[at-l] The trail north

[Bob Cummings <ellen@clinic.net> (Bob Cummings)]

THE TRAIL stretches 2,200-miles from Georgia to Maine,
Bisecting the wildest country remaining in America's East, 
Following the bony backbone of the Appalachian Mountains, 
Eroded remains of peaks that once stood higher than Everest.

40,000 white blazes on trees, rocks and fence posts. 
Five million footsteps through spectacular mountain vistas. 
Wild forests and great beds of wildflowers:
Trillium, delicate mountain bluets,
Wild iris, pink lady slippers, 
Trail side mayflowers, 
Startling  blaze orange azaleas, 
Brilliant white flowering dogwood. 

A trail of memories.

Walks through national parks and forests. 
Walks past hill farms and woodlots.
Walks down main streets of quiet mountain towns.

Brisk cold days of early spring. March snows. 
Chilly April rains. 
The heat of summer. 
The beauty of a New England autumn.

Walks above the clouds. 
Through the clouds.
Occasionally into cloudbursts. 

A giant black snake, imitating a rattler.
Rustling dry oak leaves as a hiker eases by.

Two bear cubs scurrying up twin saplings. 
The old sow disappears into the brush. 
And circles to protect her babies.

A partridge seeking a mate.
Drumming wings sounding like a malfunctioning chainsaw to one puzzled hiker.

The cry of a pileated woodpecker.
Red crest flashing through an ancient and decaying forest.

The faint gobbles of a wild turkey on a brisk spring morn.
The slow circling of a hawk, seeking its supper. 

A tiny, gray bird flying through the feet of a startled hiker from a trail side nest, 
Filled with the mouths of hungry nestlings. 

The hulks of four 60-year-old cars.
Rusting away in an ancient farm pasture, 

An icy cooking pot one chilly spring morning in Georgia.

The yodeling of a coyote from a remote mountain shelter.

Most importantly, 4,000 volunteers clearing blowdowns, brush and thistles 
While battling black flies and mosquitoes — and sometimes angry hornets.
Part of the greatest volunteer recreational project in history.

A community of hikers.

Four million day hikers, out for a summer's walk. 

Some two thousand thru-hikers, of which 200, maybe three, will reach Katahdin.

A few dream of walking through these wilds for months on end.
>From a wooded summit in Georgia, north through spring, summer and early fall, 
To a barren and often icy summit in Maine.

Many more just out for a day, a weekend or a week of respite from civilization.
Enjoying the beauties of nature.
Sharing concerns, blisters, adventures.
Sore toes, sprained knees.
The wonders of a wild country. 

The trail is two 20-year-olds jogging to catch Solo Sal, 
a 62-year-old retired school teacher who had left her tent poles behind.
It's an 80-year-old-retired grocer in North Carolina offering "a ride to the top of the hill."

Some hike alone. 
Others with friends, lovers, spouses.
Or with strangers met a few moments, or a few days earlier.
 
All share a common experience.
A common adventure. 
All join in successes and tribulations.
Share meals when supplies run low.
Lament mishaps and illnesses. 

Fill trail registers with words of encouragement.

Like the hay mowers on  Robert Frosts'  New England hill farms, we who hike these mountains,
hike together, "whether together or apart."

Weary

 Oh. I'm sorry. You say 18 syllables, and 3 lines? Well at least it doesn't rhyme.