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.

Road Warrior

Though my parents would like to believe that my first international experience was at the heralded American College in London studying "British Museums" with weekend trips to France and Wales, my first international experience actually came the year before. That particular experience didn't require a leap over the proverbial pond but instead a brazen post midnight crossing of the Canadian border... Let's rewind.



I had just completed my first year at the University of Kansas though a more accurate way to describe the experience would have been that I "wintered in Lawrence." Despite my lack of scholastic success, I managed to squeeze as much fun as humanly possible out of each and every night of the week and on one of these drunken evenings at the tail end of the semester, managed to meet a beautiful girl named Kelly. Kelly was a sucker for adventure, and having just completed and been inspired by Jack Kearuac's On The Road myself, we quickly became an item. Despite our burning desire to see the world in shoddy motels together, the semester ended and with it's end, we returned to our respective home towns. Mine in Oklahoma City and hers in Wichita.

Upon returning home, used to the freedom of coming and going when I pleased, all I could think about was the adventure that Kelly and I had talked about. Good fortune came my way when my friend Parker's mother suggested that he and I drive her Ford Explorer, her dog Chief, and some of her finer clothing to her house in Northern Michigan where she planned on spending her summer. My family had a summer house there as well and without thought, we agreed.

Harbor Springs was a tiny harbor town about fifty miles south of Macinac Island and another thirty from the Canadian border in Sault Saint Marie. By winter, Harbor Springs is a lightly populated village where everyone knows everyone and by summer it is a bustle of tourist activity. The town has a tiny Main Street with more fudge shops than stop signs.

The town also plays summer host to a series of exclusive yacht, golf, and tennis clubs where members wore sear-sucker and talk about the good life over long putts, cocktails, and Gurney Sandwiches (a local favorite). Despite its perennial and pastel-clad summer residents, many of whom had kids our age, Parker and I were asked to drive up long before any of these summer dwellers would arrive. Given that I had just completed my first year of college and was itching for freedom, a week in a cottage in the woods with Parker, though transcendental as it may have sounded, would require some modification and I had the perfect solution. Kelly.

Armed with one fake ID, a little over five hundred dollars, and the self proclaimed title "The Road Warriors," we bid our families good-bye, agreed one last time that we would drive straight to Michigan and with that, headed to Wichita where Kelly and her lovely best friend Carrie, hurriedly packed their bags for their summer adventure. We picked them up and headed to Chicago where they shopped Michigan Ave. while Parker and I got life advice from a homeless guy (this was a rare site in OKC and unheard of in Lawrence) and went to a Cubs game.

After a fun-filled day dodging Parker's mom's phone calls, we made our way to Harbor Springs. I felt a keen loyalty to this little town, deeming it a heaven on earth and expected Kelly not only to think it was pretty but to also be as emotionally connected with it upon arrival as I was. This proved troublesome for our relationship. We fought constantly and what had been a romantic getaway over a thousand miles from our homes, designed to stimulate her adventurous side and charge her libido quickly became a nightmare and while we bickered, Parker and Carrie fell deeper and deeper into an outwardly affectionate state of teenage lust.

After three days of quarreling, I longed for that Walden inspired time in the woods alone but it was not in the cards. The only adventure, spare the road trip itself, was that Parker and I lost a bet and the girls got to highlight our hair. We sat around and later that night and the topic of travel came up. Kelly, who had been to Italy and was happy to talk about it to anyone willing to listen chimed in on the importance of international travel.

I quickly pointed out that Canada was only 90 miles north and almost out of spite, I suggested we go at that moment. After all, we were Road Warriors. Parker, always the contrarian and perfectly content in his summer home with his new found love, resigned the title Road Warrior but offered to pay for the gas were we to make it all the way to Canada. With that, desperate to defend my honor, I walked out the door. Kelly, sat on the couch frozen and confused. That confusion deepened as she heard the roar of Parker's mother's Explorer followed by a blast of the horn.

With the squealing of tires, we were off. Almost immediately, Kelly and I were in love again and all anger and resentment subsided. As Sister Hazel sang the song "All For You" through the blown Explorer speakers, we pushed our way into the Northern Michigan night, discussing everything from the relevance of music throughout history to the nature of God. My dream of adventure was rapidly coming to fruition in a way greater than I had imagined. As millions of stars shined on us through the sunroof, we pressed onward towards our international destination, happy once again, to be with one another.

Just after midnight, we arrived to Sault Saint Marie. The closest to an international border guard I had ever been up to this point was crossing from Arizona to California to check for fruit. After watching several cars breeze through the border as though they had some kind of international speed pass, we decided to cross.

As a stout border patrol officer made his way to the car, I quickly put a piece of gum in my mouth. Over the course of the drive we had consumed at least four beers apiece in addition to countless ones before our hasty departure. "I thought he was going to just wave us through!" said Kelly as he tapped on the window with his flashlight.

I rolled down the window. "What brings you to Canada?" he asked.... Good question.
"We just wanted to... go to Canada?" I uttered with wavering confidence.
"Please step out of the car, sir," he said stoically.
As I opened the door and stepped out, I felt my bare foot hit the cold Michigan pavement. I had left for our adventure with such urgency that I had forgotten to put on shoes.
"Can I see some ID?" he asked.
I fished around in my pocket until I found that familiar plastic and presented it. The officer looked at the ID fora moment and then said "Colorado, huh?" My heart began to race. Though my alter-ego, two years my senior was from Colorado, I certainly was not.
"Sit on the curb," he ordered.

He walked over to Kelly's side of the car and after a brief conversation, she joined me, furious. She scolded me as my feet froze and my heart raced. We watched as the officer pulled Parker's mother's expensive clothes, the ones we had been asked to deliver to Michigan to ensure their safe arrival, and tossed them in a pile on the ground. A moment later, an empty Labatt's Blue Ribbon Box plopped onto the roof of the car, followed by at least eight empty cans.
After an agonizingly long time, the office made his way towards us. "Is this your car?" he asked.
"No sir," said, my voice shaking.
"Does the owner of the car know that you have it?"
"No sir."
"So you have stolen the car," he said bluntly.
"Well the owner's son said that we could take it," I said in a week effort to defend myself.
"and how old is he?"
"Seventeen." I said, resigned.

The officer took a long breath, shook his head and began to speak. "Do you understand," he said, "that right now, you are crossing an international border in a stolen car while intoxicated and in possession of a false form of identification?"
"That's one way to put it." I thought as a tear ran down my face and Kelly huffed in disgust.
I was going to jail and she would never speak to me again. How quickly the tides change, I thought as my new found summer freedom had me in a downward spiral, plummeting towards a life sentence for international crimes.

"I want you to know...." continued the officer, "That you are quite possibly the stupidest person I have ever come across." I agreed. He took another long, contemplative breath, allowing for an uncomfortable silence. I noticed other officers watching. "There's a hotel on the other side of this bridge," he said. "I want you to go to that hotel and I want you to get a room and when you wake up in the morning, I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and take a long hard look, remind yourself of where you are and then just ask 'why?' Then I want you to get into your car, cross this bridge, take this car back to whoever you stole it from.... and never, ever, ever come back to Canada again."

My body melted into a massive puddle of ecstatic relief. "Do you understand me?" he asked. I certainly did. "Good. Now get into your car and go." I couldn't believe it. "Oh and one more thing," he said, as I put the car into drive. "It's illegal in Canada to drive without shoes. Be careful you don't get pulled over."

We got into the explorer and only then did I realize that I hadn't taken a breath in five minutes. As oxygen gallantly returned to my blood stream, we triumphantly made our way across the Sault Saint Marie Bridge as Sister Hazel continued to sing from the speakers. With no emotion left in us from the experience, we simply began to sing joyously as we crossed into Canada.

We checked into a perfect shoddy motel, the kind we had talked about back in Lawrence when we first met. That night, I looked at myself in the mirror and did as the officer had asked. I took a long hard look and as I did, I didn't see the screw up he had been addressing but something else entirely. A smile curled up on my lips. I may not have been the world's greatest student, but I had done something. I had managed to drive across the country with an alternate ID, avoid arrest for international crimes, and all the while in the company of a beautiful woman. I was a road warrior.

It's all in the Kava Kava!!!!

The country of Fiji, despite the masses of wealthy tourists eager to experience the thrills of surfing intense reef breaks in crystal blue water or enjoy a dive or snorkel on one of many easily accessible and diverse reefs, is actually a culturally diverse country with a beautiful interior. Beyond the Nadi city limits, the large island of Viti Levu expands into a mountainous terrain spotted with small agrarian, culturally and spiritually diverse villages.

After five days of pampering at the stunning Liku-Liku Lagoon Resort, my travel partner and I returned to the mainland seeking adventure. We explained to a kind woman at the tourist desk of the Fiji Westin of our desire to see the country’s interior. Without hesitation she suggested a one-day trek to the Nausori Highland.

This trek would begin atop one of Fiji’s finest vistas and proceed through a canyon and to a tropical river where we would arrive at a Fijian Village. Once there, we would participate in a traditional Fijian ceremony, enjoy an authentic Fijian meal and have an afternoon to enjoy a swim in one of several local rivers or to simply wander the beautiful town. The idea of exploring such diverse terrain and to end with such a beautiful cultural experience sounded perfect.

We woke up early, put on suitable hiking clothes; shorts, tee shirt and footwear and headed to the lobby. Once there, a van driven by our guide Daniel waited to pick us up. He, like most Fijians, was a man of big smiles and few teeth. He pulled out indifferently yet perilously fast into traffic, all the while looking at us in the backseat. Thus began our trek.

Given the lack of government funding for well-paved roads in addition to our van’s lack of shocks, the van ride was more than a little bumpy. Daniel, who immediately proved to be a wealth of information on topics ranging from the Fijian political situation to the many religions that co-existed on the island, informed us that the road was about to get a little rough. When it came to his suggestion that we strap on our seatbelts, we were already several steps ahead of him.

As the van pulled onto an almost non-existent dirt road, my partner and I shared a concerned glance. Daniel informed us, as the car began to shake uncontrollably, that we were to spend about forty-five minutes on this road and then the adventure would begin. Given the already rocky road trip, I already found comfort in the thought of the hot Fijian meal waiting for us at the day’s end.

We wound our way up a large mountain past many small farming communities. Daniel explained to us that some communities were all Muslim and others were Christian, but that there was little conflict between the two. After an hour climb, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, he stopped the van on the side of the road. He looked at us with a toothless smile and said, “Let’s begin.”

The narrow dirt road was surrounded on either side by four foot tall, golden grass that waved peacefully from a delicate ocean breeze. Daniel wore only a worn pair of rubber flip-flops and short shorts. The bottoms of his feet however were as thick as shoe soles. Without warning, he said “this way,” and disappeared into the tall grass.

We hurried to catch up with him as he pushed his way down a trail that was little more than a thin tire tread that could have easily been created hours before by a motorcycle. This was our path, he told us, through the Fijian highlands to the village of Veranasu.

Though the tall, wispy grass wreaked havoc on our legs, such discomfort was of little note given the expansive view upon the summit of this mountain. In front of us, we looked out onto the port of Nadi and into the South Pacific where chains of islands rose serenely like the humps of beautiful whales against a misty blue sky. Behind us, were riverbeds with foliage growing along the banks and smokestacks indicating villages in the hillsides. Daniel pointed to a smokestack in the distance. That was our destination.

The grassy path gave way to an easily discernable but rocky one as we made our gradual descent toward a riverbed several miles in the distance. Daniel impressed us with his botanical knowledge, stopping at various plants to describe their nutritional or medicinal value.

His primary focus was a small fruit called “noni.” This plant thrives in shady areas on volcanic terrain. Its green bulbous fruit is used to treat just about any ailment, according to the Fijians. Reading my skepticism in such herbal remedies, Daniel was quick to point out that despite the lack of any medical facilities, the average age of villagers in this particular area is seventy years old.

We continued down the path into a stunning bamboo forest. Walking through these bamboo thickets was like being in a maze of geometric wonders. The bamboo’s limited amount of foliage created a profound sense of depth that was then countered by thousands of shapes created by the crisscross stalks of this amazing plant.

We plunged deeper into the ravine of the canyon beyond the bamboo forest and as we did, the climate rapidly and drastically changed. As it did, we became aware of the sound of a river. Now humid, the chirps of brush birds were replaced with throatier cries of tropical ones as we entered the rainforest. The dirt path turned to rich dark soil as we approached a waterfall collecting in a pool in this paradise.

Daniel suggested we stop and refresh ourselves with a drink from the fresh, cascading water. At first nervous, I proceeded to take a sip and as the clear, cool spring liquid ran down my throat, I felt revitalized. As we rested, he showed us schools of prawn swimming from rock to rock at the river’s base until we felt ready to push on to where our restful afternoon awaited us.

Only a few minutes later, we could smell smoke and livestock through the beautiful clean scent of the flora and flowing water. A rooster crowed, announcing our arrival to Veranasu.

When we had heard the term “village,” we envisioned a small road lined with vendors selling fruits and souvenirs. A schoolhouse where kids kicked a soccer ball on a dirt field while parents gathered at small cafes. Veranasu was nothing like this.

We paused outside a clearing in the forest. From our vantage point, a fence of barbed wire ran around several windowless “houses” made up of aluminum and wood nestled in a circle. Clusters of naked children and chickens collected underneath cattle and goats that roamed freely throughout the small “village.” Beyond the village ran a river where villagers both bathed and fished.

As we made our way into the village, everything stopped and all heads turned towards us. The stares, though menacing at first, quickly turned to welcoming grins. There were no sidewalks so we quickly weaved our way through cows to our host’s house where our host eagerly awaited us.

He was a toothless man of great energy and love and welcomed us with the traditional greeting of “Bula, bula,” an enthusiastic term I had come to embrace since arriving on the island. We returned the greeting as he hugged us and welcomed us into his home.

He spoke no English but that didn’t stop him from carrying on to us in his Fijian dialect, one of many on the island. His wife, a busty woman with sprouts of chin hair, an impressive set of fingernails and a perpetual frown, propped herself up on the floor of their unfurnished living room. We sat on the thatched rug where our host began the Kava Kava ceremony.

Kava Kava is a root plant as well as an opiate and the equivalent of alcohol in Fiji. The ceremony began with our host putting this dirt-clad root into what looked like a sock. He then laid it on a small wooden table and with a rusted metal mallet, began to smash it furiously.

We watched nervously as his wife brought in a bucket of water, presumably from the river that ran around the town’s perimeter. She set the water down, then grabbed an old tire. The old man then reaches behind him and pulls out a metal tub that could have easily come from a prehistoric dig.

Our host muttered blessings as he dumped the brown-tinted water into the tub, then with his massive hands dipped the root, now in the sock into the water and began to squeeze it. He squeezed for an uncomfortably long period of time and then his wife brought him three coconuts. Having heard the pounding of a mallet, another villager enters the house. As I looked up to greet him as he entered, I also noticed that observing us with its head inside the window was a cow.

Our host looked at us with deep gentle eyes and said an emotional prayer. “The village began as simply an extended family in the seventeenth century,” Daniel explained “and each visitor that participates in this Kava Kava ceremony becomes a part of that extended family.”

With a tear and a smile, he dipped the dirty coconut into the filthy water and asked me how I wanted it. “Low tide?” he asked. Then more mischievously “or high tide.” As the room cheered, despite my inclination to ere on the side of caution, I took high tide. The room, wife included erupted in cheer.

He then chanted something else and clapped three times, my queue to drink. I took a deep breath, held my nose and swallowed. The Kava Kava tasted like dirty, metallic water with a hint of licorice. After a few moments, my body began to tingle and my gums went harmlessly numb. Despite the foul taste, I couldn’t help but smile.

I had hoped this would be the end of the Kava Kava ceremony, but it wasn’t until three full cups later that it came to an end. While the meal was prepared, we were encouraged to go for a swim in the river

As we swam in the muddy-bottomed river, Daniel explained how the river provided everything from drinking to bathing water. Food to waste removal. I couldn’t believe that these people lived to be seventy. Fijian boasted to being the happiest people on earth. Perhaps happiness and the “Noni” plant was the secret to life after all.

We returned to the house for a meal of river fish, spinach in coconut milk and a root plant that tasted like a potato. After our meal, our hosts encouraged us to take a nap in one of the bunks in the only other room in the house. Another family member snored away in one of them, so we declined.

Our host showed us their humble but quaint church and talked to us, via Daniel, about the importance of faith as a chicken walked over the small alter. Despite the strange meal and the fact that my lips were still numb from the Kava Kava, I felt at home with this man. We learned a bit more about what was now our village until it was time for us to return to our pick up point.

We waited, us in our shoes, and Daniel in his flip-flops in the Fijian sun, chewing on sugar cane for hydration until another equally bumpy van picked us up. Though not the beautiful day I had anticipated it had been far greater and more memorable as it had unfolded.

Koosh Ball Christmas

In addition to being a scrawny and socially awkward adolescent, I was a horrible student and failed at almost every attempt scholastically. Whether this involved doing my multiplication tables in under the allotted three minutes, or the successful but horrific (and still unnecessary) task of diagraming of a sentence, I failed. That said, when the holidays arrived, something magically scholastic washed over me. My Christmas list wasn't so much a list but an impeccably organized outline. It went something like this.

Electronics
I. Nintendo
A. Games
1. Mario Brothers (if it doesn't come with the Nintendo)
2. Track and Feild
B. Accessories
1. Gun
2. Extra remote

Sports Outline
I. Baseball
A. Fielding gear
1. Mitt-left handed... (as if my parents didn't know)
2. Baseballs
B. Batting
1. Bat (wood)
2. Bat (metal)
3. Bat (whiffle for the front yard)
C. Attire
1. Yankees
A. hat (non-mesh, fitted)
B. Jersey (with buttons, home NOT away)
II. Football
A. Equipment

... and so forth. The outline would end with the column "Miscellaneous" under which such items as "koosh balls" or "aerobies" would fall. These are things I didn't particularly want but knew Santa liked to give and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.


Though certain that nothing would go overlooked in terms of what I needed for Christmas, I did have a concern that Santa would become aware of my secretly keen sense of outlining which would lead him to question my otherwise apathetic academic effort. This could potentially result in a Christmas morning comprised not of authentic football helmets and video game machines but instead, of a feeble mesh-backed Yankee's cap... or worse, a koosh ball.

In the meantime, my across-the-street neighbors, Drew and Laura had discovered a treasure trove of their own Christmas gifts in their father's closet. It was torture to know that those gifts potentially existed in my own house and with the right amount of determination, perhaps I could find them. Suddenly Christmas became about debunking the entire holiday.

The plan was two-fold. Seek out, then locate gifts intended to be given to me by my parents. Part two was to catch Santa in the act of delivering the other gifts. I was old enough that I deserved to see the fat man with my own two eyes.

One way to out-think Santa was to get into his mind. It had become obvious to me that the concept of a single man and flying reindeer were just not capable of visiting every single house on the planet, but when considering that he had to have lots of help making all of those toys, perhaps there was a cabinet of specially appointed individuals that could "deliver on his behalf."

Over the course of two weeks, we hid underneath an end table carefully drawing schematics. These included maps, graphs, case-scenarios and escape plans. From our rooms we could see one another's chimneys and Drew had a couple of crude spy devices. We narrowed it down to most likely times given our location on the globe in relationship to our bed time as well as our parents bed time. We had flashlight signals, hiding places, and most importantly, determination. We deserved to know just like our parents did, that Santa was real.

One afternoon, while my mom was at the store, just before Christmas, I was searching for my basketball in the garage when I stumbled across a nintendo. I was thrilled but puzzled, because this was something that I had specifically asked Santa for. I called Drew over to look at it. After much consideration, we came to the conclusion that given the ever-unfolding expansion of the population of the planet, Santa had dropped it off early and my mom and dad were just supposed to put out the gift that night before bed. The explanation, though logical, still felt weak. Given the date in December, this Nintendo still belonged in the North Pole.

Things became more complicated when one day after shooting baskets, my mom called me into the kitchen. I rarely got in trouble unless it was for bad grades and my report card wasn't due out of a couple of weeks. It could only be one thing. She proceeded to vaguely allude to the fact that I may have discovered something I shouldn't have. I insisted I didn't know what she was talking about but it was obvious she knew.

I went back over to Parker's and he wanted to continue with the plan, but I was disenchanted. I felt terrible. This whole thing seemed unfair. Santa was a fair and just man and we should respect his privacy, I thought, as though somehow defaulting the plan would somehow lighten the guilt that was beginning to surround me. By abandoning this plan, maybe somehow I could restore my naive belief that such a generous magical individual could exist and my mom would no longer be mad at me.

Christmas Eve rolled around and that night I went to bed. I didn't put on camo pajamas or pull out the binoculars to watch the house across the street, as originally planned. I didn't hold a cup to the wall and listen for reindeer cause I knew now there was no Santa. I also knew my lack of faith and honor would be punished in unspeakable ways. I wasn't gonna get that Nintendo but instead, the cursed and absurd goofy koosh ball.

The next morning, sure enough, there it was. The koosh. Though several other gifts were on display, as was Santa's tradition, that stupid toy was all I could see. Other gifts, like clothes and other atrocities began to appear but nothing else. I looked at my mom in despair. She had bought it... or Santa had. It had been in the garage two weeks ago. I saw it with my own two eyes! Was she just gonna give it to my cousin? Donate it to some poor kids? It had been on my outline! I looked upon my gifts in utter dismay. How could she or he or Santa or whoever do this?

After what seemed like an eternity, my mom asked me what was wrong, confused by my frustration. "Aren't you happy?" Hell no. Of course not. She looked at me, disappointed. "I thought it was what you wanted?" A koosh ball?!?! Had I not feared accruing more bad Santa mojo, I would have said "FUCK NO!" but I held my tongue. I knew why I didn't get it. I didn't deserve to. My grades sucked, I violated sacred trusts and stopped believing. Finally, I mustered, "I thought I was going to get a Nintendo." Upon hearing this feeble confession my mom pointed to my gifts and said it's right there. Suddenly, in the same spot I had been looking moments before, there it was. The Nintendo. My heart dropped. I knew that just a second ago, it wasn't there but miraculously it appeared. It was as if my feeble confession made it magically appear. Shrouded in the miracle of atonement and the spirit of Christmas, my family spent the rest of the morning committed to the magical world of Mario and taking the occasional moment to toss around the koosh ball.

Pocket Dialed Gratitude

Last night, I went to sleep, grateful that I had the following day off. It's a rare and beautiful thing to get a full Wednesday off before Thanksgiving and I embraced it with gratitude. So much gratitude that in fact, my intention was to make a list the following morning, after sleeping in a bit, of all of the things in my life that I was grateful for. I slept into the 7 am hour like a champion, snoozing away, happy as can be, but as I turned the corner towards 7:30, my phone rang. It was my mom. I immediately assumed that something was wrong. I thought about all the worst case scenarios, contemplating what horror could warrant such an early wake-up call. After a concerned, disgruntled breath, I answered the phone to hear the innocuous rattling of lipstick, the rustling of receipts and my mom yammering on about canned cranberries. I had been pocket (actually purse) dialed.... at 7:30am... by my Mom.... On my first Wednesday off in ages. My concern for the well-being of my family members diffused into annoyance.

I hrumphed my way back under the covers and attempted to go to sleep to little avail. Suddenly, I was awake in my apartment, early in the morning without agenda. The sun was rising and the air in my apartment was crisp. Traffic had yet to pick up outside and without the morning clock, ticking towards work time (which is later than most peoples.... Thankfully). I felt an overwhelming peace. I didn't bother calling my mom back because I was so content in the quietude that was this morning. In this quietude, I was able to access many things that I was grateful for. The list however, because of the extra hour that my morning had accrued, was able to extend deeper into the realm of my life.

I contemplated my appreciation for the usual things. Friends, family, my job, etc., but I couldn't stop thinking about that pocket dial. I was so annoyed that I had been disturbed from my beauty sleep, and here I was suddenly grateful for what was a thorn in my side for allowing me to have this wonderful morning. I began to think of all of the other things in my life that annoy me, but that ultimately I am grateful for.

Despite traffic, traffic tickets, slow drivers, reckless drivers, road rage, trash in the road, road hogs, people asleep in the road, and roads named after people that make you mad, people talking on their phone while driving, at least we have roads, so today, I'm thankful for roads. Despite fast food, bad food, food that isn't organic, food that comes from animals who were wrongly killed, long lines at the store to get food, food that is burnt, under-cooked, under-seasoned, and underwhelming, food that is over-seasoned, over priced, and overwhelming... today, I am grateful that there is food. Despite death metal, I'm glad there is music. Despite deforestation, I'm glad that there are still forests at all and I'm grateful for the growing global awareness to protect them. Despite racism, I'm thankful for the great leaps of the last 150 years. Despite all the hate has come from the differences of faiths and religion, I am thankful for God and despite people that talk too loud in public places on cell phones, I'm glad we've got ways to communicate with our loved ones in a world that supports travel, relocation because of the pursuit of dreams, adventure... even that means because of that technology, I'm accidentally woken up at 7:30 on my day off. Thanks Mom!

Happy thanksgiving y'all!

Kirtland's Warbler

My father was a man who took his hobbies seriously. Within each of his hobbies came another hobby entirely. This hobby was a hobby that he was far more passionate about than all of the other hobbies combined. This hobby was the collection of gear. For instance, when it came to golf, my father did not just have a set of clubs and a bag. This wire-haired, 62 year old, gentle giant had the clubs, the bag, the towel, the tees, the training devices, the shirts, shorts, the pants, the hats, the magazines, and even the quirky Nicole Miller golf ties of golfers putting and driving to go along with the game. When he decided to learn to fly fish, he didn’t purchase a cheap rod and reel and a couple of dry flies to test the waters before jumping into the river. He bought the best rod, reel, wet flies, dry flies, boxes for the wet flies, boxes for the dry flies, clippers, waders, pliers, vests, nets, leaders, line, tippet, books, maps, and of course the fancy Nicole Miller ties depicting various fly fishermen at different stages of the fly fishing process, that money could buy. His attitude was that as long as you look as though know what you are doing, everything else would fall into place accordingly.

Being a man whose hobbies placed him in the loving arms of Mother Nature, and also being a man who enjoyed hobbies within hobbies, no one was surprised when he decided to take up birdwatching. This quirky activity could be done between shots while walking from hole to hole on the golf course or in between casts on the banks of a river on a slow fishing day. It could even be done while working in the backyard, another hobby of my fathers, but one that he enjoyed far less. My father was the only man who would go waste deep into river with a pair of heavy, cumbersome binoculars draped around his neck. He was also the only person on the golf course who would stop at the slightest chirp, and peer into a bush and whistle at it, in hopes of coaxing out a sparrow or junko that had he seen taking refuge in it’s branches.

The plus side of being my fathers son was that when he picked up a new hobby, I picked up a new hobby as well, and by picking up the hobby, I mean each Christmas, amongst the various clothing items and electronics that I had asked for would also be a new fly rod and reel or a pair of binoculars. These gifts ultimately became the bridge between my father and me in my early childhood. Whether I was in my angry poet phase of life or my tennis phase, we always found commonality in nature and fishing, which also meant bird watching.

Each winter we would take a trip to Eastern Oklahoma to Beavers Bend State Park on the Mountain Fork River, where we would put on our vests and our waders and make our way into the frigid river waters. It would never occur to my father to spend a penny for a guide when all we really needed to do was to read a book, watch a video, and practice a couple of casts in the front yard. After only ten minutes but what seemed like hours, we shivered, seconds away from hypothermia, each waiting for the other to cry Uncle and head in to the comfort of a warm fire in our cabin which was tucked just off the river in a patch of cedar trees. Though at the age of 17, it was impossible to find joy in the simplicity of something as seemingly inconsequential as a bird, I couldn’t help but be in awe as a bald eagle traced the bank of the river until it vanished from site. As though a sign from God, we decided that instead of a rainbow trout, the balding eagle sighting would be our prize.

One evening on our porch in Northern Michigan, my father suggested that the two of us take a day trip to the Sturgeon River. A river made famous by Hemingway and his character Nick Adams for its multitudes of rainbow and brown trout. After the multiple fishless trips to the Maple River, a river with an abundance of fish was a welcome relief.

It was this same evening that my dad mentioned the Kirtland’s Warbler. This bird was amongst the most endangered animals on the planet. It was a small yellow bird, about the size of a sparrow. It lived primarily in the Caribbean, but annually it would migrate half way across the United States to a small patch of land off the Au Sable River in Central Michigan. A prime spotting for any birdwatcher. He suggested that we stop along the way and see if we could spot this rare bird before hitting the river. Being eager to fish, I obliged.

We woke up early the next morning and loaded our waders, fly rods, reels, vests, etc., and headed south. After a three-hour drive and a Subway sandwich, we exited the highway about ten miles North of where the river was. We headed down a dirt road, which led to the rare birds breeding ground. As we drew nearer to where the bird resided, the signs on the dirt road began to resemble what one would expect as one came close to a nuclear bomb facility or Area 51. A high barbed wire fence ran along side the road and every fifty feet, yellow signs with black lettering warned that we were in a protected breeding area for an endangered species. Also lining the road were an eclectic group of RV driving bird watchers, eager to catch a peak at this rare gem. These individuals ranged from rugged outdoor environmentalists to retired couples traveling state-to-state setting out to see as many birds as possible.

We parked our car and the wait was on. My father told me that we would know the bird because unlike other warblers, this one had a broken ring around its eye. I eagerly pointed out each bird I saw, convinced that it couldn’t be that difficult to find and as soon as we found it I would be off and doing what I wanted to do. As I looked closer I realized that this was going to be more difficult than originally planned. An older couple joined us and immediately my father and a retired man from North Carolina began swapping birding stories like old soldiers talk about World War II. It was rare for my father to find such commonality among people with this interest and he was truly in his element. He told this man about how when I was a child we would go search for the painted bunting on Saturday afternoons and once a year we would take trips to Arkansas to search for warblers and waterfowl. He re-told these stories with great fondness. Meanwhile, I sat and listened indifferently, my boredom turning from indifference to frustration.

As the sun grew higher, my ability to fake interest began to weaken. We were losing daylight and that meant that I was losing fishing time. Clouds began to move in a bit as it grew close to 3pm and then suddenly on a telephone wire appeared a small yellow bird. I pointed it out with newfound selfish enthusiasm. Everyone pulled out their binoculars and tried to get an eye on it. As my binoculars began to come into focus, the little bird flew away as quickly as it arrived.
“That was it! Now lets go!” I exclaimed, desperate to get on the road. I could tell by the look in my father’s eye, he wasn’t convinced.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive!” I lied.
“I didnt see it,” he said. “It doesn’t count.”
“Count?!?” I exclaimed. “Of course it does!”
“Lets see if it pops up one more time,” he said.
“Of course it counts!” I whined selfishly in front of his new group of friends. “I saw the stupid thing! It had a broken ring around its eyes. Now lets go!” I could see the disappointment in my Dad’s face. “Okay. Lets go,” he said. With that he bid his new friends farewell and got into the car.

As I digested his final words, it occurred to me how important this rare bird was to him. It was something that may well have been a once in a lifetime experience and I was too selfish to let him enjoy it. My father had done nothing but talk about how much he loved birdwatching and how much he loved spending time with me and I had embarrassed him. I had let him down. All of the sudden I wanted to go back. Maybe I didn’t see the broken ring after all! I said, now desperate to return but it was too late. All at once I wanted nothing more in the entire world than to help him find this rare bird. “It’s alright,” he said and continued to drive to the river. Seriously! We can find it! I pleaded. But it was too late. We were gone, as was his opportunity to see this rare beautiful bird.

As we arrived to the river, I put on my waders and headed out. A blanket of rain clouds had covered the sky and it was beginning to drizzle. I cast up stream and watched a couple of muskrat play, barely aware that my fly was about to get caught in some brush. All I had wanted that day was to fish and now all I could think about was that he hadn’t found that bird. That we had not found that bird. I optimistically scanned the tree line in hopes that perhaps one of the little yellow birds had gotten lost, but it never came. Soon the drizzle turned to rain, Thunder rolled in the distance and finally we decided to head home. It had been a long day. We got into the car, fishless. Sorry we didn’t catch anything, my dad said.

As we drove silently, I looked at this happy wiry haired man and thought of all the fishing trips we had been on and all the birds we had seen in the process. I thought back to the bald eagle soaring along the banks of the river in Oklahoma and the joy it had brought to both of us. I thought back to Kingfishers on farm ponds in Oklahoma and Mississippi Kites on the lakes at the OKC Golf Course. I thought about how much a part of my childhood my fathers hobby within a hobby was and how important those memories were to me. I didn’t remember the fish we caught on any of those trips. I remembered something more. I remembered the birds we had seen and the joy my father took in pointing them out to me. This had been just another fishing trip but somehow this one was different. On this one we had set out to see something that may never be seen again. Only this time we didn’t see the bird and it was my fault. For a long while we drove home in silence, my mind still back on that dirt road. “We’ll see that bird next year,” I managed to say over the lump in my throat. We kept driving.