A Lesson for Christmas

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.   

             

             

Mother's Best Friend (Mother's Day 2013)

 Mother’s Best Friend

 

          I woke with tear filled eyes.  The room was still dark, implying it was still in the middle of the night.  The soft, fluorescent glow of the digital clock on the night stand cast an eerie glow throughout the room, augmenting the strange emptiness I felt.  I was confused as to the terrible sadness I was feeling.  I lay there in the darkened room, weeping, attempting to smother the sobs of sadness within the folds my pillow.

                        It must be just before sunrise.  The birds always began their songs a few minutes before the sun peeked over the horizon, and I heard the first melody being sung outside my bedroom window. I was not concerned of the time.  I was concerned about me and the sadness I was feeling.

            I could not even begin to describe the sadness I felt.  It was a combination of feelings.  Feelings of guilt, regret, sorrow and loss.  Even though the sadness was indescribable by me, I did understand the reason.

            It was May 12^th, Mother’s Day. 

            In years past I would wake on this day, excited, anxious, and happy to be able to spend some time or at least some conversation with my mother.  Even though I never needed an excuse to call my mom, it was this day that there was an understanding between the two of us. It was a day that we shared a few laughs, a few tears and generally some heart felt emotions.  Sometimes it may be the whole day, sometimes a few minutes on the phone, but this day was set aside for me to express my love and gratitude for her. It was a day that was special for her and for me as well. 

            The conversations were always easy on this day. We would reminisce, laugh, and share what had always made us happy as mother and son.  I would tell her how much she had meant to me and always end by simply saying, “I love you mom.”

            She would always answer, “I love you too Jeff.”

            That’s why I felt so depressed.  My mother had passed away a year prior. I had an urge to call her…..to tell her once more how much she meant to me.  To tell her one last time….. “I love you mom,” but that would not happen today.

            I realize that it’s normal to feel the grief of the loss of a loved one, but this was different.  I felt regretful. I was feeling as if I had left too much unsaid.   

            I lay there in bed, in the dark filled room and tried to calm my emotions.  The birds began their singing in earnest and a few minutes later, the sun crept over the horizon. Sun rays bent their way through the thin slats of the blinds, painting horizontal amber stripes on the bedroom walls.  I was hoping with the light of day, my emotions would ease, but the tears continued.

            I wrestled with my emotions.  I tried to rationalize that the grief I felt was normal, but even though the grief of the loss was bad, it was the regrets that had me in a turmoil.

An hour or two went by, and the sadness had not assuaged, I decided what I must do.  I would do the next best thing to talking with my mom.  I would talk with my mom’s best friend. 

            Mom’s best friend had been with my mother most of her life.  They were the best of friends.  It was a friendship built on respect, love and most of all dedication.  My mother had always felt she could tell her friend anything and not be judged unfairly.

            I was hoping that mom’s friend could ease some of the sorrow and regrets that I had.  I’m sure mom would appreciate, me taking the time and making the effort to talk with the friend that she had loved so dearly.

            I waited later in the morning before attempting to talk with mom’s friend.  Would her friend remember me; wonder and say…why do you show up now? 

            “Hey…..this is Jeff…….Jeff Morgan….. Garnet’s son.” I said realizing the friend might not know who I was.

            “Hi Jeff…..I know who you are……How are you?”

            “Fine…I paused trying to collect my thoughts and the words…...Just thinking about Mom…..Mother’s Day and all……I thought it would be nice to talk with someone that had meant so much to her.” I said this and then realized how desperate I sounded.

            “I know….. I was just thinking of her myself.  How have you been?”

            “Alright I guess….….. I miss her though.” I said and sighed.

            “Yes…..I know…….I miss her too.”

            There was a pause as if we were both waiting for the other to continue. I sensed my mother’s friend was waiting…..not because there was nothing to be said but was waiting for me to say what needed to be said. The friend appeared to receive my reaching out with blessedness. There was not a hint of surprise that I was there to talk. It was almost as if I had been expected.

            “I loved her.” I said and began to tear once again.

            “I did as well.”                                                                                            

            “She loved you so much.  You meant everything to her.” I said, stammering a little as I said it.

“She loved you too…..more than you will ever know.” The friend said with more sympathy than one could imagine.

“I miss her.” I said and waited.

“I do as well….but……….the memories……..they’re still there…….right?”

“Yes.” I said and then began to sob uncontrollably.

“She misses you too….I’m sure…..and she would not want you to worry……”

“I just don’t feel like she knew how much…..how much I appreciated her.”

“She did!  You just didn’t know it.”

“I feel so bad that I didn’t tell her… you and her always seemed to know each other so well that for the most part….nothing had to be said….it was understood.  I feel I just left too much unsaid.”

Her friend sighed and said, “The heart speaks louder than you think.”

Again there was a silence as we both digested all that had been said.  It was a comfortable silence, as if we both respected each other’s ability to sort through the emotions 

I spoke first….almost meekly….but it had been bothering me. “I was always somewhat jealous of you.”

There was a chuckle then an exclamatory, “Of me? Oh my” and another voiced smile.

I felt a little embarrassed I even brought it up…but truth be known….yes I was a little jealous.

I began to try to explain, “Mom would tell me about you…..the conversations..... the trust…the faith in each other.  I just never felt like I achieved that with her.”

“She had faith in you…..she trusted you.” The friend said with assurance.

“How do you know?” I said and waited, hoping the friend had an answer.

“Because she told ME.” The friend said indisputably.

            “But I didn’t spend the time I should have…..I feel like I ignored her in some ways, especially as I got older.  I feel guilty because there were times…..and I hesitated, almost unwilling to admit…..that I felt she was a bother.” and again I broke down crying, more out of shame than anything else.       

            “No one ever has enough time to spend with the ones they love…..mainly because as we grow older…..we love more and more people.  That’s life.  It’s like trying to read all the classics in a library. They’re thousands. You pick and choose….and read a few…..hopefully….you enjoy.  You chose the best you could.  No one judges.  Especially your mom.  She did love you.” The friend said with a smile.

            I thought about what mom’s friend had just said and I wished I could accept it.   I realized that even though I at times made excuses because I did not want to be bothered with mom, I knew I loved her and I knew she loved me, and all the excuses…..the times I was too busy…..too wrapped up in my on family to spend time with her……maybe it was normal. “I could have done more.” I said and bowed my head in disappointment.

            “Jeff……..don’t ever believe that you can earn someone’s love.  Love is a gift.  Love is something someone feels toward another because it’s what’s in their heart.  It’s that spark of emotion that kindles a warmth within and it’s that warmth……the love….. that is simply shared. Gifts, favors, and even time are just tokens……..tokens that attempt to express the love felt.  Understand that these tokens of love are not for the one you love……they are for you. They make you feel better about yourself……It’s simply your attempt to prove you’re caring to yourself. Probably the best way to show someone you love them…….is to simply say…… I love you.” 

            I thought once again about what had been said, and I began to understand, “but….mom….and you……were together a lot….She could always count on you and you could always count on her. Were those just tokens?”

            “Oh no……….no those were not tokens……..that’s respect. Respect and faith in each other.  Your mom could count on me because she had faith in me. I on the other hand could count on her because I had faith in her. She knew that when she was troubled…..a problem or whatever….that she could come to me because she had faith in me.  She knew that I would tell her what was right and not necessarily what she wanted to hear. She had enough faith and respect in me to know I would be honest. Respect……faith…….they’re no doubt associated with the love one feels for someone but the love is not dependent on them.  You can love someone and have very little respect or faith in them and keep in mind……that respect and faith have nothing to do with the tokens…….tokens such as time.”

            I began to understand what the friend was saying and my emotions began to ease.  There was a tone of conviction in the friend’s words that made it hard to argue or to doubt.

            I thanked the friend for the conversation; that I appreciated the friend being there for my mother all those years, and for me as well. I left feeling relieved, the sorrow lessened, the guilt and regret silenced, and felt the warmth, the spark of love from my mother.

            It had been an enlightening conversation.  It had eased the sorrow, and diminished the guilt and regretful feelings that had consumed me earlier. I understood why the friend had been so important to my mother.  The friend was understanding, non-judgmental, and compassionate. 

            My mom had always been extremely religious and spiritual. She found a peace within her faith that had always impressed me.  I was raised in the church, read the bible regularly, and tried to live my life as a good Christian, but I never felt I had developed the faith, the relationship with God as my mother had.  I often questioned my mother about this. She would smile and say that I had to learn to open my heart, have faith, and develop the relationship….the relationship with God.  She would describe her conversations with God as if they were two friends, sitting over two cups of coffee, discussing the day’s events.

            Today I too had that conversation.  I spoke with her best friend……God.  

The Skinny Hound and The Chubby Kid

The Skinny Hound and The Chubby Kid

            It was an early Friday morning when I packed my Jeep and headed toward the Nantahala National Forest for a weekend of camping, hiking, and camaraderie with my buddy Rick. The sun had just crept over the eastern horizon and the air was cool, giving evidence that Fall had arrived.  A slight breeze rustled the changing leaves and made the air feel even cooler than it was.

            As I drove the three hours north, the sky turned from the pearly gray of dawn to brilliant blue.  The further north I drove the more vivid the colors of the leaves.  There were reds, oranges and yellows, that danced as the gentle breeze combed the hillsides. In the distance I could see the tall ridge line of the Appalachian Mountains.  The mountains stood bluish gray and went from the southwest to the northeast as far as the eye could see. I thought to myself, I’ve walked that! 

            My buddy Rick and I planned to camp. Some may call it Glamping (a glamorous camping).  We prefer to call it truck camping.  We each bring our Condominium size tent, along with a double size air mattress, I pods, I pads, Kindles, Nooks, comforters, feather pillows, night lights, ice chests, cooking stoves, grills, tiki lamps, table cloths and enough food to feed a small army.  I had my Jeep full of all the necessary equipment and was looking forward to getting camp set at Turkey Creek on Fontana Lake.  Turkey Creek campground is a relatively small campground, but has great amenities, such as hot showers, flush toilets, billiard tables, a community area with a 50 inch flat screen television, and washer and dryers, not mention the owners of the campground have become good friends.  Their dog, Huey, a Labramut, roams the campground, keeping a watchful eye on all. It always amazes me that every time we begin to cook a meal, Huey straggles into the campsite. Never does he beg, nor does he become a nuisance.  He’ll simply sit by our campfire and give us a forlorn look as if to be saying, “I haven’t eaten in three days,” although Rick and I both know he is fed well.  

            I pulled into the campground a little before noon and found the campsite where Rick had already set up.  I set camp within thirty minutes and informed Rick that I still had to go to the grocery store to get my food for the weekend.  We loaded into my Jeep and drove the seven miles to Ingles in Bryson City to get my necessary provisions.  That’s when we noticed there was a significant haze in the air.  Even though the skies were cloudless there was a haze that hung in the air, obliterating the distant views of the mountains.  We both wondered what the culprit was. It could be pollen, but I had heard on the radio on the way up, that the pollen count was lower than it had been all season.  Rick suggested it might be humidity, but the air felt only cool and dry.  After a long discussion of the phenomena, we decided that it might be smoke from a forest fire somewhere.  Our attention then went to what we were to cook for Friday and Saturday as we pulled into the parking lot of Ingles.

            We bought the necessary provisions for the weekend, which included a couple of Filet Mignons, Tuna Filets, potatoes for baking, rice, salad, corn, a few other assorted vegetables, pancake mix and chips and salsa to munch on in between meals.   And just in case of an injury we purchased the necessary medical supplies; a twelve pack of beer and a few bottles of wine.  We both remembered seeing in movies where gun shot, arrow, and knife wounds would be first cleansed with hard liquor.  Then right before the bullet, arrow or whatever was removed, the patient would take a big swig of the spirits and problem was solved. Unfortunately, Ingles did not carry any hard liquor, but we figured our injuries would not be near as severe as a bullet or arrow wound, so beer and wine would be fine. Even if Ingles had the liquor, we had no mixers, or a blender and steaks go better with beer or wine anyway.

            As we drove back to the campsite, we noticed the suspicious haze that obliterated the views persisted and we began to worry what the views might be like the following day on Cheoah Bald.

            Huey, the ever present campground labramut, greeted us as we turned into the campground.  He simply raised his head from the front porch of the office, wagged his tail and gave a short bark or two, before rolling over on his side and going back to his nap.

            Now that our camp was complete, Rick and I retrieved our collection of maps and began to study them in detail discussing our plan for our next day’s hike.  We figured this was a good time to sample the chips and salsa, we were between meals, and of course since we were also thirsty, and rationalizing that we bought way too much beer, we split a six pack.

            The plan was simple. We would get up early, fix some pancakes, bacon and coffee for breakfast and be at the trailhead by 9:00am the next morning.  We would hike about 5.6 miles to the summit of Cheoah Bald (elevation 5,062 ft).  There would be about a 2,800 foot elevation gain and the trail would be rocky in places. It was not going to be a walk in the park. Just as we were putting the maps away, satisfied with our plan, Huey lumbered into the campsite.  I guess he heard us munching on the chips and salsa or it could have been us digging for the second six pack of beer.

            The next morning was chilly, but not near as cold as I had expected.  We hurriedly fixed breakfast, cleaned our dishes and headed for the trailhead at Stecoah Gap.  The mystery haze that had plagued the skies the day before had just mysteriously disappeared and the sky was crystal clear. Most of the red leaves at this altitude had already fallen, but the yellows and oranges, mixed with the deep greens of the conifers was dazzling.  The sky, now free from the haze, was the deepest dark blue that I had seen in a long time.

            The trail we were to climb, is actually a section of the famed Appalachian Trail, and is considered by most, to be a difficult section.  We were hiking from north to south, then return the same way. The trail begins climbing rather steeply for the first mile and covers some rocky terrain.  We climbed this rather quickly and without too much difficulty we reached the first ridgeline.  We then began a rather steep descent to Simp Gap, where we took a short break and a few sips of water. The trail then began a continuous climb to the summit of Cheoah Bald.  There is a series of switch backs midway and this was about the time we heard a hound howling in the distance as if it had treed is prey.  It sounded as if it was a few miles behind us and way down in the valley.  I did not give it much thought, but Rick said, almost under his breath as if he only was thinking the question out loud, “This is October isn’t it?........Hunting season?....Bear hunting season.”

            I responded without much concern, for I was gasping for air as I led us up the steep trail, “Is it?  Well that hound sounds as if he’s got him one.”

            “What concerns me,” Rick said and paused.... “the hunters usually turn the dogs loose at the foot of the mountain and let the dogs chase the bear toward them….. where they wait with their high powered rifles midway up the slopes.” 

            I didn’t bother answering.  I appreciated the information but at the moment I was more concerned about where my next breath was going to come from.  I had worked up a sweat; my breaths were rapid, sucking what little oxygen I could grasp from the thin, chilly air.

            “Did you think to bring anything red or orange?  You know for the hunter or hunters to know we’re not a bear tearing up the mountainside.”  Rick again questioned, concern in his voice.

            “Damn!”  Now I understood what he was asking…. “No….not a thing except for my pack which is red.” I answered.

           

            Rick mumbled something but then asked me to hold up a minute, so that he could at least tie his red bandana around his head to be more visible in the woods.  I stopped, taking the few moments to catch my breath, and I watched as my buddy Rick retrieved his bandana from his pack.  He folded the red bandana in a triangle and tied it as a dew rag atop his head.  I stood in amazement as this grown adult transformed himself from a somewhat manly hiker to something that looked like Aunt Jemima with a white face, beard and trekking poles.

            When the task was completed he looked at me and questioned, “I don’t look like a dork do I?”

            No Rick!  You look like a bad excuse for Aunt Jemima.   “Nah dude…..better than getting shot, I guess.” I answered almost laughing out loud and thinking all the while, Hell, if the hunter sees you dressed like that, he may shoot you on purpose…… I would!

            We continued to climb the steep slope and the lone hound dog continued to howl and seemed to be getting closer to us.  We were on a series of steep switch backs when I heard Rick mumble something once again and having not heard him, he repeated it once again.  Something like, “Hey buddy……something….. something.”

            I glanced over my left shoulder toward Rick who was following about ten yards behind and immediately….. out of nowhere….. a black mass of black fur and bones almost ran me down…..bolting up the trail to pass me on my left. After the initial scare and almost pissing on myself, I realized it was a hound dog. It was a blue tick coon dog, complete with an electronic tracking collar around his neck.  It would have been a pretty dog, except it was terribly malnourished.  The poor dog was skin and bones.  Having passed me as if I was of no concern, the dog stopped a few feet in front of me and turned and waited for us to catch up to him.  He was not the least aggressive toward us and seemed content to simply walk with us. The hound did look at my buddy Rick and I imagined the hound to be thinking, what a Dork!

            We continued hiking for about an hour, me and the poor skinny hound walking faster and faster, trying to leave Rick well behind us, fearing that we might come across other hikers, or God forbid a bear hunter, and have to explain our association with this Aunt Jemima look-a-like. But the trail was too steep to put much distance between us and Aunt Jemima. Sometimes, the hound would run twenty or thirty yards ahead and then come bounding back down the trail to meet us once again as we struggled up the steep slope.  Rick and I discussed the poor hound and we wondered if maybe the dog was lost.  But why, or how, could a dog with a tracking collar be lost.  That’s when we heard more hounds, creating a ruckus further up the mountain.  Rick and I decided that this dog was probably part of the group of hounds which were yelping and howling ahead.

            Another mile of hiking and we were getting really close to the other group of hounds, which had continued their yelping and howling, as if in a frenzy.  Every time the group of hounds would begin the cacophony of yelps and barks, our hound would stop in his tracks and glance at me, appearing apprehensive to continue.  I began to wonder that our dog may not be part of this group of dogs.

            We reached an area of the trail that was steep and narrow.  Mountain laurel bordered each side of the trail and was so thick that one could not see much further than ten feet into the thicket.  We were really close to the group of coon hounds and we knew they were within twenty yards.  We went around a bend and there they were.  A bear hunter, with his rifle slung over his shoulder stood on the edge of the narrow trail.  His five or six coon hounds were all tethered together and tied to a tree.  The dogs were going absolutely crazy, and the hunter was wrestling with them trying to get them under some control.  Our poor hound stood behind us, approaching cautiously.

            I nodded to the hunter who glanced our way but seemed too preoccupied with his dogs to wonder about us.  Good for Rick….Otherwise he may have shot right through that dorky red bandana…….maybe we should have brought some hard liquor….you know for the bullet wound. When we got close enough to the hunter, to be heard over the noise of the dogs, I asked him, “This wouldn’t be one of your dogs would it,” As I pointed to bag of bones.

            “Nah….. not mines….whats him collar sez?” The hunter answered and spit a thick glob of black tobacco juice toward the ground at his feet.

            “Didn’t check….. we figured it must be with this group.” I didn’t even think about looking at the collar…

            The hunter looked at me as if he was thinking…….dummy…..check the collar… that will tell you who owns the poor thing……Then I realized he wasn’t looking at me…. He was looking at Aunt Jemima…. And I didn’t even want to know what he was thinking.

            “Have a good day,” I said. Me, the hound and Aunt Jemima continued to climb up the trail. 

            We had only gone about twenty yards, just far enough to be out of sight of the bear hunter, when I decided to check our skinny hound’s collar for a name.  I talked gently to the hound as I got closer, and stroked his boney back before I reached for the collar.  The dog seemed perfectly content to let me read what was inscribed on the collar.  After close inspection I determined the collar did give the owner’s name, phone number, city and state. Rick questioned me, “What’s it say?”

            “Robert Hooper…… gives a phone number and Robinsville, N.C.” I answered while continuing to pet the boney back of the hound.

            “What’s the dog’s name?” Rick questioned.

            “Hell if I know….. unless it’s Robert Hooper.” I said, almost wishing the hunter had shot Rick!

            As we approached the summit, we met a group of college aged hikers on the trail heading the opposite direction than we. We gave them our normal hiker’s greeting which consists of a nod, a “how’s it going,” and this time we asked if they had passed anyone looking for a dog. We pointed to the skinny hound and they all looked at the poor malnourished creature but said no.  They seemed to have little sympathy or concern.  They did give Rick a stare, and before they could comment or start laughing, I started trudging up the steep slope with Cheoah Bald in view and Rick and the hound in tow.

            The poor skinny hound, glanced at me, looked once toward the summit, glanced at Rick, then bounded down the mountain following the group of college kids.  We never saw the hound again.

            Once on top of Cheoah Bald, there was a large grassy area on the North West side.  That is where we removed our packs and stretched out in the grass and enjoyed the views of Fontana Lake, the Smoky Mountains and the small town of Stecoah below.  The colors of the fall leaves covered the slopes in all directions and gave us a wondrous view.  The view was very much worth the climb to get there.  We ate our lunch and discussed the possible fate of the skinny hound. To the South and South East we could see the southern end of the Nantahala Gorge, and although not visible from where we were, we knew that the Nantahala Outdoor Center was almost due south of us, deep in the gorge where the thundering white waters of the Nantahala River comes roaring through before emptying into Fontana Lake.  We hoped the poor hound followed the college kids to the trail head at Stecoah gap and maybe there the dog would be found and taken care of.  I had already decided earlier, that if the dog followed us all day and ended up back at the trail head with us, I was going to load him into my Jeep and take him to the nearest veterinarian.  I was a softy, as well as Rick was, when it came to dogs. 

            After spending a good hour enjoying the views, lunch and conversation, we decided to start the steep descent back the way we came.  It was getting late in the day and dark came early this time of year.  We were going to have to make good time to get back to the trail head before dark. 

            I had not walked far, negotiating down the steep and narrow trail before both knees began to cry with pain. I tried taking smaller steps, longer steps, duck walking and even walking backwards down the steep slopes trying to ease the tremendous pain that was radiating from both knees. I explained to Rick that my knees were killing me and I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to make it down before dark…..in reality I was beginning to wonder if I could make it at all. 

            When we were hiking on somewhat level parts of the trail or even if it was uphill, my knees did not seem to bother me.  Unfortunately there wasn’t much of the trail like this back the way we came. 

            I was struggling with the pain, inching down a very steep section of the trail when the trail took a sharp turn back to the left. I was watching my feet, stepping as gingerly as I could to minimize the jarring to my knees when I almost ran into a big chubby kid standing in the middle of the trail. He stood staring down the trail appearing lost in thought.  I startled him, as much as he had startled me, and we both nodded and grinned, once we both realized the reality. 

            Before I could even give the hiker’s greeting, “How’s it going,” he questioned me. 

            “Is that way north on the trail?” and he pointed to the direction from where we had just come. Which was South.

            “Nah…… that’s south.  Up there about a mile or so is Cheoah Bald.   That way’s North,” and I pointed the opposite direction, down the steep trail, the way we had to go to get back to Stecoah Gap and the trail head, the way we were heading.

            The chubby kid looked to be about eighteen, and had a huge pack. He was probably spending multiple days on the trail for he looked tired and dirty. He explained, “I got off the trail… wandered off into the woods to take a ‘dump’….. and when I got back to the trail…..I got turned around.” I’ve done that before myself….easier than you might think…That’s why I carry a GPS!

            He questioned us again, almost doubting our word.  He seemed positive that up the hill was heading north on the A.T.  We asked him which way was he heading and he explained he had just crossed Cheoah Bald and was going to Brown Fork Shelter and would spend the night there.

            The young boy seemed disoriented and we assured him that down the mountain was north, and would take him to Stecoah Gap and the highway. From there Brown Fork Shelter was about two miles north up the A.T.  I explained to him that it was a very steep climb from the highway up to Brown Fork and he was going to have to hurry to get there before dark.

            Both Rick and I was a little concerned for the chubby kid, but my knees were still killing me and I was worried about getting myself off the mountain, so I simply wished him well and started the knee jolting trek down the mountain. 

            I heard him question Rick once more, “If you guys were up on Cheoah Bald earlier, why didn’t I see you there….. I just passed over it.”

            Rick explained that we were down on the grassy slope of the bald, enjoying the views and lunch.  He further explained that we were there for at least an hour and yes we did hear several hikers pass above us, but unless you were really looking, you probably wouldn’t have seen us down in the grass field.

            I had the funniest feeling the chubby kid still didn’t believe us.  It was probably the Aunt Jemima costume that made him question our sanity.

            Both Rick and I continued down the path, trying to hurry but at the same time taking it easy, trying to save the knees.  I glanced back over my shoulder, but the chubby kid was nowhere to be seen.  I guess he trusted his judgment, over ours, and headed up the mountain south.  Oh well.

            After about two hours of excruciating pain, trekking poles clattering and taking a step at a time, we were finally back at the trail head and my car.  We threw our packs in the back of the jeep, grabbed a couple cans of our medicinal beer and climbed into the Jeep, ready to drive back to the campground.  We looked around for the skinny hound or possibly the college kids that we had passed but neither they nor the hound was to be seen.  We considered on waiting for the chubby kid, because if in reality he was heading north, then once he arrived at Cheoah Bald he would have realized his mistake, and once again he would have turned around and headed north, down the trail. We figured if that was what happened, it would take him at least two more hours to reach the highway; too long for us to wait.  We also reasoned that if he had to take another ‘dump’, then no telling where he would end up. Nope we were not waiting.

            Huey, the labramut, greeted us once again at the campground, this time rising to his feet and trotting over to the jeep with a tennis ball in his mouth; wagging his tail asking us to take a little time and play a little ball with him.  This dog is so smart that the thought occurred to me that he would probably expect Rick and me to fetch the ball for him.  Nope…not with the way my knees were feeling!  We grabbed a couple bags of ice from the camp office and headed back to the campsite where we were going to grill steaks, drink a little wine, relax and let the campfire mesmerize us with it’s dancing flames. 

            Tom, Rick’s brother works at the Nantahala Outdoor Center as a Raft Guide and he called and said he was going to drive over and eat with us.  That was fine.  We had plenty of food, wine and beer (we stopped on the way back from the trail to buy more).  We explained to Tom that we had plenty of everything.

            Tom arrived just as the steaks were done.  We had steak, baked potatoes, grilled corn, and tossed a salad.  We had several choices of Cabernet and Chardonnay and a couple of six packs left of beer.  We ate till we could not eat another bite.  We pulled our camp chairs close to the campfire and sipped on our wines and watched as the dancing flames, snapped and cracked and sent glowing embers floating into the air.

           

            The sky was wine-blue and bubbling with stars as our conversation shuffled randomly between us.  I mentioned the strange haze that had occurred the previous day and how strange it miraculously disappeared just in time to allow us to have some tremendous views atop Cheoah.  Tom explained that the strange haze was actually a result of a severe dust storm that had occurred in Oklahoma several days before.  Rick and I were both relieved to finally have an answer for the strange mystery haze.

                         

            We told Tom about our great day of hiking. Tom and I had done the same trip, although we had camped just past Cheoah Bald and hiked down the southern side of the mountain to the Nantahala River when we did it a year past. 

            We explained to Tom about the skinny hound dog and how it had followed us for much of the trail.

            Tom said, “Was it a blue tick hound?  One with a tracking collar?  Skinny as a rail?”

            “Yeah” both Rick and I answered simultaneously, wondering how he would know.

            “That same hound showed up at the Nantahala Outdoor Center late this afternoon.  His name is Spot….. His owner’s name is ……something Hooper” Tom answered and continued to explain. “Yeah that dog showed up while we (a lot of the raft guides) were grabbing a few beers at Slo Joes Pour Over Pub and this skinny hound came walking up.  It looked in pretty bad shape so we checked the collar and called the owner.  He came and got the poor thing.  And you guys know this hound?”

            “Yep. Wondered what happened to him.  I think Rick Scared him off.”  I said and laughed under my breath, hoping they wouldn’t ask why.

            “Why?”  Both brothers asked simultaneously.

            “Must have been the pancakes we had for breakfast…… Aunt Jemima pancakes….Rick ate too many I guess……” and I left it at that.

            They both looked at me as if I was nuts…….never questioned the remark.  Sometimes it’s best to leave some things unsaid and to leave some questions unanswered. 

            It was good to know that the skinny hound found his way home.  Rick and I had a tremendous hike, great views and some great experiences but as we sat around the campfire late that night, we still wondered about that chubby kid.  Would he show up at the Nantahala Outdoor Center the next morning?

Thanks Rick for a great hike…. One of the best…. This trip took place November 2^nd through November 4^th.