Some time ago
Open your eyes.
I’ve stumbled upon the Appalachian Trail dozens of times over the past few years. As I traveled between Washington, DC, and Pittsburgh, my hometown, I would slip under the brown and white sign hanging from the concrete walkway over I-70, barely giving it a second glance. I walked parts of the trail in Shenandoah National Park, following the white blazes that illuminate the way. I saw hikers with their hang tags and smelly backpacks sitting in breweries in Front Royal and other trail towns. The trail was never elusive, it was always there and always calling my name. But I wasn’t ready to hear it.
“One day,” I told my friends.
«That would be an incredible adventure,» they responded.
“I think this year might be the year,” I said and then took no action, as if wishing life to change was enough for change to happen.
“Maybe this year will be your year,” someone said.
“Sure, it might be my time,” I said as I sank deeper into the dream that comes with a decent job and a steady paycheck.
Open your eyes.
As a laid-off federal worker, instructed to do little more than monitor my computer for emails that never arrived, I retreated to the Shenandoah Valley every chance I got. Sometimes I was alone, sometimes I was with other people. Sometimes I was in the river, sometimes in the mountains, sometimes I was just passing through. But every time I went to the valley and crossed that invisible line, all my senses began working overtime to absorb what was around me. Then he would obediently return to the city and sleep again, sometimes for a few days, sometimes for weeks, curled up in a cocoon of smugness: everything comfortable enough not to be uncomfortable, everything good enough to be okay.
I slept in my bed, in an air-conditioned apartment, in a nice neighborhood in a dynamic city, living a life where needs and wants are little more than minor inconveniences. As long as I could get out into the valley for a few nights, it would be enough to quell my semi-latent longing for something new.
Last June
Wake up.
I was on one of my many weekend camping trips to the valley. I reserved a tent site at Shenandoah River State Park, a beautiful little piece of land with views of the national park in one direction and the national forest in the other. I walked in the morning, ran in the afternoon, and fished in the warm, knee-deep water just before sunset. When it got dark and the air finally started to cool, I built a fire and made dinner, just as I had done so many times over the years. Exhausted from the day’s activities, I went to bed early, lay down on my mat, closed my eyes and quickly fell asleep.
I dreamed of a life where I could do this every night: immerse myself in nature at all hours of the day, be subject to its whims and beauty, and consider myself lucky to experience a midday storm, a freezing morning, a scorching summer, all the stars in a clear night sky. I would be very happy to be part of all this.
Wake up.
I began to feel something pressing against my leg, with enough force to twist my body. The thin fabric of the tent made a scraping noise as something rubbed against it from the outside. He pushed my body again.
WAKE UP. ABOVE.
Catapulted out of my dreams and into my reality, I could feel something large and heavy pushing against my tent and my body in the darkness. Assuming the worst, I let out a terrified scream and flailed my limbs wildly, hitting the tent pole with enough force to snap it in half. I opened the small door and jumped out.
Standing next to my sunken tent, adrenaline roaring through my body, I held a small headlamp in my hands.
«Am I dreaming?» I asked myself.
My eyes slowly began to adjust to the surroundings. Little by little I began to distinguish tree trunks, vines, leaves. The fog hung over the river like a huge ghost. Among the trees, just a few steps in front of me, I saw the gleam of two eyes in the moonlight.
“That wasn’t a dream,” I stammered under my breath as I picked up the headlamp and turned it on.
A doe stood in front of me, more confused than scared, certainly not as scared as I was. She snorted once and then bent down to eat something off the floor. I pointed the light toward my tent. The black shells of hickory nuts projected over the camp like constellations in the sky. I looked back at the deer. She snorted once more, then turned and, with a flick of her tail, slowly evaporated into the forest.
I’m awake now.
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