volunteerism and talked about reverence for life... That in the wee hours of the morning, I've updated something that I thought was hilarious but was really lame and illegible (CURSE YOU FAT THUMBS!!!), and I've even thrown in a vague ellipse a time or two..... but I try to keep it f, keep it connected and to keep it fun. So when it's Monday......................... Let the world know how it's gonna be a better Monday that the last one you tweeted about and if your dog saved your next door neighbor from a burning house, give him props.

http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/donnes-world/2010/jan/14/hiking-appalachian-len-foote-hike-inn/

Musings of a Novice Travel Writer: NYE in the Woods

Popular culture over time has taught us to believe that in order to achieve great heights, one must ascend to the highest peaks in the Himalayas or dive to the deepest depths of the sea. There is a belief that for travel to be truly adventurous, one's journey must extend across exotic and romantic locations, dipping down into fjord and across arid uninhabitable deserts and great glaciers. There is much romanticism in what is completely foreign to us, when in truth; much adventure lies much closer to home. So close in fact that it need not even be the Grand Canyon or the gushing geysers of Yellowstone National Park.

As I contemplated the life of a travel writer, I found myself, like so many others longing to spend a week on a freighter observing penguins in Antarctica or pondering evolution on the Galapagos Islands. When my editor called and gave me my first travel assignment, I was taken back when she suggested a small state park in Georgia.

I had just completed “A Walk In The Woods” by noted author Bill Bryson. The book centers on a man not particularly suited for the outdoors who decides to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. The park I found myself in just two months later served as home to the southern terminus of this legendary 2000 plus mile hike spanning all the way to Maine.

I arrived to Georgia, relatively naïve to hiking, but eager none-the-less to spend some time in the woods. It was the end of 2009, and while my tendency would usually be to ring in the New Year with friends over cocktails, this year, I was to do something different. My mandate was to trek into the woods, stay at the remote Hike Inn, accessible only by foot, and ultimately to hike to the top of Springer Mountain where the great Appalachian Trail began. More challenging than the hike itself or brutally cold and untypical weather was the fact that I would be doing it by myself.

As I set off into the woods, underneath the shivering Hardwood and Hickory Oak Trees, I began, as would be typical at the turn of a decade, to take an inventory of my life. The hike itself wasn’t particularly difficult. It was three hours to the Inn and from there, another three hours to the top of Springer Mountain. The battle was a mental one.

Because you must be a registered guest of the Hike Inn to enjoy this trail, the forest takes on a silence much different than that of a park where the trails are available to everyone. Aside from the low grown of the wind or the periodic tapping of a scavenging woodpecker, the only sounds to keep me company were my feet crunching on the dead leafs, and my breath and heartbeat, which intensified as the climb grew steeper.

Though the air was cold, the sun effortlessly danced its way through the twiggy canopy of the forest warming me as I made my way up the gentle accent deeper into the woods, creating a tapestry of shadows crisscrossing across my path and the rest of the forest floor.


Despite the mostly arid and brittle nature of the plant and tree life along the trail, upon occasion, my journey would descend into stream beds where I crossed storybook-like bridges over small waterfalls that carved their way through the leafy rhododendrons whose green foliage provided sharp contrast to the otherwise gray-blues and browns that surrounded me. A multitude of mushrooms and colorful fungi housed themselves in hollowed out trees and along the shore of the gently moving water.

The deeper I got into the woods, my personal inventory began to deepen and grow in specificity. I thought about accomplishments and I thought about failures. I thought about the two shows I had worked on that had been cancelled and contemplated that fact that somehow, miraculously I still had a job. I thought about my divorce from the previous year and the residue of a broken relationship and with each step, with each snapping of a twig underfoot, with each catching of a bramble on my shirt, it was as though those memories began to transmute themselves into a peace that rivaled that of the quiet of the woods.

After a rest at the Inn, what was one blue sky turned into a bleak gray brought in by slicing winds that raced through the trees like angry knife-wielding ghosts. Despite the warm fire and ample reading material available at the Inn, my mission was to make it to the top of the summit and so I began again, this time, warmed by a fleece neck-warmer and additional sweatshirt purchased from the Inn’s gift shop.

The cold was penetrating and the terrain became rockier. Now, as I pushed forward, my thoughts simply went away, shifting my focus to the placement of one foot in front of the other. Uplifting songs played through my head like musical mantras, my feet moving to their gentle and persuasive cadence.

The higher I went, the colder it got and the stronger the wind blew. Ground that earlier would have taken me a minutes to climb took lifetimes, though strangely, it also felt that time had stopped. The water in my water bottle froze, despite its proximity to my body.



I thought about the Internet and how in no time at all I could find pictures of the summit and accounts of the Appalachian Terminus. Accenting my misery was the fact that I had no out to express it, spare the occasional squirrel or woodpecker, so in my head my thoughts swam until they swam out.

In the final ascent, the trail winds up; tacking back and forth for what, at least that cold day seemed like an eternity. I simply wanted to get to the top. I wanted out of the woods, whose rugged beauty now, despite my emersion in it was a footnote in my experience. I pushed myself up determined to arrive so that I could get back down. I wanted to be with my family and friends. I wanted to be somewhere warm and fun and festive on this last day of the year, and yet here I was stuck in a strange state and I began to resent that mountain.

I passed a sign warning of mischievous bears that liked to dine on the food of campers as they rested for the night before beginning their three-month journey on the Appalachian Trail. A hundred yards ahead of me was the summit. I had made it.

The last steps were like walking through hot tar, slow but with the brevity that comes only with great discomfort. I made it to the top and looked out over the entire state of Georgia. A white Blaze marked the first tree of the AT. I took a picture and headed back down the mountain pondering where my next assignment would be.

I walked down a couple of hundred yards and suddenly my heart started racing. I had made it to the top and somehow I had missed it. I had turned my back on what was to be the high point of my journey, this first travel assignment, this first step in a career I had dreamed about for years, and all because in my discomfort I wanted to be someplace else. Someplace warm and familiar. As I pondered that warm familiar place, I thought of some of the conversation that would take place. Talk of adventure. Of travel and of dreams and then in that moment, I felt foolish. It was a New Year and there I had been at the high point of my journey, at one of the high points of my life and at the trailhead of one of the longest journeys a man can take…

I turned and this time ran to the top of the mountain, losing my footing and regaining only because my momentum was such that gravity couldn’t force me fall. I passed the bear sign and the white blaze and breathlessly and joyfully made it to the top of the mountain. My eyes, watery from the cold wind into which I had ran, I looked out over the mountains that I had climbed, and at the epic trail ahead of me and in that moment was grateful for every climb and every descent in my life. It wasn’t the Himalayas and but the experience was mine. It was challenging and purifying and I stood on top of my prize, eager to start a new year.