Eventually we came to a determined creek that somehow
seeped into the air its intense frigidness. We surveyed the water body, looked
at each other, and decided to use a small outcropping of growth – a shrub,
really – growing from our own bank to swing across to the other side. Was it a
foolish plan? I’m not sure. All I know is that I watched my three companions
make the crossing, seeing with terrible alertness the rescue-shrub become more
and more disentangled from its rooted position as each man dared the attempt.
Finally I stood up to cross. I grasped the shrub, felt its shakiness, and tried
to silently convey my trust in it, as any man might make a gesture of
solidarity to someone who stood ready to lend a hand. But my trust was
shattered. As I used the shrub to propel myself across the creek, I never made
it; the plant came completely uprooted, the bit of muddy bank underfoot
crumbled away, and I awkwardly half-plunged into the freezing creekwater.
Thankfully I was only half-submerged, and my friends rushed to pull me out.
To
this day, I have never experienced a more intense or frightening coldness. The
one side of my body that touched the river’s surface was moving from shocked
numbness to a deep and purposeful aching. Trying desperately to forget any
story I’d heard about hypothermia, we trudged down the last bit of the trail,
making one more river crossing and finally arriving at the promised land. That
lean-to was beautiful. I immediately peeled off my drenched clothes, stripping
down to my long-johns and an Irish fisherman’s sweater my parents had recently
given me as a gift. As my friends hurried to make a fire I immersed myself in
layers of sleeping-bag to prevent my body from succumbing to the cold. The fire
we built that night was a magnificently raging inferno, and completely illegal,
as campers were not supposed to make fires so close to the wooden structure of
the lean-tos. One of us voiced this concern, but James stated that he didn’t
care; it had been a long, cold, painful journey into that valley, and he was
going to make as big a fire as his imagination and foraging skills would allow.
The fire was indeed large, and as it warmed our aching bones and feeling slowly
returned to my body, we shared stories, read Scripture, and dined on canned
Haggis (it’s a strange Scottish dish – look it up) and mashed potatoes, the
hardiest food we brought with us.
We
also found an open journal in the lean-to, which was a sort of record or log to
which any camper staying there could add their own story. We read through the
various accounts and entries that dated back several years, the most memorable
ones involving two park rangers searching for a missing person on the trails, a
man hiking joyfully with his dog, and two lovers on a honeymoon. We obligingly
added our own entry to the ongoing chronicle, and I wonder if perhaps that book
still lies dusty and dark in the belly of the gorge. Just before bed we each
took a nightcap of whiskey to warm us and lull us to sleep. We were unconscious
within minutes.
The
next morning we awoke and prayed together, giving thanks for our deliverance
the previous night and beseeching the Lord’s blessing on that day’s endeavors
(as was our routine). I’m pleased to say that the morning hike out of the gorge
was much easier than the descent, even downright enjoyable. I’m not sure how
this was possible, and perhaps it was a divine gift, but our spirits lifted as
we climbed up the cold snowy banks. The sun had still not emerged and it
appeared an even mistier day than the day before. We rested at Lake Tear of the
Clouds, the very spot where then-vice president Theodore Roosevelt, out for a
manly hike as he was wont to do, learned that William McKinley would not
survive his gunshot wounds. We sat and ate Wilbur Buds (chocolate fragments of
paradise – again, look them up), looking out on the dreary swamp and musing on
this historical moment.
The
descent back down to the main trailhead was fraught with peril due again to the
unpredictable snowdrifts: the path itself had shrunk to a snow bridge barely
two feet in width, with sheer walls plummeting down either side. The trail
twisted lazily around and around, and we moved with slow deliberateness. As the
snow gradually faded into blessed stony earth, we practically bounded down the
mountain and sang old hymns at the top of our lungs.
We
crossed Marcy Dam again, treating it like an old friend. Our last night of
camping was bittersweet, as we knew the adventure would be at an end soon. In celebration
we cooked (in my opinion) our classiest meal: salmon with wild rice. As men
tend to do when bound together in adversity, surrounded by God’s good earth on
all sides with no whisper of civilization beyond the roaring dam in the
distance, we shared with one another our hopes and fears; we laughed and talked
and prayed. After all, following this journey we would all be going our
separate ways, embarking upon the far scarier journey of becoming men in the
world, no longer Grove City College students. I remember feeling stripped to an
emotional core, because there was nothing else to distract me. I would be
leaving these men for some time, leaving behind their fellowship and
companionship. We tried to enjoy these moments,
alone as men with the Lord feeling close amid the trees and the wild of the
evening.
On the following morning we found the hike
out to be surprisingly brief, and before we knew it we were arriving at the old
Ford Explorer, drenched in sweat. It was still very early in the morning, so we
drove into a small town in the valley (I forget its name) and had homemade
apple pie at the local diner. I tell you that pie was heavenly.
I don’t
remember much of the drive home, only that I was desperately looking forward to
the showers and hot food awaiting us at the Hayward Homestead. Mr. and Mrs.
Hayward are some of the most generous and hospitable people I know (they’ve
welcomed me into their home and fed me many times), and they were in particularly
fine form this occasion. We had one more day together, my friends and I, and we
spent it at the Hayward house engaging in all types of joyous play (furious
swimming pool basketball, Frisbee golf, backyard baseball, and hours of
boardgames) as well as bountiful belt-loosening meals at the dining room table.
Then,
almost as soon as it had began, it was all over. I was driving back home
through the pleasant thoroughfare that is Route 30, through the small towns of
Lancaster County and over farmland back to West Chester. But still lingering, if
not immediately in the rearview mirror, then at least in the twin lands of
heart and memory that towering peak, enfolded in cloud. The land belongs to the
Lord, and we belong to the Lord, and the story of our fellowship on the long
and crooked road through springtime snowy trails, across shivering rivers, and
beneath the mighty boughs belongs to each of us. It was a great adventure, my
lads, a great adventure.
Here ends my written account; some of the
details have not made it here, or have arrived in some different fashion from
the true story, because the truest memories live within me, and will there
continue to grow and mature with me, until perhaps I sit down with a grandchild
on the knee and tell this story again in full. Until then, the story goes with
me from this juncture on, until the Day of the Lord.
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