[at-l] Jan Pt 3

[kahley@ptd.net (kahley)]

Here's number three.  Jan has received sad news.

I learned, via pocketmail, that my friend Diana died Thursday of pneumonia
about the time we were sucking down air on Pine Cobble Trail. The chemo
knocked her immune system so far down, that her lungs couldn't throw off
the infection. Her funeral was to be today at 3pm.

I kept waiting, on the steep uphill from Benington, for the miracle of each
breath, each leaf, each rock to appear. Nada. The climb was hard, I was
tired from not sleeping in the hot room at the Autumn Inn.

I was also fretting about some minor tension with Diana that had hung
between us, mysteriously, in her last few healthy months before Christmas.
Now I would never know what I had done to chill our friendship. She had
remained polite, but there was a subtle distance I hadn't known how to
broach. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't hesitate to open the subject
immediately. Thank you, Diana for that painful lesson.

Due to the chemo and immune suppression, we hadn't been able to speak in
person: only immediate family allowed. I tried to think how best to reach
out to her, and chose something I would have wanted for myself. I started
taping talks from this Monday night meditation program we both enjoyed. The
words were simple but powerful; about acceptance, about waking up and
living life, about staying present.

The last time I dropped the tapes off on her front porch, she had been
home, in her living room. It was a shock. She looked like a tiny grey husk
of Diana, a thin little pale wren. I waved thru the window, showing the
tapes before I set them down, and blew her a kiss. She blew one back, and
rounded her arms, giving me an air hug, which I returned. Sick as she was,
she looked happy to see me, radiant even, I remember the glow I felt from
that. Maybe it was absolution after all.

Recalling this, I relax, and almost immediately I am present in these woods
for about the first time since Thursday. I look up to see a large beech
tree, tender bark scarred by bear claws, where some Bruin had clambered up
top to harvest the beech nuts. The scars were old, and healed over. I
paused there for breath, and ran my hands over the scars. I heard the
breeze stir the tree tops. Thank you, Diana.

The AT, with which we are conjoined, is marked by single white blazes.
Whenever there is a switchback, or turn or some other need to signal "heads
up - pay attention," the trail maintainers paint two blazes. I can use
this, I realize, to help myself remember; to wake up, to look around, to
pay attention, to get out of my head for awhile. I don't want to miss the
Long Trail.  I let Clyde go ahead and we walk apart most of the day. The
trail continues up and up, and we snack at Nauheim Shelter, refilling our
water bottles.

An hour or so later, we stumble across a magical place with a jarring name:
Hell Hollow Brook. Into the icy mountain water go our inflamed feet. I am
typing this from a rock mid-stream.  A little spray dances from a mini
waterfall upstream, reflecting on the underside of the overhanging shelf of
rock. The play of spray and light and stone is strangely moving, and I tear
up, letting the eye water slip down my face. I forget about trying to
"attend" Diana's funeral at 3 pm from afar. No need.
Clyde is busy filtering water as I rise. "You ought to go sit on that
rock," I tell him. " It has a lot to say."

I walk alone most of the afternoon.  I am struggling. Usually by Day three
on a trip I've got a rhythm, but I am still off-center. I didn't mean for
it to be such a somber and introspective trip - I pictured free and
light-hearted. Wasn't it John Lennon who said "Life is what happens while
we're making other plans?L Maybe it was Bill Clinton..

Made it to Godard Shelter, ate, then Clyde and I decided to go up and sleep
on Glastonbury mountain. Chilly now, after a hot day. Lovely, soul-soothing
sunset. Maybe a nice sunrise, trying a bedroll. Stunning 360 view up here
in the ancient fire tower at 3600 feet. The universe provides another c#ll
ph#ne...