Many times in life, it seems, the true enjoyment and appreciation of a thing only comes when it's over...when it has been accomplished or completed. After the fact, the thing is relived and reflected upon. Stories, which become more grandiose with the passing of time, emerge and are retold. A feeling of pure joy comes with the backward glance.
I first learned of this human inclination many years ago as a backpacker. My partner was most often John Rose. He was a kindred spirit. We shared a love for the mountains, for fishing, for Willie Nelson, for driving our car down county roads in an effort to become lost and for backpacking. Most of all, we shared a love for each other.
For us, there was a thin line between the definitions of hiking and being alive. When a trip was on the horizon (which was nearly every weekend and school break), we would start to plan and scheme and dream. We would load our backpacks and carry them in our cars days in advance...so as to be ready to head out at a moments notice. When the day arrived, we would lace up our boots, balance our packs, equalize our loads, and stand there at the trail head looking up. With a sideways glance and a hint of a smile, we would start walking. We knew, however, that the hike wouldn't be a walk in the park. We would have to keep our gear, not to mention our feet, dry when crossing streams or rivers. Sometimes we failed. The climb to the summit would be steep and would cause our leg and back muscles to beg for relief. There would be countless switchbacks which have a way of playing on your mind. It is difficult to turn and walk in a direction that seems to be leading you away from your destination...from the goal of the summit. There would be turned ankles from choosing the wrong rock to step on. There would be trips and falls from misjudging the height of an unearthed tree root (or from simply not having the energy to step that high). There would be times of getting stuck while trying to crawl through the limbs of a tree that had fallen over the trail. There would be times when we would be uncertain if we were even on the trail at all. We constantly battled regulating our body temperatures and staying hydrated. Sometimes it would rain. Sometimes it would get dark.
There was, of course, euphoria when we reached the top. It would be short lived. There was firewood to gather. If we had chosen to take them along, there would be tents to set up. There was water to be found and canteens to be refilled. There was dinner to cook. Then there was the cold. I can remember spending more than one sleepless night wrapped in a North Face mummy bag with only my nose poking out. I can remember waking up to frost inside my tent which had formed from my breath.
The trip down whichever mountain we had climbed would be no real picnic either.
But, none of it would matter when we were dry, warm, and sitting at the nearest pizza place. That was our tradition. We would stop and eat pizza and begin telling the stories. It was in those moments, sitting there with John reflecting on what we had just done...the thing that was completed...the thing that was accomplished...that I first came to know that special kind of joy. It would wash over me. I came to expect it. I came to look forward to it. I came to love John more and more for being alongside me...for being a part of it...for sharing the joy.
I felt it again last night, sitting around my kitchen table. Our oldest son, nearly 21 now, had come in from a day of hunting. He smelled like a campfire...dressed in his camo gear and carrying his rifle with care and respect. He told us the stories of the day with great detail and well chosen words. He is a good storyteller. Somewhere in the middle of his soliloquy, I couldn't hear him any more. I just felt it. The wash. The joy. The realization. The euphoria.
His mother and I carefully planned. We stood at the trail head, nearly 21 years ago, and looked up. With a sideways glance and the hint of a smile, we started the walk. To be sure, the trail to raising him, as with any child, was filled with switchbacks, steep climbs, loose rocks, downed trees, bitter cold and dark nights. But none of that matters...it is the price you pay for getting to make the trip. The thing is essentially done. What's left now are the stories. And the pure joy.
As I looked at him, I saw that he is standing at the foot of his own mountain with youthful optimism. I wish him well. I wish him safe passage.
As I looked at his younger brother, now a Senior in High School, I began to realize that our climb together is coming to an end as well. I began to feel the first twinges of the joy. The stories have started forming.
As I thought about our daughter, only 11, I was thankful that there are more mountains to climb...that our trip isn't completely over. I like the the climb. Or, I like the joy that comes with it.
Most of all, I looked at Connie. I am thankful that she is my partner. It has been she and I that have climbed and are climbing together. She and I, alone, know the travails and the pitfalls. She and I, alone, know the struggle. It is she and I, however, that also share the euphoria...the sense of "completing." Alone. They are "our" stories. A sideways glance...a hint of a smile...a world of our own. Pure, simple joy.
I thought of John tonight. I was in college at Gardner-Webb. He was at App State. It was this time of year...just a few days before our respective Thanksgiving breaks. My backpack was already packed. I had spoken to him on the phone. The day before we were to leave, I got the call telling me that John had died. His off-campus fraternity house caught fire. He was overcome by smoke while trying to pull someone else out of the fire. I remember being on the phone in my own apartment...looking at my backpack in the corner...thinking about a trip that would never happen. And, thinking about all the trips that did.
Pure, simple joy.
