Running From My Feelings in a Thunderstorm

Then, I show off these sturdy boots. Along with my stove, first-aid kit and green raincoat.

Standing in my parents’ hotel room with backpack and wood hiking stick, a mountainous grin fills my face. They take pictures with film cameras. It’s 1992.

My 20th school-year is finally finished in Atlanta, Georgia. Family travels 750 miles from Iowa to cheer my graduation. They celebrate me into the “real world.”

Whether or not I’m ready.

A few months earlier, Emory University Hospital hires me for a chaplain residency. It starts in the fall, so an important question arises. What will I do this summer?

My father suggests useful work experience. It’s good advice.

Yet my recent discovery of a trail beckons me to an extreme long-distance hike. I enjoy being in nature, love mountains and want physical health.

The Appalachian Trail travels over mountains from Georgia to Maine. By trekking a steady 15 miles per day, I plan to hike half the 2,174 mile trail in 3 months.

“I think you need to hike. Just go for it,” encourages Sue. My school/work/hiking friend sees my wanderlust longing.

“I want to, Sue. But maybe I’m just running away.”

“You need to heal. No better place than the trail. Right?“

“One of my favorite places on earth! I guess I’ve been studying and working multiple jobs for years. A break would be good for me.”

Hike preparations become an obsession.

My mother—who inspires my love of mountains—is excited. She sends food care packages ahead to post offices along the trail.

Dad helps pack the boxes. An enclosed note reads: “Have a good hike, Tim. Be safe. Don’t eat the cookies all at once. We love you, Dad & Mom.”

Dad tucks in soft chocolate chip cookies made by his mother Gladys. At one Virginia post office, the box overflows with grandmother cookies.

That week, Pop-tarts are substituted for a perfect breakfast. Each sunrise for a week, I gaze over green mountains with bluish haze and faint gold streaks. I munch cookies and milk.

“Mmmmmm.”

Before me is a scrambling ascent up a large rough rock. Stooping, my right arm grips the blonde hiking stick. My left hand scoops up my similarly-colored hiking companion.

Lifting Kelli Noel four feet to the trail’s next level, my cocker spaniel awaits. Smiling. I lean toward her wet nose and receive a loving lick on mine.

Climbing to her, I smell rain coming. “We better get going,” I urge my steady companion.

She replies with a full body shake. First, her head tilts left. Then it becomes a helicopter, fluffy ears flying. Her body follows. Then the tail wags violently causing the cutest contest-winning dance move.

Kelli Noel looks up at me, showing off her perfectly adjusted little red backpack.

“The Rocketeer” (her trail identity) ignites her red afterburners and takes off down the trail. I’m impressed with her short legs deftly navigating the stones.

She’s my rock. This summer’s hike would be lonely and depressing without her tail-waggin’ support.

I remember back three years to her adoption. Kathi and I need a dog after 2 years of marriage.

Kelli is born Christmas 1989. Her ancestors include 40 champions. But she’s scratched in the left eye by a litter-mate. So the breeder gives Kelli to us free without papers.

We promise to provide this potential-cataract puppy a loving home. Intending to change her name to “Noel,” we temporarily call her both names. “Kelli Noel” sticks.

This delightful puppy makes us a family of three. While she gives us wiggly love and affection, that between Kathi and I is changing.

Back when the marriage begins, many think we’re a perfect couple. Including us. We are good for each other as we move on from college. But three years later and a year after adopting Kelli Noel, we separate.

Some explain away my pain so they don’t have to feel it: “You married too young.” But simple answers never help.

After 3 1/2 years, we each need to grow as individuals. And our marriage needs to evolve deeper. Somehow, we don’t work these three changes together.

Almost. Kelli Noel never leaves my side. Thank God for this reliable companion.

Two weeks ago, the trail passes through a tiny Virginia town. I don’t remember where. No people are around on this dreary day.

I’m surprised by a silver payphone booth by a vacant lot. (Cell phones small enough for backpacking don’t yet exist.)

The big day passes just before this. So I punch in the phone card and her number. “Hello?” she answers.

“Hi, Kathi. It’s Tim. Is it done?”

“Yes,” she replies with sadness. Or am I projecting my feelings on her? I can’t tell.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I reply.

Hanging up, I barely hear her quiet “yeah.”

“I’m a married sort of guy. Not a divorced guy. I thought I’d hike thru life with Kathi.”

I breathe deep, biting my lip to hold in the air. It feels as if exhaling will fling open a fragile wooden gate holding my mental health intact.

“No! This can’t happen. Not now. Not here.” I stop myself before becoming an emotional puddle in a vacant Virginia town.

Getting up, my body fills with rapid movement before I fall over the emotional waterfall.

“At least I have you, Kelli Noel. Don’t worry, I’ll be OK,” I whisper, not sure who I’m reassuring.

She stands, shakes and looks at me with compassionate love. I reply with a tender furry scratch behind her ear.

My black with red REI external-frame pack raises to rest on my left knee. Then it quickly launches onto my back. Good thing it’s lighter these days. My heart is heavy as a rock carried uphill from a deep emotional valley.

Grabbing my hiking stick’s forked top, Kelli Noel and this newly divorced guy run down the trail.

This lonely booth follows me for weeks.

Daily, it unexpectedly appears on the trail. In my mind. It’s as if it feeds off my mixed emotions.

It seems to say, “You see yourself as married. You see yourself as happy. Ha! You’re divorced and sad!”

And I birth yet another tear.

Encroaching thunder interrupts this historical daydream from 2 weeks ago. My eyes are moist, though raindrops haven’t quite arrived.

But the storm is coming. I smell it in the wind.

Tired legs propel my stumbling body over these cursed rocks. “Hurry, you can do it,” I encourage myself.

In the moment, I’m not sure if I’m running from a dark grey storm or memories of a silver phone booth.

My feet fumble and bumble over miles and miles and miles of rocks.

Millions of years ago, glaciers crawl through here, churning up and scattering Earth’s crust. For several centuries, farmers build stone walls to clear fields.

The Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania passes many walls. But the trail is mostly rocks.

Too many rocks!

My left foot steps on a slanted one. The ankle feels a slight twist. Lifetime memories of almost-sprains instantly appear from deep in my auto-response system.

My body lurches leftward, leaving my mind behind, “Oh, we’re going this way now.”

Five stumbling steps and a body twist leave me sitting on a large boulder. Regaining my equilibrium, I laugh at myself.

“Whew! Saved that one, Kelli Noel.”

She seizes the moment. Searching, she finds a medium-sized flat-ish rock among a million jagged choices.  It’s just right for a 20-pound (9kg) dog with kibble-filled backpack.

These ankle-holding boots mimic special shoes of childhood. Back then, playing tag is good training for throwing myself toward an ankle-twist.

I look funny, but rarely hurt anything. This ankle-saving stumbling is the origin of my trail identity “Dancer.”

I gulp down a half-bottle of water and dig out a Snicker’s bar. “Mmm,” escapes through the sweet, crunchy, gooeyness.

“Thank God I’m safe on these rocks! Stay healthy, Tim. I can’t break myself again.”

Back then, I overfill my pack with noodles, energy bars and peanut butter. Plus, chocolate chip cookies, of course.

I plan to get more miles between town stops. For the rest of my life, I’ll laugh at this foolish experiment.

It’s only two weeks into my summer trek and two weeks before the phone both incident.

My arm is injured. I like to say I’m saving myself on a dangerous mountain precipice. But then fess up to a rainy cow pasture 100 yards out of town.

While crossing a small bridge over a drainage, my feet slide on the new slick wood. Fear shoots adrenaline through me. I grip my hiking stick to regain balance.

It doesn’t work.

Crash!

Lying on my back, I’m suspended a yard above poopy water. A small fallen tree parallel to the bridge holds up my backpack. And my heath.

“What the…? Right leg check. Left leg check. Arms. Neck. Head. I’m OK. I think.

“Thank God for this little fallen tree, perfectly placed to save me.”

Wiggling out of the tight pack straps, I crawl onto the tiny bridge. “Ow! Can’t use the right one,” I discover hefting the boulder-weight pack off the life-saving branch.

While I will never carry a pack this heavy again, I imagine the weight saves me today. Instead of falling sideways, the excess weight goes down first, pulling me around on top of it.

Safe.

My condition is not as serious as those heavily-packed into Emergency Rooms. So I hold my arm in a wheelchair. The doctor stands by me in the crowded hallway.

“X-rays show your muscle broke a small piece off the olecranon at the end of your ulna.” My face betrays bewilderment. He continues.

“Your upper arm muscle pulled the elbow tip off your forearm bone. When falling, you forcefully gripped the hiking stick. Your bone stressed between your falling body and your muscle trying to keep you upright.”

A nervous eternity passes before a specialist arrives. Will I need hike-interrupting surgery to pin my elbow?

“No pin. It’ll grow back together in a few weeks,” he reassures. I’m only slightly relieved.

“Uh, doctor? I’m hiking the Appalachian Trail. Just started. It’s my entire summer plan. How can I hike with this?”

Does he wonder: “Young believe they’re invincible!”

Instead, he says, “Two rules. First, if it hurts, don’t do it. Second, in dangerous situations, you can’t use your right arm for support. Grab a tree and it will hurt so bad, you’ll involuntarily let go. Then you’ll fall and really hurt yourself.”

Immediately after this, my father buys me health insurance. In case I need it. I wonder if he thinks, “Young people believe they’re invincible!”

To be healthy, I stay in a familiar hotel. I slept on the floor here last night with a crowd of money-saving hikers. Tonight’s costs dismay me as they’re 10 times more!

This is the only no-mileage day of my summer hike. And the only hotel.

The next day, a sling hangs from my pack straps. I learn to don a lighter pack with my non-dominant left arm. Balancing it on my left leg improves the launch to shoulders. I will use this new pack-on-the-leg technique for the rest of my life.

Today this saves my injured arm. From now on, it saves my sore back.

Stuffing the empty candy wrapper in my left pocket, I put my right arm into the grey dirty cloth sling. I stopped using the sling two weeks ago. But still entomb my healing elbow in tricky situations.

No tree grabbing allowed!

“Here we go, Kelli Noel,” I say as she jumps up, shakes and launches ahead. Stopping, she looks back to check if we’re continuing north on the trail.

She’s smiling. She loves this.

“Look at you! You’re not even worried about the storm. That’s my job, getting us there before the storm.”

The shelter is only a mile away now. If we push, we’ll get there in time. And be dry.

Hopefully.

I think ahead about hurrying two more hiking days to Amtrak. We plan a quick rail trip to Iowa for a drivers license renewal. This inconvenience wasn’t foreseen four years ago when keeping my home address to save on Atlanta’s expensive car insurance rates.

After attaining the new license, the goal is rushing back to this beloved trail. We’ll skip up to Massachusetts.

By summer’s end, we plan just enough time to hike 600 more miles. We will reach Mount Katadin, Maine—the Appalachian Trail’s northern terminus.

A fantastic blue-white lightning bolt paints the darkening sky.

Stopping, I concentrate, making a mind-picture. I want to remember this electric nature painting.

Pausing to marvel at God’s amazing creation is normal for me. Mornings, I’m the first one up to make full use of the day.  I stop often for breaks at view-points, waterfalls and mountain tops.

This lightning propels me forward with increased urgency. Stumbling faster over rocks, I almost fall.

Suddenly, a thought shoots through my mind like a lightning bolt. It’s an epiphany really.

A spotlight shines on my life. I finally see my truth.

“What in the world am I doing? Running on rocks! I’m going to trip and hurt myself. My hike will be over.

“Slow down, Tim!”

In the thunderstorm’s shadow, a life-changing idea emerges. “Either it’s going to rain or it’s not. Either I’m going to get wet or I’m not. And I’ll be fine either way.”

Cutting our pace in half, my mind calms from frantic foot-placement concentration.

Kelli Noel turns to check on me—as she always does. My slower speed has propelled her way ahead.

She sits a moment to wait.

My stomach is content. It’s full of cheese quesadilla, creamy noodles and raspberry hot chocolate. I’m filled with Grandma’s love from her nightly desert.

A small plastic bowl sits on the floor next to a vacant little pack. Two missed crumbs remain of delicious gobbled kibble.

Kelli Noel shifts, tickling my foot. Body heat is drying her soaked fur. Her head pokes out the bottom of my sleeping bag where she’s wrapped in her camp towel.

Smiling at each other in the dim dusk, we’re happy.

Lying among hikers with packs hung above, rain sings us toward sleep. But my mind races bright with new thoughts.

“I’ve been running all summer! 17 mountain miles a day. With a broken arm for God’s sake!”

Something tells me the storm isn’t outside. Is this God’s quite voice?

The storm’s in me.

I’m running from my feelings.

From loneliness.

From grief.

I’m running from my new “divorced and grieving” identity. Because I still want to believe I’m a married, nothing-bothers-me sort of guy.

Rain sings a calming tune on the shelter roof. Peace from the last wet thundering mile still envelops me. I tentatively take a step into my new life.

“I guess this is me. I’m divorced. I’m lonely. I’m sad. And I’m OK.”

My smile returns in the dark. A content feeling grows deep in my soul. Like a joy. Years later, I will see joy as a way of living in the soul. No matter what is happening on the surface.

Nature’s heartbeat falls on the roof, soothing this row of silent tired hikers. Sleep overtakes me as I think.

“Either it’s going to rain or it’s not. Either I’m going to get wet or I’m not. And I’ll be…”

I awake vowing to slow down and enjoy life.

A tectonic shift shakes my core. My approach to hiking and life is changing. I have no idea the magnitude of this shift.

Yet.

I soon discover Amtrak employees are on strike to improve their lives. Kelli Noel and I have no choice but to find my car stashed at my cousin Nancy’s home. We drive from Pennsylvania to Iowa.

It’s a leisurely trip. We’re on a healthy journey for the first time this summer.

The return route from Iowa changes to an arc up through Canada. We stop to hear birds singing in parks and pause to gaze across blue lakes. Inspiration from wise Native Americans gets me in touch with new parts of my soul.

I often stop to pull my guitar from the back seat. The 3rd verse of Rocky Mountain High inspires me in a new way.

“Now he walks in quiet solitude
the forests and the streams,
seeking grace in every step he takes.

His sight has turned inside himself
to try and understand
the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake.”

A week later, Kelli Noel and I are back on the Appalachian Trail in Massachusetts. We wander through forests and pause beside streams.

I make more friendships this half of the summer.

We slow down and live life instead of racing through it. With less frantic movement, my feelings emerge often. Grief comes up from where I stuff it deep, to be felt and worked through.

Where I once try to outrun a thunderstorm, now I hike with an occasional tear on a sunny day. This part of our summer is a walk in serenity.

We fall significantly short of the Mount Katadin plan.

But that’s OK.

I’m living the healthy life I didn’t know was searching for.

My final log entry this summer is in a southern Maine shelter. The dusty spiral notebook reads:

Life will circle around again in 26 years. My parents will encourage and support a different travel odyssey. I will eat their chocolate chip cookies and heal from a dissolving second marriage.

Another dangerous mountain adventure will teach me a new valuable life lesson. And inspire the birth of this blog.

Rocky Mountain High will still inspire me as I sing of being born in my 52nd year. But that’s another story.

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