My Fourteen Year Plan

I have increasing relied upon one truth: the better I understand the truth, the better I can say the truth, and the better I can see the truth, the better person I am, and the better my writing is.

So it sucks that the truth is I’m such an odd ball! I don’t fit in very well; always been a bit set aside. That’s okay; I’m used to it – it’s just the way it is. (I’ve never meant harm to a single soul, so I think, I’m good, right?)

But then there’s that whole “fitting in” problem. Sigh.  Chuckle! (Ya gotta laugh, right?)

Such a conundrum! I have a heart bred for loving, filled with compassion, the essence of hope. A soul burdened, held down. A spirit that thrives, sometimes barely, but always persisting. A willingness, born of love, to give anything, do anything, die even, for any one person that I love. (And I am so blessed to have so many people to love!)

And I could no more sit down with them and feel loved than I could dance across the mountains on the moon. 

I am an island, I guess, after all, try I might to be otherwise.

In the meantime, of course, I’m still falling down and gathering scars, trying this and that, finding this treasure and that one, this wound and that pain. Trying to live in the present, and in the present, to understand this confusion, this truth.

And time goes by, my plans of before now dust, a few desperate sprigs of hope the only evidence of my caring, of my giving, of my loving along the way.

And I feel a little bit wasted, not drunk, ya know, but wasted effort, like trying to block the ocean.

With a kids shovel and a bucket.

Time whispers past my ears like the Spring wind through the trees.

My friend of seventy lies home, waiting to feel better to come to me, so we can go off into the mountains as we have so many times before. I begin to wonder if he’ll ever come, ever be well again. (I think I will go to him, perhaps). But the truth that resounds in my ears, is that he never drank, he never smoked, and he was always much active than I have been, and seventy seems to be the point that he’s just too worn out to do what he wants.

He can’t do what he wants to, and he’s seventy. I’m fifty-six. So maybe, if I’m lucky, I have fourteen years to do what I want, and that’s it. Then I’ll have to do what I can from a more limited situation, and I don’t like that. Not a bit. I want more time. I want to do EVERYTHING! I want to experience EVERYTHING! I want to understand EVERYTHING!

But I can’t. I can only choose a thing, or two, maybe. One of them, I would choose, is to know how to feel the love that my friends and family so freely give. But really, I think it would be a waste of time. I can say it. I can think it. I can notice it. But I don’t really feel it, like there’s a shell around me that keeps any love from sinking in. (It kinda sucks really, wish I knew how to change it).

And beyond that, I just don’t want to waste any life. It’s such a cool thing to walk down a trail on a mountainside fresh with the morning’s dew and fragrant with the smell of pine and wild flowers. It’s a thrill to see a granddaughter grow into adulthood, a grandson to be born into this world, a son, a daughter, both making good. It's exciting to make technology work, to create a new something. It’s sweet to know the smile of a neighbor or friend who cares if the lights are on, or if there’s food in the fridge, or if my heart’s doing okay.  

And I don’t know what else to do. 

But tomorrow’s opening day (though where I fish it's open year round). The jeans I wore last summer won’t button, having shrunk, (I guess!) So I am hiking down to Warwoman Creek tomorrow, perhaps in the rain, and fishing. And noticing how spring comes to these mountains, maybe getting wet. And maybe, these answers will come to me (or maybe not).

Maybe they’ll come to me as I catch my breath at the top of a steep mountain incline. Maybe I’ll just understand the question(s) better. Maybe nothing will happen, except catching a bunch of trout.

(I always catch trout!)

So, for this minute, that’s my fourteen year plan.

What’s yours?

Loving NE Georgia: A Backpacker’s Tale (Part 5)

After Ralph and Jay dropped me off I donned my bulging pack and headed down Glore Rd, trying to be quiet and invisible. It was like entering another world. The road was deeply rutted from the passage of countless four wheel drives and years of rain; in places the road was ten to fifteen deeper than the surrounding landscape, giving the illusion of being in a tunnel. Trees formed a canopy overhead, blocking the sun and providing a shady, cool oasis. It had recently rained, and everything glistened with moisture.

My back protested with each step I took, yet I kept going, intent on getting as far away from civilization as possible. My earlier experiences in the mountains of Oregon had taught me how to “disappear” into the forest; if no one knows you are there, they can’t hurt you. I was worried about what Ralph had said regarding the possibility of stumbling upon someone’s moonshine operation or secret pot field, but figured that once I got to Toccoa Creek, I could find a place off the road to make camp.

Photo by James P. Blair (Available at Allposters.com)

I walked by several turtles, some with shells nearly a foot long, whom I assumed were laying eggs in the muddy red clay. Several times I came upon clusters of swallowtail butterflies that gathered in groups from two to six, intent upon some mating ritual that I could only wonder about. Abundant red headed Woodpeckers ravaged the trees with an incessant knocking sound and a couple of startled wild turkeys took flight as I stumbled down the path. Three times I had to wade through tributaries of Toccoa Creek as they flooded across the rutted road. Little fish fled terrorized from the shallows to cover as I crossed.  

I’ve measured it since; it was less than three miles – (but I would have sworn it was closer to six!), before, to my dismay, I came to a blacktop road. I walked a short ways in both directions; there were no houses or anything in sight. Red blazes around a few trees, accompanied by little signs, confirmed that I was in national forest. I back tracked away from the road, found a likely place, and set up camp.

One of the biggest problems with backpacking is that it’s very difficult to carry enough food. I did my research before leaving, and even tried to believe that one of my little packages of rice and seasoning, combined with a small tin of chicken, would be enough for dinner. It did make a nice snack, but my body was craving protein in much larger quantities. It was obvious that my two weeks of food would last no more than one. 

That night, about two hours before sunset, I sat by my campfire, having just finished my second dinner, when I heard a dog bark. I thought it curious, as I was pretty sure there were no houses or anything nearby, but I was much more concerned about blisters on my feet and the blazing pain in my lower back, so I paid it little attention. Suddenly a pack of seven dogs came tearing around the corner and into my camp.

Snarling Dog

The Alpha, some type of terrier, charged within a few feet of me, snarling and growling. The others waited behind him, looking as if they were just waiting for an excuse to charge. All were barking, snarling, growling. I looked around me; not a stick or rock or anything within reach. The Alpha took another step closer and crouched down, as if preparing to attack. I did the only thing I could think of: I jumped up, throwing my hands into the air in what I hoped was a menacing gesture, and screamed. “ArrrrrrgggggH!” The dog pack fell back a couple of paces. I noticed that some of them wore collars, and they all looked well fed. I began to rethink my assumption that this was a pack of wild dogs. Just then a woman’s voice called out, and I saw a tall blonde woman come along the road. “Sorry! Sorry!” she called to me, while calling to the dogs in Swedish. She hurriedly walked past my camp, continuing to call the dogs (which didn’t seem to be listening) in that other language. Once she passed, the dogs followed. I sat back down, trembling, while I listened to the gentle murmur of the nearby stream, the winds wafting through the trees, and my heart pounding in my ears. 

That was not to be my only scare of the day. 

After dark, I climbed into my tent for the second night of my journey and fell fast asleep. It was about midnight when I heard a roar of machinery. I leapt out of my sleeping bag and unzipped my tent just in time to see a 4 WD pickup literally in the air as it careened down the rugged road. By the scattered light I could see someone standing in the back, rifle in hand. Their horn sounded the rebel charge, and in a blink they were gone.  

I stayed there for a couple of weeks, and during that time nocturnal four wheel drives frequently came charging down the road. The old, unkempt road was so bad, I would have thought it impassable to any vehicle, but nevertheless, almost every night one or two vehicles went by in one direction or another.

During the following week I realized my food situation was critical. Worse, I had already burned through most of my money, and I had serious doubts about how I was going to make it to the next month. 

I spent the days hiking along the various old roads and trails that ran through the forest here. Most were overgrown roads that just abruptly ended in the middle of nowhere. One led to a little cemetery with three graves from the 1800’s.  There were huge mounds of blackberries bushes anywhere the sun managed to get through the forest, and I ate them by the handfuls. Several times while hiking I came across large cat prints in the mud, and looking for snakes with every step became second nature. I quickly learned to always carry at least three liters of water; it really sucked to run out on top of a mountain, far from any streams!

To bathe I used the hydration pack in my backpack (some call it a water camel) hung from a tree after letting it lie in the sun a couple of hours to warm up. There was something about the soap or shampoo that always attracted yellow jackets, and it’s amazing how intimidating one little bee can become when you’re stark naked! (Face it: there are some places you don’t want to be stung!)



I spent all day just to end about a mile from where I started from!
(Blue is portion hiked, Red with Ralph, Green hiked from Glore Rd)



My food dwindled at an unsustainable rate, and even though I tried to ration it, it was obvious it would be out soon. I had less than ten dollars, and I was losing a lot of weight.  

Alicia Goes Wild

Dedicated to the Awesome People of Rabun County in Northeast Georgia

Alicia Goes Wild....

Sweeping changes reverberated through my life during the past year, and a lot of what I leaned on fell apart. While many doors closed, many more opened, and without much thought given to the reasons why, I jumped through one.

Oconee-Chattahoochee National Forest From Bartram Trail
(Courtesy US Forest Service)

 

 

 

It landed me here in Clayton, Georgia, smack dab in the middle of the Oconee-Chattahoochee National Forest. The path to this space has been filled with unexpected difficulty and unexpected miracles (it’s mostly the human angels I remember most). Meanwhile, as I’ve let expire or deleted just about everything else that I had been working on, I decided that perhaps I might start a new blog and share some of the sights along my trail.  

This is awesome country here. One of my maps describes the Warwoman Wildlife Management Area (which starts right across the road from me) as “located on 15,800 acres of Chattahoochee National Forest timberland in extremely rugged and isolated mountain terrain…. 4 wheel drive vehicles are recommended.”  

Created by a collision between the North America and Europe continents four million years ago, the mountains here consist of brutally broken slabs of native earth thrust upwards one upon another; the violence of that collision is still plain to see in the landscape. They offer many gateways to stunning vistas and raw wilderness.

(There were twelve recorded snakebites in this county last summer; several were fatal).

Cherokee Mother and Child

The Cherokee people once called this home. I live on Warwoman Road which follows a large portion of Warwoman creek, and not far from here is a place called Warwoman Dell. There, the Warwoman, a respected Cherokee dignitary, was said to have voiced her opinions at tribal councils, especially in those matters relating to war and peace. Later, the Georgian Gold Rush led to the displacement of the Cherokee Nation and ultimately the Trail of Tears. 

(Most nights I can hear the coyotes howling outside).

Georgia has an active stocking program, and between that and the crystal clear waters of the many creeks and streams that cascade down the mountains, the waters offer prime fishing for trout. One of the reasons I came this way was to fish for trout, and often it is the promise of that seldom fished, awesome fishing hole that keeps me hiking up and down these trails. I have caught so many trout it almost seems mundane now.

(At least two people drowned in the rough waters of the Chattooga River, near here, last summer).

I continue to hike these mountains, loving the solitude of the trail and the abundant wildlife, wondering just what new experience waits just around the corner, what flower blooms, what critter lurks there.

 

Black Bear, Georgia

 

(A black bear ruined the garden behind my house last summer). 

                This coming season I intend to spend time fishing, camping, hunting ginseng and yellow root, prospecting for gold, selling bait, and acting as a guide on overnight hiking trips. 

My next post is created and will publish on February 14^th, 2013, detailing how I ran away from home and ended up getting off a train in Toccoa, Georgia with nothing more than a backpack full of stuff. I’m hoping to get ahead of publishing five blogs a week; I hope you find some portion of it interesting….