Meatloaf and Memories

I think everyone has a stash of food-stained cards, scraps of paper ragged with age, and handwritten instructions stashed away in a kitchen drawer, cabinet or cupboard. Recipes passed down from Grandparents, Mothers, Sisters and friends from years past. Whether a complex description of how to properly prepare a prime rib or a two-ingredient concoction to satisfy a sweet tooth, they are all treasured by the lucky beneficiaries of these morsels of knowledge. 

We have all heard success stories about those who unexpectantly happened upon a secret recipe. Ruth Wakefield, who ran the Toll House Inn, in Massachusetts, added broken pieces of a chocolate bar to her cookie dough expecting them to melt evenly. Instead, they remained as chips, and the Toll House Cookie was born, becoming an American classic.

 Robert Cobb, owner at the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood in the 1930s, tossed together kitchen leftovers for a late-night meal. The salad became a star in its own right-loaded with chicken, bacon, avocado, blue cheese, and crisp lettuce. 

Caroline and Stephanie Tatin, two French sisters who owned an Inn outside of Paris accidently came upon the elegant upside-down apple tart, called Tarte Tatin. While preparing dinner for guests, Stephanie forgot to put a pie crust on the bottom of her apple pie. After realizing her mistake, she put the crust on top instead and flipped the dessert over to discover a perfectly caramelized apple topping.

One night, while Rhonda and I began our daily discussion as to what dinner would be, we mutually decided upon meatloaf. I had come upon the recipe years before and we both had enjoyed it over a period of several years. She asked me to retrieve the recipe from our secret stash of cards, papers and tidbits of magic potions. I pulled the box from the cupboard and began thumbing through the mess of papers, trying to find My Special Meatloaf Recipe. I was not having much luck and after about fifteen minutes, I suggested we grill burgers instead. Rhonda did not like this suggestion, so she began thumbing through the mess of papers and cards as I had just done for fifteen minutes. I took that moment to suggest that later, I would take the box of recipes and organize them. Maybe even digitalize each recipe and categorize them so that every recipe could easily be pulled from the computer based on whether breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snack, etc. As I was explaining what I could do, she patiently kept thumbing through the box. She pulls a scrap of paper, food stained and wrinkled from age. She says, “Do you know who this recipe is from?” I shake my head no. She placed the piece of paper in front of me. She says, “That was the Bran Muffin recipe, your college roommate’s mother gave me forty years ago.”

 I picked up the recipe and read it. It was written in elegant cursive and even though it listed the ingredients and detailed instructions there was also a simple note of appreciation for the friendship she had shared with us over a weekend while she visited her son. It was signed Elaine Hyder.

 Rhonda retrieved another recipe, and once again, placed it in front of me. It was handwritten as well but was on a business letterhead piece of paper. Like the other, it was stained, folded, and the corners were ragged with use. I read the ingredients and instructions. It was signed by a dear friend from twenty years back, Janet Cooper.

 By the time I finished reading the last recipe, Rhonda handed me another. It too, was written on a scrap of paper, brown with age and in cursive. 

It said: Preheat oven to 475. Salt fowl & rub with margarine over his or her breast. Put in roaster with one qt. water at 9am and cook 1 hr. Turn oven off and DO NOT OPEN, until Ralph gets up. 

I held the piece of paper and realized it was written by Rhonda’s mother, Betty. I also realized that her reference to Ralph was Rhonda’s father. Both Betty and Ralph had long passed away but their memory had always held a special place in my heart. 

Rhonda finally finds my meatloaf recipe and retrieves it from the mess of papers and cards. She says, “That’s why I want to keep this box, just as it is. Not digitalized, not categorized, but requiring me to continually review each recipe. They’re more than recipes; they are our memories.

MY BUDDY

      Joe and I met the way many six-year-olds do, by accident.  It was the first day of first grade and we both, as little boys, wandered into the small classroom, wading into a new world of new experiences, new dreams and new acquaintances with excitement and fear. It was the first step for each into our future lives, alone.

     As the teacher instructed the group of twenty-five children to find a seat, both Joe and I decided on the same, small wooden desk.  As we began to argue, push and shove over who was going to have the desk, something happened between us, and we began giggling and laughing. We began to realize the desk; the seat was not important any longer, because we both had found our new best friend.

    From that day forward, our names were said in one breath: Jeff-and-Joe.  We were like two small shadows racing through childhood, inventing adventures out of empty fields and long summer hours.  We climbed trees taller than we were brave, skinned knees together, shared secrets whispered under blankets during sleepovers.  There were baseball games, Jeff-and-Joe, together in their ill-fitted uniforms, caps pulled low, ragged gloves in hand, living life, enjoying the game together. Each cheered on the other and each helped carry the other’s burden in failure. 

     As we both approached twelve years of age, there were other interests shared.  We learned to play the piano, guitar, trumpet and music became as important to us as baseball. Our sleepovers became impromptu jam sessions and summer days would find the two of us under a shade tree or carport with guitars in hand giving a concert for unappreciative neighbors.  Joe would teach me, and I would teach him, both encouraging the other toward a dream not fully understood. Saturdays, we would catch a bus to downtown Knoxville, and we would find our way to Fowler’s Furniture Store on Gay Street, where we would spend hours. On the third floor they had pianos, organs of all kinds on display and the two of us would play for hours, many times, the store employees would gather and listen as the two small, eleven-year-olds would play their music.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were probably the first ‘dueling pianos.’

     Summer trips camping with Joe’s family became one of my favorites.  With guitars in hand and mountains to explore, what more could two thirteen-year-olds desire.  We would sneak and buy Swisher Sweet cigars and find a safe place in the woods to smoke them, only to find ourselves sick afterwards but once again, we giggled and laughed and treasured our friendship.  Music was not forgotten while we camped and many times, we found ourselves playing for other campers and impressing the young girls with some of our pop song renditions.  As young boys, we were mischievous and found ourselves many times trying to explain our way out of a debacle with a Ranger or our parents, but never once did we leave each other’s side.  We always managed to carry the weight together.

       Teenage years made things messier, but not distant.  We warned each other about heartbreaks and celebrated first loves.  Yes, we got in trouble a few times-once for leaving school for lunch at Burger King but as we sometimes got in trouble, we also would get out of trouble together too.  Sports, tennis, baseball and hockey became treasured past times for Joe and me. As we were still not old enough to drive, my dad would drive us to the local ice rink to practice our skills. One night, Joe and I left the ice rink to grab a hotdog across the parking lot at the bowling alley.  As Joe ate his hotdog and began finishing off his desert of a cherry pie turnover, a hoodlum began picking a fight with us.  He was much older and bigger, and I suspected he had been drinking. There were several other guys with him and both Joe and I found ourselves in a bad situation.  We both got up to leave, and we quickly made our way across the parking lot back to the ice rink when the larger boy ran up behind us and started pushing Joe.  Before either of us could say or do anything, the larger boy hit Joe in the face.  I shoved at the larger boy and grabbed my buddy Joe, and we took off running.  As we came to the ice rink I glanced at Joe, and I saw what I thought was blood running down his face.  I was terrified.  We both ran into the ice rink, where my dad was waiting and as I explained to my dad what had happened, Joe began laughing.  What I thought was blood was just the remnants of his cherry turnover. What seemed funny to Joe and me did not seem funny to my dad.  He took both of us back to the bowling alley and I watched my dad walk up to the group of hoodlums who were now playing pool.  He yanked the larger of the boys up by the collar and threatened to beat the guy to death.  As Joe and I looked on, my dad gave a tongue lashing to the group of guys and as the manager of the bowling alley approached, my dad turned on him.  Cuss words, neither Joe or I had ever heard were spilling out of my dad’s mouth and as he motioned us to follow him out of the establishment, I glanced at the hoodlums who were now running for their lives and the manager stood speechless.  Both Joe and I, in hushed whispers, giggled and laughed in astonishment as to what we had witnessed. 

        In adulthood, our paths forked.  I built a family, and Joe built a career in music. There were moves, marriages, losses, illnesses…yet every time life’s weight pressed too hard on one, the other found a way to help shoulder it. 

       And then, somehow, sixty-seven years went by.

       Now I stand at the cemetery, the winter air cool, whispers of wind under skies of gray feeling empty.  The world was quieter without Joe’s laugh in it.  The kind of quiet that settles into the bones. 

      I rest my hand on the casket, fingers trembling but sure.  “We carried each other well, didn’t we?” I whisper.

      In my memory, Joe was still that boy, giggling and laughing, still the young kid that could make a piano sing, still the teenager who insisted we’d live forever, still the man who would stand by my side as my best man at my wedding and give me praise with the birth of my child.

      In the twilight of life, the carrying had changed form.  Not physical, not even spoken.  Just the steady comfort of knowing someone had walked beside me almost every step of the way.

     I draw a deep breath, heavy but grateful.

     “Thank you, buddy,” I whisper.  “Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for carrying me through the good and bad times.”

     Though Joe was gone, I felt it-one last time- the familiar warmth of being carried.

 

    My buddy, Joe Stafford died November 29, 2025. I feel as though a piece of my life died as well and the sorrow, grief and loss are overwhelming.  On December 4^th, 2025, under the dark gray winter skies, I helped carry my buddy to his final resting place. For that privilege I am grateful and will always feel indebted to him and his family for allowing me that honor.  I know he is now in heaven and at peace still helping me carry-on.

 

WHY

     

    Why?  A one-word question that I have asked many times in my life. As a child, I had often questioned my parents with that one word, and invariably I would get the same answer, “Because I said so! That’s why!”

     There was never any other conversation about why. I simply learned to accept their answer for what it was. I knew they loved me. I knew they did what was in my best interest and I knew they had much more experience in life than me. Therefore, even though I might not know the real answer as to why, I knew their decision was in my best interest. I had FAITH in them.

     It's interesting how life works, because as I grew older, I never stopped asking WHY. I simply stopped asking THEM why. I began asking myself that one word question, WHY. Why do I want to go to college? Why do I believe in God? Why do I have the hots for that new girl down the street? Why can’t I buy that 1965 red, convertible Mustang? Why does that new hot girl down the street keep turning me down? The why’s never stopped and I really couldn’t answer myself, as I had always been told, “Because I said so, that’s why!”

     I discovered I was at the point in my life where I would have to find the reason why for myself. I did not take this new responsibility lightly. As new why’s came into my life, I would investigate, study and ponder the options with great care, because I knew my decisions would formulate who eventually I would become. I found myself reading articles about politics, religion, and economics, trying to find the right answer as to WHY.

     It was always a triumphant feeling when I discovered that I had made a wise decision after careful consideration of all the information, but there were some questions, mostly philosophical, that could never be answered by my studies. Questions such as Why is there childhood cancer? Why do tragedies happen to good and righteous people? And most recently, Why do I want to walk the Camino?

     The Camino is an ancient pilgrimage in Spain of over five-hundred miles, ending in Santiago de Compostela. It is considered, The Way of St. James, where the Apostle was believed to have walked and now is buried beneath the Romanesque Cathedral in Santiago. For over twenty years there had been a yearning, to take on the challenge of walking from Saint Jean Pied de Port France, to Santiago de Compostela Spain, following the footsteps of Saint James. I kept asking myself WHY. I knew my urge to take on this Pilgrimage was much more than just to conquer another challenging adventure. It came from something much deeper within my soul.

     I’m a Christian but this was something beyond my deliberations as to WHY. I had to look up who Saint James was! I discovered Saint James was one of Jesus’ original twelve disciples and the stories of his discipleship across Western Europe was intriguing, but there was no answer as to WHY I should follow in his footsteps on the Pilgrimage across Spain. I studied the trail and even though there was a host of historical sites to be encountered, and there were huge numbers of people from around the World that walked this famous pilgrimage annually, I still could not figure out WHY I had the urge to do the Camino de Santiago. I wished I could have asked my Mother or my Father, although I kind of know what the answer might have been.

     Instead, I turned to God for an answer. It was done in prayer, over several days and nights, months.

  God, in all his wisdom, simply said, “because I said so!”

     My FAITH sent me to do the Camino, which I did in 2023. I walked five hundred thirty-eight miles, completing what is called the Camino Frances. I went back in 2024 and completed the Portuguese Route and the Finisterre (The end of the World). I learned so much on these treks. I answered so many of those, unanswered why’s. I realized I tended to judge people too quickly. I didn’t listen. Not to others, not even to what life was telling me. I discovered the true kindness of mankind, which I had begun to believe was extinct. I witnessed a deep spirituality of different religions, and the unwavering ability of tolerance displayed by most, if not all. On the Camino, I changed. I discovered a new purpose in my life, which in all its simplicity gave me something to live for. On the Camino, I found me, or at least who I wanted to be.

     Lesson learned. When you ask WHY and you hear, “Because I said so, that’s why.” Have FAITH!

A Nudge Toward The Abbey Of Eskirotz

 

Sometimes God nudges you by giving you insight into the spiritual state of people around you.

 

            It was May 8, 2023, when my friend and I left Zubiri, Spain to continue our journey on the Camino to Santiago, Spain.  We had started our Pilgrimage three days earlier in Saint Jean Pied de Port (France) and worked our way over the Pyrenees for two days to Roncesvalles, Spain.  From there we began a bone cracking, knee destroying descent, slowly working our way down the southern slopes to the village of Zubiri.  Zubiri is a small village in Navarre, Spain that sits along the Arga River. An ancient stone Roman Bridge crosses the Arga River as one enters the village proper. The cool, lazy waters of the Arga gave us the opportunity to wade in the shallows, giving our feet a much-needed break from the previous days of hiking.

            Today, we wake to a cloudy but mild day, and we take to the trail early.  We both feel eager to start, realizing that we will be in Pamplona later in the day, also relieved to know that we now have the Pyrenees behind us.

            We walk briskly, occasionally glancing at the skies in hopes of seeing more blue sky and less threat of rain, but there is no change.  A gray fluffy quilt of clouds thrown over the sky blocks the blueness; I know is there. Not far out of town we begin to pass a large Magnesium plant and for several kilometers’ we walk alongside mountains of slag and tall smokestacks before entering the woods, following an overgrown dirt and gravel path, winding its way toward our destination of Pamplona.  We pass a few small farms, their tiny plots of vegetables fenced with a variety of materials: a sheet of metal, a broken wooden pallet, a few stones and a few strands of wire corral the well cared for garden.

            Up ahead, I see the woods opening to a larger area of green fields and a few small stone buildings. I assume we are coming upon another small farm, although this one appears to be larger than the others and by far better cared for, it too has a small plot of land dedicated to farming, but the fence is made totally of stone, and although ancient, it is well crafted unlike the ones before.

            As we get closer, I realize that the main stone structure, just off the path to the right, is a small church. We approach slowly wondering if we should stop and explore.  We see a few other Pilgrims congregating underneath a small porch at the entrance.  They take off their packs and enter.  We follow suit, leaving our packs and entering through an ancient wooden doorway into a hush of darkness. It takes my eyes a minute or two to adjust to the dimness.  Candles burn, sending their flickering of light, into the darkness, but deep dark shadows crowd the candles glow. There are whispers, a shuffling of feet, as we wander into the unexplored dimension in time. 

            Even having been on our Pilgrimage only for four days, we had discovered that Cathedrals and Churches were the best places to get our Pilgrim Passports stamped. Not only are they usually the most elaborate, but to me, and others, they hold a special importance. As my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and having explored the small chapel, I search for where I might get my passport stamped.  I find a small table in a darkened corner next to the door that has the stamp and I proceed to stamp my passport.  As I am doing so, I feel a hand timidly touch my arm. I turn to see who it might be.  There before me is a nun.  She is wearing a very casual tunic of light gray and a white collar. On her head is a simple white coif. She is elderly, late sixties maybe, and looks frail but converses as one much younger and moves with steadiness. I turn and smile, wondering if I had mistakenly, done something wrong.  I am not Catholic and unfamiliar with their proper practices and customs.

 She smiles in return and in very broken English she says, “Please pardon, where are you from?”

            I say, “United States.”  When I say it, I realize it sounds as if I was asking a question.

            She smiles again and says, “So you speak English?”

            “Yes Ma’am.”  I say and wonder if Ma’am is an indiscretion within Catholic customs. 

            She reaches for my hand and as she holds it in both of hers, she questions, “May I bless you?”

            “Yes.”  I respond in a whisper.

            As she continues to hold my hand she questions, “What is your name?”

            “Jeff, Jeff Morgan,” I say            and I begin to feel something within me. A warmth, a feeling of peace.

            Her eyes are gray, gray as the clouds that blanket our sky.  There is a twinkle, a bit of joy, perhaps, but as she continues to stare into my eyes it seems as though she is witnessing all my sorrows, regrets, worries and pains.  The twinkle in her eyes fade and there is a look of sorrow and worry that exudes from the grayness. She continues holding my hand in both of hers, staring into my eyes for it seems several minutes.  My heart races, even though I am feeling a calmness overwhelm me.  I see her gray eyes piercing into my soul, just before a tear finds its way down her pale cheek. She says softly, “Please kneel Jeff.”

            I kneel to one knee and bow my head. In a hushed whisper she says, “Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means.  The Lord be with you.”

            Her hand is upon my bowed head and she once again whispers, “May I place this pendant of Saint Lucia on you?”

            “Yes,” I whisper breathlessly.

            She places the pendant, with a simple string, about my neck and reaches for my hand to help me stand.  She smiles and I notice that although her eyes are still gray, the twinkle has returned.

            I feel different, renewed, as I find my way through the darkness to the door of the small chapel. I see other pilgrims waiting their turn to enter on the porch outside.  They are taking off their packs, complaining about their feet, their aches and pains and they question me as I pass, “Do they have a stamp for my passport?”

            I smile and nod, “Yes.  Buen Camino.”

            As I approach the trail, my buddy is waiting for me.  I glance to the sky and realize that the gray is gone.  All I see is blue sky and sun-drenched fields of green.

            I look at my friend and say, “Wow that was quite an experience.  I’ve never felt that way in my life.”

            He grins and says, “I felt the same.  God has a way of nudging one on the right path.”

            We spend the rest of the day continuing our journey to Pamplona. We walk mostly in silence for I can not think of anything but that little stone church and the ‘blessing’.

            It takes us thirty-eight more days to complete our walk to Santiago.  I will witness many blessings, miracles, revelations and yes……..nudges along The Way!

 

Side Note:

            It will be weeks later before I take the time to do a little research about that small church, that we came to just outside of Zubiri. The little church is known as the Church of St. Lucy (Santa Lucia), but collectively the buildings are listed as The Abbey of Eskirotz. It is believed to have been built in the 12^th Century.  Originally, it had been built as a fort, of possibly Templar origin and converted to an abbey church in the 13^th Century - The Abbey of Eskirotz. As I delve deeper into the history of this little church I discovered an unbelievable story behind it.

            For years the Church of St. Lucy sat empty. Slowly decaying over hundreds of years, it was left to be swallowed by the ground it sat upon.  It’s contents, sculptures, mosaics, and murals considered to be too ancient to be of value. It sat forgotten and ignored and left for ruin.

            Around 2010 a gentleman from South Africa, Neill Le Roux, walked by the ruins of the little church while walking his Camino.  He was retired then but before in South Africa, had worked restoring historical buildings.  He took interest in the little church and after his Camino was over, he found himself, along with his new Wife, Catherine visiting several times over the next few years.  He had met Catherine, an English lady, in Madrid while doing his first Camino. They both shared the same interests and decided that now Neill was retired, it would be a perfect place to live and raise their new baby.

            The legalities of purchasing such a property were difficult to say the least, but around 2012, he was able to work a deal with the Archdiocese of Pamplona to purchase the Abbey of Eskirotz for 150,000 Euros. The price of the property at first glance would seem fair, but Neill estimated that a proper renovation would cost near 500,000 Euros more. 

            After the purchase, Neil began his work on the Abbey and working with art historians, he discovered 12^th Century wall paintings behind the altar.  The church’s hand-painted altar was dated as being from the mid-13^th century (which was exposed after the church’s 16^th century altar was stolen during the time it stood abandoned).

            During the beginning of the restoration, the local governments of Navarre, Zubiri and Eskirotz took issue with the purchase and filed many legal documents claiming the purchase was not legal.  They claimed that the Archdiocese had no right to sale the property.  The filings continue, costing Neill a fortune in legal fees.  To my knowledge the legal issues continue today.

            Not long after the purchase of the property and Neill began his renovations with the help of volunteers and donations, his Wife Catherine would leave him, taking with her their young child Evalyn.  They moved to England where they continue to reside.  The separation also led to many legal disputes which basically left Neill without any parental rights.

            Close to this same time, Neill was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, given only a few years to live.  Even with all that had happened to him and his dream of renovation of the little church, he continued to move forward with it. Many volunteers came to work, and donations poured in while he continued to fight the legal battles with the local governments, his Wife’s refusal for him to see his daughter and now his fast-approaching death from cancer.

               The last post I found of Neill, was around 2018 where he was finally able to win a small battle legally, to see his daughter.  He was elated to be able to travel to England to see his dear Evalyn, only eight years old, to say his good-byes for he knew his time was near.

            When I read this story of the little church and realized all the pain, sorrow, and burdens that has walked through it’s doors yet it still stands welcoming more.  Just as it welcomed me and gave me a reason to live.  In one of Neill’s last post, he had taken a picture of several of his closest friends at the little church.  Some of the photos were volunteers, some were pilgrims that had returned several times to visit, but there was one that caught my eye.  She had gray eyes, a simple gray tunic and a smile that I will never forget.  It was the nun that had blessed me.  It was Maria Asunción.

            When I began researching this little church, I kept finding more bits and pieces of information that I found extremely intriguing.  Unfortunately, the information I came across would be from unverifiable sources and I don’t know for sure if everything is true. Regardless of the validity of it’s entirety, I find it a remarkable story.   

Snake, Rattle, and Role

“You’re nuts!”  My wife says.

 

            She thinks I’m crazy for wanting to hike; to climb mountains, enduring the cold, the heat, rain, and snow.  Subjecting myself to an almost infinite number of hazards in the form of falls, sprains and dangerous insects, animals and reptiles.

            I shrug off her insult and choose not to think about the hardships and the dangers.  I choose to dream of the beauty, the solace, and peace I will find when I take off on a trail and become a part of the raw wilderness itself.

            It doesn’t take me long, once I immerse myself in the woods to become a part of it.  My hands are the first to show the process.  They become almost immediately stained, taking on the same color and texture as the forest floor.  After a couple of days, my physical body is not much different than many of the wild creatures that roam the mountainsides, trying to survive.  From head to toe, there is a grit and grime that becomes a part of the epidermis itself.  I’m sure I don’t smell much better than those wild creatures as well, but fortunately, I don’t run into many other homo-sapiens in the wild.  If by chance I do, they are usually in a similar condition.

            It was the end of September and a couple of buddies and I planned a four day trek on the Foothills Trail.  Parts of this trail are in North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia. The section we planned to hike would total about thirty-one miles and even though I had not studied the topo maps in detail, I was assured by my buddy Rick that there was very little elevation change over the length of the trail.

            My buddy Doug and I headed up a day early and hiked a short distance to Burrel’s Ford, which is a campsite along the famed Chattooga River. This was the river the movie ‘Deliverance’ was filmed.

 

            Doug and I found a suitable spot to set camp along the river and immediately began gathering fire wood to enable us to keep a good campfire well into the night. 

            The woods surrounding our campsite was dense with underbrush.  Rhododendron, with its thick waxy leaves smothered the forest floor.  Tall hardwoods, such as the Poplar, Oak, Hickory and an occasional Pine or Hemlock choked any sunlight from reaching the ground.

            The river tumbled over rocks carving its way through the dense forest. The sound of the river was comforting even though the dark forest that surrounded us was somewhat unnerving.

            As we gathered wood in the thick underbrush, I was acutely aware of the possibility of encountering one of the many snakes that frequent areas such as this.  Copperheads the most probable, although a Timber Rattler was not out of the question. Fortunately, the river itself is very cold and most reptiles will usually stay further away from the cold mountain streams such as this.  On the other hand, this looked to be a perfect environment for the black bear, and I knew from what I had read, this area had the largest black bear population in the United States.  As I looked around the dense woods I said to Doug, “Looks kind of beary doesn’t it?”

            Doug laughed and said, “Beary……is that a word?”

            “Don’t know……but it’s perfect for this place….huh??

            “Yep” Doug said and strolled into the folds of the forest looking for tinder.

            We managed to find enough fire wood, without encountering a snake, and we then set about cooking our meagre dinner. 

            Darkness fell on us quickly. With head lights and the wet conditions, we struggled to get a fire started.  Eventually we succeeded and we continued to feed the fire trying to illuminate the blackest of black darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.

            There were noises that slithered through the darkness, making us aware that even though visually we were oblivious to what was going on in the thick woods around us, the shrieks, rustlings, thumps and chatters acknowledged the fact that there were creatures active just beyond the curtain of darkness. As I ate my dehydrated Red Beans and Rice, sipping on water, sitting cross legged on a rather damp ground I thought to myself……I am Nuts!

            Even though we had plenty of wood, and we built a rather large fire, the illumination hit a wall of blackness a mere twenty feet from the fire.

            We turned in around 10pm, realizing that we would have to get up at dawn.  We would have to break camp, hike out to the car, and drive about ten miles to meet Rick to begin our thirty-one mile hike on the Foothills Trail.

            6:30am came early.  The sun technically had risen, but to us was unseen.  There was a heavy fog, and again the green canopy above obscured any light there may have been.  We managed to break camp and began the short up-hill climb back to the car.

            Around 10am we finally met Rick at Bad Creek Reservoir.  The three of us chatted briefly then left one vehicle there and took the other thirty miles away to the trailhead where we would begin our three day adventure.

            We began our adventure at Frozen Creek, located in Gorges State Park, South Carolina.

            As we were getting the gear out of the car, strapping on our backpacks, Rick said, “Dang it!  I left my frigging trekking poles in the other car.  Crap…..I can’t walk without those.  I’ll need to pick up a couple of suitable sticks to use as poles.

            Fortunately, at the trail head, someone had left two walking sticks, and Rick grabbed them to use on our journey.   

            In the beginning the trail is actually an old logging road, and as Rick had said it started as a downhill walk. 

            Unfortunately, I don’t think Rick had studied the topo maps in detail, because we had not hiked a quarter of a mile when the trail began a steep ascent.  The old road bed had large surge stone that had been spread on certain sections.  Surge stone is large granite gravel (baseball size) and is used around construction sites as a temporary solution to impassable roads.

            The stone was mostly found on the steep inclines of the road to prevent erosion, and this made climbing the hills most difficult.  

            “Hey Rick…..I thought you said this was downhill the whole way.”  I said between gasps for air and an occasional swearing fit.

            Doug laughed.

            “I just went by what the maps said.”  Rick said, possibly questioning his own interpretation of the topos.

            “You must have read them upside down!”  I said as I slid about four feet backwards on the surge stone.  “It wouldn’t be bad but for this damn rock……..it’s killing me!”

            “Yeah…..the gravel makes it difficult……we’ll probably have a steep downhill the last portion of the trail to the first camp.”  Rick said, trying to sound convincing.

            We hiked, slid, and cussed for three hours before reaching our first campsite where Toxaway Creek empties into Lake Jocassee.

            It was a beautiful campsite.  It was a spacious area, free from underbrush.  Tall stands of hardwoods spaced evenly throughout the area shaded but still allowed enough of the sun’s drying rays in to create an almost perfect camp site. We crossed a long swinging bridge across Toxaway Creek to the area where we had planned to camp.

            The spacious area was adjacent to the large, roaring, Toxaway creek that splashed and tumbled over moss covered rocks and eventually emptied into a turquoise lake, Lake Jocassee. 

            We set camp where Toxaway creek emptied into lake. The view to our south was of the pristine lake, complete with a sandy and rock beach.  To our immediate west was a beautiful view of Toxaway Creek.

            It’s a great feeling when one hikes all day and eventually arrives at the campsite where one plans to camp.  Its even better to see that the site is as beautiful as this. 

            I chose two trees that were perfect to hang my hammock.  Rick found him two comparable trees to do the same, and Doug found a nice level piece of ground for his tent.

            We once again gathered firewood, cooked a little dinner and then wandered about the area looking at the varying views that was offered.  We spent a good portion of time hiking down the shore of the lake, taking our time and watching as the sun began its descent for the evening.  The lake glowed. The turquoise water, ripples of gold, played with each of our individual thoughts as we separately found our perfect spot to sit, watch and contemplate our lives.  Its moments as this that makes all the effort, the pain, and the risks, all worthwhile.  I began to think……Maybe those who  don’t do this are Nuts!         

            As the setting sun extinguished itself over the western horizon, we made our way back to camp and built a large fire for the evening.  We sat around the fire, discussing the plan for the next day’s hike.  We discovered that it was going to be further than what we thought.  We estimated about ten to eleven miles and once again, Rick assured us, there was not going to be a lot of uphill climbs. 

            After the day’s hike from Frozen Creek, I did not completely trust Rick’s interpretation of the topo maps, so I reviewed them myself and felt somewhat satisfied that even though there were a lot of ups and downs we would encounter, the major up-hills did not appear to be that daunting.

            The three of us sat around the roaring fire laughing, talking, and sharing stories.  We watched as the stars blinked on above, eventually filling the skies in all their glory.  It was a beautiful night.

            Once again we willed ourselves to rise early.  The earlier we started the hike, the more time we would have to complete the ten or eleven miles we had to hike to get to the next planned campsite. 

            Begrudgingly, we shouldered our packs and crossed the swinging bridge across Toxaway Creek heading west toward a whole new adventure.

            Almost immediately crossing the long swinging bridge over Toxaway Creek we came to another, even longer swinging bridge over part of the lake itself.  Both bridges swayed out of rhythm as the three of us walked gingerly across them.  We stopped midway across both to take a photo of the view proffered.

            As we came off the second swinging bridge, the trail began a steep ascent.  The trail meandered steeply up a boulder field and the face of a rocky cliff. Ten minutes up the steep slope I stopped in my tracks and looked over my shoulder to my two buddies and said, “Damn!  I swear the topos did not look this bad!”

            Both buddies agreed, only shaking their heads in agreement, because both were struggling for their breath.

            We made it through the boulder field, but the trail continued to climb steeply.  Large hardwoods, oaks and poplars towered above us.  Acorns littered the trail by the thousands.  It was like walking up a steep sidewalk covered in marbles.  After ten to fifteen minutes of slipping, sliding and falling up the acorns we would stop to catch our breath, only to be pummeled by hundreds of falling acorns.  The tall oaks swayed in the gentle breeze and released their hardened fruit upon us.  It appeared to be an intentional assault upon us.  We’re Nuts!

            Doug, being an avid hunter and outdoorsman, informed us that apparently there was very few deer in this area.  He explained that deer love to eat acorns.  He continued to say that when hunting, he would always look for oak trees and the ground littered with acorns, because he knew the deer would frequent the area.

            I personally figured there were no deer in the area because of the acorns.  Nothing in their right mind would willingly attempt to walk up this trail and be acorn-ed to humiliation as we were doing.

            Fortunately, the areas of Acorn Armageddon were sporadic and we would have brief moments of some relief, although we seemed to never reach the top of the mountain.

            Fall and early spring are some of the most beautiful times to hike in the mountains, but it also brings some added dangers.  During these times of the year, the temperatures are normally cooler, sometimes dipping into the thirties and forties at night.  The day’s highs may only be in the high fifties.  Snakes are usually active once the temperatures are above fifty.  During the warmer part of the day, a snake will usually find a sunny area, unfortunately usually on the trail, and sun itself; attempting to warm itself to feed. Knowing this, one has to be vigilant when hiking a trail, always watching where one steps.  In the fall the leaves cover the trail, possibly hiding a well camouflaged copperhead or timber rattler.  The cooler temperatures makes them somewhat lethargic, making them less likely to slither off the trail when they sense your close.  Instead they curl up….and wait.

            It has been said that a snake won’t bite the first person, but will bite the second.  Not sure if that is true, because I’ve known hikers to be bit regardless of the order in which they passed the snake. 

            I almost always lead.  It’s never discussed amongst my buddies and myself.  It just seems to happen.  I figure its mainly because I’m always ready….early.  Ready to go.  So whenever we start the hike, I’m the first to take off. 

            Doug is almost always following up the rear and Rick is usually second.  This order, although not discussed, is not totally by chance.  If we allowed Rick to bring up the rear, Doug and I both realize we would probably not see him again for several days.  Rick’s Slow!  He dawdles, wanders, ambles, tarries, stops and smells the roses, and hikes a little in between.  Doug stays on his heels, keeping him with the group.  It should also be noted that Rick is the only one of us that wears snake proof gaiters.  Yeah……let’s put Rick second!

            Finally we reach the top of the first mountain we are to cross for the day, Grindstone Mountain.  We breathe a sigh of relief and take a moment to catch our breath and quench our thirst. After a few minutes we heave on our packs and follow the trail that drops off in a steep descent.  I lead once again, skating down the cascades of rolling nuts, watching for snakes, and listening to Doug, in third, go on and on about how deer would love all these nuts.  Maybe we should put him in second!

            The trail is up and down, crossing Grindstone Mountain, then Chestnut Mountain, plummeting down to Horse Pasture River, and then over Narrow Rock Ridge.  We hike all day, the trail continuing to be unforgiving, and we eventually arrive at our next campsite. 

            The campsite is not near as nice as the previous, but sits directly beside Cane Break Creek that has plenty of flow.  The site itself is a little overgrown.  Fallen trees, litter the entire area, decaying where they sit.  Cane Break Creek is hidden from view by a thick wall of rhododendron and on the opposite side of the campsite the terrain is steep, covered with ‘dog hobble’ and large hardwoods.

            Rick had run out of water a little earlier and I was getting low, so we both immediately went to the stream and began filtering the water, filling our Nalgene bottles to the brim.

            Doug took the opportunity to start gathering firewood and within an hour we had our tents and hammocks set, firewood gathered, and water bottles filled.  Rick took off his boots and snake proof gaiters, and slipped on a pair of camp sandals. I slipped on a pair of Crocks, and Doug took off to the adjacent stream to sit and soak his feet in the cold water of Cane Break Creek.  Now as dusk approached, all we had to do was relax!

            “Whoa!...........Whoa!”  Doug said as he took a few steps back from the wall of rhododendron he was about to squeeze through to get to the creek. 

            I was sitting a mere ten feet from him when he made his remark.  I looked up immediately and saw him backing up toward me, his eyes on the ground in front of him. 

            “What is it?..........is it a snake?”  Somehow I wasn’t surprised. 

            “Yep.”

            The three of us gathered around the now coiled up serpent and each gave their opinion as to whether it was poisonous or not.  Rick seemed to think it was just a water snake and both Doug and I kept looking trying to determine if it had a triangular head or not.  After careful observation, from a respectable distance of ten feet, we all decided it had a triangular head and most likely was poisonous.  It was hard to tell how long it was, since it was in a coiled position. Doug said, “Should I kill it?”

            I was debating within myself as to what should be done.  I hate killing anything, but at the same time I did not like the idea of walking around a dark campsite at night knowing there was a three to four foot poisonous snake slithering about either.

            Rick said, “I’m putting back on my snake gaiters.” And walked off to do just that.

            I said, “Yeah…..we need to kill it.”

            Doug picked up a large rock of about thirty pounds and holding it over his head, he hurled it with vengeance at the slimy reptile.  The rock hit with a loud thud.  The snake twisted and convoluted upon itself, wrapping itself in knot like fashion; raised its tail and rattled its rattles profusely.

            It was a Rattle Snake! 

            Its head was almost dismembered from the rest of its body. The snake continued to open its mouth, showing its fangs, and reading itself to strike if given a chance.

            “Be careful dude……snakes can still bite you…even with their head off…and they’re still poisonous.”  I said to Doug as he stepped closer to the snake and began probing at it with a long stick. One of Ricks hiking poles.

            Doug stretched the snake out lengthwise and we determined it was about three and one-half feet long.  It had the markings of a Timber Rattler but was lighter in color and had a black head.  We each took a picture of the snake, before cutting off its head and rattle.  We buried the head and threw the body of the snake into the stream, figuring it would feed the fish. Nature’s recycling program.

            Rick had returned wearing his leather, high-top, hiking boots and snake gaiters, wrapped to his knees.  Both Doug and I decided we should give the rattles to Rick. For always hiking second in line.

            We counted the buttons on the rattle and determined that the snake was twelve years old.

            The sun gave its last gasp of light for the day.

            The next morning we once again arose early, figuring we had about eight to nine miles to hike before we reached the car at Bad Creek Reservoir.  We studied the maps, and even though the topos suggested a relatively easy hike, none of us commented as such.  Based on the past couple of days, we felt compelled to assume the hike was going to be a bitch.

            Our assumptions proved to be correct.  We climbed up the steep Misery Mountain, then a steep descent to the Thompson River, then back up Gall Buster Mountain, I personally think they misspelled this particular mountain… Ball Buster maybe?  We skirted the edge of Whitewater Mountain then descended once again to the Whitewater River. 

            During the three days on this trail we crossed four major rivers that fed Lake Jocassee.  Most of the bridges were cable bridges although the last two were supported with metal support beams and were much more stable. 

            After crossing the Whitewater River we took a spur trail which left the famed Foothills Trail and turned south, leading us to Bad Creek Reservoir.

            It was mid-afternoon by the time we reached our car at the end of the trail.  It was hot and humid as we all three stripped our filthy clothes off our backs and used pre-moistened wash cloths, attempting to give ourselves a little cleansing before changing into some clean clothes and making the 

drive back home.

 

Thanks Rick Harding for being second and thanks Doug Brown for keeping him in second.  A great trip with great friends.  Snake, Rattle and Role guys! 

September 24, 2014 through the September 27, 2014

A Lesson for Christmas

            Christmas.  Some say Merry Christmas, those who feel they must say it politically correct, say Happy Holidays.  Whichever way you feel obligated to wish one a merry Christmas, most everyone will agree that the holidays that surround what has been called Christmas, is a time of joy and excitement.  Families become closer. They will set aside a few days and sometimes travel long distances to spend time with those they do not see on a regular basis.  Friends will give much thought to acquiring the perfect gift to give, attempting to capture the feelings the meaning of their close friendship.

            Children revel in the idea that Santa Claus is making his list, checking it twice, and trying to find out who’s naughty or nice.  The children dreaming of that special bicycle, bat and glove or special little doll that will make their Christmas complete. 

            The holidays gives one a time to reflect on Christmas’ past.  Some of the most memorable moments of childhood, parenthood, and being a grandparent occur during this special season.  So it is only fitting that on this particular holiday, I too reflect, remembering a Christmas twenty three years past and think about that Christmas when I learned a very important lesson.

            My wife, Rhonda, my daughter, Haley, and I went as usual to our church’s Wednesday night supper.  It was only a couple weeks before Christmas and there was to be some special music performed for the holiday season after supper.  There was a festive feel. Everyone wore their favorite Christmas sweaters and the children were bouncing off the walls with anticipation having heard that Santa was to make his appearance.

            It was an evening that was much like thousands of others across the globe. It was the season of Joy.

            After the dinner and the special music, Santa did make his appearance.  He let each child sit on his knee and explain to him exactly what they wanted for Christmas.  The parents watched with smiles on their faces as each child pleaded their case.  Santa assured each child that if they were good, he would attempt to bring them what they desired.

            Santa left with a big Ho…Ho….Ho, and the parents helped clean up the tables and put away the chairs as the children played. 

            My daughter at the time was about three years old and as we drove through the neighborhoods returning home, she was mesmerized by the display of Christmas decorations that adorned most every house.  There were some houses that had huge lawn displays.  Large inflatable Santa’s, and snowmen.  There were wood cut-outs of Rudolph and houses draped in a multitude of lights.  Christmas trees glowed in the front windows, covered with silver and gold tinsel. 

            As we drove slowly through the neighborhood, we came across a house that was decorated rather simply.  The house was not draped in lights and there was no inflatable Santa’s.  There were a few single candles that glowed from each window, but no Christmas tree was visible.  There was a small, manger scene displayed in front of the house.  It was softly lit, giving it a humbling ambience.  I questioned Haley, my daughter, “Do you know what that is?” And I slowed even more and pointed toward the small discreet manger scene.

            Without hesitation she responded, “That’s baby Jesus in the manger.”

            I was surprised she knew this.  I knew I had never told her the story of Jesus and I glanced at my wife and she too seemed surprised.  I questioned Haley again, “Do you know who Jesus’ mother was?”

            Again without hesitation she said, “Mary.”

            “And Jesus’ father, what was his name?”

            She answered, “Joseph.”

            Both my wife and I was pleased that she knew this but we both were surprised.  This was our only child and neither of us had any experience with children before Haley was born. We had assumed that most everything a child learns, at least in early childhood, was taught by the parents.  We had not intentionally withheld the story of Jesus, we were simply waiting for her to reach the age where she would comprehend. I took the opportunity to briefly explain the story of Jesus as we completed our ride home, but somehow I felt as though Haley was not hearing it for the first time.

            Back home, after putting Haley to bed, I questioned my wife about where she thought Haley may have learned the story of baby Jesus.  She could only assume that it was taught in day care or Sunday school. 

            I went to bed that night realizing that for the rest of my daughter’s life, I would not be the only influence in her life.  There would be others that would teach her lessons.  They would teach her values and how to be responsible.  There would be others than myself that would mold her into the person she was to be. Why I assumed I would be the only one responsible for this I’ll never know. 

            It did give me a peace of mind, knowing that I was not the only one responsible for teaching these things to our daughter, but I also realized that there may be some that would attempt to influence and teach her in a negative way and this concerned me. 

            I think it is those fears of possible negative influence that motivate some parents to home school.  This allows the parent to censor what they feel is harmful or detrimental to their child’s development. I can see both sides of the argument.  On one hand, if you decide to take complete control of the influences on your child, then you become solely responsible as well.  On the other hand if you use diligence and allow your child to experience the lessons from others, then they may learn more and possibly quicker from someone who is more experienced in the teaching or parenting arena.  Regardless which may be the best way, I never really felt I had an option.  My daughter taught me that night that there would always be others that would influence and teach her.  A lesson learned.

            A year later, there was another lesson learned.  Similar but different.  My wife and I once again had gone to pick Haley up at day care.  Haley enjoyed her days at day care and developed many friendships, during those days, which she still enjoys twenty-three years later.  It was a Christian daycare.  We attended church, Sunday school and of course Wednesday night suppers at the same church where Haley spent her days in their care.  We felt comfortable knowing Haley was being taught and influenced by people we worshiped with on a weekly basis and somehow the fear I had at one time of the possibility of negative teachings seemed to fade.

            My wife and I entered the room where the children were playing enthusiastically, and we both spotted Haley right away.  She was playing with two other little girls, laughing and having a good time and unaware that we were there.  The teacher called Haley by name and said to her, “Haley….your momma and daddy are here for you.”

            Haley came running to our side, giving us both a hug and a big smile.  We were gathering her things preparing to leave when the teacher hesitantly said, “Ms. Morgan….Mr. Morgan….I am sorry to say that Haley said a bad word today.”

            I didn’t know how to respond.  I did not know if I should ask what she said or ask for any details, but fortunately I didn’t have to think about it for long, because almost immediately my wife asked, “What did she say?”

            The teacher glanced around her, to make sure there were no other children, or for that matter, other adults around, and realizing that it was only me, my wife and Haley, who apparently already knew the word, said almost embarrassingly, “She said Shit.”  

            The word had not left the teachers tongue before Rhonda had knelt in front of Haley and very sternly scolded her.  Telling her she should never say that word.  It was a naughty word.  My wife asked, “Haley…..where did you hear that word?”

            At that moment I realized that the word in question was probably the most used word in my vocabulary.  I never said it in a profane way.  From the earliest time I can remember it was a word that seemed to adequately and sometimes accurately describe a particular situation or particular condition.  It could be used as a verb, a noun, an adjective or an adverb and convey with just four letters exactly what I was trying to describe.  I didn’t describe my car as simply an old car, my car was old as shit.  My car didn’t run bad, it ran like shit. Last night’s supper wasn’t bad left overs, it tasted like shit. All of a sudden, once my wife questioned Haley as to where she might have heard that word, I knew I was in a world of shit!”

            Haley did not answer right away.  Both the teacher and Rhonda waited patiently for Haley to name the guilty party. My mind raced, attempting to prepare my defense, and I suddenly felt feverish as I expected my daughter to point at me and say, “Daddy.” I wanted to hide.  My wife questioned again, “Haley….where did you hear that word.”

            Haley looked across the room and pointed meekly at one of the other little girls she had been playing with and said, “Caitlyn……Caitlyn told me that word.  I Sorry Mommy.”

            My wife hugged her and explained to her once again that she should never say that word. We gathered our daughter’s things and hurried out the door to head home. 

            Once in the car, I admitted to my wife that when she asked Haley where she might have heard that word, that I was afraid she was about to say it was me.

            Rhonda smiled and said, “Yeah…I figured she was about to call you out myself.”

            That was the next lesson I learned.  Yes, there will be negative influences and teachings on your child’s life.  Some of those negative influences, bad teachings, might be simply poor habits you as a parent had acquired, and as the age old saying goes, actions speak louder than words.

            It seems odd to me that from the moment my daughter was born, I felt an extreme responsibility to raise her the best way I knew how.  Teaching her the joys, the sorrows, the ins and outs of life.  It is strange that in just these two short lessons of Christmas, I was taught some lessons of life by my daughter.

            I realized later that night, that I would have to improve my vocabulary. I realized that I welcomed, even more now, the assistance of others to adequately teach my daughter and help her to become the person I wanted her to be.  I also realized that there had to be a certain amount of faith and trust, in allowing others access to influence and help mold the daughter I so loved.

            The answer came to me slowly that night as I thought about the events of the day and thought back to that very first Christmas lesson.  I would put my trust in that little lesson Haley taught me that Christmas a year before.

             I felt at ease that night as I realized that even though I still had a tremendous amount of responsibility in raising my daughter, I knew I would not be doing it alone.  I had my wife, countless friends, trained teachers, and baby Jesus to help.