The End of the Trail, Part 3

 

Follow my blog with Bloglovin
 
The End of the Trail Part 1 | The End of the Trail Part 2

The End of the Appalachian Trail, Part 3 – A Weeping Swan

The trail has been good to us in every way we could possibly imagine. Then, on our last night, Fireman Stephen crashed our idyllic scene. First he tried to oust us from our place inside the shelter, then he launched into a manic rant about his days as a child in the mountains of North Carolina, recounted his endless expeditions on the AT, and, finally, claimed to be a king among outdoorsmen.

And then he wept.

* * *

Stephen Bares His Soul Around Alexander’s Fire

Alexander shifts one of the larger logs at the base of the flame. The new opening in the fire allows for a funnel of air to rush in. The flames leap high and, with a sucking sound, the fire draws what it needs from the atmosphere around us. I have to wonder if Alexander’s slow and methodical stoking of the fire is a catalyst, as the rising intensity of the flames seems to be Stephen’s cue – and he erupts in a flood of emotion. Words rise out of him as if he were channeling a Shakespearian soliloquy. This highly repressed man seems to have chosen us to hear him out. Like the mournful cry of a weeping swan, his monologue gives Alexander and me an experience of the very depths of the man’s troubled soul.

Then Stephen, who has rarely exposed the contents of the secret chambers of his ailing heart, lets down his final guard, and allows the tiny pools of tears previously held at bay by the lashed precipice of his lower eyelids to trail down his stained face. The cadence of his words follows an on again/off again rhythm, as he stops every few moments to wipe away the river of tears with the backs of his soiled hands. For the next fifteen minutes, Stephen speaks exclusively of his third son, little Stevie.

He explains that Stevie is the child he and his wife never planned. Stevie was an accident, the product of a wild night of passion. Stephen says he remembers the night his son was conceived. It was hot and humid, a typical night in the Florida tropics. He and his wife had been out for dinner with friends. “There was a lot of drinking,” he informs us. He lifts his eyes as if to add emphasis to the scene he is painting. “Well. You know,” he adds, “we weren’t really surprised when my wife turned up pregnant.” He says this quietly, then he shifts his position and looks the other way.

The Spirit of Stephen’s Unborn Son Pays A Visit

“It was as if Stevie had been there with us all along. It’s hard to describe, but I swear it felt like there was someone else in the bedroom besides us that night. I can still feel it. My wife kept looking around while we were doing it. She got really freaked. It was like a cloud was floating above us. My wife was a little drunk. Me, too. But I swear he was there! I think we just made an opening that night. You know. A place where Stevie could enter. Shit.” Stephen whimpers, as if the tale he is unraveling has unnerved him.

When he looks directly at me, his eyes seem like a keyhole into another realm. And the gaze that traverses the distance between us is magnetic. I can feel him trying to pull me in, cranking me into his world so I can feel what he experienced that night. A shiver runs through me as his stare connects. I glance over at Alexander. He is shaking his head slowly side to side, as if he is acknowledging everything Stephen is saying, but is too overwhelmed by the gravity of the admissions to take his eyes from the man.

For a long moment, Stephen is silent, as if thinking which words to say next. Then, abruptly, he picks up his narrative. “From the very first moment, he was trouble,” he says, almost shouting the word. Then he drops his voice to a whisper. “As a baby, Stevie never slept. I never knew people could get by on so little sleep. Him or us. He exhausted us from the very beginning, and he has never let up. He’s not like our other two. He requires so much from us.” And with that Stephen hesitates, waiting a long ten count before adding, “Almost more than either of us has to give.” And then, as quickly as his secrets erupted, Stephen ceases to say even one more word. For the first time in almost two and a half hours, Stephen is completely quiet.

In the silence left behind Stephen’s torrent of words, the only sound is the popping and cracking of Alexander’s wonderful fire, and the rise and fall of our syncopated breaths. Then, after the passing of incalculable minutes, Stephen speaks again. He doesn’t look at either of us, though, and he moans as if his words are being pulled from the deepest recesses of his being. “He is such a little pain in the ass,” he says. “But I love him so desperately.” Stephen shakes as he lets that loose, then slumps where he sits, like uttering that statement was closer to the act of giving birth than it was a sharing of mere words.

Stephen’s confession is heartrending. Stevie is Stephen’s burden, but it is clear that the love he feels for his third child is monumental. I am so overtaken by his admissions that I have to remind myself to breathe. Alexander catches my eye, and I know we are thinking the same thing – Stephen has never said this to anyone. Maybe not even his wife. I would bet a million bucks on that. Yet, I believe there is something else buried inside those feelings about Stevie. As if he hears my thoughts, Stephen says, “My favorite sport of all is not hiking the AT, but coaching Stevie’s soccer team.” He looks at us, eyes wide, a sheen of desperate perspiration upon his face, as if he is shocked to have said something so revealing.

At that moment, I think, This guy is either the most emotionally repressed person I have ever met, or the bravest son of a bitch on the planet.

Little Stevie, Grandpa, and Talk of Reincarnation

Before I can decide which it is, Stephen continues. “My grandfather died before Little Stevie was born. He was Scottish, you know – red hair, big drinker, big time fighter, and one hell-raising son of a bitch. Just like Stevie. Well, everything but the drinking bit. Stevie reminds me of him.” When he speaks next, the words dribble out of his mouth like water moving in a small stream. “If we had known the trouble that little bastard would bring us, I don’t think we would have ever had him. But I love him so much,” he mumbles.

Then he looks directly at me and asks in a pleading sort of a way, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

So there it is. The something else. Reincarnation. It oozes out of him like he is squeezing the last bit of toothpaste left in a tube. I can tell it took everything he has to get it out – and now I have to ask myself, Is this really the same guy who walked into camp a few short hours ago, all piss and vinegar? Because it’s one thing for Stephen to reveal his hidden angst, but it is an entirely different thing for him to throw open the door on something like reincarnation.

A subject like that is not run-of-the-mill for someone with a closed mind. And up until recently, Stephen has exhibited all the signs of a man whose world view is as big as, well, Stephen, himself. Now, however, he has delved into much deeper philosophical territory, and I am intrigued by his wide range of competing complexities. Or is that “competing personalities”? Either way, the reincarnation question is an easy one for me. I have always believed in the concept of such a thing, and so I shoot right back, but gently, “Yes, Stephen I do.”

“Well, me too,” he says. Then, seemingly emboldened at having found another believer, he shouts, “Stevie is my grandfather! I just know it! I look in his eyes and see my grandfather in there looking back at me. It kind of freaks me out.” He hollers this as if he has been struck by the power of the Holy Spirit.

His statement raises the hair on my arms. It is as if Stephen has conjured the spirit of his grandfather, and that red-haired hell raiser is with us now, watching and waiting. I think we all sense the same thing, a subtle surge of current dances through the air holding the three of us captive – tethered in space, in the new reality where Stephen has taken us. We all just look at one another for a long and uncomfortable moment.

I, too, experienced a vision on this trip. I was visited by the spirit of my father. He was there as I struggled up the approach trail on our first day. But unlike Stephen’s vision of his grandfather, my father’s presence comforted for me. He was a warm and peaceful reminder of the closeness we shared when he was alive. As I think of my father, and my relationship with Alexander, who has always been a blessing to me, the dichotomy between Stephen’s life and my own is sharp. It makes me ache for him. As difficult as he is, it is impossible not to feel compassion for his struggle.

Stephen picks up a short stick and digs around the edge of Alexander’s fire, playing with the hot coals and drawing shapes in the thick bed of ashes. He seems to look through the burning embers to a point somewhere near the center of the earth. I think he is considering all that he has revealed and is trying to reassemble himself. Unsure of what to say, I decide to let Stephen make the next move. But the “real” Stephen, the quiet, emotive, philosopher king has gone – he’s retreated through a hidden doorway. A funereal quiet hangs in the air around Alexander’s fire. The three of us sit like mannequins arranged in an elaborate, sporting-goods window display. It is as if we are on a stage, while the audience sits patiently awaiting the next act. But the curtain has been drawn closed. Stephen stands, brushes himself off, and mutters, “I’m going to setup my hammock,” before he exits, stage right.

There is no adequate response one can make in a moment like this. Alexander and I have entered a strange reality where there are no rules to follow, how one might possibly find his way back – or even how to comment successfully on the events witnessed. One simply needs time to reorient himself so the pieces of the mental labyrinth can reassemble the pathway out – or risk losing the thread of logic that would guide one home. It is as if we are astronauts reentering earth’s atmosphere after a long journey into deep space. I sit for many moments with my tea mug glued to my lower lip, until finally, with almost Herculean effort, I am able to mutter, “Holy crap,” softly under my breath.

Alexander Sees Into Stephen’s Pain

It is Alexander who comments first, making the most insightful remark I can possibly imagine. “Did you get the sense that he was really talking about himself, instead of his son?” he asks.

While that thought has not occurred to me, when I revisit Stephen’s confession, it makes sense. It’s not that I doubt that the trials Stephen and his family are experiencing with little Stevie are real. However, cued by Alexander’s comment, I can imagine those struggles hit very close to home for Stephen. I certainly saw for myself that he is confused about his feelings and his role as a father to his youngest son.

Earlier, Stephen mentioned that he spent his summers as a young boy in North Carolina with his grandparents. He never once mentioned his own mother and father, and after all we have heard from Stephen since, it seems the omission of their memory spoke volumes about the turbulent state of Stephen’s childhood. Like little Stevie, I can imagine young Stephen must have been a real handful in those days. He may well have created the same sort of problems for his parents that Stevie does for Stephen and his wife. But familial issues like this don’t appear out of the blue. Like feuds, they are handed down from generation to generation. Can Stephen muster the strength and the tools necessary to break this generational disaster? I guess that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

* * *

When Stephen returns to our circle of fire half an hour later, he is the same puffed up, swaggering pain in the ass we first met. But he seems oddly renewed, like his confessions lifted a huge weight from his shoulders. He is the alcoholic who, having just told his story for the first time at an AA meeting, feels so bolstered by the freedom of his admissions that he is ready to march into the first bar he can find and have a drink to celebrate. Stephen is reignited, and he pauses momentarily in a rant about his buddies and their poor hiking abilities to zoom in on our heavy, older style, Whisper Lite camp stove.

“You really like that old stove?” he shoots at Alexander, who is cooking our dinner. “It’s awful heavy. Ain’t it?”

Alexander calmly answers, “I love it, Stephen.”

The Burly Cretins Arrive

It seems that, since he can’t get a rise out of Alexander, Stephen needs to pace around the shelter like a peacock, strutting his feathers, running a hand through his reddish blond hair, eyes darting back and forth as if something were after him. Finally, a sound down the trail gets his attention. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, he announces, “My buddies are here!”

It is curious to me that Stephen is so excited about his two firemen pals’ arrival, for he has done nothing but complain about their slowness and ineptitude as outdoorsmen while in our company. Maybe he is just nervous regarding his confession, and his buddies offer him an easy out – a way to deflect the discomfort he must feel about the private flood of truth he has revealed to us. Whatever thoughts he might be having, he easily wipes them all away by making a statement that is classic Stephen. “I knew they would make it. Told ya they would be here at 7. I was right wasn’t I?”

He was right. It is 7:04.

Stephen stands with his hands on his hips yelling at his friends. “Where in the hell have you slow pokes been? You should let me give you hiking lessons! You boys have to get more organized.”

And with that, the peace and tranquility Alexander and I so desperately desire on our last night on the Appalachian Trail is lost. My mind turns to our friend from last night, old pal Stuart. More than anything, I wish it was him arriving with his little double-time scoot. His company around Alexander’s great fire would reestablish the order and magic of the Appalachian Trail that we have come to so lovingly appreciate – and, yes, I have to admit, expect. The magic we had counted on when we decided to extend our hike for just one more night.

If only Stuart were with us now, I think, instead of the two burly cretins who are clumping the last few yards to reach Stephen, I would listen to his golden tales of hiking and carpet cleaning, and in a single brilliant moment everything would be set right again. In the morning, Alexander and I would rise with the dawn, pack our supplies and gear almost effortlessly, and then hand in hand we would walk happily to the end of the Appalachian Trail.

But Stephen refuses me even this moment of fantasy. “What took you so long, you bunch of assholes!” he yells.

Alexander and I, perched as we are on the sidelines and under the cover of the shelter, watch the “happy reunion” of Stephen and his muscle bound compadres. Like two old hens whose nest had suddenly been rearranged and robbed of its trove of precious eggs, we sit shaking our heads – and wait for something to happen.

Due to the trail’s close proximity (it is at most thirty feet from the shelter) it is possible to remain under the cover of the roof, our legs dangling and cups of tea in hand, watching the trailside drama unfold. Stephen’s pals, caught up in the excitement of their reunion, have not yet acknowledged our existence. Stephen, for his part, continues with his show of male dominance, making nervous circles as he dances around his pals, bossing them, inspecting their packs, and ordering everyone to be seated. I fully expect him to start peeing on the shelter walls to mark his territory like a feral dog, but thankfully we are spared that excess.

The two cretins seem oblivious to Stephen’s rudeness – in fact, it appears this is standard operating procedure. They drop their packs in the dirt where they stand and swap stories like sailors who have just landed in port. I, however, have a plan to derail any stake these Neanderthals might wish to claim in the peace and tranquility of our snug and humble adobe.

Memories of Snorzilla

Earlier, when Stephen first mentioned his two buddies, he relayed a salient piece of information: These guys snore like a pair of Mack trucks. You might recall the night we spent with Snorzilla, back at Sassafras Gap shelter. He was the two hundred eighty-pound couch potato from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, whose highest aspiration in life was to snore and fart his way down the Appalachian Trail. Alexander and I lost an entire night’s sleep thanks to him, and we vowed not to relive that experience.

So I lean over and ask Alexander to pass me the trail log and pen. A minute later I pass him back a single page on which I have written, THIS IS A NO SNORE SHELTER!!!!! And I ask him to post it in a prominent location, where any idiot can read it. He smiles broadly at his dad and tacks the notice to the corner post at the left front of the shelter.

Stephen, of course, is busy issuing more orders, and a moment later, he shuffles out of sight with one of his pals. We can hear them discussing the guy’s hammock location as they drift behind the shelter. But the second guy, the one who looks like he has biceps bulging on top of his biceps, ambles over to read the newly posted sign. He considers the six-word notice as if he is contemplating a major life decision. Then he mumbles, not quite coherently, “I’m Chris.”

Next, with what seems like painful effort, Chris screws up his face like he is preparing to take an enormous shit. However, I believe the contorted look is supposed to send us the message that he is, in fact, a real badass. He makes a few grunt-like sounds and asks in a voice that sounds like a large mynah bird attempting to imitate Arnold Schwarzenegger (but the accent is way off), “You boys mind if I bunk in with you?”

“Absolutely!” I say. Then I inquire, in a tone as friendly as if I were an Appalachian Trail ambassador, “Oh, by the way, do you snore?”

To which he replies, “Only when I sleep on my side.”

A Rat In The Shelter

No, I think. We are not doing this again. So, as Chris starts unrolling his air mattress, I say, “Sorry. We already took the flat part of the floor. As you can see, it slants pretty bad towards the wall on your side. Right there by the rat hole.”

To which he replies, “What rat?”

I say, “The big one they talk about in the log book. But you should be OK. Just shove a little toilet paper in the hole. Apparently, the big, fat rat likes toilet paper. If you shove enough TP in the hole, he will just nibble on that and won’t crawl all over you in the dark.”

To which he replies, “I’ll be right back.”

Alexander looks like he is getting ready to bust a gut. Instead, we share a small smile and suppress our inclination to howl. A few minutes later, Mr. Side Snorer returns and informs us he is setting up his hammock near his buddies.

* * *

After a night with no snoring to interfere with our sleep, I wake before dawn, and am lying in my sleeping bag listening to the mice scurry about the shelter, while I think about Stephen and the tidal wave of truth that erupted from deep inside his soul. I am trying to make sense of it all, when the noise of Stephen and his group breaking camp distracts me. I hear the hushed tones of Stephen issuing more orders, telling his friends how to pack, and why their gear sucks. “Get going, you bunch of slow pokes,” Stephen hisses. “We are burning daylight!”

His manic rant seems like a comic vignette. He’s like a small puppy shredding garbage all over the kitchen floor. For the briefest of moments, I actually entertain the idea of missing Stephen and his insane antics.

Nah.

A Skeleton in My Own Closet

The noise doesn’t last much longer, and Stephen and his compadres depart camp before first light. Most likely they will arrive at the Fontana Dam parking lot and be driving back to Florida long before Alexander and I have taken our first steps down the trail. If Stephen has anything to do with it, he and his pals will make record time.

As I lie peering out of the shelter, the morning light renegotiates the amorphous gray shapes surrounding us and begins to recreate the illuminated color of an ordered world.

I think about Alexander’s remark from the night before. He read Stephen so clearly. In contrast, I feel bad that I had been so quick to judge the man. Had I met up with a young boy acting the way Stephen did, I would have shown more compassion towards him. I would have tried to help. Stephen however, has long since passed his boyhood years. The fact is, he has three boys of his own. This thought frightens me – both for Stephen and his boys, especially little Stevie.

I am worried because I have been in Stephen’s shoes. And I know what can go wrong.

When I was in my mid-thirties and married to Alexander’s mom, Elizabeth, I found myself a new father to three boys – baby Alexander, as well as Elizabeth’s two sons from a previous marriage, Ryan and Christopher. On occasion, I found myself unprepared for the stresses that faced me as a parent. I suppose many mothers and fathers feel this from time to time; I believe it comes with the territory. But one day, I abandoned my capacity to negotiate life’s stresses and gave in to darker forces. On that early spring afternoon, I gave our oldest boy, Ryan, a walloping that I have always regretted.

It has been almost twenty-five years since that afternoon – a significant marker of time, and one which might have brought a man a sense of peace regarding issues that have haunted him. But in matters of the heart, there is no statute of limitations. And so I find myself, on the last morning of our Appalachian Trail journey, deeply concerned for a man I barely know – and in the same instant, coming full circle to find myself face to face with a memory I would much rather forget.

The truth is that the early years of Ryan’s young life were tumultuous. His mom divorced his dad and married me. Some children of divorce roll with the changes, and some, as in Ryan’s case, simply don’t. But there was more to it. Ryan was an incredibly bright child, and I believe he saw the troubles that his mother and I faced, both as individuals and as a couple. That little boy knew us better than we knew ourselves, and in his mind I believe he could tell that trouble lay ahead. Ryan fought back against the tide of uncertainty by acting out in the only way he knew – testing his mom and me daily.

In retrospect, I can see that taking things to the outer edge of the envelope was his way of ferreting out a champion to stand by his side, no matter what. But he did not find that champion in his new stepfather. That failure, to offer Ryan the unconditional love he needed, is my greatest failure.

And then there is the beating I gave him.

I could call it a “spanking,” but, to be truthful, it went way beyond that. In the flash of a bright spring day, I unleashed on a small and defenseless young boy all of my frustrations – as a father, in the impending failure of my marriage, and regarding the mass of doubts and insecurities I had about myself. Ryan’s only mistake was asking me to be the person in the world that would love him no matter what.

There are moments in my life that stand out. Events that are indelibly etched in the fabric of my memory. Do they actually resonate at a higher pitch than other vignettes from my life? Or am I supposed to recall these snapshots for some inexplicable reason?

A Stain Upon My Being

It’s like there is a file drawer that exists in my head, and when I open it, things just start to spill out – tiny explosions like a Roman candle going off in my mind. Some of these memories are happy, like the first time I kissed a girl, rode my bicycle without training wheels, and went to school without my mother by my side. But darker ones live inside that drawer, too. If my good memories reinforce my feeling that I have lived a generally sound and happy life, their darker counterparts make me question all of that. They place a stain upon my being like a shadow blocks the sun.

In the case of Ryan, I remember that moment as clearly as any moment in my life. I carry enormous regret for having succumbed to my inner demons and failing him so completely. I believe, now, that what I saw in Ryan as “difficult” was in fact his knowingness. He knew that I had failed him, and he simply had the ability, at seven years old, to shine that failure back at me. I didn’t like him holding up that mirror, so when he pulled at those fraying seams, I beat him.

I have never adequately apologized to him for that breach of trust, but Ryan, who has grown into a wonderful young man, seems to have generously forgiven the harsh treatment that befell him as a young boy. I look at him now and wonder how he did that.

* * *

A Moment of Understanding Before Dawn

As I lie in the chill of the shelter, I hear Stephen and his two Cro-Magnon pals lumbering away up the trail. When the sounds recede, I am left with nothing but the stillness of the forest and my thoughts about myself and Ryan and Stephen and his three boys. Luckily, Alexander is with me at this moment. Even as he sleeps, his peaceful presence helps mitigate the swirl of doubt and angst I feel for both Ryan and the troubled young fireman who just departed camp.

This trip began with the three of us – Ryan, Alexander, and me. Our mutual experience, I believe, strengthened the bonds we share. As we hiked those early miles, for the first time, I truly felt like a father to Ryan. I hope he also felt my love for him as my son. In the company of these two boys, my sons, I understood, possibly for the first time, the miraculous nature of fatherhood, and how one generation flows into the next. That realization is a powerful force. Along with it comes the knowledge that my failure almost a quarter of a century ago can never be undone. However, this journey has helped heal some of the wounds for Ryan and for me.

As for Stephen, I can almost feel the pain and trepidation he must be experiencing as he heads home to parent his troubled youngest son. The Stephen we witnessed yesterday seemed a person on the edge – one who could create disaster if his capabilities as a parent are pushed too far.

I know he loves his son. He told us so in a very sincere way. But his love also seems a burden he finds difficult to place. I doubt Stephen has seen much unconditional love in his life. I just hope the frightened young boy inside him finds a measure of peace so he can be the dad his young son needs. Otherwise, with his anxiety about his belief that his grandfather has returned – reincarnated as little Stevie – there may well be a showdown looming in his future. One where two hell raisers will have to enter the ring and either duke it out or work it out.

Another thought nags my pre-dawn brain. Why, after thirty-four nights on the trail, had Stephen entered our camp at all? Until yesterday afternoon, the AT had been such a hospitable and friendly environment for us. In so many ways, I felt the trip was especially blessed. We made friends at almost every stop along our way. We have been given gifts freely from those we have met and from our allies in the forest. But on our very last night, instead of gifts, the trail conjured the manic and troubled Stephen. I wonder, had the army of forest spirits, who gave us so many weeks of wonder and merriment, simply packed their bags and left town? Had we done something to alienate ourselves from them? Was our desire to remain in the forest another night breaking some spiritual protocol, and Stephen was our punishment?

Suddenly, as night turns to day, and I find myself, as I have on so many previous mornings, warm as toast and tucked neatly in my Kelty sleeping bag in the early-morning-forest fucking fabulous, I believe the events of yesterday are no punishment. They are, instead, a part of the metric that has shaped our incomparable journey from our very first step upon the trail. I believe the spirits of the trail and all of our wonderful forest allies want me to tell me something. I dig deep. More than ever, I want to make sense of the spiritual concepts in which I place my trust and faith. I stepped onto this trail to release myself, for a little while, from the concrete demands of my daily world so that I could hear clearly the messages from my unseen, etheric friends – and I am ready to hear them now.

A moment of clarity suddenly blows over me. The spirits have not left. My allies – the owl, the snake, my favorite plants – are hovering around me at this very moment. I feel them. The warm breeze that just enveloped me is their breath. The Buddhists speak of this – a moment that transcends human consciousness, but which come only at the very end of one’s life. They call it “the dawn of understanding.” So that’s it, I am having a dawn of understanding! I check my breathing and pulse to make sure I haven’t just crossed over to the other side.

No. I’m still here. And so is my understanding.

Which is this: Alexander and I were supposed to have hiked through to Fontana Dam, yesterday. Our trip was supposed to have been over. I should at this exact moment be lying in a soft bed, nestled amongst clean, crisp, white sheets at the Fontana Village Resort, dreaming of hot coffee in a cup and served on a saucer. I should be preparing myself for an elaborate breakfast buffet. But we altered our plan – and I was, instead, in an old log hut amongst the mice, dirt, and, until about five minutes ago, Stephen and his unruly pals.

But why?

It Was All a Matter of Payback

The answer is so simple it embarrasses me. To be honest, I feel guilty and self-absorbed for not having realized it as soon as Stephen walked into our camp. You see, Stephen came to us to receive a gift, not deliver one. He was in need. He had a story to tell, and he needed someone to tell it to. With help from the forest spirits and our allies and most notably Alexander’s wonderful ally fire, we have been living it up for weeks. We have been guided, protected, and given so much – friends, wonder, excitement, nurture, sustenance, and, most of all, a warm and peaceful space where we could simply absorb the beauty of nature.

So Alexander and I had a tiny bit of payback to perform. Yesterday, our allies nudged us into creating an extra night and led us to Cable Gap, where we were to deliver a gift to someone else – and that person was Stephen. But Alexander and I were slow on the uptake. Reveling in the largesse that has been so generously bestowed upon us, we became complacent and a bit selfish. We forgot one rule: It’s not always about receiving. Sometimes it’s a good idea for the receiver to become the giver. Our duty was tiny in the grand scheme of things. Nothing more was required of us than to listen.

* * *

It has been more than two months since that morning in Cable Gap shelter, and I am reminded that life is like an onion. There are so many layers to peel back, that even when you think you have arrived at the center of things, you discover there are layers yet to uncover. And so, as I look back on our strange encounter with Stephen, I understand there is still more to tell.

Despite his talk of reincarnation, I don’t get the feeling that Stephen is a religious – or even an overtly spiritual – man. But way down inside, I believe he was asking the larger questions, and that, consciously or not, Stephen came to the woods seeking their answers. I doubt Stephen’s life offers him much of a respite from the demons that haunt him. But the AT is one place where he has known a bit of happiness in his life, a place where he received, as a young boy climbing those mountains, some solace.

Perhaps, stepping onto the Appalachian Trail was for Stephen as it was for us, like stepping into an ancient cathedral – a place of deep peace, a place where spirituality is so present it is undeniable. But the struggle to allow that energy to soothe his worried soul may have simply been too much for him. I can just see him running through the forest, hurriedly moving from place to place in an attempt to distance himself from its power – and from his life and his problems. Yet, by the time he strode into our camp, Stephen obviously knew his time to negotiate a peace with himself was running out. The weight of his feelings for little Stevie was a storm that had been gathering inside of him for many years and was now threatening to come crashing down and obliterate him.

This, then, was the reason our allies kept us on the Appalachian Trail and delivered Stephen to us. And we, unwittingly, had spent five weeks preparing ourselves to receive him, to hear him out, to bear witness to his confession.

The Ritual of Fire, The Power of the Circle

You see, for five weeks, we had invoked a sacred circle of fire every evening, creating a situation in which the spirits of the forest and our natural allies could easily reach us. This grounded our trail life almost from our very first night on the Appalachian Trail. The circle of rocks and the fire they contained were more than a source of warmth for Alexander and me; they formed a connection with the unseen world that beckoned to us at every turn of the trail.

It was Alexander who began this ritual and opened the door for the connection. Initially, I believe he approached the fire as a way to help him release his own burdens, even if he was not aware of this at first. And I think the fire taught him how to focus all that weighed upon him and release it into the smoke, so it could be carried aloft and dissipated into the universe. That he accomplished this night after night inside a circle of rock made it all the more powerful.

In Native American philosophy, more than mere geometry, the circle is seen as a doorway to universal energy. The simple act of creating a circle invokes an opening for communication. A warm and inviting place can be found within its circumference, where a person can experience the world of spirit. If approached consciously, the circle can help guide one’s life. But there is more. The energy of the circle is also healing and forgiving. It has no sharp corners, and, because of this, will assist anyone who prays inside its roundness. Alexander had, in his own way, established a rapport with the circle, as well as his ally fire – and even though he may not have consciously sought to extend that energy to those who sat around his magnificent fires, that is exactly what occurred. From our very first night atop Springer Mountain, Alexander invited our camp neighbors to join us in the generous bounty that emanated from his circle of flame. Fire became his gift, and he offered it willingly to anyone who wished to gather around the dedicated circle of rocks he established.

As our journey progressed, the circle became a repository where we placed all that we knew about ourselves and about one another. Within its circumference, we included all of our hopes, the contents of our dreams, and the things we aspired to achieve. As we traveled, the energy of our circles grew to the point where we could not deny the existence of the magic they contained. Over our five weeks on the trail, we became, unknowingly, accomplished practitioners in the art of circle energy.

Yet, it was always Alexander who acted as intermediary between us and the unseen world. He built every fire and assembled the stones each evening so the circle would remain active and complete, working its gentle way on our behalf. Then, on what was supposed to be the final morning of our journey, I awoke early with our friend Stuart at Brown Fork Gap shelter. In the wee hours before dawn, I chose to light the fire. For the first time in all the miles we travelled, I was the one who invoked the circle.

As I sat within the circle of stones that morning, sipping coffee, and gazing intently into the hot flames of the fire I created, I heard an audible click – the sound of closure. It was as if I had brought every step in our long journey forward into that very moment. A chill ran down my spine, and suddenly a slight breeze blew out of nowhere. In my mind’s eye, I saw a door open to my right, and I knew that the simple act of lighting the morning fire had been the key to unlock it.

So it was that, later that evening, when Stephen sauntered into camp and seated himself at our fire, he joined two guys who were fully engaged in circle energy. Our weeks in the circle had prepared us to do what the circle does best – simply be. We could listen to Stephen without engaging him in debate or taking issue with his extensive rants. The circle allowed us to offer him what he needed most – companionship.

When Stephen returned to the fire after his painful admissions, his demeanor had changed. He seemed lighter, as if the burden he had carried into camp had lifted, at least in part. (Don’t get me wrong – he was still a pain in the ass. Being in Stephen’s presence was like trying to push a lawn mower with a rope – a difficult task.) I believe Stephen experienced the magic of the circle, received its help and healing – and left the forest having experienced a measure of peace.

* * *

Now, as I reflect upon the events of last night, the birds are singing, the mice have scurried to wherever mice scurry to in the light of day, and I am left feeling proud that Alexander and I figured out that we had a responsibility to Stephen.

I am proud that we elevated ourselves from self-absorbed, spoiled journeyers of the Appalachian Trail to become allies for him. But it took time. We had to grow into the realization, much like a young boy leaping into manhood. In the process, we lived every minute of Stephen’s bombastic tirade and sat quietly through his metamorphosis from strutting peacock to weeping swan. The acceptance of our roles on Stephen’s behalf took lengthy hours and we achieved it slowly and, yes, maybe even a bit grudgingly.

I believe that the spirits of the forest and our natural allies are proud of our achievement, too. (And I believe they know that our boy Stephen did not make it easy for us!)

The Rest of the Story

But there is more. There always is. And I should have seen it coming.

Our connection with Stephen took place inside the circle that Alexander and I have so diligently invoked for the past thirty-four nights. The circle is a healing place, and it has rules of its own. If I were to attempt to capture how its magic works upon us, I would sum it up like this. “What is given is also received. What is initiated must also be reconciled.”

That sounds so simple. Almost a cliché. But the fact is, our time with Stephen invoked the circle’s essential desire – to heal and establish peace. Together, Stephen, Alexander, and I unconsciously stepped into the same swirling brew of healing energy, and those effects are now actively pursuing each of us. For Stephen, the circle allowed him to unburden himself of his torment about little Stevie and the ghost of his grandfather. I’m certain that more will transpire for him. I just won’t be there to see it.

How it impacted Alexander I do not know. When he awakens, maybe I will ask him. But for now, his quiet breath serves as a peaceful cadence as I jot down these thoughts.

And for me? Last night, the power of the circle brought me an old memory – a ghost if you will – of my harsh treatment of Ryan when he was just a small boy. I find it perplexing that it took Stephen to remind me of a transgression that occurred twenty-five years ago – one I would have preferred to leave in my past. Of all people, he seems such an unlikely candidate to offer me a path to healing. But there I go, judging him, again. We each have our own faults, but maybe the troubled fireman and I have more in common than I realize.

Regardless of my desire to let an old memory remain in the past, I am on a different path now. The circle has seen to that.