On the Appalachian Trail: A Happy Little Stone

Philadelphia

I love stones. Always have. One summer when I was growing up in the midwest, we went on a very infrequent vacation as a family. To Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes. And the Mesabi Range which is packed with iron, and other precious commodities that were deposited there compliments of glacial melting.

We were headed for Bob Dylan's hometown, Hibbing, where we stayed on Lake Vermillion (a deep red due to the iron content ) and stopped by one of the mines on the way. I begged for a mounted chunk of iron ore. And, somehow, I also was allowed to purchase what was basically a geology starter kit for kids that contained small samples of common rocks. Like mica. I still have the set somewhere in an old foot locker that belonged to my father. I haven't thought about those two treasures for years.

Until yesterday.

I was hiking the Appalachian Trail near Allentown, Pennsylvania with a wonderful group of hikers organized by Jules Geday who I met on Amtrak. Jules was returning to Pennsylvania, backpack and all, after having taken a group of local hikers to the Andes to climb the Inca trail. We struck up a conversation on the two hour train ride from New York, and Jules invited me to join the hiking group. I hesitated since I haven't really done any hiking for several years. The last challenging hiking for me ( and, some would say the extent of my hiking prowess ) was the Camino Santiago, a spiritual and physically challenging journey across a couple mountain ranges beginning with the Pyrenees near Pamplona, Spain. I hiked for four weeks, sometimes alone, often with new international friends, ending my hike in Lyon which lies right in the middle of the northern tier of Spain. Each night I slept in hostels, sometimes convents, sometimes pensions depending on what the tiny villages along the old pilgrimage route had to offer.

When we began the hike yesterday, I was right up front with this group of varied ages ( read younger, mostly! ). But something like ten minutes into the hike, I reminded myself that this was like any race I'd ever competed in during the past ten years ( including the New York Marathon which I completed two years ago ). The first half of any strenuous race or physical challenge, it's important to pace yourself, hold back, acclimate. All three of those verbs are against type for me, however. But, I've never run any race where I could pick up my time in the second half without practicing that discipline.

So, I had to physically stop myself, step aside and let other hikers who were moving at a pretty good clip, pass me.

It was a good decision. I fell into a spot somewhere near the middle and made new friends--Herb and Justin. We covered all the background data, occupation, and years/months hiking with the group. But at some point, we just began walking and talking about any manner of things.

We had just left the trail head on a 9 mile, 5 hour hike that involved fairly challenging terrain. The payoff, of course, were the vistas from the ridges after trudging ( there were 28 of us in total ) along flat areas of cleared brush that snaked up the mountain, the light falling daintily along the path. Or uphill in thicker canopy, negotiating boulders with care as we moved.

For me, when I wasn't watching every foot fall on steeper stretches, I could feel the rhythm that comes from walking with others with a common purpose, from having nowhere else to be for the next few hours, and sharing an unspoken belief that this mountain aerie was exactly where we belonged on a summer Saturday in Pennsylvania.

" See those wonderful stones that are everywhere underfoot?" I asked the men who flanked either side of me as we marched along, lock stepped. " What are they called? I forget."

Justin ( or was it Herb? ) had the right answer: " Mica. It's bits of mica embedded in the stone."

The flecks of mica along the meandering path seemed to mark our way like breadcrumbs in a Grimm's fairy tale; the stippled sunlight hitting many of them randomly so that they sparkled underfoot. I picked a small stone of the forest floor and slipped it in my pocket.

Last night, I put my red pack back on the shelf, my boots on the porch to air. As I emptied my pockets of tissues, used wrappers, a slip of meet-up directions, I found the little stone.

I couldn't help thinking of Emily Dickinson's poem as I put it on the counter for safekeeping.

How happy is the little stone

That rambles in the road alone,

And doesn't care about careers,

And exigencies never fears;

Whose coat of elemental brown

A passing universe put on;

And independent as the sun,

Associates or glows alone,

Fulfilling absolute decree

In casual simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

M.C.