Some observations after watching last night’s Texas Rangers – New York Yankees game

1. The Golden Age of baseball commentators has passed us by – With baseball expansion and dilution of talent also comes the expansion of coverage and color commentary talent. Ernie Johnson Jr., John Smoltz, and Ron Darling were dull, hackneyed and repetitive. I miss the days when Vin Scully would do national broadcasts through the playoffs; he weaves a story through all nine innings of the game.  I thought Ron Darling was a Yale Alum? He talked more like an ex-jock than an educated Yale Eli last night.
2. Call me un-Patriotic, but I’d rather hear a butchered rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” by Harry Caray (God rest his soul) or a some over-hyped local celeb than “God Bless America” during the seventh inning stretch.
3. Josh Hamilton is all that is right about baseball - He seems completely genuine in both his pure baseball talent and his constant struggles with addiction. I’ve witnessed alcoholism and addiction firsthand and I know the fight is never over. Baseball is a sport of redemption and Josh epitomizes that to me. 
4. Why do I have the sinking suspicion that Cliff Lee will be wearing a Yankees uniform next year?
5.  Joe Girardi always seems as though he is holding back some really nasty gas, or perhaps he’s just let some loose. I’m not really sure, and I don’t really want to know.
6. Why do we have outfield umpires in the playoffs? They rarely get home run calls right and we don’t need them for foul calls on the field. I am not for instant replay in baseball, but if you have it, why not use it on any close play? 
7. Nolan Ryan sure looks like he put on 25 years in a hurry since he stopped playing, but I imagine he can still bring the heat.  
8.  Yankee fans seem to be the most overpriced fair weather fans that exist. How else do you explain people who pay $1000+ for a prime seat in the playoffs, and then dessert the stadium in the 7^th inning of a 5-3 game, only 3 nights after their team surmounted a 5 run deficit in the 9th inning?  If any team can overcome a three games to one deficit, wouldn’t it be the vaunted Yankees with all their mystique and Ghosts of Baseball past? Buck up Yankee fans and root for your team until the end and accept you will not win EVERY stinking year.
9. How many uniform combinations do the Texas Rangers have? 
10. I do enjoy watching the Yankees lose. Just saying. 

Murder brought us together!

My wife and I had several opportunities to meet, but never did until that fateful day when we both responded to our civic duty and arrived for Jury Duty on May 20, 1991. We were both in college and Susan lived in a houseful of women whom were on my floor the previous year in the UVM dorms. Though I had visited that house often, I had never met her until we were very briefly introduced by our common friends in early May. It seemed unspectacular at the time, but two weeks later murder brought us together and our worlds have never been separated.

Jury selection was hastily convened in Chittenden County Court for a high-profile murder that had been committed in Franklin County. I had arrived for jury duty as required promptly at 8:00 a.m. Immediately opening the door behind me was the most beautiful smile attached to the prettiest woman I had ever seen (fortuitously the only time I have ever been earlier than her to this day!). A familiar face in an uncomfortable place was the perfect combination. My charm took over and we shared the best cup of worst coffee we have ever known. It was free, so I treated; a recurring theme in our blissful relationship. As the jury selection progressed, so did our budding romantic interest. Fortunately she was eliminated and I was an alternate-alternate, otherwise we would have been sequestered for over two weeks together and a mistrial certainly would have ensued!

As our 90-day jury duty sentence continued, so did our interest in each other. We were often forced to conceal our growing love during the succeeding jury selections to avoid any hint of impropriety in the judicial process. Our first official date was an evening hike up Camel’s Hump followed early the next morning by a subsequent hike up Mt. Pisgah. She never faltered, and neither have we. 13 years and two beautiful children later, we are still very much in love!

So when friends and co-workers bemoan the fact that they have been called to serve their civic duty and squirm for excuses to avoid having to appear, I simply remind them, “You just never know who you might meet on jury duty!”

Are YOU from Jersey?

Having grown up in New Jersey (only NJ folks can rightfully call it Jersey), I’ve always relished my connection to the Garden State. It is a diverse state with beautiful beaches, intimate natural areas and many cultural centers. It is rich in US history and its contributions to agriculture have garnered the state its well-earned moniker as 'The Garden State.' 

As much as I loved New Jersey, I was not fond of the traffic, the burgeoning urban sprawl and the resultant lack of true community. For all of these reasons I moved to Vermont in 1988, both to attend the University of Vermont as well as permanently live here. While no state is without its faults, Vermont remains a great place to raise your children, connect with your community and explore our natural surroundings, yet not be totally isolated from the urban and cultural centers of Boston, New York and Montreal.

I still return to my homeland to visit my sister who lives close to where we grew up in Sussex County.  The kids love seeing the horse farms, the bakeries are second to none, and the people have not changed much. The Jersey stereotypes are humorous and annoying, yet largely accurate.   Many of them were fueled by Joe Piscapo’s recurring SNL  character Paulie Herman and his redundant question “Are you from Joisey?” There is big hair in NJ, plenty of shopping malls and many Guido’s wearing black leather year round. It was just recently that I realized only my Jersey friends and family still call me “Danny.” I wear my New Jersey heritage like a badge of honor, yet I love my Vermont and it is here that I now call home and have no plans to leave.

I was amused when reading the Burlington Free Press on June 21 with two articles, only a few pages apart. The first “New website looks to tout all that's good about NJ” highlighted the efforts of some courageous Jersians to dispel the long-held myths that have only been perpetuated with the recent shows of “Jersey Shore” and “Real Housewives of New Jersey.” The website Jersey Doesn’t Stink (http://jerseydoesntstink.com/) touts some welcoming badges like “Download our DIGITAL FIGHT KIT” and “WE’RE SICK OF THE CLICHES.” Of course there’s an accompanying Twitter page (@NJdoesntstink) and Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/JerseyDoesntStink). Mind you, I love New Jersey, but I won’t take up the fight. My personal opinion is you typically earn your reputation; Vermont is small and quirky, New Jersey is crowded and obnoxious. I am perfectly fine with both. While the stereotypes do not apply to everyone in the state, it would be tough to argue there is a not a well grounded reason for these perceptions (see Howard Dean 2004 Presidential campaign or New Jersey Turnpike).  

Following that article was a slightly contrarian view of life in New Jersey entitled “Shore wars: Who owns the beaches?” While the Jersey shore has long been touted as one of the gems of the Garden State, local residents often do all they can to restrict public access to 'their' beaches for the legitimate fear of overcrowding or pollution. It harks of the 'tragedy of the commons' when a multitude of people have access to and use a common good yet no one controls ownership or decisions regarding its long term care. Access to the beaches is largely dictated by the 'Public Trust doctrine' which dates back to ancient Roman law and seeks to provide for adequate public access and equitable land use. Very few landowners are even aware of the Public Trust doctrine nor its current legal ramifications. We face similar issues here in Vermont with access to and pollution of Lake Champlain. Tactics to limiting access along the Jersey shoreline include lack of local parking, ridiculous day use fees and no public bathhouses. While these issues are not unique to the Jersey Shore, it’s a shame to see a treasure like the Jersey Shore locked up for the select few at a time when every state needs to maximize its public access and tourist revenue.

The juxtaposition of these two articles was ironic; “We’re good people from a great state, don’t make fun of us” compared to “Stay away from our best places because we like to think we own them.” Before we here in Vermont beat our collective chests too loudly, Vermont is chock full of its own contradictions, such as “We are a green, progressive and welcoming state, yet keep those wind towers away and don't build anything next to my new oversized home.” The key issue in the upcoming Gubernatorial (love that word!) election will revolve around “Is Vermont good or bad for business?”

Every state has its own tension of reputation versus reality and immigrants versus residents. It’s difficult to fault the Jersey shore residents for seeking to limit beach access if it brings undesired consequences, much as Vermont wants to be welcoming to business and economic growth while remaining small, quaint and rural. I’m not sure New Jersey will lose its “Guido” reputation any time soon, much as Vermonters will often have to answer questions like “Is Vermont a state?” and “Do you have movie theaters there?” Ultimately I believe it boils down to each individual and how you treat your neighbors; that's where reputations are earned. My philosophy in life regardless of where I choose to live, is taken from John Gorka, a fellow New Jersian now living in Minnesota, from his aptly titled song, “I’m From New Jersey:”  

"I'm from New Jersey
I don't expect too much
If the world ended today
I would adjust."

Finishing, or just starting?

“…I’m sure you’ll be successful in whatever you decide to do, but don’t ever forget that a little help from your friends is o.k.”
Pam Barr, high school math teacher, as written in my senior yearbook

The completion of this paper also signals the completion of my Master’s degree from the University of Vermont. While I look forward to the relief of not being required to study or read (or feel guilty for not), I will continue to learn throughout my lifetime and I may choose to pursue further post-grad programs. As I reflect back on my education, I realize now that I was a non-traditional undergraduate student before that became the norm for many students; I took two years off after high school against the advice of my advisor and paid my own way through the most expensive out of state school in the nation. It was only recently that I realized I was a first generation college student and one of only two in my family circle to complete a graduate degree. The most significant educational moment though came only a few weeks ago. As Susan and I planned for the May 2010 graduation, I made mention that completing the degree was the reward I sought and the act of walking across the stage to receive my diploma held little value for me. With that statement, my wife Susan offered a look of consternation and tilted her head slightly to the side, perhaps she waggled her finger at me too, I do not fully recall. “You need to walk across that stage Daniel, so Katherine and Robert can see what you have been working towards for all these years,” she implored. It was a moment that struck home the lesson that I learned earlier upon the completion of hiking the Long Trail; though I hiked alone, I was not hiking for myself.

Running Away.

“The purpose of life is to be happy. In order to change conditions outside of ourselves, whether they concern the environment or relations with others, we must first change within ourselves.”

Dalia Lama

 “One cannot even begin to be conscious of oneself as a separate individual without another person with whom to compare oneself. A man in isolation is a collective man, a man without individuality.”

Anthony Storr in “Solitude: A Return to Self”

A ESPN TV commercial in 2007 depicted a woman, on her front lawn, stretching out for a run. Preparing for the run with her was a multitude of characters: her husband, children, pets, neighbors, co-workers, her boss and a host of others. They each begin the journey with her, continually interrupting her exercise and time alone.  Her boss asks about some sales figures and a project deadline at work. Her teenage daughter is declaring that she and Victor are ‘ready’ while her younger daughter begs for a puppy. A neighbor lets her know she has been missed at book club. Her doctor is warning her of her blood pressure while her husband is indicating he will need to miss her sister’s shower in lieu of the golf club championship tomorrow. Undaunted, the woman continues to run until all have fallen off the back of the pack or collapsed by the side of the trail in exhaustion. Finally, she is alone. She is “Just Doing It.”

I have felt similar pressures at times, even though I have consciously chosen to lead a simpler life with fewer attachments.  While I have always been very fortunate in my life with friends and family, there remained an unexplored part of my self. The quiet cries from that self were difficult to hear at times, but they are always there and always calling me out.  The struggles in my life were nowhere near to the struggles of the prisoners that Viktor Frankl tells of in “Man’s Search for Meaning,” yet we shared a common bond, as all humans do, in the desire to have the ability to choose our attitude in any given set of circumstances.

I believe our circles shift over time. A newborn baby will consume your time and leave little room for self or community. Pressures at work or volunteering in the community will have similar ebbs and flows. Struggles in a marriage may push you in opposite directions. The three circles remain, however, and failure to address the critical needs in any one will create anxiety that can ripple through the system, affecting all within its reach.

My hike on the Long Trail was an important exercise in solitude for myself.  Anthony Storr elaborates on the benefits of solitude as an agent for individual change; “The capacity to be alone is a valuable resource when changes of a mental attitude are required,” (Storr 1998, p. 29). Following in the footsteps of Jesus in the wilderness and Buddha under the tree, my time alone on the trail led me to find community, family and self as I had not before. In a world where noise and interference is ubiquitous, where family and community are consistently wrestling for my attention, time spent truly alone is precious.

The self though, is only as meaningful as it relates to others, in my case those in my circles of family and community. Storr posits that “a sense of identity depends upon interaction with both the physical world and other people” (Storr, 1998, p. 35). The pursuit of self should not be the end of the journey, but only the beginning of greater understanding of how my circles of self are distinct yet inextricably linked. 
    

For me, the simple act of a solitary retreat into the woods of Vermont was the Everest I chose to climb. That was my “it.” It allowed me time to reflect and renew, to realize that I was capable of summiting that peak, and allowing others to understand why it was important for them too. As a result, it has helped me articulate what is important to me in my life, what is important for my family, and what is important to the friends and neighbors that I pass through this world with. We each have our own Everest to climb, be it the real monolith or the one simple hope that will not expire.

Why does any of this matter?

“Man’s search for meaning is the primary motivation in his life and not a “secondary rationalization” of instinctual drives.”

            Viktor Frankl in “Man’s Search for Meaning”

In his book “Into the Wild,” Jon Krakauer chronicles the life of Christopher McAndless. Christopher was born only days apart from me in 1968. Throughout the book, I drew many similarities between our life journeys.  Born of caring yet sometimes distant parents, his troubled relationship with his father led Chris to question much of his upbringing and many of the messages he received from society. Chris often looked inwardly for meaning and drew his inspiration from exploring, meeting new people and traveling across the country. He found himself drawn to Alaska and the frontier life, as if to finally prove his worth in a battle against only himself. Likewise, Alaska has and always will pull at my desires to explore and help me rediscover myself. It is an Everest that still waits for me.  

            I read Krakauer’s account of McAndless’s life and I was eager to watch the movie with my wife.  The book and movie end with Chris dying in a lonely bus that he used for shelter in the wilds of Alaska, the victim of starvation after probably eating seed pods he thought would be safe. Nearing starvation, one of his final acts was to take a picture of himself in the hopes it would one day be found. Despite his emaciated condition, likely only hours from his own death, he appears to be smiling and at peace in the photo.

As the movie concludes with Chris’ lifeless eyes peering deep into the skies, I asked my wife what she thought of the story. “Sad, depressing” she said. “Why was he so selfish and stupid? Where was his family? What did you think?” My reply was a complete 180. “I found it inspiring. Chris was seeking truth and hope and was digging into the marrow of his life. It is always sad when someone dies alone, but that was his journey that he chose. Chris did not leave that page of his life unturned, and he died with a certain peace of mind that few ever experience.”   

This was not the first time my wife and I had different viewpoints on a movie or event. Why was it that I was somehow inspired though and my wife was seemingly depressed?  How many other events and decisions in our lives have arrived at with diametrically opposing viewpoints? We all view stories and events through our own lens, shaped by a lifetime of experience and perspectives. I’ve often wished for others to be able to look through my lens so that it would be that much simpler for others to understand me, namely my wife.

Examining my own three circles, I now understand how important that part of self is to me, though not at the expense of the other two circles. Balance has been essential to maintain my own happiness. Within that circle lie independence, strength, nature, wisdom, and individualism. All of these characteristics I shared with Christopher McAndless; I likely share some of these traits with my wife as well. However, I chose to marry her to complement me, and this she has always done well. I have resorted at times to feeling as though the circle of self is not important to her, yet I have never gone so far as to ask her what might truly lie within her circle of self. Beyond my own wife and my family, how are we to know what is important to others?

Perhaps the search for self is ultimately a search for meaning, or hope, or the dreams that are often the result of having a hope that gives you greater meaning. Viktor Frankl wrote of this search for meaning as “the primary motivation in our lives and not a “secondary rationalization” of instinctual drives”.  He arrived at this conclusion while a prisoner in the Nazi Concentration Camps and bearing witness to fellow prisoners in their struggle to maintain life, “…with this loss of belief in the future, he also lost his spiritual hold; he let himself decline and became subject to mental and physical decay” (Frankl 1984, p. 105).

            For me, my hope was to hike the Long Trail, among many adventures I dreamed of. More than the hike though, it was that shred of independence, that test of strength, and a morsel of communicating with the Almighty. Those will remain with me and are integral parts of my circle of self. For my wife, it may have more to do with the worth she derives from raising our children, or the time alone she can steal while working in the garden. For each, the circle of self is distinct and unique. Each act of self though is wrapped in family and community as the three circles are always connected.

            As we each hope for different reasons, we will each have different circles in our lives. At times, I have felt that my wife is so invested in her circle of family that it comes at the expense of her self. As a result, it affects our relationship as husband and wife. This anxiety then permeates back through the system and may ultimately affect the family and communities that we associate with. This would only be true, however, if her circles were identical to my own circles. The same can be said for understanding any person’s circles of self or community. For some, community may only be a few select friends and work.  

I walk. I write. I speak. I believe. I live.

I walk as though I know where I am going, even though I have never been there before.

I write as though I know what I am talking about, but that could all change tomorrow.

I speak as though people should listen to what I have to say, even though my silence is often louder than words. 

I believe that each life is a story. We speak words with our actions. We write stories with our lives.

I live as though today might be my last day. And if my life did end today, I would want my story to be told.   

Life is a Paradox

The first week on the Long Trail prepared me to be physically strong enough for a thru hike. Many abilities and all ages have tackled hiking the length of the Long Trail. It is an endurance event that will tolerate those that have the will to complete it. The second week on the Long Trail began to take on a spiritual quest for me. Physically ready now, mentally, I was beginning to let go of previously held notions of who I thought I was. The final week of this journey held the final challenges and a great deal of mystery. The highest peaks of the Green Mountains were still to come, along with the most difficult stretch of elevation gain and loss of any trail in the United States.

Leaving home this time after two days of rest would also prove to be emotionally difficult. My two and a half year old son was beginning to understand separation and he was not too fond of my leaving. My wife Susan remained steadfast in her resolve though and never wavered in her support of me completing the hike. I could also tell this trip was taking its toll on her. Never one to want to be alone, she persistently mentioned how much she missed me and more importantly how much she needed me back in the house.

I would be hiking over some familiar ground during this week, as I lived close to the Long Trail in Huntington, Vermont. Despite this familiarity, there was a section on the climb up Mount Mansfield, Vermont’s highest peak, that was particularly challenging for me. Ironically, I love climbing mountains yet I am afraid of heights, or more specifically, I am afraid of exposure to heights. I was hiking alone at this point, and the weather was unsettled and changing quickly. I approached a notorious section of climb up the forehead of Mount Mansfield that features a narrow ledge with a 50-foot drop coupled with a perilous gap in ledge that greets you at the top of a 15-foot rickety ladder.

I still remember standing atop that ladder for what might have been as much as 20 minutes. Fortunately, no one came up behind me or from the front for I was not moving. There are moments that define an event, a day, or sometimes a lifetime. Mustering up the courage to get myself across that chasm were all three for me. Just as climbing Stratton Mountain the first week, and then racing towards Appalachian Gap and reward myself with an extra rest day at home at the conclusion of week two, getting off that ladder would prove to be my Everest in week three. I have always marveled at what ultimately triggers individuals to action; I believe in the final analysis it amounts to just doing one thing first, and then another. One leg up, one hand over, check for balance and repeat.

A series of amazing things continued to happen on the remainder of the trail, but literally and figuratively, it was all downhill from Mansfield. I would continue to meet inspiring people and share fascinating stories that I continue to retell. I would hike the entire 272 miles of the Long Trail nearly flawlessly yet my only fall would be on a patch of grass on my final full day. I would hear a ghost, or perhaps an angel, singing to me on my last night of the trail in a lonely shelter. After reaching the terminus at the Canadian border, I would stop two feet short of a falling tree during my anti-climatic hike out. Yet, those are stories better told another time.

The exclamation point of this three-week journey was finally being reunited with my family for good. It was with them that I sipped Champaign and saw that look in the eyes of my wife that spelled love, need, pride, and relief. It was clear to me that although I hiked by myself, I was never alone and it was only when I allowed them to participate that this trip would be possible. Susan coordinated, picked up and delivered copious amounts of strength and support with each perfectly timed visit. Katherine learned to dream of what her Everest might be one day and that she too could conquer it. Robert grew up during those three weeks and discovered genuine emotions of longing and love, and performed admirably as “man of the house” in my absence. 

I recall standing there with my family, my wife’s parents, and Sherpani and FreeBird, who were my two hiking partners over the final days. Many who have completed a thru hike of any distance will tell you there is a feeling of loss once you complete your quest. Some who have climbed Everest will tell of a depression that sets in until they can return once again. The end of the trail is elusive, the true summit seemingly out of reach, even once you have reached it, the moment is eternally fleeting. It would be just as easy to turn around and hike it in another direction, to continue the search.

I too felt a sense of loss at the end of the trail. At one instant, I had lost a part of myself that had never truly dreamed big dreams. Completing this hike had demonstrated I am capable of such feats. At the same time, I realized that I too often create dreams out of existing dreams, never fully realizing that not all my dreams lay at the summit of a mountain or at the end of the trail. The real dreams I discovered, the ones I often took for granted, were scattered everywhere along the edge of the path or at every cross road, there with me even before I began my journey. The dream itself was not really the dream. Life is a paradox of emotions and thoughts that I continually attempted to capture, yet never seemed to succeed. Yet, not to succeed in this regard is certainly not failure, but the essence of what I came to define as success.   

An extra zero.

I had a bit of a home field advantage as I hiked the Long Trail. After meeting hikers during the first week from as far away as Hawaii and Germany, I realized I had it easier than most in terms of coordinating food drop offs and meeting with my family to resupply. Easy for me, but not necessarily for my wife Susan and two children, Kate and Rob. Buoyed by meeting them after seven long days on the trail, I was given the opportunity to clean up, shave and wash my clothes. What made this possible was the efforts of Susan. I was asking much of her to take on being alone with the children for three straight weeks. The kids were in school and day care, and Susan also worked full time. Managing all of this as well as driving two hours to meet me on time was a mammoth undertaking. I’m not sure I fully realized this at the time.

If the first week on the trail was good for building confidence and getting your body physically acclimated to life on the trail, then week two went a long way towards “getting inside your head.” Almost immediately as the second week begins, the traffic on the trail thins out. AT thru-hikers veer off towards the east and being the long trek towards Mount Katahdin and the trail terminus in Maine. The Labor Day weekend warriors have also all gone home along with the college groups. The community and party atmosphere of the first 100 miles gives way to solitude and introspective ponderings.  

Personally, I felt I now belonged here on the trail and began to ask myself repeatedly, “What if I succeed?” I had long been plagued by self doubt in my life. I had few close friends and attributed that to my stale or conservative personality. I was deserted by my parents at the tender age of 17. This followed a childhood that was far from traditional. Mom and dad rarely attended any school related activities despite the fact that I was above average both academically and starred on several sports teams. I often felt as though I raised myself and did a pretty good job doing so. Even still, I wondered why my parents had a difficult time being more involved in what I chose to do with my life and figured that most other people did not care all that much either.

As the second week progressed and the community I had entered into evaporated just as quickly, I found myself alone on the trail with all these thoughts. Ironically, I had never spent a night completely alone in the woods. I still am scared of the dark and of being alone in the woods. My mind raced back to a time in my youth when my father made me wait for two hours in the night time woods while he returned to the house to retrieve more batteries; his flashlight had died and we were tracking a deer he had wounded while bow hunting. I had three days in a row where I saw few people and those I did pass were hiking in the opposite direction. I slept alone each night in open-air lean-tos. I became much better acquainted with who I was that week.

As the miles passed during this second week, physical strength was no longer the limited factor as it had been the first week. With no one to push me faster up the trail and no one to look after my safety and well-being, this section of trail was my only company. My daily routine was eerily similar to a workweek at home; rise with the sun, prepare breakfast, clean, dress, pack for the day and head out the door to the office. While I still cherished the independence this trip offered me, I was pulled to the end of my second week on the trail knowing I would see my wife and children. The urgency of wanting to be together again coupled with waning supplies and deteriorating weather allowed me reach our predetermined meeting spot a full day early. (Fortunately, for me my cell phone had enough battery life left and a faint enough signal to make the connection).  

By the end of week two, I felt light. Not only had I lost approximately 15 pounds, but mentally I was elated to have completed the trip thus far. The house was warm and the feeling of family took on added significance after a week alone. Furthermore, I was ahead of schedule which rewarded me with an extra “zero” day at home. This had been one of my most fulfilling accomplishments thus far – to be on schedule. Planning was never my forte and to know I had completed nearly 200 miles and was nearly spot on with my estimations, gave me reason to feel I could truly finish this trip I had begun. 

What's Your Everest?

It can be alarming how quickly trust and friendship can develop with new people you meet. It cannot be blind trust however. People are occasionally the victims of crime and vandalism much as you can be on the streets in your home community. I had three people ask me prior to my hike, “Will you be carrying a gun with you?” While I chuckled at this question, for it evoked images of the Wild West in my mind, the trail is also not entirely safe; there have been nine documented homicides on the Appalachian trail since 1974 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Appalachian_Trail). While black bears may be the most dangerous animal you may encounter on the trail, the greatest danger is typically your own isolation. As you hike the Long Trail and join that community, you are thrust into relationships in a way akin to those you share your home community with. You have neighbors you like and some you do not, you have laws, and you have responsibilities. 

          

       Quickly I gained confidence as the week progressed. I had the support of a group of hikers whom I quickly bonded with and felt their mutual appreciation of my presence on the trail with them. Our hiking schedule was virtually in synch during that first week, and while we may have hiked separately during the day, we all joined together each night. As the end of the first week approached, I was buoyed by this community knowing we all had similar aspirations.

The turning point for me that week came when approaching the first major climb on the Long Trail, Stratton Mountain. As a day hike, carrying only some snacks and a lunch, Stratton would be an ample romp. As a thru-hike, with stiff boots, 45 pounds of gear, and sagging confidence, Stratton was my Everest. What pulled me up the mountain at the end of that day though, was the sight of several of the hikers who had continually been ahead of me all week until this point. The fact that I had routinely been the last into camp each night led me to believe that I was the least of the community. Yet, as I pushed up that mountain and engaged in conversation with “Chia Pet,” I came to realize this very solid looking outdoors woman was on her first hike and really struggling. Oddly, that was good news to me. Not so much that she was struggling, but the realization that she was more like me that I had envisioned. As we hiked, she shared her fears of not being able to finish and trying to keep up with her primary hiking partner, “Fruitcake,” whom had completed the Appalachian Trail several years earlier. Mentally, I could feel a switch click inside my head, and no longer was I focusing on my own position within this community based on where I started or finished, but more so on the fact that I was quite simply a part of this community.

As we reached the summit, mentally, I was strong again. One of the contributors to my struggle thus far had been my boots. Stiff and heavy, they were better designed for rugged mountaineering and not thru-hiking. For some reason, I thought the rule was stiff = strong. I broke all the rules and shed those boots in favor of my Teva sandals; a move that would prove to save the week for me. I literally ran down the mountain, passing two others hikers along the way, and made it to camp first that night. In my journal that evening I scribbled "Talons wear Teva's" in reference to my now happy Redtail feet.  Emotional, I was elated; physically, I was strong. I had climbed my Everest and there would be no more doubting myself along this journey. I looked forward to the arrival of the others and finishing my first week on the trail.  

Together on a Solitary Quest

Despite any appearances to the contrary, I was quite nervous that first night. The shelter journal reported that a bear was present at the campsite the previous night, Hurricane Ernesto was swirling overhead, and I was certain that my eagerness would not sustain the weight of my pack for another 266 miles. There were a group of hikers already cooking dinner together and having a jovial time; undoubtedly they knew each other or so it seemed and I was on the outside looking in.  As more and more hikers pulled into camp that night, I began to feel even more isolated.

It was quickly becoming evident to me that I would not be alone on this trip. I held some naïve assumption that because I was hiking alone, I would remain alone throughout most of the trip. Any hope of solitude would remain slightly further down the trail. Limited amenities require hikers to share sleeping quarters, dining space and ultimately conversation. Trail names are quickly exchanged, each comes with a story. “Gobbles” had hit a turkey with his car on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. “Chia Pet” was a novice hiker who shaved her head which helped her take on the appearance of the popular dime dime-store gift. Other names such as “Commando” and “Roman Goat” left little or much to the imagination.

  

Solitude would come during the day while hiking.  Yet each evening there was much community to be shared. It became what pulled me further along each day. There is no comfortable way to carry 50 pounds on your back, no matter how good your pack is or how strong your legs may be. Slogging through the woods with biting bugs, sucking mud and ankle grabbing roots makes one question your motivation for undertaking such a journey. I learned to build in my own rewards throughout the day. A Power Bar pushed me towards morning break. Lunch signaled the half way mark for each day. A cold stream or lookout was always a welcome afternoon break. Removing the boots at the end of the trail section was the best reward of the day. 

Ritual set in very quickly, almost too quickly. Rise and shine was often dictated solely by the commotion in the shelter generated by those who actually enjoy waking up early. The same hikers seemed to depart each morning earlier than others did. Despite the solitary quest though, we all seemed to hike together. The shelter each evening was our village to gather in and share tales of the trail from that day. It was here each night that I found myself recharging from the stories and shared experience of a day on the trail. We each battled the same mud bogs, crossed the same slippery puncheons, and marveled at the same majestic views. 

As the first week progressed, this community grew stronger for me. The first week of September is an ideal time to hike weather wise. Mild late summer temperatures are common, nights are often cool enough to keep the vicious black flies at bay, and water is frequently abundant. Back to school college groups are common along the trail also at this time. The tail end of the Appalachian Trail thru-hikers making their way north from the southern terminus at Springer Mountain, Georgia are rounding the corner in Vermont and sharing this section of trail as well.  Meeting all these hikers of varying abilities and backgrounds opened an entire new world to me. 

Redtail

My preparation for this hike, or “walk in the woods” as my mother repeatedly called it, is difficult to measure. While I had always thought that hiking the Long Trail would be fun and worthwhile, the prospect of setting foot up this trail had only begun to materialize in the previous months. Despite many attempts to prepare for the hike, both mentally and physically, I set foot on the trail that day relying mostly upon grit and stamina to guide me north. I had a guidebook and map, a week’s worth of food, boots that had never tested on the trail, and pulled north by an eagerness that engulfs many would be voyagers. My longest hike to that point had been two nights; this trip would take as much as three weeks. Much of my equipment was 15 years old and I had only acquired on substantial discount by working at an outdoor outfitter during college.


If a hiking instructor designed the Long Trail and each section tailored to their requirements, they did a job on par with the Almighty Creator and the rest of His miracles. The Long Trail starts flat and modest, with occasional climbs serving as a harbinger of what’s to come further up the trail. While each hiker proceeds at their own pace, the southern section of the Long Trail prepares hikers for the highest peaks of the Green Mountains in central Vermont and the wildly undulating peaks and gaps of the northernmost reaches. What the southern section may lack in physical difficulty, it compensates for in mental training of what lies ahead. It was during this time while hiking many lonely miles that I had the time to talk with myself, ask questions, listen for answers, and simply learn.


The trail however, is far from a lonely place, and the first lesson that I learned, was that I need others. I pulled into my first camp that first evening at about 6 p.m. I was startled to find a shelter full of people, tents dotting the well-worn woods, and even a hammock strung between two trees. It was Labor Day weekend, the most popular time for hiking. The Long Trail also happens to coincide with the Appalachian Trail for the first 100 miles, and by that time of the season, the tail end of the bubble of hikers that had left Springer Mountain Georgia in March had made it this far. I was fortunate to secure the last sleeping space in the shelter. Attempting to appear as though I knew what I was doing and that I certainly belonged here, I set about to getting dinner ready and preparing for the night ahead.

Trail names are an integral part of life in the trail community. Originally growing out of the back to nature movement and the popularity of escaping on the Appalachian Trail, trail names offer the hiker a pseudo personality and certain anonymity while amongst strangers. Some prefer to allow themselves to be “named” while on the trail, but you run the risk of being assigned a name garnered from your idiosyncratic personality or bad habit, such as “Gobbles” or “Natural Disaster.” I was prepared to call myself “Redtail.” There was an obvious connotation to the bird of prey and being in the out of doors. A second meaning was my backpack was bright red and resembled my hiking tail. The name has stood the test of time for me. What is important about trail names however, are the stories that spill forth from them and how they become part and parcel of life on the trail for some. 

Camel's Hump, and Huntington, Vermont

My quest to hike the Long Trail began at some point in college while I was attending the University of Vermont.  During my freshman and sophomore summers, I was fortunate to land the best work-study job I could imagine; I was paid to hike each day. Granted, I was required to dig some soil samples, count some moths and be devoured by black flies all summer long. Yet on the mountain those summers I developed as a hiker and my ecology skills were greatly enhanced.

Our daily routine required picking up the University research van from the garage, gathering the other workers at the Etymology lab, and then heading towards the mountains. During our commute, there seemed to be many stops along the way; coffee, sandwich at Beaudry’s in Huntington, and a variety of alternative routes all designed to make our trip to the trail head last as long as possible. There was tremendous freedom granted to us and through we often took various liberties, we always accomplished the task for the day, which was assisting with research of high elevation forest decline.

I discovered two things during this time; I found Camel’s Hump in Huntington to be a sacred place for me, and the Long Trail. Camel’s Hump, at 4084 feet, is significant in many ways. Its summit provides extraordinary views in all directions; on clear days you can see north all the way to Montreal, the White Mountains to the east and the High Peaks of the Adirondacks to the west. It is a mountain preserved in its near wild state and not blemished by ski resorts, summit roads or state parks. Yet, it is also accessible and not so overwhelming that it invokes fear. Henry David Thorough, the seminal lover of nature, in his book “The Maine Woods,” was so overwhelmed when climbing Mount Katahdin that he found himself driven to his knees in fear when truly confronted with wilderness. Camel’s Hump is more welcoming than that, yet still a place where one can find solitude and escape.

Vermont’s  Long Trail, a “footpath in the wilderness” conceived by James P. Taylor whilst sitting atop Stratton Mountain that connects all the high peaks of the Green Mountains, crosses the summit of Camel’s Hump on its journey from the Massachusetts’ – Vermont border to the Canadian border. I cannot pinpoint the moment when I first realized the Long Trail was a real, tangible entity and not an abstract phantom of a pursuit. I have found in my years my powers of comprehension sometimes lag far behind my intellect. This could also be the result of not dreaming too big. Being raised the child of distant yet pragmatic parents, my father’s greatest lessons that he taught to me were to start working early and never expect too much more than a paycheck in this world.

Upon first glance, hiking the Long Trail was akin to climbing Mount Everest to me. It had the romantic appeal of facing the edge of your abilities, the seduction of solitude and communion with nature, yet the elusiveness of a feat too incomprehensible to begin to undertake. It was filed in the same category of those other adventures that a life lived safely never seems to accomplish; visit the Seven Wonders, sail across the ocean, play in a World Series game or become President of the United States, etc. Yet completing a hike of the Long Trail remained a solid fascination in my mind.

For Vermonters, the Long Trail is as much a part of the state’s identity as its cows, small towns and long winters. The Long Trail however, holds greater distinction beyond the borders of this state. It is the oldest (known) long distance hiking path in the United States. It also gave birth to the idea of the Appalachian Trail, when Benton McKaye, sitting upon the same summit of Stratton Mountain in 1921 that James P. Taylor sat years before, conceived of a trail that connected all the summits of the east coast, from Maine to Georgia. For many who have hiked the Appalachian Trail, many return to hike the Long Trail, or make the (relatively) short detour north to the Canadian border and include it on their AT Thru Hike. 

This I Believe…

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” Nelson Mandela


I believe in the power of the human spirit. We are not victims and possess unlimited power to shape our own realities.


I believe in God. And I believe in Jesus Christ. I believe we live to serve a greater purpose and that our creation is not simply an evolution of some gases and goo. While this belief does often need my attention, I find the conflict with this belief often comes from others and not from inside myself. I do believe God is real, but what real is only matters to me. I am ok with how others choose to worship, but feel it inappropriate to put one faith or method of worship above another. I can be just as close to my Creator while sitting alone on a mountaintop as when in a congregation of like minded believers. I believe that “preaching to the choir” serves only to keep us safe. I would prefer that my life is lived an example of what I believe.


I believe we are responsible for only one thing in this life – ourselves. While we may decorate our lives with spouses, family, jobs and children, we still can only be master of our own soul. How we live our life and make our choices has incredible power on who constitute our spouses, family, jobs and children.
My personal mission statement, which is an extension of my beliefs:


To continually strive for myself, my family and my friends:

• To be available and present for my wife and children,
• To model a healthy and active lifestyle,
• To remain close to nature through thought and deed,
• To be an active member in my community and contribute through teaching and sharing.

Beliefs can shift over time, and they may need to adapt to certain life situations, but ultimately I do not believe we ever discard our core beliefs. For example, while my belief in God has changed in my years, I still believe in God.


Finally, I believe it can be painful yet necessary to capture what I believe in words on paper. I feel I act on what I believe minute by minute throughout each day; yet articulating those beliefs can be elusive if not intimidating. And I believe that I have a very long list of beliefs that still need to be unearthed and captured.

"What If I Succeed?"

“What’s important to you in your life at this time? What message do you think your life sends to others? What pivotal lessons have you learned from living your life in the last few years?”  Robert J. Nash

On Saturday, September 2, 2006, at approximately 3:00 p.m., I stepped from one circle of my life back into another that I had not been familiar with in some time. Hurricane Ernesto swirled to the south, a two year old boy screamed in shrill cries of fear and loneliness. Then, finally, a car horn signaled a distant report. I was alone, headed north, with 50 poorly packed pounds strapped to my soon to be aching back. This was a beginning and an end.

The great mountaineer Sir George Mallory, when asked why he climbed the world’s highest and most extreme peaks, answered simply, “Because it’s there.” Nike created one the most successful tag lines in advertising history with their simple “Just Do It” slogan. In my mind, I asked myself the question, “What if I succeed?” It was a question that would echo through my mind for the next 272 miles and 22 days on this journey back to myself. In a way, there was another version of myself waiting at the end of this journey. Perhaps someone had left dropped him off there many years ago, or perhaps he left me and we traveled different paths until we would soon be reconnected.

My motivation for this journey was both shallow and deep. Much as Mallory quipped and Nike urged, this was a journey to take simply because it existed, and at some level my ego and machismo needed it. Further in, I discovered I desired this journey to prove that I could, and to learn what I did not know. As much as I pondered why this journey meant something to me, it was not until it meant something to those closest to me that it became a reality.

This journey was nothing more than the simple act of walking. It was decorated with wool socks, polypro shirt, leather boots, and a smattering of equipment compiled over a lifetime from various sources and people. The walking was easy at times, boring often, and occasionally sublime. The footing was interrupted incessantly with roots, rocks and glorious mud. It is a journey that few ever undertake, and those that do, rarely finish. Yet, it was still walking, an act we perform daily. Would I finish? Would I meet myself there? What if I succeed?