Facebook “memories” reminded me that on this day six years ago, I hiked 15 or 16 miles in the Smoky Mountains. I was down in Tennessee on a long, somewhat spur of the moment road trip that I took to clear my head. I was calling it my blues, brews, and bbq trip. I spent a few days in Memphis, some time at a blues picnic in hill country Mississippi, two days hiking, and a day in Asheville. I guess I could have added shoes (as in hiking) to the name of my trip.
The hikes were day hikes (drove in, hiked, drove out). I stayed in Gatlinburg, a garish town just outside of the park entrance. I can’t remember which day it was, but I remember having my Into the Wild epiphany at one of the views. I wasn’t thinking of the movie at the time. In fact, I had to look it up several days after the hike… but the conclusion I had come to was “happiness is only real if it’s shared.” Sure, I had taken some pictures and posted them to Facebook (hence the memories), but as I looked out on the beauty of the landscape, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the moment would live and die with me. More specifically, it would die with me. Nobody was having the experience I was having, nobody was seeing what I was seeing. Nobody would.
Overall, the entire trip was memorable. I met a lot of people along the way, some of whom I’m still in touch with… but the alone time in the car, and especially in the Smokies convinced me that good experiences are better or more real when they’re shared. That thinking, for better or worse, has influenced my approach to relationships ever since. It made me realize that I’m more than happy to give it all away – in fact, I suspect I’m at my best when I’m sharing and a little smitten. It taught me that I can do lots of things on my own, but I’d prefer a co-pilot. It helped distinguish between need and want.
Today as I drove home, I caught the tail end of an interview on NPR. The journalist was interviewing a couple advocating for a cure and fighting against ALS (the husband was suffering from it). At the end of the interview, when asked what they see in their future (ALS is currently incurable), the husband says something to the effect of being in his 70s or 80s and sitting on the porch with his wife, drinking lemonade. He want to be alive. He wants to live to experience those moments.
When I think about the various complications of life – or more specifically how so many of us find ways to make fine messes of beautiful things, I’m sometimes caught off guard by how plain and simple the answers seem to be. In those moments, I’m struck dumb and speechless by the stupidly obvious simplicity of it all. Holding out hope to some future vision of sharing moments big and small seems like it should free us from some our thorniest and most destructive tendencies. Doing things we enjoy with the people we enjoy? Having lots of adventures with willing and enthusiastic co-adventurers? A mountain top in Tennessee, a glass of lemonade on the porch. Could it really be that simple?