Date: 2009-09-01
From: ShawÃÂÃÂ¢ÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂs Lodging, Monson, Maine

To: New York City 
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: overcast clouds

We devoured one of Shaw¢s ¢Best Breakfasts on the Trail,¢ said our goodbyes to Dawn and her crew, and then jumped into Dick¢s truck and headed for Portland, where he dropped me off at Brian Pritchard¢s office. After changing clothes, Brian and I connected up with his wife, Lindsey, and their two delightful sons, Liam (six) and Ethan (four) for lunch. We sat at picnic tables at one of the dock-side restaurants in downtown Portland sharing a pot of steamed mussels and (for me) a lobster roll while I filled them in on the highlights of my journey since we parted company at Abol Bridge two weeks ago. Brian then drove me to the airport, and, seemingly moments later, I was back in my office in New York and then eating dinner at home in front of my television as if I had never left. It was surreal ¢ breakfast in backcountry Maine and dinner at home in Manhattan. On the plane ride home, I sat with my forehead pressed against the window, staring out at nothing in particular ¢ just sitting and looking and reflecting on the prior weeks¢ experiences¢¦wondering how long they would remain a part of my conscious memory and how, even once their specific recollection had faded, they would remain a part of who I am by having had an influence on who I have become. I tried (with only a little success) to recall the names and faces of people I met along the way ¢ the sounds of their voices, their accents, the way they stood or moved as we talked on Trail or in the shelter or at one of the places I ate or stayed. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath to imagine the fragrance of the balsam or the firs and the smell of my tea as I brought it into the light of my headlamp for a sip while doing my journal in the dark of the woods each night before bed. I put on my foam earphones to block out the sounds of the plane¢s engines and the ambient conversations around me to see if I could recall the sound of the wind in the tops of the trees or the slosh of my sandals in a puddle of mud or of the rain on the shelter roof, the gurgle of a spring or the tumult of a cascading river ¢ or the soulful cry of a loon across some pond in my ever increasingly distant past. I tried to hear the nothingness of the woods at night ¢ I tried to picture the complete blackness of sight and sound when I would get up at night under the speckled ceiling of stars between the lattice of branches and boughs overhead through which they were filtered. Almost equally as hard to conjure up were specific images of breathtaking vistas of mountains and lakes framed by thousands upon thousands of acres of green woods, blue skies, while clouds, and gray mists or the soul-touching beauty of a view discovered at the end of a blue-blazed side trail marked simply as ¢View Point¢ by a sign tacked to a tree. Equally as difficult to recall were the more finite images of natural beauty that make up the details of each step taken on the trail ¢ the patterns, shapes, and colors of lichen on rocks; of mosses and berries; of dew-clad spider webs; of brightly lit sand beaches; or of the mix of the millions of different shades and hues and intensities of green that make every inch of the woods so different from the next ¢ so alive! Even more difficult to conjure up were my responses to these external stimuli ¢ my feelings and reactions to having been bombarded by such powerful sensations and experiences of sight and sound. The feelings of exuberance for reaching the top of a difficult climb ¢ the momentary horror of losing my balance, even for a moment, and fearing I may be in for a fall ¢ the feeling of humility that comes from standing on a mountaintop or staring at a canopy of stars ¢ the sense of achievement that comes from facing a fear, deciding not to succumb to it, and then realizing afterwards that I¢m okay ¢ that all is okay and just the way it is supposed to be. As the plane touched down at La Guardia, I realized, if nothing else, hiking the Trail is far from being a ¢walk in the woods.¢ Those who come to the Trail with that romantic notion are sadly mistaken. Hiking the Trail is the adaptation of a different way of life ¢ of daily acceptances and numerous ¢letting go¢s.¢ Each day ¢ each step ¢ is a process of adaptation and adjustment; not to what you think the Trail is about, but to what it actually is at that particular moment ¢ sometimes beautiful, sometimes treacherous ¢ sometimes gentle, sometimes more challenging that you could ever imagine ¢ sometimes lonely, sometimes filled with connections to others, to nature, to God, that touches you in ways you can¢t possibly expect. Amidst all the hard work and sweat and all the sights and experiences that the AT Trail has to offer, it is, above all else, a journey. A journey of grace.