Balancing on Blue
My Appalachian Trail Memoir
Here’s a little teaser for you. I’ve been hard at work on my next book called Balancing on Blue, which I hope to have out at the end of the summer. I’ve had to think about this one (not that I haven’t with the others). Writing a book on one topic is not easy; write three and it gets a little harder.
It will be in the same vein as my other two books, The Journey in Between and The Last Englishman in that I hope it provides a different outlook not just to thru-hiking, but perhaps the way we actually live our lives. I want to share with you the amazing journey I travelled in 2012 on the Appalachian Trail from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine. This chapter introduces some of the characters I met and hiked with, and provides a little insight into how they arrived not only at Springer Mountain, but arrived at the decision to walk perhaps the most famous long distance hiking trail in the world.
I’ll have chapter two up within the next few weeks as well but that’s it! To read the rest, check back once in a while and I’ll let you all know the release date.
Enjoy . . .
Chapter One
The Converging
Phillip ‘Lasagne’ Colelli
I was well qualified in fort and dam construction. It was hard work digging with shovels, chopping with hatchets, moving fallen trees and amassing a pile of sticks into a fortress, but we enjoyed it. From my present standpoint, my early career as an engineer obviously didn’t amount to much. But when you’re a kid, surveying the small reservoir, flanked by your impregnable garrison, your achievement seems huge and life feels rich and rewarding.
My father had also taken me camping during those times. Not exactly in the remote wilderness, but to me, a flat area of gravel next to the parked car with a fire ring was just as exciting. We’d unpack a huge tent, coolers packed with ice and drinks, hot dogs, hamburgers, condiments, eggs, bacon and oatmeal. I had the time of my life, all the comforts and luxuries a boy needs, right on his own private camping spot.
I was too young then to know what the AT was, but my father and uncle occasionally used to spend a few days there. It was years before curiosity got the better of me. Dad had guide books for the North Carolina and Pennsylvania sections of the trail and I would pull them out and study them. I was especially intrigued by the maps: the AT was a series of red dashes dilly-dallying with black contour lines, passing by the blue outlines of rivers, lakes and occasionally meeting a road.
I was still a kid when Dad agreed to a short hike on the trail and we parked at a place called Trent’s Grocery near where the AT crossed the road, a few miles from Bland, Virginia. The instant we got on the AT, the beauty of the woods enveloped me, and I felt I was in another world that was peaceful, quiet and leisurely. We just slowed down and walked.
Passing the Kimberling Creek suspension bridge and Dismal Falls, we continued up steep hills until we were too tired to carry on. Hastily pitching our tent as a storm threatened, we cooked a simple dinner on the camp stove and read the books we had each brought. I fell asleep quickly, tired from the hiking.
Wonderful though that trip was, it was years before I set foot back on the AT. It was as if I’d read one chapter from a great book and then put it aside. I was working a miserable job at a burger bar and became good friends with a guy called Sam Ridge, who spoke of his plans to thru-hike the entire trail the following year. Before long, Sam and I were planning a trial trip to see if our hopes had any chance of being realized.
We planned on hiking into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and trying out a 40 mile section of the AT from Newfound Gap to Davenport Gap. Again I became immersed in the woods: spotting all the different types of wildlife was mesmerizing, even smelling that mountain air validated my being there and reawakened lost memories.
We reached Ice Water Spring shelter and set up our sleeping mats and bags inside. Again, after eating and chatting to some of the other hikers, I fell asleep quickly, but I remember waking in the early hours, astonished at the clarity and brightness of the night sky away from the lights of town. The stars were simply incredible. Reinvigorated in both body and mind, we hit the ridge of the Smoky Mountains the next day, with Tennessee on our left, North Carolina to the right and with epic views in all directions. That book from long ago had been opened again and I loved what I was reading.
It didn’t take long for me to decide that I wanted to thru-hike the AT and Sam encouraged me. Soon, all I could focus on was the trip. Work became even more mundane and I ended up quitting a full month before we planned to start because I couldn’t deal with it any longer. I stayed in touch with Sam; we had decided to hike together but agreed we were each free to make our own plans on the trail. We spoke daily on the phone, making arrangements, discussing gear and took various day hikes around the area. I repeated a five-mile loop on a local trail three times a day to gain some fitness. It was repetitive and tiresome sometimes, especially in the rain, but I persevered to get in shape and also to test my mind and resolve further. I wanted to know that I could push on when the going got tough.
The final week dragged and I feared I would go nuts just waiting. I don’t like wishing my life away but I wanted that week gone. I longed for that feeling of being cradled in the woods once more.
We arrived at Amicalola Falls and hiked a few miles before camping, completing the short distance to Springer Mountain the following day.
At last, I was back in the woods.
Sam ‘Daffy’Ridge
Many people hike the AT to see some of the world. I wanted to hike the AT to get away from it.
Needing to be different and break out of a conventional life, I wanted to experience and appreciate an adventure that I could call my own. I had just been arrested and kicked out of school for selling weed in my dorm room. Having blacked out, which is how I got caught, I only remembered tiny parts, like being cuffed and led away. I don’t remember them taking my mug shot but when I saw it, my face was streaked from crying. I’d been selling weed and getting into trouble, or dodging trouble, since I was 15. I’m not proud of it, that’s just how things turned out. Every time I got into hot water, I chastised myself and told myself to stop dealing but I never did.
I came to in a prison cell with a bunch of smelly drunks. Everyone looked terrible, which is exactly how I felt. It was 5am, I called my Dad. Naturally I didn’t want him to know, but he was probably the only one who could bail me out. I must have called him 30 times before he eventually picked up. Twelve hours later I was out, on a crash course to reconstruct the pieces of my life laying on the ground. I was in debt from the bail and my grandmother had lent me $3,000 to pay for school, which I had spent on weed. I was ashamed I had let her down and lost my father’s trust in one stupid moment of madness, or at least one stupid moment of madness where I’d been caught.
I began to question mymotive for selling, namely money. Why the hell did I need it? To buy stuff because I thought it made me look cool which in turn, I thought, would make others think I was a better person? I thought that money and status should be my highest priorities; that’s what we are led to believe anyway. The only redeeming factor was that I had no clue as to what I would have spent it on, let alone what I actually needed.
I began working in a burger bar, but apart from earning money, I questioned why I was working at all. As no good reason was forthcoming I became disillusioned and decided to escape from the frustration and the discontentment. I figured I wouldn’t be angry about how much money I didn’t have when I died, but I would care if I wasted my life making it my number one priority.
I began to approach life from the opposite angle: simplifying and abandoning all ambition to gain financial status. In retrospect, this was the period in which I acquired the knowledgethat set me up for life on the trail. I read Walden by H. D. Thoreau and Dead Poets Society by N. H. Kleinbaum, to name but two. I found a one-room place with a shared bathroom. I made do with one fork, one spoon and one plate. Far from striving to have as much as possible, I sought to get rid of what I didn’t need. It was fun, enlightening and even now, after the AT, I still try to live this way. It gives me a pleasant feeling as though I’m still on the trail.
I love the outdoors, so it seemed the best environment for doing something different. While I was planning the hike, I had the idea that I needed to escape people. I soon learnt it was the people who made the trail in the end. Without everyone else, I couldn’t have hiked the AT, nor would I have had such an extraordinary experience on it.
With all that time out, all that space to think, I believed that I would figure my life out, in fact, figure life itself out. However, does anyone really achieve this? Things ebb and flow but it’s rare that we come up with any answers. All I wanted to do, at its most basic level, was to have fun. I knew that for the most part it would be great, but hard in places. I knew there would be tough moments, rough days. I knew it would be versatile and dynamic; at times it was to prove even hallucinogenic.
It was giddy groundlessness that kept me so alive. I knew that at any time I could meet anyone, from anywhere, and do anything. Everyone wants to get to the same final mountain on the same trail but everyone has different reasons for doing it.
I had figured out that conformity was dangerous and that the police, school and authorities had done me much more harm than I had ever done to anyone else. I did need to get away from urban areas where I could be myself and not be crucified for it. Call it hiding, if you will.
The only real dread I felt while I was out there was meeting someone else who was there for the same reasons as I.
Peter ‘PJ’Semo
I had to tell her, but every time my mouth opened in anticipation, I fell silent. The plan of confronting her when she returned from work had been delayed. At each attempt to break the news that I was leaving in the morning, I clammed up and put it off for another ten minutes, which in turn never arrived.
Just tell her, PJ, get it out of the way.
I can’t.
You have to tell her, there’s not much time.
I know.
Just do it!
Enough! I’m going to tell her when we go to bed!
I looked over at my wife, who was just falling asleep. I had only minutes left, but still I kept delaying the inevitable.
You have to tell her now.
I know.
This is your last chance; you won’t get another one. You have to leave soon.
I know!
Turning my head towards her and fighting back some tears, I finally broke the silence.
“I didn’t tell you, but I have to catch a train. I’m leaving to hike the Appalachian Trail in the morning.”
Jess shot up in bed.
“WHAT!?”
I explained as calmly as possible, foolishly thinking that this would make the situation acceptable.
“And you were going to just, to just leave me?”
“Yes.”
“And not say anything? When were you going to tell me?”
I looked sheepishly into her eyes, felt her anger and sensed her sadness. Feeling a slight pang of guilt, I quickly realized it was hollow.
“I’m telling you now.”
With that, I went to the closet where my backpack was stored. Most of the packing had been done in preparation for a quick departure.
“So you have a new backpack too?”
“Yeah.”
She hovered, I felt her staring and it made me nervous.
If you turn back now, if you wait, you won’t do it.
It took just ten minutes to finish getting my stuff together, which was ten minutes too long. I told her I loved her but that this was goodbye. Was it possible to love someone and leave them for good?
“When will you be back?”
Why was she asking me this when I thought she had realized it was permanent? I paused to think of an answer. Not wanting to remind her in case she had misunderstood, I replied simply.
“I don’t know. The trail should take six months tops.”
Avoiding any further eye contact, I grabbed my trekking poles, opened the door and started to walk to the Amtrak station.
I was born Peter John Semo, but my neighbor, Tom, nicknamed me “PJ” when I was a baby. As my father was also called Peter, the nickname helped avoid confusion. I suppose I’m grateful for it; it has always felt more fitting for me.
I had decided to hike the AT when I was 16. I had just returned from a camping trip with my family and was experiencing my first real taste of life dissatisfaction. On one side was Jess, my girlfriend back then, trying to persuade me to move to South Dakota once I had finished high school, and she often made phone calls to my family’s house to try and persuade them too. My family, in particular my father, were pulling me in the opposite direction and urging me to move to Pennsylvania to attend college, as my sister and brother had done before me. Neither side was shy about expressing their opinions. My father would take the opportunity to lecture me on long drives to go fishing. Being trapped in the car, I had no choice but to listen. It infuriated me.
Jess and my family loved me dearly, which was comforting but also the problem. I had been presented with plan A and plan B but sorely needed a plan of my own, a different plan, a plan that I wanted, not one that everyone else had in mind for me. This was plan C.
I knew what plan C entailed: I just didn’t know where it would be. Plan C was to hike, to hike for miles, to hike for such a distance that people would deem it impossible to go that far. For whatever reason, I didn’t make the choice then, but instead chose to go and live with Jess in South Dakota.
My family treated my decision with disdain and, on the day before my departure, some hostility. I ended up in a fight with my brother, and my father cried for one of the first times in his life.
“I just don’t want you to go,”he sobbed.
They drove me to the airport. We were all in tears as I got my luggage from the car. I can’t remember my last words to my father, but I do remember him holding me, feeling his bristly chin, his strong, wide chest and the way he patted my back in a silly rhythm. That was the last time I ever saw him.
I was still clueless, not knowing whether to stay with Jess on arrival, go back to Pennsylvania after a couple of weeks or do some more work on plan C. Landing at Detroit to change planes, I pondered fleeing, going somewhere, anywhere.
It’s Detroit, for God’s sake, you’ll get killed.
The closer my plane got to Jess, the more urgent plan C became. Her parents picked me up at the airport, leaving no time for another getaway or a last-ditch attempt at fleeing by going to Wal-Mart, kitting myself out with hiking gear and escaping to the American Discovery Trail.
We got married on July 9th, 2010. My family wasn’t invited, as we had stopped speaking by that point, still down to the aftermath of my decision to move. It was so bad that the last words I had said to my father over the phone were “Fuck you.” Those proved to be the last words we ever shared.
I started working in retail, which became bearable, my good-spirited co-workers making up for any career disappointments. Having received news that my father was suffering from pancreatic cancer, which could be terminal, I applied for a leave of absence to see him. Owing to misunderstandings between my employer and my father’s doctor, I never received the paperwork in time. It arrived on September 2nd, 2011, the day after my father passed away.
I woke from another sleep, as the train lurched with squealing brakes. Harpers Ferry in West Virginia is considered the halfway mark of the AT. Nestled at the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, it is a hugely important target for thru-hikers. I had dozed off several times on the train but smiled as I saw the Harpers Ferry sign. I knew its significance and thought it was a good omen that I had woken there.
Making a final change in Gainsville, I knew I had eventually arrived in the state of Georgia and disembarked. It was late, dark, I was tired and confused as to my next step. Looking around for inspiration, I spotted another guy with a large backpack and we got to talking. His name was Adam. I put my faith in him and we decided to share a taxi to Amicalola Falls State Park, where an approach trail leads nine miles to Springer Mountain and the true start of the AT.
I spent my first night in a hostel and in the morning I trod carefully. I had researched a method of running and walking called POSE, which reduces injuries. I guess I was taking it easy in order to find my feet and break my body in for the mammoth task I was asking of it. People passed me but I didn’t care and it wasn’t a race. Some guy with a silver umbrella came by me and nodded a greeting, smiling.
“You walk carefully. It’s interesting to watch! What’s your name?” His accent sounded British.
“PJ,” I replied. “And yours?”
“Fozzie, nice to meet you.”
“Are you British?”
His stride slowed as though he was going to stop but he didn’t.
“Yes, English to be exact. See you up the trail I expect?”
“For sure, it’s all good.”
I rested a while, drank some water, took stock of the events of the past few days and looked skyward, silently saying, “I don’t ask for much from the universe but I’m grateful to be here. Please accept me for my faults and mistakes and let me make something right. Let me do something that makes my father proud of me, wherever he is now. Let me finish this trip, every step. Please, world, just give me a shot and lead my footsteps in the right direction.”
John ‘Thirsty’Beshara
A Bachelor of Arts, as far as I could tell, was a fancy piece of paper telling me nothing more than I had just spent seven years of my life and an obscene amount of money ‘earning’ it. Of course, there were great experiences and personal development along the way, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as I had hoped. All that effort and I had no career prospects, which actually suited me, because the last thing I wanted was a career.
The only awakening that recognition impressed on me was that I desperately needed to do something different, maybe outrageous, and possibly even stupid. I considered several options: walk out of my front door with nothing but a little money and see where the wind blew me, devise some master plan to organize a criminal conspiracy, continue working my comfortable but insanely boring job, or go hike the AT. Option one lacked structure: there was a good chance I wouldn’t even make it out of the city and the entire romanticized adventure would fail before it ever started. Option two was attractive but I had no real plan or experience in such matters. Work was definitely out of the question, as it didn’t even come within the outrageous, different or stupid bracket. That left the AT.
I couldn’t say for sure when the seed was planted. A guy at work had hiked for a couple of months on the AT. We talked about it occasionally and I kept toying with the prospect. Starting to do some research, I found that the more I discovered, the more the idea appealed to me.
Before I knew it, a flight to Atlanta had been booked and I was working 60-hour weeks to get the money together. I stayed up all night sometimes to fiddle with alcohol stoves and other homemade gear projects. I read everything I could find about long-distance hiking and began walking to work with a 60-pound cinder block in my pack. In short, I was obsessed.
This carried on for six months. My buddy and I made weekend trips to every state park we could get to in a few hours. It was great luck that we got to experience just about every kind of weather on those weekend trips: the pouring rain at Lake Mariah, freight train winds coming off Lake Superior and a raging blizzard in Duluth to ring in the New Year.
The idea of hiking the AT appealed to me because it seemed so random, even pointless. I had spent the first 25 years of my life doing more or less what my parents expected of me, because they had an eye on my future. In my estimation, thru-hiking was the direct opposite of that. It certainly wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, required, and there was ostensibly little benefit to be gained from it that could have any bearing on my future plans. It was socially and professionally frowned upon by most people. I wanted to hike the AT for the sole purpose of doing it.
I flew into Atlanta with nothing, not even a small bag. I had sent all of my gear to the hostel I was staying at and didn’t want to be burdened with shipping anything back. There were six other hikers in the hostel shuttle and a further 16 at the hostel when I got there. Sleep didn’t come easily.
I elected to start my hike at Amicalola Falls, where many begin, as it is the official thru-hiker register point. On my way across the parking lot, someone caught my eye. A wide-eyed, cheerful-looking guy who was wearing a Packers hat and a University of Minnesota athletic shirt. I smiled, as I had just come from Minneapolis. Small world.
I didn’t see that kid again until Fontana Dam, some 182 miles in. His name was Bush Goggles and we ended up becoming great friends, hiking a lot of the trail together. Holed up in the Fontana shelter with a couple of others, we enjoyed some beer and spoke animatedly about heading into the Smoky Mountains. We all partied that night and had a raging fire next to the reservoir. Bush left the next morning with a couple of other guys. I had some chores to do in town and didn’t get going until the afternoon.
It rained solidly the next day so in order to get dry, a few of us decided to take an offer that the local church had posted on a tree for lodging. We stood around waiting by the road for a ride, wet and miserable, repeatedly failing to roll a cigarette in the damp conditions. Some British guy whom I had also met at Fontana called Fozzie, came strolling by under his umbrella, casually smoking a cigarette, as if he was walking the dog on a Sunday morning, and headed off into the woods.
“Fozzie!”I cried after him.
“Yeah?”
“A guy called Bush Goggles is down the trail. We’re staying at the church place. Tell him we ain’t gonna make camp tonight!”
There was a momentary pause as if he was digesting my statement.
“Who?”came a muffled reply from the trees.
“Bush Goggles!”I shouted.
“I’ll tell him!”
Dallas ‘Bush Goggles’Nustvold
My Grandpa spent his retirement scrapping and junking, which meant he would get old lawnmowers, refrigerators, bikes and the like and salvage the valuable metals. Spending lot of time helping him as a young boy, I thought it was so cool, like finding old treasure in trash. Occasionally he would take me to one of his friends’houses, where we would go through their junk and sometimes find valuable antiques. It was this initial grounding that gave me an eye to spot ‘treasure’. I used to watch shows like Time Team and nurtured the ambition to become Indiana Jones when I grew up.
I was also very adventurous and loved exploring the woods. Spotting animals such as a deer, watching an eagle soar or even just playing with plants were my other treasures. I was, and still am, awed by nature. When I was too young to get involved in any major adventure, I lived vicariously through some of the classics like Robinson Crusoe and The Count of Monte Cristo to feed my passion.
In high school my life changed somewhat after my Mom became sick. The doctors had no clue of a diagnosis for a long time but eventually they discovered she had lupus. It made me think about my life plans: did I just want to work until I became ill or died, or should I defy conformity and have some fun?
I read Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, which introduced me to the AT. The seed was planted but not watered, as I spent most of my time in college with my friends experimenting with drink, dabbling a little in drugs but mostly chasing women. I was lucky to be one of those annoying students who could skip class, barely do any reading and still get an A. Between semesters, I worked for my uncle’s environmental contracting company as a general laborer, busting down walls with a sledgehammer, removing hazardous waste and making some money. As I had no idea what to do after graduating, when he offered me a supervisory role running jobs and managing workers for a better salary, I jumped at the chance.
It was like being a kid again sometimes. Often I was the first into old buildings that had laid dormant for years, like dusty time capsules. As the guys worked, I went off exploring and found old beer bottles, newspapers, pictures and great items like electric fans from the 1920s. I’d take out the scrap copper and aluminum to make some extra cash. After nine months, I’d had enough and the desire to sprinkle a little water on that AT seed crept back into my imagination.
I really had no idea what I was getting into. I was familiar with the woods, having camped on short trips occasionally but never for more than a week. As at college, I did little research; in fact, my only preparation was to buy the gear I thought would do the trick and then ask my Mom if she could drive me the 18-hour trip to Georgia.
Her lupus was under control but she still fought daily battles against it. She was a huge inspiration in my life, and I had always appreciated what she had done, especially the encouragement she offered me to walk the AT.
It was to be the start of the most extraordinary journey of my life.
Chris ‘Juggles’Chiappini
It was August 3rd, 2000, and two minutes before I was due on stage at the World Juggling Championships in Montreal, Canada. My Dad was with me and I was nervous, of course I was nervous. I had competed the previous year at the same competition, hosted nearby at Niagara Falls, and earned bronze.
Part of my act was to close my hand around a juggling ball and wave a hand fan underneath, thereby releasing 3000 pieces of confetti. This entailed taping an extremely delicate cellophane ball filled with the confetti to the fan. It was ludicrously fragile; I felt that I needed only look in its vague direction and the cellophane would split, spilling the contents. I was sweating and shaking and aware that I shouldn’t grip the ball too tightly, and yet I needed to or it wouldn’t stick.
Chris, do you need some help?
No, Dad. I got it!
Eventually, with seconds to spare, I was ready.
I was ten years old when I first started juggling. I have no comprehension of what life can be like without this passion, it’s so ingrained in me. As a boy, I soon glimpsed where it could take me and it became my identity. It’s exceptionally difficult to learn but I picked it up quickly and realized that others enjoyed watching me. The praise I received made me feel great. Hearing applause as a kid feels marvelous, and the pleasure doesn’t diminish as an adult.
My dad always encouraged me, I think because he is an artist also (a musician). He is aware how tough carving a career in the arts can be, especially doingsomething as out of the ordinary as juggling, but at the same time it’s also hugely rewarding. Although he always inspired me, he never forced me to do anything, leaving me free to make my own choices.
Juggling is a solitary pastime. To achieve anything in the field requires thousands upon thousands of hours on your own, in a high-ceilinged room, constantly repeating the same trick until it becomes second nature. You have to push yourself mentally and physically to learn a new skill, or hold a trick for a long period of time. I never had a coach; I simply adhered to common practice principles and listened to those who were better than I was.
Josiah Jones finished his act and walked off stage towards me. He looked unhappy and rightly so, as his act had gone badly. In fact, it would have been better described as a train wreck: he dropped a lot of props. My name was announced and I looked at Dad, who just gave this smile that suggested he knew something that I didn’t. My heart was pounding so hard, and my breathing quickened as I wiped away more sweat. The audience applauded and time seemed to slow down as I walked, confidently, on to the stage.
Dad and I had taken advantage of every trick we could to gain a head start, even down to my costume of polished black shoes, smart pants and a red sequined shirt. I looked like a young version of Elton John. Dad had hired a local dance teacher to choreograph my movements through the eight-minute routine to three different songs. She also taught me little tricks that could make all the difference, like taking a comb from my pocket and running it through my hair while winking at the audience. I worked with balls, rings and clubs and varied the quantity of each.
It went well, the audience responded and my Dad smiled as I walked off behind the curtain. I was confident but not blasé, feeling I had given a better display than all the other acts. I had the least number of drops (two) and the highest skill technique. It had to be gold.
It may seem like a strange comparison, but juggling has much in common with thru-hiking: it demands physical and psychological strength and dedication, hours of repetitive action to arrive at a distant goal and toleration of a solitary existence. I have always loved the outdoors but, to be honest, it was the chance to be alone that appealed. Dedication and repetition I had already mastered.
I lived 30 minutes away from where the AT wanders through Harriman State Park in New York State. I had walked some sections many times, as well as making a failed attempt on the Long Trail in Vermont, which is 272 miles long. The AT was familiar, close to home and on the East Coast. I just felt as though I would be safe there.
Several times in my life elders have said to me, ‘Do what you want before you get married and have kids.’We’re brought up to think that you can go on an adventure if you’re still alive when the kids have grown up. I wasn’t buying any of it.
I did win gold at the World Juggling Championships that year, and now I’m 28, juggling for a living. As much as I love what I do, I had never known anything else, never taken up any other passion and milked it for all that it was worth.
So in the summer of 2011, needing a break from throwing balls in the air, I made the decision to thru-hike the AT, and in the spring of 2012 I found myself looking at a bronze plaque embedded in a rock on top of Springer Mountain, the start of the trail. I knew there were no medals for coming first. The only gold you achieve on the AT is for finishing.
Keith‘Fozzie’Foskett
The 1970s was a fantastic decade for interior design. Legendary wallpaper, majestic flooring and any item of furniture you longed for could be procured in bright orange. I was just a kid at the time but later in life, around 2008, I dove headlong into a 1970s revival for my lounge. The centre piece was an old British Telecom phone complete with old rotary dial, and even the small piece of card displaying the phone number and ‘Dial 999 Fire Police Ambulance’was still intact. Pop a finger in the right hole for each number and push it round to an unassuming chrome lip, where it winds back to position with a hissing sound I remembered from my childhood. The two-tone chocolate-coloured body and receiver were immaculate. The phone lived on a white plastic table with an orange lamp, which completed my retro look.
The only drawback was that the ringing was incredibly loud; it used to startle the hell out of me and my cat absolutely detested it. Invariably he was asleep on my lap if someone called and in a nanosecond he would flip over, look at me with insane, crazed eyes, then glare at the phone and arch his back ready to pounce upon and subsequently kill it.
One afternoon I arrived home, walked into the lounge, and found him fast asleep. This was not unusual, as you can imagine for a cat, but his location was. To my surprise, he had snuggled up on my white table, lovingly spooning the telephone. Now, I’m an animal lover, make no mistake, but it was just too good a chance to miss. I quietly reached into my pocket, pulled out my mobile phone and dialled the house number . . .
I’m telling you this to try and paint a picture, which in turn, I hope, will make a point. Great opportunities come along rarely. We don’t necessarily have to grab them when they do; indeed, it may not be the right time and they may present themselves again later. More often than not, we don’t take them because we are scared of what will happen if that path does not work out, despite somehow knowing that it will. Many of us go about our daily lives with no quibbles: we have accepted our lot, are happy with what we have and, fair enough, have no desire to change anything. On the flip side, many of us do feel stuck and lack the courage to change how we live. Paying a mortgage, feeding the kids and holding down a job are big enough challenges in themselves without taking the risk of attempting something that may not work.
Travelling, adventuring, undertaking an expedition, finding yourself, escaping, call it what you will, the number of people who are fleeing from the system has rocketed in recent years. The last generation’s acceptance of how we live is now being questioned and many don’t want any part of it. Thus, getting away from it, often into the wilderness, provides a chance for us to breathe, re-evaluate and make changes in our life.
Allow me to explain. Let’s assume that, when you pop out into this world, aged just a few minutes, you are able to read and possess the intelligence of an average adult. The swing doors of the delivery room squeak open and someone enters, dressed immaculately in a subtly-striped grey suit. I always imagine this individual as a woman. Her shirt is as smooth and white as copier paper, ironed to a crisp finish, with edges so precise you could cut a finger on them. Her hair is greased with visible comb lines like a furrowed field, which reflects the lights on the ceiling, before being pulled back hard into a tight ponytail, making her eyebrows lift somewhat. She wears little makeup save a weak, gothic white foundation and lurid red lipstick. Everything about this person screams perfection. Intimidated, you sense a feeling of authority that is about to impose restrictions on your life forever.
Instinctively, you accept the several sheets of paper she hands over and you notice the main header: Life Contract.
She lightly places a clenched hand over her mouth and clears her throat delicately, a little apologetically.
“I’m from Life Planning. This is all pretty standard stuff. I just need you to read through it quickly and sign at the bottom.”
She sits by your bed, a little too close for your liking, and shifts her stern gaze between you and the contract. You begin to read, or rather to scan to get the gist of the content. You begin to feel uncomfortable and yet you start to presume it’s all acceptable, like the terms of motor insurance. You summarise the content:
At five years of age you will start school, where you will stay until age 16. You may wish to choose further education, which we encourage. You will strive to achieve the best grades possible.
You will obey your teachers, peers and elders at all times.
Education complete, you will begin employment. This will last around 45 years; however, there are concessions such as four weeks’holiday a year, a company pension and possibly other incentives such as a subsidised cafeteria. You are expected to work hard for your employer, be punctual, work late at your own cost and get along with your colleagues. Moving jobs is frowned upon.
The country where you live is under control of a government, which passes laws you are expected to abide by, regardless of whether you or anyone else think them fair or not. You live in a democratic society but will have little input into how it is run. Every four years, you may vote for the incumbent party or another option that will be presented to you.
The government will deduct something called tax from your earnings. Depending on your salary, this could be as much as 45%. Goods and some services are also taxed. You have no real say in how these taxes are invested or spent.
In your early to mid-60s, assuming you have accrued enough pension funds, you may retire. It may well be possible that any annuity offered to you will not be sufficient to live on, in which case you will have to make your own arrangements to deal with the shortfall or possibly continue to work.
You are encouraged to get married and start a family. This will occupy a large proportion of your life, around 20 to 30 years as you bring up your children.
And so it goes on, and on, and on.
I ignore her eyes drilling into my side and her hovering hand offering a pen. I return her gaze, smile and hand the papers back.
“Nah, it’s OK, thanks. I’ll do my own thing.”
And ‘do my own thing’is pretty much what I have done. Of course I did my time at school and I have a day job when I’m not hiking. A lot of aspects associated with a conventional life I don’t care for and have little choice in, but I make changes constantly. I do what I have to. Work, for example, is solely a means to earn enough money to go and get lost in the great outdoors.
Some years ago I discovered thru-hiking and a monumental void in my life suddenly filled. Almost instantly, I found a freedom that had been missing. I could travel to a part of the world that appealed and disappear into the wilds for a few months, with everything I needed strapped to my back. My concerns in life during those months faded to nothing; the rules and regulations that I had constantly endured and battled with vanished.
Away from civilisation, I discovered a new pathway. Far from being oppressive, my surroundings were invigorating. I felt no restrictions but reveled in immunity. I felt energised, my thoughts became clear and precise, my direction in life clarified and my goals focused.
I felt liberated.