[at-l] Was: Subject banned by Ryan Now: A trail goes through it

[ellen at clinic.net (Bob C)]

"...I don't see much reason for argument here.  Whether you call the AT
> corridor wilderness, or lands put together to provide the "illusion of
> wilderness" for an urban citizenry who needs an outlet to retain some
> connectedness to the earth, I hope we all agree that it is a good
> thing to do.  I'd be happy just to protect an expanded corridor around
> our cherished AT and keep it out of the hands of those who would
> degrade it, develop it or destroy it. And kept free from invasive
> plants, ATVers, more roads, cell towers,  etc.  I'd also like to see
> it monitored for the highest level of clean air and water standards. 
> And I'd like to see any existing historical, cultural, biological,
> social and geological features within the corridor identified,
> protected and cherished.  You don't have to call it wilderness, but I
> do hope you'd call it special and valuable.

.... it doesn't have to be wilderness to be an
> irreplaceable part of the fabric of our nation" argues Happy trails, aka Solar Bear.

Ah. A voice of reason. A voice of common sense at last. Despite Shane's dictionary, there is no definitive criteria of wilderness, even in Maine, that adequately defines this rare, and nebulous  thing we call the Appalachian Trail.

Call it wilderness or not. The trail stretches 2,200-miles from Georgia to Maine,
Bisecting the wildest country remaining in America's East, 
The bony backbone of eroded peaks that once stood higher than Everest.

The trail is 40,000 white blazes on trees, rocks and fence posts. 
Five million footsteps through mountain vistas, 
Wild forests and great beds of wild flowers:
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. Past hill farms and woodlots.
Down main streets of quiet mountain towns. 
Walks above clouds. Through clouds. Into cloudbursts.
 
Cold days of early spring. March snows. 
Chilly April rains. The heat of summer.
The beauty of New England's autumn.

A giant black snake, imitating a rattler, rustling dry leaves as a hiker eases by.
Two bear cubs scurrying up twin saplings. The sow disappears into the brush, 
Only to be heard circling back protecting her babies.

Memories also of a partridge seeking a mate, its drumming wings 
Sounding like a malfunctioning chainsaw to one puzzled hiker.
The harsh 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 supper. 
A tiny junco, flying through the feet of a startled hiker.
Who finds the 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 smoky morning in Georgia.

The yodeling of a coyote from a remote mountain shelter.
Most importantly, 4,000 volunteers clearing blowdowns, brush 
Rapberry thickets and thistles 
While battling black flies and mosquitoes ? and an occasional angry hornet.
Part of the greatest volunteer recreational project in history.

And memories of 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.
Most just out for a day, a weekend or a week of respite from civilized life.,
All 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, 70,
Who has again left her tent poles behind.
It's an 80-year-old grocer in North Carolina offering "a ride to the top of the hill."

Some hike alone. Some with friends, lovers, spouses.
Or with strangers met a few days, or a few moments, earlier.
We share a common experience. A common adventure. 
Join in successes and tribulations. Share meals when supplies run low.
Lament mishaps and illnesses. Fill trail registers with words of encouragement.
Like Robert Frost's hill farmers, wilderness or not, we who walk these Appalachian hills, 
Walk together, whether together or apart.

The wise among us will fight to protect this fragile bit of wildness for our children, grandchildren and future generations , forever.

Weary