In a way – I admit – I go to the mountains, the forests, the rivers, the coasts to hide.
Some might say I’m avoiding the annoying world that demands we do this, say that, protest, wave signs, intervene, hold rallies, and generally roll up our sleeves.
I roll up my sleeves. Because I’ve rubbed myself with mosquito repellent, because I’m sweating, or because I’m just enjoying where I am while backpacking alone and covering nearly 100 miles this summer.
I’m just so happy out there. No, it’s not the political or cultural landscape. But it’s the landscape where I belong, where beauty unfolds mile after mile.
Since losing my wife of 50 years to cancer, I’ve lost my edge. What still matters is my heart, which I want to put back together by filling the void with memories of some of the places we’ve been and that I’m now returning to, and by venturing down new paths I’ve never been before.
And I write a journal, retrieving these memories through the wilderness. Because I suspect there are others, many others, who like me need encouragement, not to keep going, but to keep going forward, because the road – I admit, and all who have lived, loved and lost will admit – is often steep and difficult, and every well-taken step counts.
Even the three miles (of nine) of the “trail” along the remote coast that I recently hiked.
The map said to turn left after reaching the coast. More than once, as I encountered huge trees that had fallen from the cliffs above or rock-strewn tide pools that forced me to retrace my steps to find safer footing, I checked the map again: “Can this be right?”
And there were warnings in the description of the route.
“Travel continues to be quite arduous as the route skirts the next headland. Here, isolated towers rise in a surreal landscape like forgotten chess pieces on a giant board.
“At high tide, hikers can easily become isolated, so it is essential to keep a close eye on the tide levels when exploring this area.”
If you’re trapped here, you’ll have to climb up to the very cliff that blocked your path.
Where you wait, rest and admire the beauty that you might not have otherwise been able to see because of your warned, worried and hurried journey.
It’s your hiding place.
