Gone Fishin’

A man can’t be a man unless, at least every now and then, he’s allowed to be a man. You follow?

Lovie does. That’s why she grants me the occasional hall pass to get out into the woods where I can scrub myself free of worldly worries long enough to eat dinner by an open fire to the soundtrack of running water and crackling wood.

This weekend, two friends and I went on a backpacking trip to do some fishing, ultimately ending up a little over six miles in, camping alongside a pristine mountain stream. Since we were above 3,000 feet, we were able to catch some brookies (of the southern Appalachian variety). These small, beautiful fish live in water which roars over boulders and carves its way through the valley, down the rolling foothills of the Smokey Mountains, reluctantly providing anglers tiny pockets of opportunity to snag these native delights. Hours seem like minutes as they, like many of the coveted fish, swim right by and turn into the past, one five-second drift at a time.

My friend did an excellent job documenting our trip, right up to the meal we gorged on once we finally got out of the woods. Click to check out his slide show. Oh. One warning…there are some random pics of bear-shit that my buddy decided to include. May need to talk to him about that…

Lovie Lookalike

After Lovie showers, she often brushes her hair back and puts it up with a clip. There it will remain as she gets ready for her day before she eventually blow dries it.. The other day, I noticed something astonishing.

JCO: Oh my.

Lovie: What?

JCO: You look just like someone.

Lovie: Who?

JCO: That chick who played the man.

Note to readers. Don’t every tell your wife she looks like “that chick who played a man.” As you’ll see, I pulled it off, but I know what I’m doing. This is NOT a rookie maneuver.

Lovie: Rupaul?

JCO: No, honey. That’s a man who’s playing a chick.

Lovie: So who?

JCO: I can’t think of her name, but it’ll come to me. Here. Hold this. [hands Lovie a pink highlighter.]

Lovie: Why?

JCO: It’ll help me think. Just hold it. Like this. [positions highlighter as if it's a cigar.] Perfect. Now look slightly to your right.

Lovie: Why?

JCO: Because, [gets out phone and snaps picture] I wanna show people this:

Lovie doing her best...

Victor Victoria impersonation.

Happy Memorial Day, everyone. Remember, freedom isn’t free. Thanks to all the men and women who pay the price, sometimes even the ultimate one, so that you and I can do whatever it is we’re going to do this weekend, and countless others. God bless y’all. You’re the true heroes.

The Karate Trips

In the summer of 1984, I developed a shoe fetish. Check that, it was actually a Shue fetish. As in Elisabeth Shue. You know, the unassuming hottie who played Ralph Macchio’s love interest in that deplorable movie, The Karate Kid?

Yet as memorable as Elisabeth proved to be, it was Mr. Miyagi who made the biggest impression on me. In fact, even after all these years, I still think about him every day. Can you guess why? No? Maybe the following exchange will help.

Daniel: Hey, what kind of belt do you have?
Miyagi: Canvas. JC Penney, $3.98. You like?
Daniel: [laughs] No, I meant…
Miyagi: In Okinawa, belt mean no need rope to hold up pants. [laughs; then, seriously] Daniel-san… [taps his head] Karate here. [taps his heart] Karate here. [points toward his belt] Karate never here. Understand?

Give up? I’ll always remember Mr. Miyagi for telling Daniel-san that, no matter how much he practiced, his, um, “johnson” would never be able to administer a karate chop.

Kidding. Sorry about that.

So seriously. You still don’t know why I think of Mr. Miyagi every day? Here. Read this exchange and see if you can figure it out.

Daniel: Hey – you ever get into fights when you were a kid?
Miyagi: Huh – plenty.
Daniel: Yeah, but it wasn’t like the problem I have, right?
Miyagi: Why? Fighting fighting. Same same.
Daniel: Yeah, but you knew karate.
Miyagi: Someone always know more.
Daniel: You mean there were times when you were scared to fight?
Miyagi: Always scared. Miyagi hate fighting.
Daniel: Yeah, but you like karate.
Miyagi: So?
Daniel: So, karate’s fighting. You train to fight.
Miyagi: That what you think?
Daniel: [pondering] No.
Miyagi: Then why train?
Daniel: [thinks] So I won’t have to fight?
Miyagi: [laughs] Miyagi have hope for you.

Give up? I think of Mr. Miyagi every day because my toddlers talk just like him. They’re finally able to express their thoughts, and like the karate master, they do so with surprisingly few words as well as with little or no regard to grammatical nuances such as subject-verb agreement. The nouns in their short sentences may not be preceded by articles, but Sam, Jack, and Kirby are able to make their points nonetheless, even if they choose to make them while referring to themselves in the third person. Just like Mr. Miyagi. (And that annoying, little red bastard, Elmo.)

Whenever I happen upon Jack, he’s quick to tell me what he’s doing. And he’s always doing the same thing.

“Jack play with twuck, Daddy. Jack like twuck.”

“I know you do, buddy. Here. Let Daddy play, too.”

“Daddy play with twuck? Jack turn. Jack play with twuck now.”

It’s the same thing with Kirby, only with a twist. She, too, speaks like Mr. Miyagi, but she does so while treating me like an unwanted suitor.

“I love you, Kirby.”

“Kirby love Mommy.”

“Don’t you love Daddy, too?”

[Like Daniel-san, she ponders before giving her answer.] ”No. Kirby love Mommy.”

While Jack is busy playing with “twucks,” and Kirby is busy worshiping Lovie, at least I can always count on Sam for a little back and forth. The other day, we were walking into his room when I made the mistake of opening the door.

“No, Daddy. Sammy open door. Sammy do it. Sammy do it!”

So I closed the door and let him open it. Once he did, he ran into the room with a grin that begged me to chase him. So I did. And once I caught him, I pulled up his shirt, buried my face on his belly, and gave him a world class zerbert, causing the little guy to laugh uncontrollably.

“Daddy tickle Sammy,” he said as he touched the stubble on my chin that had exacerbated his reaction.

“That’s Daddy’s beard,” I explained.

“Daddy beard,” he repeated.

“That’s right, buddy. Sammy will have a beard one day, too.”

Sam touched his smooth face and looked into my eyes with wonder. ”Sammy beard?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He smiled at the prospect of his eventual manliness, until a look of concern swept over his face.

“Daddy?” he began as he reached up and touched the bare spot on the top of my head. “Sammy bald?” he asked in a serious tone.

And just like that, Sammy took the Mr. Miyagi thing to the next level. After all, Sammy-san not only talk like Miyagi, he think like him, too. Wise Sammy know when some man grow hair in one place, he lose hair in other.

“You’ll probably be okay, buddy.”

A look of relief accompanied his widest smile yet. “Sammy no bald, Daddy. Sammy no bald.”

Fuzzy Math

I’m no mathematician, but I’m pretty sure that if you combine

Grace Jones

with

Kathie Lee Gifford

and then divide by two, you’ll get

Rupaul

Image: Wikipedia

15-Lovie

Lovie’s got a new gig. In February of 2009 she started playing tennis pretty regularly with some of her friends, but it was more for fun than anything else. Four months ago, however, she upped the ante and joined a USTA team which requires her to play several times a week. Lovie’s a tennis star now.

Lovie? Is that you?

So I’ve given her a new nickname. Evonne Goolagong.

A couple of years ago, when she was still Lovie, we had a little spell where we played a handful of times over a three-week period. During those matches, two things were evident.

First, Lovie is an excellent athlete, whose fluid motion and graceful coordination translate well on the tennis court.

But second, she was no match for yours truly, lucky to win even one game in a combined two sets.

Recently we decided to play again, and I must say, I wondered how she’d fare as Evonne. After all, between the USTA matches, social games, and lessons, Lovie’s smacking the yellow ball up to four, sometimes five times a week. Word is she’s one of the best if not the best on her team, having lost only once in all the USTA matches she’s played.

Me? I’ve not picked up a racquet since the last time we faced each other. Oh. Did I mention I’ve not worked out regularly in months? Still, the lopsided nature of our previous contests had me convinced she’d pose no real threat to actually beat me. Right?

Right.

I beat her 6-2, 6-3, and it should have been 2 and 1. I was serving, up 5-1, 30-love, just two points away from the match when something happened. I suffered a meltdown on court number three. I dropped that game and the next one, after which she let out a celebratory scream, complete with fist pump. Such an outburst bothered me. Greatly. Fueled by anger, I waxed her the next game, and walked off the court with a less-than fulfilling 6-2, 6-3 victory. The sinking feeling in my gut combined with the confident smile plastered on her face for the next four hours made me wonder who the real winner was.

Lovie means business.

One thing was clear. Lovie’s way better than she used to be. It doesn’t matter how hard I serve, or where I place the ball. It’s coming back. Same thing with ground strokes. The woman gets everything. To win a point, I have to hit three shots that would have been winners against her in the past. Combine all that with the extra five (alright, twelve) pounds of JCO I’m hauling around these days? She’s a tough out to say the least.

About a week later, we played again. Lovie took the opening game. It was the first time she had ever held a lead on me. She won the next game, too. And the next. And the next. I was serving love-four before I even knew what hit me.

No worries, though. I’ve been in that spot a few years back. I was once down the exact same score to an ex girlfriend before storming back to victory. During a pivotal point, I charged the net before becoming the victim of a perfectly placed lob. Lucky to get it, I lobbed it back, and played the rest of the point the same way–hitting lobs, each effort even higher than the previous one. My last lob nearly brought rain and landed right on the line, bouncing so high, she literally couldn’t even get a racquet on it.

“You play dirty,” she said.

“What’s that?” I asked holding my racquet up to my ear? “Fifteen-thirty?”

Comforted by the recollection of that clutch effort, I stepped up and won the next three games in convincing fashion. Crisis averted, right?

Wrong. Lovie took the next two games, and won the first set 6-3. Thanks to a time constraint, the second set was a truncated one. I lost, 3-2. Lovie had done it not once, but twice. I left the court none too pleased.

Two hours later, I dialed her cell.

“That was bullshit. I want more.”

“Relax, honey. It’s just a game.”

“Don’t tell me to relax. Get your candy-ass to the court.”

“Honey, let it go.”

“What’s wrong, Evonne? Scared?”

“No.”

“What, then? Big engagement down unda? Got some shrimp to put on the barbie, do ya, mate?”

“If I play again, will you shut up?”

“See you in ten minutes, Lady Goolagong.”

Simply put, I never had a chance. My game was a wreck, and Lovie continued to play lights out. 6-3, 6-3.

As I walked off the court, I couldn’t help but wonder how I had  actually lost. Was it her serve? Because they are hard to return. After all, her meager offerings come at me so slow I’m literally forced to stand on the service line just to be close enough to get it before it bounces a second time. It’s reminiscent of a ball gently lobbed by a four year old girl. With her left hand.

Have you ever tried to hit such a serve? While mad? I landed out of bounds more times than Ben Roethlisberger at a Florida bar during spring break.

I know what you’re thinking. All y’all love Lovie, and you’re on her side. You can’t believe what a jerk I’m being. Well I got news for you. I’m far from the sore loser this post paints me to be. I realize full well that I lost to a better player.

Forget that I had more unforced errors than Britney Spears multiplied by Lindsay Lohan. Squared.

Forget that I hit more balls out than a juiced up Barry Bonds.

She won. Fair and square.

Even if, on that particular day, I couldn’t have held my serve with the jaws of life. The outcome had way more to do with what she did than what I did.

Even if I did hit the net more times than gang of drunken trapeze artists.

I’ll get her next time. In fact, I predict a spanking.

It’s just that I’m not sure who’ll be the one administering it just yet.

Sugar Milk Tastes Good to Me

What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.

If the old adage is true, no wonder author Ron Mattocks doubles as Superman on his popular blog, Clark Kent’s Lunchbox. Because after losing a wife to a divorce, his sons to a custody battle, and his high-paying job to the economy, Mattocks has somehow become stronger than ever. He chronicles his amazing story of change in Sugar Milk–What One Father Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka.

Three things become evident about Mattocks within the first few pages.

Number one: In a world filled with phonies, Ron Mattocks is the real deal. He hides behind nothing as he details insecure feelings of fatherly failure which overtook him while he watched his family ship sink thanks to his painful divorce.

Number two: Ron’s writing is next level, powerful enough to actually bring his readers aboard that ship with him, leaving them lost and forlorn as they go down alongside the captain, himself.

Number three: Ron is uncommonly funny and the possessor of a razor-sharp wit–able to seamlessly blend humility and humor, as evidenced by his sinking ship metaphor, which he turns on a dime:

I didn’t view myself as a ship captain, but rather, something closer to a shift manager at a Long John Silvers.

Each of the next fifteen chapters tells a tale–the end result, a beautiful collage which was destined to rise from the wreckage, every picture painted by the author’s evolving perspective. Mattocks’s versatility is on full display, both as a writer, and as a man, as he transforms from newly divorced dad, to dot-com dater, to single-mom suitor, to stepdad, and finally, to stay at home dad. Readers will devour every word as they go on this wild ride with him, pausing only to laugh.

But between the laughs, Mattocks will also make his readers think by deftly turning hysterical accounts of mundane fatherly experiences into something else entirely. On the one hand, the chapter “This Isn’t Kindergarten Anymore,” is about his older stepdaughter preparing her younger sister for kindergarten, while simultaneously developing an aversion to the comparatively difficult first grade. But on the other, it’s about transitions in general, Mattocks’s own in specific.

The reality of first grade had hardened in her mind like concrete: the whimsy of last year was now paved over by new challenges that replaced those golden papers asking happy questions about her day. It was her sister’s turn for all that now. But that’s how the cycle works–we take what we know to the next level, leaving behind past memories as we go on to face those yet to be lived. I could have said something to that effect, But Allie didn’t need any reminders that she wasn’t in kindergarten anymore.

At that instant we drove by the office building of the company that had laid me off six months ago. I knew how she felt.

Me personally? I’m glad Ron lost his corporate job. Because this hilarious collection of well written stories define him far better than any six figure job ever could. Sugar Milk can be purchased on Amazon, as well as in select bookstores across the country. It comes with my highest recommendation.

Oh, and if you’re on the fence for the upcoming M3 Summit in Atlanta, perhaps this will sway you. Ron will be on a panel alongside other authors / bloggers, and will be sharing his experiences on topics ranging from social media to fatherhood.

Errant Parent

If you’ve never visited the the site Errant Parent, it’s one that I highly recommend. Lots of funny stuff there. Today, they’re running the second post I ever wrote, a little piece that examines the unique challenges this dad encountered when bathing his three toddlers at once–What Happens in the Bathroom Stays in the Bathroom. It’s one of my favorites, and a great example of some of the episodic humor that’s found in my book, so if you’ve not read it, I hope you’ll check it out by clicking here.

The Elena Kagan Equation

I have a question. If you add Brendan Fraser plus Mayim Bialik (that girl who played Blossom–don’t pretend like you never watched) and then divided by two, what would your answer be?

I’m no math whiz, but I’m pretty it’s Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan. (Whoa.)

Brendan Fraser

+

Blossom

divided by two equals

Elena Kagan

I know. You think I’m an idiot. Doesn’t exactly take a Supreme Court justice to rule on that one, does it?

Guilty as charged, my friends.

Dooce is Mild

Last week I was one of ten bloggers asked to interview Heather Armstrong as part of a promotional blog tour celebrating her recent association with HGTV. I was the only male. So if anyone was going to get Heather’s perspective on the rapidly growing dad blog community, it had to be me.

However, I’m unqualified to take on such a task by myself. So in addition to reaching out to my regular readers via a post, I also reached out to dozens of dad bloggers via email to see what questions they would want to ask her. Thanks to all who responded. I used many of your questions, and you’ll note that I’ve given attribution where appropriate.

If you’ve ever read Heather, you know she’s a very clever, strong-willed woman who has quite an edge to her. But through our exchange, I learned that Heather is also sensitive, sweet, and, like most of us, vulnerable.

But before we get to the interview, just a quick reminder: to qualify to win this Danby 8 bottle wine cooler from HGTV all you have to do is leave a comment. Other, smaller prizes will be given away too.

Now, without further ado, on the week before Mother’s Day, I give you my exchange with the mother of all bloggers, Heather B. Armstrong.

Dooce is Mild

JCO: Aside from fame and financial gain, what byproduct of Dooce has had the biggest impact on your life? (CaptainDumbass)

This is a really interesting question because there are so many possible answers. Some of my best friends are ones I met because of my blog, and my relationships with them have changed my life in ways I probably can’t quantify.

Also…this whole thing has changed a fundamental part of me because of what I’ve been exposed to, because of the judgment and hate and deliberate misinterpretation of what I do and who I am. I used to be so quick to judge other people, and now I find that I stop myself before I get there and first give the benefit of the doubt. Ironically, this sarcastic blog has freed me from the weight of a lot of the cynicism I used to carry around.

JCO: Do you ever miss any aspect of blogging to a smaller audience? (Mamo Fali) What other elements do you miss about your life before everything took off for you? (Surprised Mom)

I don’t feel any different now about how and what I write than I did when I was only writing for twelve people, so there isn’t much to miss there. I guess what I didn’t realize I was getting myself into was the fact that every day now I can pull up a handful of different websites where people have written their opinion of me. That’s a strange reality to live with. It’s taken some time to get used to it.

That’s the thing I’ve learned about “fame,” as small as my experience is… I live knowing that there are hundreds if not thousands of people who really don’t like me, whereas before all of this, I could tell you the names of the two people who have stopped talking to me. People are always saying that fame changes you, and I don’t think they understand that this is a HUGE part of that change. Learning to deal with that. Living with that.

JCO: In your recent post, Locking up the Cabinets , you describe how hard it is to simultaneously keep tabs on two kids. While your duo may have you locking up the cabinets, our four kids (including two-year-old triplets) have us battening down the hatches! What would your reaction have been if you had found out you were expecting triplets instead of just Marlo? Do you have any personal experience with triplets? If not, would you like to gain some by babysitting ours sometime? (TrippinMama Well, not the babysitting part.)

We were actually worried that Marlo was a set of twins, and not just because I was gaining weight with her way more rapidly than I did with the first. Twins run in both of our families, and you know… I’m sure if Marlo had turned out to be triplets we would have handled it, but I’m not so sure I’d be sane in the process. My sister has twins, and she’s great with them. She’s the type of person who could handle twelve kids all at once. I’m not that type. Juggling these two kids is totally kicking my butt, and I really admire people who can handle more. I envy you, actually.

I know the number of some really great babysitters, is what I’m saying.

JCO: What should the rules be when it comes to airing a beef with a private company? Did Kevin Smith take it too far with Southwest Airlines? Has that changed the way you think about your run-in with Maytag? (Nathan Thornburgh of DadWagon)

What Kevin Smith did with the whole Southwest Airlines thing was WAY more intense and epic than what I did with Maytag. He spewed venom for days, where my rant lasted for six or seven tweets. That’s not to say that I disagree with what he did. I wish more people would use social media when they are not satisfied with service. This is our tool. This is our voice, and it’s a beast that cannot be controlled or reigned in by PR. Even people who only have a hundred followers on Twitter… those one hundred people know a hundred other people who know a hundred other people. Messages travel far and fast. I say rant away when you’ve been wronged.

JCO: When you think of the term “dad blogger” what comes to mind? How are dad bloggers different than mom bloggers? Do you read any dad bloggers? (Joeprah of DadBlogs.)

I do read several dad blogs. The term dad blogger means the same thing to me as mommy blogger, which is Writing About Life. Some people see these as derogatory labels, and I can understand that, but I feel like someone’s writing sort of speaks for itself. It’s like, I don’t say to myself, “I’m going to go read this dad blogger.” I think, “I’m going to go catch up with Jim and his family and see what museum they’ve been to lately.” I guess I just don’t see in labels of Dad and Mom. I think dad bloggers are different than mom bloggers only in their anatomy.

JCO: Some, including my pal @theJackB, have speculated that 2010 will be the year of the daddy blogger. With the advent of the M3 Summit, the first ever conference dedicated solely to blogging men, do you think those people could be right? Will dads ever gain the commercial appeal that moms have? What single bit of advice would you give dads who are looking to blog professionally as entrepreneurs? (Ron Mattocks)

Hmmm… I don’t have any hard data to prove what I’m about to say, so you could totally discard it as a piece of crap… but I think a lot of moms blog because they are staying at home with the kids and they are reaching out to connect and feel less alone. I don’t think there are as many men staying at home doing the same thing, and this is where women have the advantage. There are just more of us. That’s the commercial appeal.

As far as advice for dads looking to blog professionally, I would say one, getting to a point where you’re making any kind of reasonable money could be a very steep, exhausting climb. I blogged for over four and a half years before I ever made a penny. And even then my story itself is a bit of an anomaly that is not easily replicable.

Two, get involved in communities of people you want reading your website. Leave thoughtful, on-topic comments. Get to know the others who are participating, and your name will get out there. That is the best advertising there is in this business.

JCO: I wrote a book, and then began blogging this past November to help promote it. At first my blog floundered. But then I stopped treating it like a book, and started treating it like a blog, and it really started to grow. So I ask you: is there a difference between blogging and writing? Did you approach It Sucked and Then I Cried the same way you approach your writing for Dooce?

You mean a difference between blogging and writing a book? Oh yes, indeed. Blogging is sprinting, the book is a marathon. They require a completely different range of muscles. I like to think blogging is its own little art form, and little is key here. There are days when I will write longer posts, but only when the story requires it. People sit down to read a blog because it’s a quick hit. There should be a present in every paragraph of a blog to make one really good.

JCO: What word or phrase comes to mind with regard to the following?

Kate Gosselin? Hair extensions.
Mommy Blogger? Makes Kathie Lee uncomfortable.
Glee? High school was painful.

JCO: Which one?

Flip flops or Crocs? (Even if the Crocs rep won’t hook you up with a freebie.) Flip flops all the way.
Ben Roethlisberger or Tiger Woods? Bill Clinton.
Dooce or Heather? Wondrous Being of Light and Splendor.

JCO: How did your association with HGTV come about? What will we see moving forward? Will you continue to crossover from the blog world to the TV world?

A consultant for HGTV sent me an email last fall asking if I had any interest in working with the network, and at first I thought it was a joke because I had been watching nothing else for the previous six months. I jumped at the opportunity because it had become my favorite channel. Right now I’m participating in mostly social media projects, but the on-air possibilities are brewing! Stay tuned!

So there you have it, the one and only Heather B. Armstrong. I hope y’all enjoyed our exchange as much as I did. Thanks, Heather!

The Trail

Each year Lovie is good enough to let me abandon my family and hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail for several days. Some of her friends give me grief about my annual sojourn. They seem to consider it nothing more than a thinly veiled excuse to have a three-day bender in the woods with my buddies. If they only knew.

Hours and hours are spent consulting our trusty maps as well as several guidebooks to carefully analyze topography, mileage, water sources, weather patterns, shelters, and campsites before we even decide upon our itinerary. It takes almost as long to organize our backpacks. The last thing you can afford on the trail is too much weight, which means many of the things I might have wanted to take get left behind. That’s okay, though. You get by better with only the things you need.

My friends and I temporarily trade our complicated but comfortable lives for simple, arduous ones. We hike up and down three-thousand-foot inclines, covering up to twenty miles a day, armed with nothing more than forty pounds of essentials, the clothes we’re wearing, and a desire to lead more meaningful lives.

I can’t speak for my companions, but while I’m in the woods, I feel the entire gamut of emotions—from exhilaration after cresting a two-mile incline, to wonder while witnessing the divine beauty at the top, to relief at beginning a much-needed descent, to despair when staring at yet another uphill stretch, to exaltation when I finally see the campsite I’ve dedicated the previous eleven hours to reach. It’s there I’ll rest and replenish all so I can experience another collage of emotions the very next day.

Last year’s trip was to span seven days and cover one-hundred-and-six miles. On the second night, we were right on schedule, camping out along the shores of Lake Watauga, and settling in for a much needed night of recuperation. I headed to my tent shortly after nine.

At ten o’clock, I awoke to the rhythmic rustling of leaves accompanied by intermittent pops of breaking wood. Loud pops. Too loud to come from twigs, but rather from thick, fallen branches being snapped in two by something heavy. By something strong.

One of our friends had stayed up and was still outside, reading by the dim glow of his headlamp. He looked up to spy a bear climbing the tree from which we had hung our food. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his trekking poles, and clanged them together over his head while slowly walking backwards, carefully avoiding eye contact with the animal the entire time—a textbook reaction by a true outdoorsman. The bear scampered down the tree, but not before clawing through the tarp that contained our food bags which fell to the ground like candy from a piñata.

We huddled around the coaled-up campfire and decided to re-hang our food from a tree further away and remain there until morning instead of hiking through the pitch-black night loaded down with backpacks containing many-a tasty item which had attracted our four-legged interloper to begin with. With the food even further away, we felt there was no chance he’d come back.

But at two in the morning, our furry friend returned, alerting us of his whereabouts with similar noises to the ones he’d made earlier. As we scurried out from our tents, he slipped away into the mysterious night, scared off by the loud noises we were intentionally making in hopes of eliciting such a reaction.

My friends and I quickly broke camp and began hiking toward a road that was just two miles away. It felt as if we were in a scene from the Blair Witch Project as we made our trek, walking close together in a single-file line to the rhythm of our quickened heartbeats, thin and shaky beams of light emanating from our foreheads, one of us banging on a pot for effect, and all of us with our heads on a swivel.

When we reached the new food-hanging tree, we were surprised to discover that one of our bags was missing—mine. The shock experienced after the initial encounter must have kept us from noticing that the bear had gotten away with it. By the time we reached the road and set up our makeshift camp, it was close to four in the morning. A few hours later, we woke up tired and confused. Without my food, it would be impossible for me to complete the section as planned.

Each year, I fight many battles on the trail, but they’re typically waged by me—whether I’m questioning my endurance, challenging my perseverance, or pushing my resolve to the absolute limit. Those battles motivate my body to keep moving through the last two miles of a long day. Those battles motivate my mind to ignore the burn in my thighs as I ascend the final 1,500 feet which separate me from my destination.

The first day back on the trail after our encounter, a new type of battle emerged. This one was not waged by me, but rather by all things outside of my control—things like unexpected creatures, unknown fate, and the morbid curiosity that lies therein. Ordinary noises took on new meaning. Normal shadows took on new life.

I’ve logged enough hours on the trail to know that I’m not in control. The trail is. It decides when to deliver me unspeakable joy. And even if I’m feeling invincible, it can bring me to my knees in an instant if it so chooses, reminding me of my relative insignificance with mocking condescension.

Still, I love the trail, and year after year, I keep coming back for more. While I’m away, it haunts me like a beautiful ghost.

Thanks to the bear and the food he procured, we were forced to change plans midstream last year. We got a ride to a quaint little inn some twenty-five miles away where we reloaded and spent the night. The next morning, we got another ride to what was originally supposed to be our ending point. From there, we hiked back to the inn where we had left a car, finishing strong by covering over fifty miles in those final three days.

The end result was eighty miles in five days. Our minds taxed, and our bodies spent, we decided to leave the twenty-six miles between the inn and our roadside campsite for another time. Or, perhaps better put, the decision was made for us.

If you’ve ever hiked the Appalachian Trail, then you’re familiar with the white blazes which are painted on the trees along either side of it. They’re six-inch-high-by-two-inch-wide affirmations that you are still, indeed, on the right path. During an eighteen-mile trek, these blazes blow by like mile markers on the interstate.

Sometimes, especially when my mind and body are weary, it feels like the hike I’m on is my entire life; each white blaze, another day; and the trail, God. Until I reach His camp, there’s no point in stopping, even when I feel as if I can’t take another step. So onward I go. To finish my hike. The one I spent so much time planning. The one I’m executing to the very best of my abilities. But no matter how well prepared I am, and no matter how effectively I carry out my plan, my steps won’t decide where I go. The Trail will.

Me?

I’m just a hiker.

This post is dedicated to my friend Katie Granju and her entire family.

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