Fate?

Back in January 2013, I had a lengthy work trip planned along the Gulf Coast.  Leaving from Jacksonville, Florida, I headed west en route to New Orleans with a stop in Pensacola for a few days in between.  Following a few days of meetings, home visits, and other work tasks, I began to wonder what I was going to do with my weekend.  I had just summed up my last meeting, and it was Friday afternoon, a little after 1:00PM.  I ended up bringing, along with all my work-related items, my camping equipment just in case I had the wild urge to get away.  As I double-checked my schedule for NOLA, I noticed my next meeting wasn't until 10:00AM the following Monday, meaning I had all weekend to do what I pleased.
At the time, I was in the middle of considering some lofty ideas about moving overseas for some mission work, and I was in a bit of a struggle to discern some answers regarding the where, when, and even how of it all.  I was reminded of a story from my BCF days where a prophet hears from his god in a ‘still, small voice.’  You've probably heard this story, and, if so, you probably know this happened while he was sitting on (or in, depending on your interpretation) a mountain. So I figured if that kind of thing happened on a mountain, maybe that was the best place to go.  

I made a few calls and eventually found a place at a friend’s house to lay my head that night just outside the Sipsey Wilderness in northern Alabama.  For reference, the Sipsey Wilderness is around 25,000 acres surrounded by 180,000 acres of the William H. Bankhead National Forest.  The thing about Wildernesses is they’re completely pristine.  There are somewhere around 757 total in the United States - three in the state of Alabama - and they are purposely left alone - no real influence from park rangers, no maintenance (except by volunteer groups), and no federal guidelines for upkeep.  It’s truly where you go when you want to escape the noise of everyday life.

I had been to Sipsey many times before with various friends over the past few years and had grown very accustomed to its steep climbs, beautiful scenery, and cold, cold temperatures.  On one particular trip, I remember the temperature dropping down into single digits sometime after 2:00AM, which was more than a little chilly for an old Florida boy like myself.  I’d also had the opportunity to see what most people call, simply, “the Tree.” At over 150 feet tall and 25 feet in circumference at its base, this century-plus old yellow poplar has towered in the middle of the Sipsey Wilderness for longer than anyone can remember, and it is rumored to be the tallest tree of its kind in the state of Alabama.  On my very first hike into the Sipsey Wilderness, my friend Ryan and I were able to make it to the Tree and camped out beneath its wildly expansive branches.  The tricky thing about the Tree is its location; it is very much so off the beaten path.  For all the twists and turns one must navigate to eventually arrive at the Tree, it takes some real gumption (and, at times, stubbornness) to make it there and back in one piece.  

Back to my weekend journey.  I awoke the following morning before the sunrise, excited to make it back to Sipsey.  After a quick drive-thru breakfast around 5:30AM, I set my sights on the Wilderness. The sun was just coming up, the air was downright frigid, and I was exactly where I wanted to be: on the way to the woods.  Arriving sometime around 7:00AM, I parked my vehicle off to the side of one of the trail heads and stepped out into the cold, still air.  Loading all of my gear onto my back was quite the exercise in itself; it had been some time since I’d spent the night in the woods, and it was obvious I was not in the same shape I’d been in on past visits.  Regardless of my shape, I stuffed everything imaginable into my pack, cinched up the straps, turned on my iPod, locked up my vehicle, and set out on the trail.  

Borden Creek campsite from November 2009

I had not originally planned on hiking to the Tree; my first thought was to head to a nice spot up a trail called Borden Creek where I had camped on previous trips.  It was a nice place, to be sure, with a small space cut into the rock and a tiny waterfall just off to the side of the ravine.  I especially enjoyed that spot, because it only had enough flat ground for one campsite, virtually guaranteeing that my camp was the only one within at least a few hundred yards if not more.  It was the ideal place to get away.  After a few hundred yards of hiking toward Borden Creek, however, I was all of a sudden struck with the question, “Why don’t I go for the Tree?”  Thinking again about my schedule, I talked myself into the change of plans.  “It’s not often I get up to Sipsey these days; I might as well make the most of it,” I told myself.  It was an entirely separate trail, and I would have to move my vehicle to get to it, but I had all the time in the world; the Tree was in my grasp. As I walked/awkwardly jogged back to my vehicle, visions of the Tree began to dance about in my mind and a cold but confident smile crept up on my face as I considered both the path ahead of me and the memories behind.  Little did I know what was to unfold. The sun began to inch over the mountainside as I steered my vehicle into the parking space outside the new trail head.  The air temperature was somewhere around 32 degrees - perfect for a beautiful winter hike.  Going through the same motions as before, I prepared myself for the hike ahead - now a bit more arduous than the initial plan - and set out.  Not ten minutes had passed before I stumbled upon two volunteer workers spending their Saturday morning cleaning up the Wilderness.  They called out for me to come and chat with them for a moment.  It was clear at once they were concerned for my well-being as they began to offer all kinds of warnings.  Apparently there were feral hogs roaming about in the woods, and there also had been some heavy rains and bad storms in the area leaving lots of trees downed on most if not all of the trails.  None of their warnings registered with me, as I had nothing but the Tree on my mind.  I thanked both the volunteers for their kind words and warnings and turned back down the path.  “Wait a second,” one of them called out to me. “You’re not out here all alone are you?  I mean, you’re meeting someone, right?” he asked.  I assured them both that, while I was on my own, I had been to Sipsey many times and that I knew what I was getting into.  After further encouragements to be safe, I again thanked them for their advice and friendly words and continued on.

I parked where you see #7 on the lower left side.
The Tree is just above the highest marker for 204.

It wasn’t long before I reached the first major trail change at the junction of 201 and 209.  Trail 201 is a simple one with only a few minor turns and elevation changes.  Trail 209, however, follows the Sipsey Fork, the main river that cuts the Wilderness in half, running from east to west.  In order to connect with 209 from 201, a small footpath of stones spans the Sipsey Fork.  Any given day, hikers can tip-toe across the inch-deep waters of the Fork and easily make it to the other bank.  That is, unless there have been heavy rains in the area.  Just like the kind of rain the volunteers mentioned had just saturated the entire Wilderness for the last two weeks straight. The Sipsey Fork, normally no more than a few inches deep and flowing at a very quiet, mild pace, was over five feet deep and raging through the Wilderness at an alarming speed.  It reminded me of a scene from a flash-flood as it carried all different kinds of debris downstream.  I watched as entire trees and gigantic logs were rocketed down the Fork at breakneck speeds, crashing and caroming off the boulders that normally jutted out of the ground but now, thanks to the rainfall, were barely visible above the water’s surface.   Needless to say, this put a small delay in my hiking plans.  Everything that I had planned to see that weekend lay across on the other bank; I had to somehow find a way to span the Fork.  I patrolled up and down the bank to try and find some semblance of a way to bridge the gap.  I eventually came across a log that, based on its state, had fallen some time ago and was oh-so-fortunately laying against a boulder situated some two-thirds of the way across the Fork. On the other side of this same boulder was a second tree that had fallen against its other side.  The water level was just underneath the middle point of the logs, which meant freezing water was washing over both, and they were more floating than they were fixed against the boulder.  Naturally, I considered this my best option. What could possibly go wrong with this brilliant plan of mine? Shuffling down the steep, uncleared bank, I reconsidered this option.  I was certain there had to be some other way to cross the river, and I climbed back up to go find it.  After a half-hour of perusing the shoreline, I resigned to my fate.  There was no other way to cross.  Shuffling back down the bank, I set foot on the old log.  I took a moment to balance myself as I did my best impression of a circus performer on the high-wire.  I think I even remember humming that silly song that gets played at most circuses when the ridiculously-dressed clowns or trapeze artists are performing their equally-ridiculous acts.  For scope, the first log was somewhere between forty and fifty feet long, the second log was somewhere around fifteen or twenty feet long, and the boulder on which both logs rested was somewhere around 10 feet in diameter.  It was a wide expanse I was about to cross.

For reference, this is the Fork after some rain in January 2007.

I began my slow, methodical movements by inching along - literally one inch at a time - across the first log.  At about the halfway point, I could feel the frigid water beginning to soak through my boots and into my socks.  I paused to consider the notion of putting my iPod into my plastic bag with my phone and decided it was a good idea.  Not that I was planning on getting in the ice-cold waters anytime soon or anything - it was more of an act of ‘just in case.’  I slowly approached the boulder and was within a full step or two of it when, as I looked down at my feet, something happened.  I’m still to this day unsure on exactly what changed, but all of a sudden I was in the drink.
The initial cold is something to consider.  It’s one of those kinds of moments when literally everything in your life is put on pause and all you have is time.  That’s because everything slows to a dead crawl when these kinds of life-decision-questioning events occur.  It’s no wonder some people say they can see their lives flash before their eyes.  There’s plenty of time for it when things move as slowly as they did the moment I fell in.  I’m pretty sure it was my left foot that gave way first.  As I lost all balance, my right foot followed suit and I was, in an instant, straddling the log.  I reached down and bear-hugged the log so as to try and not fall in completely, although, looking back, I’m not sure how I was planning on avoiding it given the circumstances.  The current wasn't nearly finished with me yet and saw fit to suck the rest of me underwater.  I gasped for air as my head slipped underneath the surface.  I pushed and pulled on the log, all the while trying to maintain my grip around it as a point of reference amid the force of the water and the current.  Coming up at painstakingly slow intervals, I let go of the log and tried to find my feet underneath me by rotating downward.  After some fumbling around, I finally had both feet on the rocky bottom of the Fork.  I then tried to walk toward the shore I was once so dry upon, but it was no use.  I was fighting an impossible battle against the current.  I turned my efforts to the other shore and, by pushing off of the log with my back to the current, I bounced down the log toward the boulder.  Eventually my feet found more shallow waters and I slowly dragged myself and my pack out of the freezing river.  My body was reacting to the cold by shivering violently, and all I could do was repeat - out loud - over and over, “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”  Truth told, I was in pretty bad shape as I slowly made my climb up the bank and toward Trail 209. When I finally set foot on the trail, I stopped for a second to evaluate my situation.  I took my backpack off, opened it up, and shoved my hand inside hoping to feel dry clothes and supplies.  Everything was soaking wet. I discovered that my flashlights, matches, and lighters were all thoroughly soaked as well, and my map had washed away in the midst of my little Riverdance. This was going to be a long day. I stood up, looked back across at the end of Trail 201, and considered my options. I could jump back in the freezing, flowing Sipsey Fork, hike the hour back to my vehicle, and give up.  Or I could push through, wait for the sun to peek over the mountains a little more, dry off, and make the best of it.  Being very encouraged by the thought of making it back to the Tree, I plodded on. A few hundred yards and squishy steps down the trail, I looked up to see one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my entire life. Just up ahead, through the thick trees, I could see smoke.  Being the intelligent individual I am, I correctly conjectured that the smoke meant there was also a fire nearby.  I picked up the pace a bit and eventually arrived at a clearing with a campsite in it.  I saw the fire and heard the crackling of the young pine branches being tossed on, and I was relieved.  Two men occupied seats just next to the blazing warmth, and we made eye contact as I approached.  “It’s already been quite a day,” I said, shaking my still-soggy head.  “Whoa, buddy. You like you’ve had yourself a tough time,” one of them offered.  I walked up and shook their hands, asking if there was any way I could join them by their fire for at least a little while.  They welcomed me, and I was very thankful. We exchanged names, and I quickly found both Robert and Paul to be very accommodating.  They offered to string up my clothes near the fire in the hopes of drying them out.  They offered me a change of clothes for the time being - a hoodie, some sweatpants, and a pair of Chacos that were approximately eleven sizes too big for me.  They even offered me some rice and hot tea that they had just finished preparing for breakfast.  This was turning out to be the perfect encounter, considering my plight.

As my clothes hung by the fire, I had nothing but time on my hands, and the conversation flowed. We exchanged information regarding hometowns, occupations, and basic life stories. I learned both Robert and Paul were from a little town just outside the Sipsey Wilderness, and they were simply taking the weekend off work to spend time in the woods. When the conversation turned to what I was doing in the woods, I mentioned that I was trying to take some time away from the normal sounds of life, particularly relating to discerning this notion of moving to a certain part of the world. When I got around to telling them what part of the world - a specific country in Central Asia - Paul spoke up for the first time in a while. He said, "Yeah I've been to that part of the world." Naturally, this caught my attention, and I asked for more information. So Paul continued, "Used to do a lot of bad things over there. Used to do a lot of bad things to a lot of people there." Without much desire to know any further details, I tried to change the subject, but Paul was quick to continue his story, saying, "I used to do a lot of bad things all over the world, really." This concerned me, to say the least, and I wanted nothing to do with any further part of that particular conversation. I changed the subject to something less morbid, but I also in that moment thought back to earlier when Robert laughingly referenced Paul as a 'soldier of fortune' as we were exchanging introductions. If you're unfamiliar with this term, click here for a bit of info. Charming stuff.

The conversation continued, and eventually Robert spoke up and mentioned he and Paul were going to walk up the trail a minute or two and check out some bluffs they'd passed on the way in the night before. Desiring to keep the positive mood as much as possible - considering there was a mercenary in my midst - I happily obliged. I stood up and made my way over to the trail. As I waited for both men to join me, I watched them. Paul walked around a tree and grabbed the long-handled axe he had been sharpening when I first arrived. He then walked behind me, turned around to face the campsite just as I was, and began to tap the axe head in his hand. This is not incredibly alarming - other than the fact that I'd just learned of his former occupation - because people carry blades of all kinds in the woods. Even I had a machete in my pack. As I weighed the circumstances in my head, I watched as Robert also emerged from the campground with his own gigantic weapon, a three foot long machete of his own that resembled something between Excalibur and a neanderthal's club. Again, I wasn't alarmed; I kept reminding myself that Deliverance was a fictional movie. But... wasn't it based on a novel? And wasn't that novel loosely based on the author's own real-life experience in North Georgia?

I never did see or hear the banjo.  This time.

All these thoughts were swirling in my mind as I kept my eye on this giant named Robert. He stood up from his tent, ExcaliburClub in his hand, and walked right up to me. This is where the story borders on unbelievable. You are free to choose whether or not you believe me; I can't control that. I can only tell you what happened next. Robert, standing toe-to-toe with me, looked down into my eyes (Robert is somewhere north of 6'3") and asked me, "Do you believe in fate?"

Of course, just about every red flag in my soul was going up. Shoot, I even had some green and blue ones going up too, I think. I was peeing my mental pants, but I knew I needed to keep myself together for the sake of current circumstances. I looked back at Robert and, as calmly as I could muster, said, "I believe in God's will or the Universe's plan playing out in people's lives, so whatever that's worth." Robert considered my response, and half-growled, half-grunted some unintelligible response. Pointing at the trail, he announced it was time to go to the bluffs, and we turned to embark. I told Robert to go on ahead and that I would bring up the rear. He retorted, "Nah, why don't you just walked between me and Paul?" My thoughts were as follows: 'Right. I'm just going to walk between you two. Why don't you just shove a skewer through me, stick an apple in my mouth, and set me over the fire now?' This was an interesting thought, as you will discover.

We arrived at the base of the aforementioned bluffs, and, looking up the steep grade - probably some 30 or 45 degrees - Robert said something I never would have imagined. He glanced at the oversized footwear he'd lent me and said, "You probably don't really feel like trying to scurry up this in those, do you?" My window of escape had opened! Quickly I confirmed his suspicion and told him I was quite certain my clothing was nice and dry (I knew it wasn't even close) and that I was just going to head back and pack up. Robert shrugged his shoulders and kept walking toward the bluffs. I turned and headed back down the trail to the campsite, and, as I did, I overheard Robert whisper something to Paul. To this day I don't know what Robert said, but it didn't matter then and it doesn't matter now. All I knew was that felt super suspicious, and I wanted to get away from these two characters as fast as I could. Truth be told, they could have been completely innocent and nice guys, but I wasn't up for sticking around to find out. I arrived back at the campsite and quickly began packing everything up. I placed the hoodie, sweatpants, and Chacos back in Robert's tent, and donned my own still-soaked clothing. As I was cinching up the last line on my pack, my two new friends turned the corner into the campsite. I quickly and quietly thanked them for their hospitality, borrowed clothing, and breakfast, and I skedaddled down the trail toward the Tree.

Stopping every hundred yards or so, I stood still to try and hear if anyone was behind me. Just in case, y'know? After a few false alarms, I picked up the pace and made my way further and further into the Wilderness. Passing a group of day-hikers, I explained my day thus far and asked if any of them had an extra lighter. Graciously, one of them handed over a nearly-full Bic lighter and wished me luck. It wasn't so much luck that I needed as it was fresh legs and a nice meal. As it were, Sipsey was fresh out of both that day. I walked on. Turning north onto East Bee Branch - a small creek feeding into the Fork - I again was energized at the notion of the Tree. I found new strength in my legs and trod on. Just a few more hills and I'd reach it. As I reached the peak of one of the many hills, I saw it. There, in the cold air and dead silence, was the Tree. She was as majestic as I'd remembered - perhaps even more this time around. I approached her cautiously, almost as if this moment were too good to be true, and it nearly was. I noticed down in the canyon nearby that some other day-hikers were enjoying all that the Tree's home had to offer. They were laughing as they walked under the nearly 80 foot tall waterfalls of West Bee Branch. It was quite a scene.

It was nearing 3:00PM when I located a nice place for a campsite and began unpacking all of my damp items. I strung up the line on which I'd hang my clothes to dry and then began to gather kindling for a fire. Armed with my newly-gifted Bic, I sensed things were beginning to look better and better. I had everything I needed: a lighter to start a fire for warmth and with which I could cook my dinner, a set of trees on which to string up my clothes to dry, the canyon to myself (all of the day-hikers had since vacated with the looming sunset), and - most importantly - a campsite next to my old friend, the Tree.

As I labored to start a fire - something I had accomplished before in many different forests and backyards - I quickly discovered that each and every piece of timber and kindling I had so hopefully gathered was hopelessly soggy. It was becoming more and more obvious that I was fighting a losing battle with the elements. Sitting back and staring at my currently-useless collected cord, I took a second to consider my options. What was I faced with? First, all of my items - my clothing, my food, my tent, my sleeping bag - were all still very much so soaking wet (It's difficult to dry something when the air temperature is hovering between 30 and 40 degrees). Second, I was fairly certain that the temperature was going to dip back down below freezing at some point that night once the sun finally crept beneath the mountainous horizon. This meant that all of my wonderfully wet items would be susceptible to freezing as well. Third, and, truthfully, the only reason I needed, I recalled a portion of the conversation with Robert and Paul in which I had mentioned I was heading to the Tree. Being from right outside Sipsey, they both undoubtedly knew exactly where it was and would have no problem finding it, even in the dark. That was all the impetus I needed to get up and out. No matter how tough the trek, I was not going to spend the night in that place. So for the third time that day, I speed-packed all of my belongings into my backpack and set foot onto the trail. It was just after 3:45PM and the sun was slowly drifting behind the surrounding mountains. I knew that all of my flashlights and my headlamp were, along with all of my other items, soaked from the Fork tussle earlier that day, but I was purposely ignoring that fact. All I knew was that I had two trails ahead of me and a vehicle with heat in it waiting some five miles of terrain away.

As I hiked south toward 209, I arrived at a thought. If I was to take the same path back to my car I would have to hike right past my old buddies' campground. Having had my fair share of North Alabaman charm for the day, I chose to offer Sipsey my best Frost impression and took the road less traveled: an eight or nine mile jaunt further east and back down and across trail 202. When I arrived at the junction of East Bee Branch and trail 209, I turned left and hiked on. Referencing the map above, you can see that the junction of trails 204 and 209 occurs due west of the junction of trails 202 and 209, which was the intersection I was heading for. Trail 202 would take me back down and around to the parking lot where my first trail of the day, trail 201, also begins. All of that just means I knew I'd have to pass the sign for trail 204 before I was to arrive at trail 202. I hiked for what seemed an eternity, and then I hiked even more. I was on my twelfth or thirteenth wind; I lost count somewhere back near the Tree. The sun had all but set on the Wilderness, and I was working with dusk and moonlight at this point. I vividly remember a moment when, out of sheer exhaustion from climbing up, over, under, and around all the fallen trees that canvassed the already-rugged terrain that made up Sipsey, I sat on a trailside rock and tried to catch my breath. It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet in between songs on the radio. Not the kind of quiet that comes the second you turn off the television late at night and head to bed. Not even the kind of quiet that comes when you lay in bed with the lights out and the door shut. I'm talking about a complete lack of sound and movement. The kind that makes you wonder if you've gone deaf. The kind that is only broken up by some movement of your own, when literally nothing else is moving or making a sound.

After a few minutes of cold thoughts in the silence, I heard something. It was faint, but I knew I heard it and that my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. I could barely make it out, but I recognized it somehow. I fumbled through my pockets and pulled out the plastic bag into which I'd placed my iPod just prior to falling into the Sipsey Fork. There, in the midst of the still trees and the piercing silence, I heard a song. It was no ordinary song, however; this was something that God or the Universe or whatever deity makes your raise or lower your head had set up for a tired young man who'd had a tough go of it so far. It was "This Is Not The End" by Gungor. Yes, I am fully aware of the overwhelming level of cheesiness that accompanies this part of the tale. Does it make that song any less meaningful to me? Not even a little bit. "This is not the end,

This is not the end of this, We will open our eyes wide, wider. This is not our last, This is not our last breath, We will open our mouths wide, wider. And you know you'll be alright.  Oh, you know you'll be alright." Call me a sobbing softy, but that was exactly what I needed at that exact moment in that exact place. I stood up, refreshed and renewed, and continued down the path. On and on the path stretched, and my feet just kept following each other, one after the other, as the light faded all around me. As time passed with each tree and rock, I wondered how close I was to the junction of trail 202. Surely it was close, right? I had been hiking on 209 for what felt like hours, and I knew there was no way I'd miss the sign, right? I stopped and bowed my head. Muttering some form of a prayer or a cry for help from above, I announced my weakness and fatigue. This is the second point - at the very minimum - at which this story seems to border on fiction, but as soon as I looked up, the signpost for trail 202 was literally right in front of me. Not up the trail, not off the trail to the left of right, and not back behind me. It was right smack dab in the middle of the trail.

I looked across my old pal, the Sipsey Fork, at the shore on the other side. I was in no mood for gagging any lollies, so I forwent the search for any suitable means of crossing and opted to hop on in. After securing anything that was at all salvageable in the top of my pack, I stepped into the Fork - purposefully, this time - and slowly and frigidly waded my way through the pitch black, freezing river. After a few months or minutes, I emerged on the opposite bank just as sopping wet as I'd been some ten hours ago. Knowing I could not afford to waste any ounce of remaining daylight, I shook out my jacket and socks and climbed up the rest of the steep bank and back onto the trail. I reentered the woods and quickly encountered a solo-hiker who had set up camp just off the trail. I greeted him, and he stared me up and down with a wide-eyed, "what in the world is wrong with you?" I introduced myself, and he told me his name was Michael. I told him I had but one question for him. I asked him if this was, in fact, trail 202, and does it lead to the parking lot at the end of 201. He replied in the affirmative, and I knew I was in business.

Yet again renewed with another round of adrenaline and excitement for that once-so-foreign concept known as 'warmth' and the distant memory of that mythical object called 'food,' I jumped back on the trail and headed closer and closer to my goal. At some point a little further down the path, the unthinkable happened. I lost the trail. It was somewhere around 5:30PM at the time, and I had managed to stay on the path for the past ten and a half hours, but I lost it. In the darkness, I was completely turned around. I couldn't believe it.  

I did my usual move and found the nearest rock to sit down upon. I was getting good at that move. I recall thinking, "I wonder what would happen if I just sit here. If I just sit here for a while." It wasn't anywhere near suicidal; it was more or less just a spirit of surrender to the elements. Mother Nature had whooped my tail. She had tested and tried me, and I was feeling soundly defeated. And then I remembered Mike.

I popped back up and bolted down the path toward the light of the fire. I stumbled into his campsite and begged, "Look, Mike, you don't know me from Adam, but I've had a really tough day. Would you please do me a favor and show me the path back here? I lost the trail and have no clue where I'm going." Being the guardian angel he is (I'm pretty sure), Mike agreed and led me to where I got turned around. He pointed out that a large tree had fallen across the path - who knew? - and that it had wiped out any semblance of a path from that side of the trail. After thanking Mike for his help, I bounded over the fallen tree and was back at it.  

The path wound up taking me up and around a ravine and gained a few hundred feet of elevation in a little under a thousand feet. It was a somewhat steep climb, and, as was the day's custom, it was not without pitfalls. Somewhere near the top I felt a pop in the back of my left leg and screamed out in pain. Something wasn't right. I suppose I was actually a little surprised that I hadn't injured myself to this point. Granted, my clothes were on the receiving end of some brutal wear and tear, but my body to this point was, for the most part, unscathed. Once again realizing that I had nothing to do but walk, and took a rest and tried my best to stretch out my leg. The initial pain of the tear or strain or whatever it was mercifully began to fade, and I had only a few miles left. Onward.

Once one is atop the ravine, trail 202 straightens and widens to a much more manageable hike, especially for a tired, crippled, and starving soul like me. It is, however, an entirely uphill walk, and I leaned into each step with what little gas I had left in the tank. The trail splits a 150 year old graveyard, Johnson Cemetery, and lends itself to some ghoulish moments. At that point, Freddy Krueger himself could have jumped out and I would have likely just laughed and kept on keeping on. 

I passed the cemetery and eventually turned onto the stub trail that leads to the parking lot. I was always a fan of my old Civic, Temper, but I had never been filled with more joy to see her than I was in that moment. It was somewhere around 7:00PM, and I had spent nearly twelve hours hiking through some of the toughest trails I have ever hiked in my life. I threw off all of my clothes but my undershirt and pants and cranked up the heat in the old dame to the highest notch. As I sat in the padded driver's seat and felt the cold air slowly turn into warm and then finally hot air, I was finally able to feel my hands and feet again. It's an interesting thing to thaw out after an experience like I'd just been through. Once you begin to regain feeling in your various body parts, you also regain your ability to detect pain from the myriad cuts, scrapes, bruises, blisters and all other delightful forms of injury one can sustain from gallivanting in the deep, dark forests of the Wilderness. 

No matter. I was warm and safe in my vehicle. My next stop was Cracker Barrel and then southward to Montgomery, where my aunt and uncle were kind enough to let me rest that night. A few minutes outside of Sipsey, I turned my cell phone on and replied to a few texts. One of these texts was from a friend of mine, Natalie, who was out to dinner with some girlfriends that night. Nat was privy to my weekend plans and, upon receiving my reply, inquired, "Aren't you supposed to be in the woods right now?" I explained that things had not gone as I had planned and there was quite a story to tell. Being the fantastic friend she is, Nat stepped away from dinner and called to hear said story. Now, this part is significant. You see, one of Natalie's friends is from Hoover, Alabama, just south of the Sipsey Wilderness, and, upon hearing the story, specifically the Robert and Paul portion, she very seriously explained that locals in Sipsey 'will kill you - they don't even care,' and that there have been stories of cannibalism among the locals.  

That was all the confirmation I needed. Pleased with my decision to get while the getting was somewhat good, I turned south on I-65 and counted down the seconds to my impending feast at Cracker Barrel. I was fortunate enough to sit at the table of a very patient and kind waitress who, noticing my condition, did not hesitate to bring cup after of cup of hot tea and plate after plate of warm biscuits and cornbread. I believe I ate forty pounds of food that evening, but I can't be sure. A short drive from Cracker Barrel to my aunt and uncle's house later, I was wrapped up in blankets, finally able to shut my eyes and put an end on that indescribable day. 

There are many things I take from that day. Whether it was providence through strangers with sustenance or a faith-test from revelatory signposts, there were so many things to learn from that experience. If I were asked to sum it all up in one lesson, however, I would have to say it lies in the lyrics to that song that I oh-so-cheesily leaned on for hope. No matter how bleak the circumstances, it's not the end. Interestingly enough, the last verse of that short but inspiring song is this:

"This is not the end,

This is not the end of us,

We will shine like the stars bright, brighter."

love to you all,

- dakota

p.s. Here's a picture from that day of me and the Tree. Isn't she lovely?