I went for a hike this weekend. Actually, I got out quite a bit. On Friday, I met up with a colleague and his girlfriend for dinner – after which we went to his friend’s house for a fire pit (where I quickly befriended a hefty pit bull named Tank). On Saturday I went downtown to Zeno’s – which I think will become my watering hole (until the students return). But on Sunday, I spent a solid five hours in the quiet company of trees and rocks and babbling brooks.
There’s an area in north-central PA, Pine Creek Gorge, called the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania. It has some spectacular views coupled with some of the more challenging hikes in the state. I used to go hiking out that way once or twice a year – they were some of my most memorable hikes as well as some of my most miserable. One time, two of my friends and I drove the five hours from Bucks County to spend a weekend – driving up Friday, drinking Friday night, hiking Saturday, eating and drinking Saturday night, and driving home Sunday. Unfortunately, it rained all day (torrential rain) Saturday. We hiked it anyway, but it was pretty awful. Our maps were soaked before we even found the trailhead and our ponchos gave out within the first mile or two. Another time, I went with my ex and a friend of mine. It was June. It was hot, and most of the hike was along a muddy run (creek). The bugs were incessant. Every step in the mud sent a swarm flying in our faces. On the uphill parts, we couldn’t even stop to catch our breath because said breath would be full of bugs. That night when we closed our eyes, we all had the same sensation of bugs flying in our faces (kinda like when you stop roller or ice skating but you still feel like your on skates). It, too, was awful.
Given my past experiences, I’m not sure why I chose to go back. Perhaps it was for a challenge, perhaps out of nostalgia, perhaps I’m just a glutton. Nevertheless, I packed a light lunch (fruit, half pb sandwich, trail mix), some water, extra socks and shoes, and a can-do attitude. I was in the car by 8:30 and on the trail by 10:00. There are two trails in this particular section that I used to hike: Golden Eagle Trail, and Pine Trail and Hemlock Mountain. I vaguely recalled the one had better views than the other but I wasn’t sure which one (I have a framed photo that my ex took of autumn light and shadows playing on the mountain sides from one of those trails). The app I use (instead my old-timey hiking book) only listed Golden Eagle. Better views or not, the choice was made for me.
It had been over fifteen years since I was out that way. I recognized the road and the nearby towns; I recognized the names of the mountain streams (Slate Run, Wolf Run); but I didn’t recognize the access point or the parking lot, and was a little worried I might be at the wrong spot. It seems no matter how many times I’ve done certain hikes, I always second guess whether or not I have the correct trailhead. I did.
The hike itself was pretty good. It was a tough climb followed by a descent and then another climb. It had a really peaceful section where everything felt carpeted quiet and a light fog crept in. I only saw one other person – a guy and his two dogs. His shepherd, Diesel, was massive (130 pounds). At the very beginning of the hike I heard a branch crack overhead and watched a squirrel bounce off the ground and scurry away. Now I know the answer to “I wonder if they ever fall out of those trees” – yes, yes they do. The views were good (though it’s the other trail that has the better views), but once I was past them, it was all downhill from there (quite literally). The last two hours of hiking were downhill on slippery rocks and roots and through the marshy sections of Bonnel Run. It was humid and swampy. Bugs, probably mosquitoes, flew their single engine prop planes past my ears and more than once I said out loud: “would you stop?” as if that would be more effective than constantly swatting at them. My legs were itchy from sweat and underbrush and I was no longer in the peaceful mood I had experienced just an hour or two earlier. Instead, I was thinking about ticks, how long it would take me to get home, if any of these plants were stinging nettles, why is it so muddy, surely I don’t have to cross the creek there… etc. etc.
Hikes give me just enough time and solitude to think of all of the problems in the world (global and personal), solve none of them, and if I’m lucky, forget most of them. In the best moments, I’m in awe of how the light filters through the canopy and colors the forest floor, or the sound of a distant bird echoing from high up in the trees, or the eons of erosion that shape an unusual rock formation. In the worst moments, I’m cranky, tired, sore, and just want to be home already. Sunday’s hike had more good moments than bad. It struck a nice balance between joy and misery, surprise and drudgery. Even those last few miles of humid, bug-filled muck served as a good reminder that discomfort can be a form of distraction.
By the time I got home, I was tired and hungry. I tried to grill, but the grill ran out of gas before I had a chance to cook. Feeling too lazy to run out for a new propane tank, I cooked inside (where it was already warm and I still have no air conditioning). I walked the dog (though I didn’t want to walk at all) and continued contemplating the hike. For much of my time in the woods, I could hear my inner voice narrating things: working out lines of poetry, writing some of this blog post, thinking about friends and previous hikes or my long walks along the Mississippi. I would remark (silently) about those trees, this flower, or that clearing. When I tune in like this, I give serious consideration to the nature and “purpose” of experience – sharing vs. beauty for the sake of beauty. At times I found myself taking pictures while also wondering if it would be enough, or better, to simply see what I’m seeing (no picture, no editorializing – pure moment).
In the end, I opted to share. I sent a few pictures to Stacy and told her about the hike later. I posted some pictures to Facebook – the cheap and easy way of being communal… post some pictures, get some thumbs up likes. I decided to write about it here – where I’m haunted by a recent article on concentration, distraction, and deep attention… where I have a little bit of space to mentally meander. In an attention economy, where value is increasingly determined by the number of eyeballs on any given subject/experience (views, likes, shares), where does an experience like a long hike fit in – especially if there’s no record of it having taken place?
I went for a hike this weekend. I spent a solid five hours in the quiet company of trees and rocks and babbling brooks. It was wholly fulfilling, and yet there was room for more.
