Best Friends

The apartment is still and quiet except for the explosion of color assaulting my senses. Vibrant reds and purples leap from pictures covering each square inch of pumpkin wall. In this small loft, the sound of chaos pulsates off the kitchen counter long covered with remnants of forgotten meals. Clothes litter the floor and ceramic roosters stare down at the scene from green apple perches and stand as sentinels against any who dare attempt to organize the disarray.

Her personality fills any leftover space and permeates her home with kindness and generosity. His personality, even during this time of recovery, remains thoughtful and caring. The sound of their breathing rises and falls meeting each new challenge and mixes in the air to form best friends.

If fair weather friends exist for some, then for me, these are the friends of typhoons, hurricanes and yet unnamed disasters. We have weathered job trials, divorce and trauma. At times we have suffered indignities, loss and each other. Both have been a constant in my life when I could not see the sun setting at night – when I could only feel the descending darkness. Their laughter has been steady when I fell out of kayaks and slipped down mountain trails.

In this place, where the three of us reunite for a short weekend, the time feels long and expands back into the decades. Among the bedlam, there is room for shared memories and love. There is room for hopeful futures and dreams. There is room for more baggage than can fit in a suitcase and more security than can be seen. Miles separate us but the distance between friends is measured in heartbeats and bound by the notion that the human spirit may journey alone but finds completeness with others.

Peaceful Storm

The wind shifts and blows tendrils of grey clouds into each other until the sky morphs into one mass of billowing shades of light steel and black. Trees frenetically sway and leaves swirl and spin in rhythmic dances into the waiting arms of the ground below. I hear dead twigs rustling and snapping as sudden wind gusts shower acorns the color of faded olives onto the wooded path.

I stand in the shelter of forest canopy awaiting the storm. Lightning cracks in the distance and thunder’s loud rumble begins chasing away the week’s worries. The wind sends sprinkles of rain into the woods and I feel like a desert survivor receiving the first drops of life saving water. Curtained by an umbrella of foliage, I feel the sound shift from the voices of my problems to the sound of rain falling heavy, deafening even the smallest of thoughts. Plants and trees absorb the water as it races through leaves forming pools at the edges of exposed tree roots. The creek rises and rushes into the waiting yellow river it feeds.

All week, I sought and fought to find the elusive refuge of peace. Today, I search in the home of my heart looking among sturdy trunks and fallen giants. Leaving the wood’s protection, I step into the deluge of rain, open and exposed, and the storm drenches my soul washing away remaining vestiges of weariness and stress.

I stand prisoner feeling the storm’s absorbing and consuming power. And, what I find is that no matter how hard or long I search to capture the essence of peace - peace must first capture me.

Bear

When my stepfather prepared to vacation in the wilds of Alaska and possibly encounter bear, he packed a big gun. When I prepared to hike the backwoods of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, I packed a bear bell, bear spray and knife. We both encountered bears that summer and much like our preparation, our reactions were quite different.

My stepfather tells of the day he was fishing in the clear, cold Alaskan river famed for icy beauty and the salmon that apparently leap willingly to their death at the hands of fly fishing tourists. Standing in the swirling waters, wearing hip waders and all things Orvis, the men fished and swapped stories. Suddenly, breaking the calm of day, the bear crashed through the pristine woods. Within moments, the party of some twenty men vanished, save two. In one fluid motion, my stepfather grabbed his weapon and as he was moving into position to save his friend, the bear caught his eye. In an instant, the river stilled, the glint of steel came from blue eyes instead of cold barrel and the bear ran back into the pine woods as my stepfather calmly held his ground and his gun.

Many miles and cultures later in Montana, my friend and I traveled up a lonely, steep cliff. Nearing the top, my companion decided to sit out the remainder of the hike. I took the bear bell in one hand, the bear spray in the other, loosened the pocket containing the knife and headed on to my destination. At the top of the 6400 foot summit, the path opened onto a meadow blooming in a profusion of wildflowers. I was alone and the only sound was the wind whistling through the crevices of stone and rustling stray branches. Limber mountain grass swayed in natures’ dance and the sun assaulted my soul. Stepping forward to round the curve, I headed into my reward – a panoramic view of the valley below. I imagined the quilt of green and the sun’s reflection off the cool lake. I could sense the vastness of the horizon and the insignificance of my presence.

The growl was low. I stopped. Was it the wind? Paranoia? Hunger pains? I stepped forward. The growl was menacing and not imagined. My heart raced but no faster than my feet flying in retreat. I rang that bell and ran back down the path. For hundreds of feet down the mountain, I only heard the rings of the bell, my frantic heart beat and what were surely the sounds of my exploding lungs.

I thought of these different encounters as my stepfather again prepared for a return to Alaska with big gun in tow. A trip to the firing range and I held my first gun. My eyes automatically squeezed shut as the gun kicked back in my hands. I smelled gun powder and could almost hear the paper target flying in the air as bullets sprayed. Sweat ran down my face and escaped from my palms. I imagined bear.

Would I shoot - could I shoot? I simply didn’t want to run away. Bears emerge in colors beyond brown and in name beyond grizzly or black. For now, gaining confidence is my big gun and as I become more comfortable holding its power, I hope to at least stand my ground.

Mountain Pool

Summer thunderstorms washed out large portions of the creek bank, uprooted massive sycamores and hurled red clay debris balls downstream. Exposed roots hid behind tangled grapevines and fallen limbs, and boulders plummeted from generations of rest. The spring fed creek was mountain cold and even though the path altered, it still fed the lazy Buffalo River in the distance.

Trees still green and alive lay over the old farm road, as if to say they were simply tired of the onslaught. The damage was devastating, the destruction overwhelming and the erosion to the bank under the house perched above was a slow start to catastrophe. This was a land where more life teemed in the creek and river than people above.

Yet, like a rainbow after a storm, the mountain pool emerged. It was clear to the yellow sand below, and a shaft of light danced off crushed brown rock penetrating emerald depths and spotlighting baby trout. Downed sycamores arched protective branches above and the pool mirrored the encircled forest. Standing in its midst, the frigid water penetrated my skin beyond bone and into my soul. I was the first to stand beneath the bluff in its icy depths and swim with the fish. As I surveyed the damage visible from all angles, I felt the baby trout nibble my legs. Turning my attention into the creek, I stood transfixed as fish swam all around me.

I imagined this place reflecting autumn colors and could picture leaves, golden and red, floating downstream. I could feel the harsh winter wind whipping around the curve of the bluff sending stray branches hurrying down the road, and I could see the spring pink honeysuckle give way to the summer sweet peas, wild violets, black eyed susans and Queen Anne ’s lace.

If peace had a color, it would be the color of this creek as the light moved and shadows emerged revealing more secrets. It was green and blue and brown and yellow. It was murky and clear. It was still and flowing, it was life and death, and it was controlled power and chaos. A leaf, foreshadowing the seasons ahead, landed on the water by my hand. It was then I realized that peace does have color and I was standing among its cadence. Peace was the green leaves, white bark and brown earth. Peace shimmered in sun rays filtering living particles of movement. Peace reflected off the red tin roof above. This house might fall into the creek one day, but it would not be this day. Bending over, I put my face onto the water and stared into the eyes of the fish below.

Family Trees

This weekend, I traveled home to a place where the distance to arrive was measured not in miles but in memories. While my birth certificate does not say I was born in Appalachia, the welcoming embrace of the Great Smoky Mountains takes me back to a past not forgotten. In these mountains, I lived and lost; my family grew together and apart, and we are drawn back compelled by forces of love and nature to revisit this land and each other.

The sun peaks through the ancient forest’s lace work and shines down on an abundance of green leaves, moss and lichen. Summer rains have fed the myriad creeks and rivers until they violently churn against themselves spraying the river ferns and slamming white caps into boulders with a rising crescendo of sound and energy. I hear the soft breeze rustling through the leaves in the canopy while birds call to each other in harmony. A rock falls in the distance crashing against the banks before splashing into the river. The music of the woods is nature’s symphony.

My father, who has joined me for this latest trip, places his guiding arm around me for the photographer’s picture. I feel the comfort of the mountains as strong and sure as his hand. The click of the camera has captured a man and woman, a father and daughter, a daddy and little girl. We have changed with the mountains over the years. Time has worn its path down trails and streams and etched lines down our faces. But for an instant, we are the same as yesterday and today, and hold firm against tomorrow. Mountain and family, as connected as leaves on a tree, remain one.