Tye River Detour
My old friend and I weren’t getting any younger, and the time had arrived for us to do something a bit challenging together. We settled on a section hike on the Appalachian Trail in Virginia.
Neither one of us was ever trekkers of the recreational type. Maybe it has something to do with our intimate familiarity with force marches and canvas pup tents. But those early military experiences had long since succumbed to less physically demanding routines, and are now distant memories, so the adventure would be exciting, despite our backgrounds.
Through the winter months we cemented our plans, settling on the first week in June for our journey, as this seemed to be the only week the planets were aligned so that both of us could simultaneously escape the demands of family and profession for our stroll in the woods.
John was in superior shape, still being in the Army and a veteran of over 10 marathons and multiple adventure events. He had even competed in the Best Ranger competition. I wasn’t nearly as fit as him, but I had kept in shape through running and bicycling. We both confidently figured we would cover about 10 miles a day for our planned five day, four night trek. With half day drives on pick up and return days, we would total about 40 miles.
Neither one of us was ever trekkers of the recreational type. Maybe it has something to do with our intimate familiarity with force marches and canvas pup tents. But those early military experiences had long since succumbed to less physically demanding routines, and are now distant memories, so the adventure would be exciting, despite our backgrounds.
Through the winter months we cemented our plans, settling on the first week in June for our journey, as this seemed to be the only week the planets were aligned so that both of us could simultaneously escape the demands of family and profession for our stroll in the woods.
John was in superior shape, still being in the Army and a veteran of over 10 marathons and multiple adventure events. He had even competed in the Best Ranger competition. I wasn’t nearly as fit as him, but I had kept in shape through running and bicycling. We both confidently figured we would cover about 10 miles a day for our planned five day, four night trek. With half day drives on pick up and return days, we would total about 40 miles.
We couldn’t help but publicize our adventure, and word of the upcoming hike spread through our alumni group, and in our respective offices and families.
We had selected a stretch of the AT just south of the Shenandoah National Park in the George Washington National Forest. Starting at Humpback Mountain, we planned to hike south along the Three Ridges and down to the Tye River. We would then ascend the 3,000-foot Priest Mountain, continue south for a view from Spy Rock and then exit at State Route 60, twelve miles to the south. As a worst case, we would exit near the Fish Hatchery about six miles south of The Priest.
Finally, after all the equipment purchases, arranging of schedules, and salutations from our friends, our wives dropped us off at the trailhead to Humpback Mountain, and we were off.
We had selected a stretch of the AT just south of the Shenandoah National Park in the George Washington National Forest. Starting at Humpback Mountain, we planned to hike south along the Three Ridges and down to the Tye River. We would then ascend the 3,000-foot Priest Mountain, continue south for a view from Spy Rock and then exit at State Route 60, twelve miles to the south. As a worst case, we would exit near the Fish Hatchery about six miles south of The Priest.
Finally, after all the equipment purchases, arranging of schedules, and salutations from our friends, our wives dropped us off at the trailhead to Humpback Mountain, and we were off.
Since the access trail is not part of the AT, I had overlooked its importance. We were immediately confronted with a steep 1,000 foot climb that tested our bodies, our equipment, and intentions. But we were quickly rewarded with westerly views from Humpback Rocks. We continued southward, struggling a bit under the weight and working the bugs out of our equipment. For our first night we set up our little campsite, congratulated ourselves on our magnificent plan, and began to sample the serenity and solitude that comes from being miles away from anyone in the middle of the deep woods. As planned, we smoked a ceremonial cigar, had long discussions about life, family, faith and fortune, and savored every moment. Awakened by a cacophony of songbirds the next morning, we continued our journey southward. We enjoyed more vistas of the Shenandoah Valley and Blue Ridge Mountain range, with the additions of Mountain Laurel and Trillium in full bloom. But our progress was much slower than we had anticipated, and we began learning the difficult lessons about weight, clothing, and equipment that can only be acquired on the trail. John was clearly in far better shape than I, as my shoulders and back were screaming for relief. He was making frequent stops to apply moleskin and change socks, but began suffering from blisters. So, instead of continuing around Three Ridges, we detoured to camp near Crabtree Falls, saving us some miles and elevation changes. We continued to learn that the simplest pleasures are magnified beyond measure when enjoyed in the deep woods. The finest restaurant cannot compare with the stark comfort of a log-seat and a simple trail meal served by the pale glow of a setting sun filtered through tall trees. By the evening of Day Two, we had filtered water, cooked food on our little camp burners, and had gotten a taste of the hiking that we wanted. We went to sleep to the soothing burble of one of the many small cascades that makes up the system known as Crabtree Falls
The next morning, as we began hiking out of Crabtree Falls to join back up to the AT, we started having serious problems. The culprit was John’s boot inserts, which had pushed all of the weight of him and his backpack hard onto the balls of his feet. He started to succumb to excruciating pain. It became obvious that our highly publicized hiking adventure would be much shorter than we had planned. We made another detour and spent the evening at Harper’s Creek Shelter. We both knew that conquering the 3,000 foot ascent of The Priest and continuing victoriously southbound for two more days would be out of the question. We, therefore, decided to terminate our hike on the banks of the Tye River, barely halfway to our intended destination. The Tye parallels State Route 56 and is, therefore, an excellent pick-up point. It is a beautiful trout stream, but the views are from the base of the mountain, not the top.
I arrived at the Tye first, since the effect of John’s inserts was to make hiking down the trail twice as painful as hiking up, and conducted a small recon of the area. The river revealed numerous trout. A snake warmed itself on a large, white rock. But the scenic beauty was small solace for the disappointment I was dealing with because we would never see the view from The Priest, and we would have to admit to all of our friends that we had to terminate the hike short of our goals. After about an hour, I could see John’s orange shirt through the leaves as he traversed the short switch backs descending to the river. He was taking baby steps and leaning heavily on walking sticks; one purchased before the hike, another apparently grabbed from the side of the trail as he looked for any tool available to relieve the pain on the balls of his feet.
We spent an uneventful evening near the banks of the Tye. We awoke knowing that we had little to do for the day but to make our way to civilization, find a telephone, and call our wives for pickup.
The Appalachian Trail Map showed two possibilities equidistant from the trail head on State Route 56. Both indicated a grocery store and telephone. Noting that the Tye River flowed to the East, which meant a down hill walk and more pain for John, we decided to head west, hoping for a gentle climb and an easier traverse for the mile-and-a-half journey.
The road was dotted with small but neat streamside frame homes. A few cars passed us, and the locals would raise an index finger on their steering wheels to acknowledge our presence. After about a mile, a Harley Davidson rider approached us from behind and cut his engine. “I don’t know where you guys think you are going up this road,” he said. I replied that we were heading to the grocery store around the next bend. “It’s been closed for ten years,” he replied. That unimportant detail had been left off of the Appalachian Trail map. “You gotta head east, down the hill, to Mrs. Fitz’ place. She’s been there forever. I used to buy stuff from her when I was a kid. She don’t sell much now, but you can probably get a can of beanie weenies or something, and maybe make a phone call. You know, cell phones aren’t any good around here.”
Noticing that he was in the middle of the road, we offered to step further aside so he could position himself more safely, but he replied that “everybody around here knows me, they ain’t gonna hit me.” We shared in light conversation for about 20 minutes, then he apologized for not being able to give us rides, with the backpacks and all. He bid us farewell and continued his journey. “By the way,” he said on his departure, “these people around here think you hikers are nuts.”
We now faced a two-and-a-half mile walk down hill to Mrs. Fitz’ place, which wasn’t going to be easy, considering John’s bruised feet.
But we were in no hurry.
Now, instead of climbing The Priest, we were walking, not hiking, avoiding locals in pickups along this narrow strip of asphalt that winds through the gap at the base of that impressive mountain.
Finally, a small cinderblock building came into view. The building was surrounded by a cow pasture that had as many rusting cars and trucks in it as it did cattle. It was hard to tell its function, since the back half had a bedroom window, but the front, facing toward the opposite approach, had a cement porch with a large, dented box on it. We weren’t sure what we were approaching until we rounded the porch, noted that from the front the two big boxes became an ice machine and soft drink dispenser, and a sign out front announced the Mt. View Tea Room. “This must be the place,” I said, as we lowered our backpacks onto the porch. We walked past fly-covered dog dishes and a sleeping dog, opened the screen door, and invited ourselves in.
An old wood stove dominated the back wall. A pool table, covered with a worn out plastic tarp and old newspapers, sat in the middle of the floor. Wooden shelves lined the walls, offering Campbell’s soup, pinto beans, sardines, and BC powders. Several glassed front refrigerators displayed soft drinks, milk, and fruit juices. The room was covered with dust, and stacks of old papers were on the shelves and the countertop. It smelled musty and old. Behind the counter, to our right, was the oldest cash register I have ever seen. After staring at our surroundings for about 15 seconds, I noticed an old lady sitting in an easy chair located in front of the counter. There was no television to watch, or even a radio. She apparently had been staring at a stack of motor oil cases. She looked as startled to see us as we were to see her. “Good afternoon,” John said. “We were wondering if we could get something to eat and maybe make a phone call. We’ll pay you for it.”
She looked at us quizzically, then slowly got up from her chair, which kept her imprint, and walked around behind the counter.
“Sure,” she said, and handed me a portable telephone. We told her about the man on the motorcycle, but she had no idea who he was. We grabbed two cans of Beans n’ Franks, made our phone call to arrange our pickup, and stepped outside onto the porch to savor our lunches.
The dogs eyed our beans and franks.
The porch faced west, toward the Priest, reminding us that we would not be telling any stories about its summit.
The afternoon sun and the taunting view proved too much, so we moved to an inviting shade tree in front of a small, blue, paint chipped cinderblock house.
From the new vantage point, we could see more old cars, an old tractor and related farm implements, and a large building that obviously had served as a church in its former life, but was now home to what must be a commune, since a handful of souls entered and exited the front and back with great familiarity. The air was filled with odors that alternated between old petroleum products and cow manure.
The men were all large, had long, uncombed black beards, a limited supply of teeth, and huge guts. The women were equally as large and unattractive, and didn’t seem to be paired with anyone in particular. Everyone was contented; all had beer, and all seemed to have a purpose, but not much of one. All wore old worn out shirts and jeans shorts, and no one seemed to care what they looked like, despite two strangers being in their midst.
Then one of the men emerged from the church house, nodded in our direction, and climbed onto the seat of the tractor. As he turned to climb into the seat, it became evident that he only had one arm. He hooked the tractor up to a bailer and drove past the back of the store, turned left onto Route 56 and departed towards his destination.
I looked over at John. “I always wanted to know how these mountain people live,” I said, “but now I think I’ve already seen too much.”
Meanwhile, in front of the church that was now a house, a few of the “relatives” gathered and began playing horseshoes.
I arrived at the Tye first, since the effect of John’s inserts was to make hiking down the trail twice as painful as hiking up, and conducted a small recon of the area. The river revealed numerous trout. A snake warmed itself on a large, white rock. But the scenic beauty was small solace for the disappointment I was dealing with because we would never see the view from The Priest, and we would have to admit to all of our friends that we had to terminate the hike short of our goals. After about an hour, I could see John’s orange shirt through the leaves as he traversed the short switch backs descending to the river. He was taking baby steps and leaning heavily on walking sticks; one purchased before the hike, another apparently grabbed from the side of the trail as he looked for any tool available to relieve the pain on the balls of his feet.
We spent an uneventful evening near the banks of the Tye. We awoke knowing that we had little to do for the day but to make our way to civilization, find a telephone, and call our wives for pickup.
The Appalachian Trail Map showed two possibilities equidistant from the trail head on State Route 56. Both indicated a grocery store and telephone. Noting that the Tye River flowed to the East, which meant a down hill walk and more pain for John, we decided to head west, hoping for a gentle climb and an easier traverse for the mile-and-a-half journey.
The road was dotted with small but neat streamside frame homes. A few cars passed us, and the locals would raise an index finger on their steering wheels to acknowledge our presence. After about a mile, a Harley Davidson rider approached us from behind and cut his engine. “I don’t know where you guys think you are going up this road,” he said. I replied that we were heading to the grocery store around the next bend. “It’s been closed for ten years,” he replied. That unimportant detail had been left off of the Appalachian Trail map. “You gotta head east, down the hill, to Mrs. Fitz’ place. She’s been there forever. I used to buy stuff from her when I was a kid. She don’t sell much now, but you can probably get a can of beanie weenies or something, and maybe make a phone call. You know, cell phones aren’t any good around here.”
Noticing that he was in the middle of the road, we offered to step further aside so he could position himself more safely, but he replied that “everybody around here knows me, they ain’t gonna hit me.” We shared in light conversation for about 20 minutes, then he apologized for not being able to give us rides, with the backpacks and all. He bid us farewell and continued his journey. “By the way,” he said on his departure, “these people around here think you hikers are nuts.”
We now faced a two-and-a-half mile walk down hill to Mrs. Fitz’ place, which wasn’t going to be easy, considering John’s bruised feet.
But we were in no hurry.
Now, instead of climbing The Priest, we were walking, not hiking, avoiding locals in pickups along this narrow strip of asphalt that winds through the gap at the base of that impressive mountain.
Finally, a small cinderblock building came into view. The building was surrounded by a cow pasture that had as many rusting cars and trucks in it as it did cattle. It was hard to tell its function, since the back half had a bedroom window, but the front, facing toward the opposite approach, had a cement porch with a large, dented box on it. We weren’t sure what we were approaching until we rounded the porch, noted that from the front the two big boxes became an ice machine and soft drink dispenser, and a sign out front announced the Mt. View Tea Room. “This must be the place,” I said, as we lowered our backpacks onto the porch. We walked past fly-covered dog dishes and a sleeping dog, opened the screen door, and invited ourselves in.
An old wood stove dominated the back wall. A pool table, covered with a worn out plastic tarp and old newspapers, sat in the middle of the floor. Wooden shelves lined the walls, offering Campbell’s soup, pinto beans, sardines, and BC powders. Several glassed front refrigerators displayed soft drinks, milk, and fruit juices. The room was covered with dust, and stacks of old papers were on the shelves and the countertop. It smelled musty and old. Behind the counter, to our right, was the oldest cash register I have ever seen. After staring at our surroundings for about 15 seconds, I noticed an old lady sitting in an easy chair located in front of the counter. There was no television to watch, or even a radio. She apparently had been staring at a stack of motor oil cases. She looked as startled to see us as we were to see her. “Good afternoon,” John said. “We were wondering if we could get something to eat and maybe make a phone call. We’ll pay you for it.”
She looked at us quizzically, then slowly got up from her chair, which kept her imprint, and walked around behind the counter.
“Sure,” she said, and handed me a portable telephone. We told her about the man on the motorcycle, but she had no idea who he was. We grabbed two cans of Beans n’ Franks, made our phone call to arrange our pickup, and stepped outside onto the porch to savor our lunches.
The dogs eyed our beans and franks.
The porch faced west, toward the Priest, reminding us that we would not be telling any stories about its summit.
The afternoon sun and the taunting view proved too much, so we moved to an inviting shade tree in front of a small, blue, paint chipped cinderblock house.
From the new vantage point, we could see more old cars, an old tractor and related farm implements, and a large building that obviously had served as a church in its former life, but was now home to what must be a commune, since a handful of souls entered and exited the front and back with great familiarity. The air was filled with odors that alternated between old petroleum products and cow manure.
The men were all large, had long, uncombed black beards, a limited supply of teeth, and huge guts. The women were equally as large and unattractive, and didn’t seem to be paired with anyone in particular. Everyone was contented; all had beer, and all seemed to have a purpose, but not much of one. All wore old worn out shirts and jeans shorts, and no one seemed to care what they looked like, despite two strangers being in their midst.
Then one of the men emerged from the church house, nodded in our direction, and climbed onto the seat of the tractor. As he turned to climb into the seat, it became evident that he only had one arm. He hooked the tractor up to a bailer and drove past the back of the store, turned left onto Route 56 and departed towards his destination.
I looked over at John. “I always wanted to know how these mountain people live,” I said, “but now I think I’ve already seen too much.”
Meanwhile, in front of the church that was now a house, a few of the “relatives” gathered and began playing horseshoes.
I can’t remember the last time I played horseshoes. Life has always been about work, career, and family. Horseshoes didn’t fit in, much less during the mid afternoon on a weekday. I pondered the scene and realized that in a few days I would be fighting traffic again, concerned about my business, and would have no time to let thoughts of the Tye River, the Priest Mountain, or this strange scene encroach into my consciousness. This group of scruffy men, however, would probably be playing horseshoes, unconcerned.
In addition to the church, there were two small homes, both cinderblock, both extremely modest. Both had chipped paint, and were not affected by landscaping.
What was I seeing here? How did they make a living? Who were these people? Were they really all related? How did that man lose his arm?
I finished my beans and franks and dozed, with the sound of the horseshoe game in the background. We knew we had at least a four hour wait for our wives to arrive and whisk us back to our reality - a reality that we had donned 45-pound backpacks and trudged up mountainsides to escape.
I woke up and was startled to find myself staring into the eyes of one of the bearded men, who had approached me from the side. His beard looked as if it had never been trimmed or combed.
“That’s my mother running the store, and I live back there,” he volunteered, pointing to the church. “My uncle lives over there, and my brother lives right here in front.”
“Have you guys lived here very long?” I asked. “Forever,” he said. “The Priest used to be owned by my granddaddy. He had a sawmill up there. The government gave him $40,000 for everything, sawmill and all, and told him to get off the mountain. We used to roam all over that mountain because it was ours. Now you strangers come from all over the country to walk through it, and the trees grow, and we can’t hunt on it anymore. I spent a lot of hours in my grandaddy’s sawmill. We only took the trees that were damaged and needed to be cut down. Now they all grow, even if they’re sick, and it ain’t right.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond. So, without thinking, I asked, “Do you folks ever see any bears?” I had to ask. I had been preoccupied with bears for the entire trip. I had read so many stories of bear attacks, I went to sleep every night imagining that I would be awakened by a merciless attack from a bear who may have been drawn by the errant scent of beef jerky or trail mix. Each night, we hung our bear bags high in the trees, just like the books said, and I fell asleep with my Gerber knife in one hand, and my pen light in the other, awaiting the mauling.
He smiled devilishly, and said, “Follow me, I want to show you something.”
He started to walk toward the church house. “We can’t go inside,” I said, “We haven’t had a bath in four days.”
“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “you don’t smell any worse than me.”
We entered through the back into a small wood paneled den. The walls were covered with family pictures. I recognized a younger Mrs. Fitz staring out from a frame on top of the TV. Another picture was in the typical family arrangement, and one of the horseshoe players was easy to be identified as his son.
Dominating the room was an enormous deer head with the most massive antler rack I had ever seen in my life. “Bet you never seen anything like that,” he boasted, “Twenty eight points.”
“He was walking with an eight pointer, and I got him too, all at the same time. Most folks would have been happy with an eight pointer, but sitting next to that monster, it looked mighty small.” I attempted to ask some semi-intelligent questions about the event, but it was difficult since I had never been deer hunting, and had to sound impressed when we discussed the type of weapon used, the sight, the ammo, and the range. I nodded knowingly at each explanation. I asked where he got it. “Well, I can’t really say,” he allowed, with a devilish grin. “Let’s just say I knew the terrain really really well.”
I have no idea what it is like to lower a firearm and successfully take down anything, much less a massive beast like the one I was looking at. For our new friend, hunting is a routine event. He couldn’t imagine a life without it.
“You want to know about bears?” He led us upstairs into his master bedroom that, in an earlier life, must have been the choir’s rehearsal room. Adorning one wall was a bear skin. “That’s a mountain black bear,” he said. “It ain’t one of those little brown swamp bears. You can tell the difference because a mountain black bear has a white flash on the chest. I should have told the taxidermist to leave it. Don’t worry about bears in them mountains. They won’t mess with you unless you get between a mamma and her cubs, then you better watch out. They don’t want your food.”
There it was. Everything I wanted to know about bears but couldn’t find out in a book.
We exited the church house and continued small talk.
“How did you come about living in a church?” I asked.
“Well, during the flood of ’69, during Hurricane Camille, it got washed out and the congregation didn’t want it anymore. My dad bought it, and we made a house out of it. It’s been great ever since.”
“My dad and mom rode out the flood in the attic of the store,” he said, “and half of my uncle’s house was damaged. Everything was flooded here. Over 50 people got killed in this county, but we all did fine. We had a lot of damage, but we all lived. The whole valley was covered with water.”
He was talking a lot now. He loved his land, his car-littered pasture, and the family that surrounded him. He was proud.
I wanted to know about the arm…what happened to the guy with one arm, but I was afraid to ask
He was really big, and we were going to be here all afternoon awaiting our rides. I didn’t want to touch on any sensitive issues.
He was clearly a contented man. He obtained his contentment through an entirely different path from me. He didn’t live in a suburb, didn’t have an important job, if he had one at all. He had attained many of the things I wanted in my life, but didn’t have the stress, the commute, the pressure. Of course, he didn’t “have” a lot of other things either, but he didn’t seem to care. And he had killed a 28-point buck and a black bear, something I could only imagine.
“Have you seen my brother?” He asked. I didn’t know how I was supposed to know who his brother was.
“My brother only has one arm,” he said.
The horseshoe game continued behind us. Occasionally a horseshoe would clang against the post, and would be greeted by a chorus of grunts or cheers. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are to be playing horseshoes on a weekday, I thought. They probably have no appreciation for the carefree frivolity they were experiencing that I would never know.
To me, rewards only come via hard work. One must stay disciplined and focused. The next mark should always be in view, and must be approached with discipline and steadfastness. One must adhere to a plan. There’s nothing wrong with that view, but it comes at a price. The price, most simply, is that you never stop for horseshoes on a weekday. Oh, maybe play a game at the company picnic once a year, but never just because the horseshoes are laying in the yard and there’s nothing else to do. Weekdays are for work. Stay on track, and don’t take any detours. Time must be productive and accountable. The weekend will be here soon enough. If I am playing horseshoes on a weekday, I better be on vacation.
The brother was still away on the tractor.
“Back when we were a lot younger, we all had motorcycles,” he allowed. “We had all been out carousing one night, and got in an argument about one of our girlfriends. My brother came down the road in a huff, mad at my best buddy. Anyway, they collided on the motorcycles. It took off my brother’s arm right at the shoulder, and my best friend lost his leg right below the knee.”
He gestured, and we walked behind the church house. Sitting in a little corner of the yard sat an old Kawasaki motorcycle. It had vines growing through the engine and wheels. “Been sitting there ever since,” he said. “We still owed money on it, but we couldn’t sell it, we didn’t want no money for it; didn’t think it was right, and we weren’t going to ride it anymore.”
We continued to talk. He, his brother and uncle raise cattle and farm acreage all up and down the valley. They seem to do ok, it looked like to me. After all, three generations had chosen to settle within three acres of each other. The place was really messy, but he was proud of what was his, and unconcerned about the outward appearance. He didn’t ask a single question about who we were and what brought us to his part of the world.
He didn’t care who we were.
Off and on, he and other members of his clan would come and speak to us. Everybody was friendly. They would say hello, but never ask a question. They shared no curiosity about us, certainly not as curious as I was about them.
Our wives finally arrived and picked us up. As we departed down the winding black top, we told of the adventures on the mountain. We talked about filtering water, using our little burners, and of the beautiful scenery.
But I realized that we had plenty to talk about from the bottom of the mountain as well. No, we had not made it up the Priest, but we had adventure and insight into a lifestyle that I could only imagine a week earlier. Detours are usually a casualty of success. But had we not made the detour, the only stories would be of the trail, and would have centered around distance traveled, the mountaintops, and the physical challenge. It would have fed our desire to go farther, harder, higher. And we would have missed the treasure that lay at the bottom of the mountain.
We have both returned to our respective jobs. We have lots of stories to tell. The investment we made in equipment and time, and the rearranging of our lives were all worth it, despite the errant boot inserts and never being able to see the view from the top of the Priest.
We are both hooked on backpacking, and we are already planning a trip next year. But I find myself spending more time thinking about the detour we made and the messy little store, the church-house, and the three generations who call it home, instead of the mountain-top vistas.
And I wonder - am I a little jealous of that mountain man and his life - bringing down a 28-point buck, a black bear, and who knows what it is like to routinely play horseshoes on the weekday?
In addition to the church, there were two small homes, both cinderblock, both extremely modest. Both had chipped paint, and were not affected by landscaping.
What was I seeing here? How did they make a living? Who were these people? Were they really all related? How did that man lose his arm?
I finished my beans and franks and dozed, with the sound of the horseshoe game in the background. We knew we had at least a four hour wait for our wives to arrive and whisk us back to our reality - a reality that we had donned 45-pound backpacks and trudged up mountainsides to escape.
I woke up and was startled to find myself staring into the eyes of one of the bearded men, who had approached me from the side. His beard looked as if it had never been trimmed or combed.
“That’s my mother running the store, and I live back there,” he volunteered, pointing to the church. “My uncle lives over there, and my brother lives right here in front.”
“Have you guys lived here very long?” I asked. “Forever,” he said. “The Priest used to be owned by my granddaddy. He had a sawmill up there. The government gave him $40,000 for everything, sawmill and all, and told him to get off the mountain. We used to roam all over that mountain because it was ours. Now you strangers come from all over the country to walk through it, and the trees grow, and we can’t hunt on it anymore. I spent a lot of hours in my grandaddy’s sawmill. We only took the trees that were damaged and needed to be cut down. Now they all grow, even if they’re sick, and it ain’t right.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond. So, without thinking, I asked, “Do you folks ever see any bears?” I had to ask. I had been preoccupied with bears for the entire trip. I had read so many stories of bear attacks, I went to sleep every night imagining that I would be awakened by a merciless attack from a bear who may have been drawn by the errant scent of beef jerky or trail mix. Each night, we hung our bear bags high in the trees, just like the books said, and I fell asleep with my Gerber knife in one hand, and my pen light in the other, awaiting the mauling.
He smiled devilishly, and said, “Follow me, I want to show you something.”
He started to walk toward the church house. “We can’t go inside,” I said, “We haven’t had a bath in four days.”
“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “you don’t smell any worse than me.”
We entered through the back into a small wood paneled den. The walls were covered with family pictures. I recognized a younger Mrs. Fitz staring out from a frame on top of the TV. Another picture was in the typical family arrangement, and one of the horseshoe players was easy to be identified as his son.
Dominating the room was an enormous deer head with the most massive antler rack I had ever seen in my life. “Bet you never seen anything like that,” he boasted, “Twenty eight points.”
“He was walking with an eight pointer, and I got him too, all at the same time. Most folks would have been happy with an eight pointer, but sitting next to that monster, it looked mighty small.” I attempted to ask some semi-intelligent questions about the event, but it was difficult since I had never been deer hunting, and had to sound impressed when we discussed the type of weapon used, the sight, the ammo, and the range. I nodded knowingly at each explanation. I asked where he got it. “Well, I can’t really say,” he allowed, with a devilish grin. “Let’s just say I knew the terrain really really well.”
I have no idea what it is like to lower a firearm and successfully take down anything, much less a massive beast like the one I was looking at. For our new friend, hunting is a routine event. He couldn’t imagine a life without it.
“You want to know about bears?” He led us upstairs into his master bedroom that, in an earlier life, must have been the choir’s rehearsal room. Adorning one wall was a bear skin. “That’s a mountain black bear,” he said. “It ain’t one of those little brown swamp bears. You can tell the difference because a mountain black bear has a white flash on the chest. I should have told the taxidermist to leave it. Don’t worry about bears in them mountains. They won’t mess with you unless you get between a mamma and her cubs, then you better watch out. They don’t want your food.”
There it was. Everything I wanted to know about bears but couldn’t find out in a book.
We exited the church house and continued small talk.
“How did you come about living in a church?” I asked.
“Well, during the flood of ’69, during Hurricane Camille, it got washed out and the congregation didn’t want it anymore. My dad bought it, and we made a house out of it. It’s been great ever since.”
“My dad and mom rode out the flood in the attic of the store,” he said, “and half of my uncle’s house was damaged. Everything was flooded here. Over 50 people got killed in this county, but we all did fine. We had a lot of damage, but we all lived. The whole valley was covered with water.”
He was talking a lot now. He loved his land, his car-littered pasture, and the family that surrounded him. He was proud.
I wanted to know about the arm…what happened to the guy with one arm, but I was afraid to ask
He was really big, and we were going to be here all afternoon awaiting our rides. I didn’t want to touch on any sensitive issues.
He was clearly a contented man. He obtained his contentment through an entirely different path from me. He didn’t live in a suburb, didn’t have an important job, if he had one at all. He had attained many of the things I wanted in my life, but didn’t have the stress, the commute, the pressure. Of course, he didn’t “have” a lot of other things either, but he didn’t seem to care. And he had killed a 28-point buck and a black bear, something I could only imagine.
“Have you seen my brother?” He asked. I didn’t know how I was supposed to know who his brother was.
“My brother only has one arm,” he said.
The horseshoe game continued behind us. Occasionally a horseshoe would clang against the post, and would be greeted by a chorus of grunts or cheers. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are to be playing horseshoes on a weekday, I thought. They probably have no appreciation for the carefree frivolity they were experiencing that I would never know.
To me, rewards only come via hard work. One must stay disciplined and focused. The next mark should always be in view, and must be approached with discipline and steadfastness. One must adhere to a plan. There’s nothing wrong with that view, but it comes at a price. The price, most simply, is that you never stop for horseshoes on a weekday. Oh, maybe play a game at the company picnic once a year, but never just because the horseshoes are laying in the yard and there’s nothing else to do. Weekdays are for work. Stay on track, and don’t take any detours. Time must be productive and accountable. The weekend will be here soon enough. If I am playing horseshoes on a weekday, I better be on vacation.
The brother was still away on the tractor.
“Back when we were a lot younger, we all had motorcycles,” he allowed. “We had all been out carousing one night, and got in an argument about one of our girlfriends. My brother came down the road in a huff, mad at my best buddy. Anyway, they collided on the motorcycles. It took off my brother’s arm right at the shoulder, and my best friend lost his leg right below the knee.”
He gestured, and we walked behind the church house. Sitting in a little corner of the yard sat an old Kawasaki motorcycle. It had vines growing through the engine and wheels. “Been sitting there ever since,” he said. “We still owed money on it, but we couldn’t sell it, we didn’t want no money for it; didn’t think it was right, and we weren’t going to ride it anymore.”
We continued to talk. He, his brother and uncle raise cattle and farm acreage all up and down the valley. They seem to do ok, it looked like to me. After all, three generations had chosen to settle within three acres of each other. The place was really messy, but he was proud of what was his, and unconcerned about the outward appearance. He didn’t ask a single question about who we were and what brought us to his part of the world.
He didn’t care who we were.
Off and on, he and other members of his clan would come and speak to us. Everybody was friendly. They would say hello, but never ask a question. They shared no curiosity about us, certainly not as curious as I was about them.
Our wives finally arrived and picked us up. As we departed down the winding black top, we told of the adventures on the mountain. We talked about filtering water, using our little burners, and of the beautiful scenery.
But I realized that we had plenty to talk about from the bottom of the mountain as well. No, we had not made it up the Priest, but we had adventure and insight into a lifestyle that I could only imagine a week earlier. Detours are usually a casualty of success. But had we not made the detour, the only stories would be of the trail, and would have centered around distance traveled, the mountaintops, and the physical challenge. It would have fed our desire to go farther, harder, higher. And we would have missed the treasure that lay at the bottom of the mountain.
We have both returned to our respective jobs. We have lots of stories to tell. The investment we made in equipment and time, and the rearranging of our lives were all worth it, despite the errant boot inserts and never being able to see the view from the top of the Priest.
We are both hooked on backpacking, and we are already planning a trip next year. But I find myself spending more time thinking about the detour we made and the messy little store, the church-house, and the three generations who call it home, instead of the mountain-top vistas.
And I wonder - am I a little jealous of that mountain man and his life - bringing down a 28-point buck, a black bear, and who knows what it is like to routinely play horseshoes on the weekday?