Max Patch

Oct. 24 - There are a few choice places on God's good earth where I believe the distance between us and Eden is particularly short. These are places of such breathtaking beauty that all but the most hard hearted must feel their heart leap with delight. They are places where earthly beauty is so deeply powerful that despite all the sorrow and suffering of this world one knows that creation is good. They are places where we are reminded that above all else this world is a gift. Locally, that place is Max Patch: particularly Max Patch at the height of autumn.

Max Patch is an hour or so drive from our house, close to the Tennessee border. It is an enormous grass height that affords spectacular views of the Smokies, the Blue Ridge, and the flatlands of Tennessee. I'm told once it was a favorite spot to launch air balloons. I don't know if that is true or not, but I can well imagine it. Now, it's a spot for amateur photgraphers, lovers lost in reverie, and kite flying.

Diane, Paul, and I (with the dogs) drove up on that Saturday. It's only a short, though steep, walk from the parking area, so it's an easy stroll for the family. At first, our boxer-mix Katie did a marvelous job of taking Diane for a walk, so I took both dogs myself. By our return, I believe my right arm was several inches longer than my left! We made our way up the slope, stopping frequently to look back at the view to the south. Paul, who doesn't in general like hiking, is transformed by spots like this, and he ran back and forth introducing himself to everybody else on the slope.

When we reached the top, Paul and I explored around while Diane (who was a bit under the weather) resumed her studies for the CPA exam. As you can see from the pictures, the colors were almost overwhelming, as though suddenly we were seeing everything in Technicolor. I sauntered along with the dogs while Paul dashed up and down slopes, jabbering non-stop in his usual way. The dogs really wanted to join him. Who can blame them?

Eventually, we came across a young family flying a kite. Without hesitation, Paul introduced himself to them all and joined them in their kite flying. He had a wonderful time helping the father launch the kite. He even got to fly it once himself while Diane and I watched with visions of him accidentally releasing this obviously expensive kite to be blown far away. For their part, Katie and Gawain thought the kite looked awfully tasty!

Finally, after drinking in the views for a couple of hours, we made our way back down to the car for the drive home. Behind us we left, for another year, the autumnal splendor of Max Patch along with at least a week's worth of stress. Between that afternoon and the previous day's walk at Hot Springs, I was feeling particularly good. I think everybody needs a good shot of autumn's gift of color to carry them through the grey of winter. This year, thanks to God, I have had more than my fair share of that. And there would be more color to come.

Hot Springs - click pics

Oct. 23rd - I awoke this morning with the decision already made in my mind to strike out for new territory. Thanks to Backpacker magazine, I knew of a loop walk along the Hot Springs area of the Appalachian Trail. Hot Springs, so named because of, well, its hot springs, is a lovely little community that lies along the French Broad River northwest of Asheville. Now that we were in the deepest part of autumn, the walk promised to be lovely with vistas of the French Broad and the Smokey Mountains. This time I had no problems finding the trailhead.

As is typical for the AT, after a short easy start to the trail, I found myself scaling the path upwards and upwards towards the heights of the mountains. At times like these, I am convinced that trail blazers are a sadistic bunch who, if they can get away with it, prefer a straight shot upwards to a gentler series of switchbacks.

But the climb was worth it. Soon, I reached a vantage overlooking the French Broad, Hot Springs, and the distant mountains. The colors were breathtaking, even in the gloom of the overcast day. At the top, the trail leveled out, and I could enjoy a pleasant walk under a canopy of golds, reds, and oranges. A think blanket of leaves covered the ground, crunching loudly under my feet, and the musky smell of earthy decay surrounded me.

After a couple of miles, the path led away from the view of the French Broad and plunged into a dank gully along the north side of the slope. Trees gave way to walls of rhododendrons, which grow like weeds here in western North Carolina. A mile or so later, I left the AT and followed another trail steeply down towards a disused mining area. There was no sign of the mine itself, but I did pass two old cinder block buildings whose doors were ominously painted with the warning "DANGER! EXPLOSIVES!" I continued on past them and mounds of moss-covered rotting railway ties.

It was not a long hike as my hikes go, but pleasant enough. On my way home, I stopped at another trailhead to scout it out. I would try to come back soon to explore it further. But for now, I shoved off, stopped briefly for a cup of hot coffee, and then slowly made my way home on a road that ran along the French Broad. All in all, it was relaxing day, one which must have been God-sent as it turned out. Two days later I would receive a call that my father was seriously ill in hospital and have to make the drive north to spend three days with him in Morgantown, WV.

Searching for the Bald

Oct. 14th -- I decided that I would make another attempt to reach the bald a few miles east of Sam's Gap along the Appalachian Trail. I found directions to a trail head two miles closer to the bald than my prior starting point. According to my information, the hike to and from the bald would be just under 8 miles, easily do-able in the time I had before Paul got home from school. So, I confidently set out on that cool morning looking forward to the hike.

I followed the directions carefully and ended up a crossroads. The paved road ended at a fork. The left gravel lane was surrounded by welcoming signs such as "NO TRESPASSING" or "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT." I decided against that way. The other gravel lane was filled with grooves and holes large enough to swallow a car. I edged that way a bit but it didn't seem promising. So I backed up and searched for other possibilities. Although I did stop to ask for directions from some of the locals (a flock of wild turkey crossing the road), I didn't get anywhere nearer to finding the trailhead. Finally, I decided to do some blind navigation. During a previous hike, I had passed the parking spot and knew that it lay alongside a gravel road. If one end came out on my end of the mountain, the other end should be somewhere north of me. So, following a web of country lanes, I worked my way around the mountain and up the other side. After a half hour of driving through the land o' mobile homes, suddenly I came upon it...the parking spot. And so the hike began.

It was a lovely walk through the early autumn woods. I discovered a stand of chestnut trees and collected a hand full of fallen chestnuts. This was quite a discovery as almost all chestnuts in western North Carolina were wiped out years ago by a blight. In fact, I didn't know any remained. After collected the nuts, I resumed my walk at a brisk pace, knowing that I had used up a lot of time trying to find the trailhead. The path took me along a ridge with a grand view of I-26, along the slope of another mountain, and then down into a gully that contained a unused campsite. The woods around me had changed a great deal since my July hike of the area with much of the undergrowth now dead for the winter and a carpet of red and yellow leaves littering the path.

Eventually, the trail began to climb steadily. The temperature hadn't risen like it was supposed to, and I was woefully underdressed. After two hours of hiking there was still no sign of the bald. So, I stopped for lunch (clam chowder soup) and to rest. Ahead of me the trail climbed steeply, I assume to the bald.

But I wouldn't know for certain because my time was up. I had just enough time to get back to my car, make the drive home, and have a little leeway before Paul returned home. So, with a shrug of disappointment, I started back for the car. At one point, though, I stopped and like Lot's wife, peered back. There, between the trees, I saw something I'd previously missed: a glimpse up above of the bald. I had come within a half mile of it!

Slate Rock

I didn't have a lot of time for a hike, as there was a mountain of chores awaiting my return. So, I grabbed my smaller lumbar pack, filled up a couple of water bottles, grabbed an apple and a bag of pistachios, and drove out to Slate Rock: perhaps my favorite "short hike"spot. The trail to my destination isn't long--maybe a miles and half--but it is almost entirely uphill and ends at one of the most spectacular vistas in the Pisgah National Forest: Slate Rock.

It is strangely an undiscovered place. Only twice have I ever encountered anyone there, which suits me fine. The rock itself is a wide, almost level in places, and scored with thousands upon thousands of years of run off from rain. It's a delightful spot for recouping from the hike up and for reading a good book. That day, I simply sat their, munching on an apples and pistachios, while I enjoyed the vista. To the right is Pilot Rock--another good, uphill walk--and ahead of me the level valley known as the Pink Beds after its forest of rhododendron. It's also a good place to watch falcons take wing in search of a tasty little snack.

The day itself was almost perfect: warm, but not uncomfortably so at this elevation, with a gentle breeze. I cursed myself for forgetting my prayer book since I love to pray my morning office in such places. I settled for a few minutes of quiet reflective prayer, followed by an even longer spells of sitting, eyes closed, and senses open to the smells, sounds, and feeling of my surroundings. Then, knowing that there was a lawn to mowed, laundry to be washed, and dishes to be cleaned, I grudging took up my walking stick and made my way back to the car. Such is life...

Labor Day Camp

After services on the Sunday in Labor Day weekend, I returned home for a quick nap, then backed up Paul and my backpacks and headed out to Black Balsam for an overnight camping trip. As it was the holiday weekend and still (just barely) blueberry season, the Blue Ridge Parkway was packed with cars. If you've never driven the parkway, you should; just don't do it on a holiday weekend because you'll be at the mercy of the slowest driver, usually someone from Florida in an over sized RV.

Eventually we made it to the parking spot. We decided that it would be better to go make sure out campsite was available, before we lugged our packs and firewood 3/4 of a mile uphill. Despite the multitudes, we were lucky and so the hauling began. Camping on the balds is an incredible experiences, especially at sunset and after nightfall. But it requires a lot of work. As these mountains are balds, there is not a lot of firewood to be found. So, you have to haul it yourself. By the time you're done, you are ready for dinner.

As this was camping Clavier style, my son and I ate proper-like. I heated up homemade chicken cacciatore that I had made the previous day. No hot dogs for us. Afterwards, we hiked around and watched a fog slowly roll in over us. The picture above was taken during a brief break in that fog. The rest of the time, you couldn't see much farther than a few feet ahead of you.

When the sun finally set, Paul and I sat by the fire and talked. I then pulled out King Arthur and, with the helpof my head lamp, read Paul tales of young Arthur while he sat with his head on my lap. And people wonder why I like to camp!

We didn't stay long the next morning. The chill and the fog had settled into everything--including Paul's bones--so we ate breakfast, hiked around to get the blood going, and then made our way back down into the heat of the lowlands ("lowlands" being 2200 ft). Quick trip, partially ruined by the fog. But that just gives us a reason to go back soon!

A Fool In Paradise Pt 2

Not long afterwards, I walked out onto Ivestor Gap and my heart leaped for joy. I’m not sure what it was about the place—the bald slopes that gave a 180-degree panorama of the mountains, the sense of being far from civilization, or simply the setting of blue-green vistas, bald mountain tops, and small woods—but I was completely unprepared for its effect on me. My heart felt lighter and I skipped about like a young child or an old fool. Several times, I couldn’t help but laugh aloud. I was filled with pure delight.

Soon, I discovered more balds—Tennent Mountain and Black Balsam Knob—with even better vistas. Despite some serious climbs for an out-of-shape priest, I skipped along the path in utter rapture, spooking, I must add, not a few birds and rabbits. I could feel months of stress pouring out of my muscles, and something long dormant in me began to awaken. Had anyone been around to see me, I’m sure he or she would have turned around to flee this obvious lunatic. But I didn’t care; delight had me completely in its grip.

There have not been many times that I have been filled so powerfully with delight. A few times come immediately to mind—the moment my bride appeared on the far end of the church aisle (though with less skipping on my part), the birth of my son, my discovery (believe it or not) of the sermons of Lancelot Andrewes, and a blessed moment when upon giving final communion I experienced the sweet passing of a man long afflicted with Parkinson’s Disease—and I am sure there are more, which further reflection would bring to mind. They’re rare and precious moments when I have felt a deep connection to God’s good creation, with those whom I love, and ultimately with God Himself. It’s at these moments that I often recall C.S. Lewis’ description of delight: “Any patch of sunlight in a wood will show you something about the sun which you could never get from reading books on astronomy. These pure and spontaneous pleasures are ‘patches of Godlight’ in the woods of our experience.”[1] They’re moments when the world feels very real and solid. More importantly, they’re moments when God seems close.

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[1] Letters to Malcolm, p. 90 (ch. 17)

A Fool In Paradise Pt 1

Excerpted from the book I'm writing on delight.

I had a few days to myself. Living as I do in western North Carolina, it wasn’t difficult to decide how I would make use of this gift of mid- October freedom. The mountains beckoned. I would go walking.

Mind you, I hadn’t yet done much hiking. Supposedly, the average American walks around three hundred yards a day; no doubt, much of it back and forth from the fridge or in search of the remote. I’m not sure I was doing that much. The fifty pounds I’d gained since leaving seminary seemed to suggest that I had developed a certain attachment to our sofa. But my map happily informed me that the route I was planning to take was relatively level and shouldn’t pose much of a problem even for me.

And so I packed a lunch, snacks, a good book, and my pipe into my backpack, put on the L.L. Bean jacket I had conveniently failed to return to my father, strapped on a pair of heavy Wal-Mart boots, grabbed a hat and walking stick, and drove up the Blue Ridge Parkway to the Art Loeb trail. I was in a happy mood.

Fall is normally a breathtaking time of year in western North Carolina. The wooded slopes are a patchwork of gold, red, and orange, and the air so clear and crisp that you can see for miles. But, that year fall had arrived a little ahead of schedule, and by mid October many of the trees had shed their leaves. Still, naked forests have their own unique beauty with the added advantage that you can actually see through the foliage to admire the views.

When I stepped out of the car, I was immediately hit by an invigorating blast of cold air. Actually, it turned out to be a constant blow of wintry air. Fortunately, the path—a disused lumber road—turned out to be as level as my map had promised and the views south and west towards the Smokey Mountains were spectacular. Buttoning my jacket and pulling on a pair of gloves, I set off at a good clip down the road leading to my destination: Ivestor Gap.

The walk, which involved avoiding puddles and scrambling over broken terrain, was pleasant enough. The mountain sloped steeply to my left into a valley that wound its way among the surrounding mountains. Behind these lay rows of farther mountains, each set growing less distinct in the bluish haze. After a while, I encountered a small wood that held on stubbornly to its colorful leaves. Dappled sunlight filtered through ash, hickory, and oak while finches darted from the underbrush and skipped along the ground ahead of me like dolphins before a ocean liner. I felt like I had stepped into a forest from Tolkien.

Camping at Davidson River

I've spent the past few days camping at Davidson River Campground in Pisgah Forest with my son and his friend Ethan. We are all old hiking and camping buddies. Paul and Ethan (now 7 & 8 respectively) have been hiking or camping with each for four years now. They have joined me (often with Ethan's father, Eric) on walks in Pisgah Forest, camping at Hunting Island and Edisto Beach, and (most memorably) along thirty miles of Hadrian's Wall. Not bad for a couple of Hobbits!

It's always a delight to watch these two out in the woods. Both are perhaps far too intelligent for their own good--their conversations are often a hilarious mix of erudition and childhood assumptions--but they now know the woods like an old friend or an accustomed third companion. On this latest trip they skipped like billy goats up mountain paths, swam rivers, tried to net trout, and battled each other with sticks-turned-swords. One of the highlights for me was sitting with both of them on top of Black Balsam Mtn. watching the sunset behind the mountains. We all agreed that God is an extraordinary artist.

I know that not every child gets to enjoy such experiences. I also know that not every dad gets to enjoy watching them drink in those experiences. It's the small pleasures such as these that see me through the one draw back of these two companions: no peace and quiet!

New Blog

I've been resisting getting into the blogging business for a number of years now. You see, I've not entirely made up my mind about whether they are healthy or not. Oh, the exchange of information can be wonderful. But they can also turn into a colossal waste of time. I often wonder how the managers of the some of the busiest blogs ever get anything else done. And I also wonder what blogs say about those who host them? Not precisely a humble business. It takes a certain amount of self-importance to presume that someone actually is interested in what one has to say.

Having said all that, I've decided to press forward with this blog because I've been pestered into it. I spend much of my free time hiking. 'm an avid walker, as these pages will show. During the past five years, I've probably hiked more than a 1,000 miles. Most of these miles have been tallied within the Pisgah National Forest. Others on the Appalachian Trail, the Lake District in England, and (perhaps most memorably) along Hadrian's Wall. I've said my morning office surrounded by breath-taking vistas and celebrated the Eucharist with fellow backpackers on old, gnarled logs.

These walks, often alone, in the woodlands and across mountantops have made a strong impression on me. Walk for hours on end along a woodland path and the sounds, smells, and sights of nature will work their way into you. These walks have introduced me to deep delight and subsequently to a often forgotten tradition within Christianity of a God who delights and wishes us to delight in Him.

I hope to give my readers (whomever they may be) a taste of what I get to enjoy after only a twenty minute drive. I can't give you the smells and sounds, but my little Canon 610 can do wonders with the sights. I hope you enjoy!