Questing Parson

My Wilderness Guides

It goes without saying. One should, if one desires to derive the most, engage the services of a competent guide when exploring unfamiliar wilderness. I desired to derive the most, and, consequently, I took advantage of a local guide service while exploring a portion of the western Connecticut wilderness the week of Thanksgiving. Luck was with me as two brothers, both familiar with the area I was to explore agreed to lead me through the forest.

Now I know some of us Southern folks, when thinking of those New England places, don't imagine forests populated by mighty trees with streams tumbling over rocks downward into quiet deepness through the fertile valleys. It's difficult to realize that just a hop, skip, and a jump, or more precisely a two hour car ride, from New York City there could be a postcard like rural, picturesque setting. Even in our most imagined historical scenes of colonial American farms with the rock walls bordering the pastures, we don't get the feel that today, in this 21^st Century, there remains in that place a wilderness to explore.

The Housatonic River is majestic as it flows south to southwest through western Connecticut. In the wilderness that borders its banks in various places the rock outcroppings are spectacular. The occasional erratic rock, one that doesn't belong where it is but was carried there by a glacier, gives hint to the massive forces of nature that carved these valleys eons ago. The trails through these gifts of nature are not all that difficult, but it takes a guide to enrich the journey with commentary.

And so, last week Sam and his brother, Owen, led me up the mountains and down into the valleys, through the rock formations, beside the flowing waters of the river and around the occasional hint of a previous human occupation. Both were familiar with the area, having walked these trails previously. Both were at home in the wilderness, and both, apparently, were delighted to have me sharing this experience with them.

Owen seemed to be more concerned for my well-being, in that, I, obviously, was a senior citizen. Often he'd move ahead of his brother and me, scouting out the trail that all was clear ahead. On more than one occasion he advised me of some difficult terrain and suggested alternative routes that would avoid them. He seemed at home in the forest as though pumped by the fresh air, the chilling breeze and the raw smell of nature.

Sam, seemed particularly intent on pointing out the various characteristics of acorns that were evident along the trail. At one point we reached a rock out cropping overlooking the Housatonic River. The view was spectacular. Down below a lone soul paddled his kayak up the river. History says we were sitting at the spot where the Native American daughter of a chief and her lover leaped to their death. Sam, undisturbed by the sacred spot, took time to point out the various aspects of an acorn.

Suddenly, he stood up and proclaimed. “I've got to pee.” He dropped his pants and proceeded to do so, oblivious of any others who might pass by on the trail. At that point Owen spoke up without any concern at his brother's dropped pants, and exclaimed, “Hey, Daddy Guy, come see this.”

I pulled up Sam's pants and with his two-year-old hand gripping my finger followed the older guide up the trail.

What Goes Down Must Come Up

The parson pulled into the parking lot at the Cul-de-Sac of Faith Church where Brad Edwards was pastor. Brad had been appointed there about two years ago. He was in his early forties and in his third appointment. The parson had taken a likening to Brad because of his dedication and servant attitude. He'd invited him to go hiking with him.

Brad was waiting. He bounded down the steps of the church and hopped into the car. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, stuck his nose between the seats and sniffed in an apparent effort to assure Brad was United Methodist. Satisfied, Charlie Brown plopped himself back down upon the seat with an audible grunt.

It was a forty-five minute ride to the parson's destination Cloudland Canyon State Park, situated in the very Northwest corner of Georgia. During the drive they talked of clergy gossip. Brad, who sought positions on area denominational boards, was in the know about much the parson did not know, nor at his age and retired status desired to know. Following that discussion the conversation turned to the bishop and his strengths and shortcomings. Brad was of the opinion the bishop spent too much time out of his area. The parson smiled a bit but said nothing.

As they turned into the entrance of the park, that was located on part of Cloudland Canyon. The parson reached over and withdrew his pass from the glove department. He hooked it on the rearview mirror support. They drove past the gate as the parson waved at the one who collected the fees. A couple of miles further the parson parked his car in the sun. He knew by the time they returned from the bottom of the canyon the car would be in the shade. He retrieved a garbage bag from the trunk. Then he opened the rear door, slipped the walking harness over Charlie Brown's head, wrapped the restraint around his chest, fastened it and said, “Okay.” Charlie Brown leaped from the car and immediately headed toward the trail that led to the bottom of the canyon.

Brad walked along beside the parson still talking of the happenings among the clergy of the area. Charlie Brown lead the way, pausing only to mark the trail as his own. Down they went, down. The path continued down. Finally they arrived at the steps. The park long ago had constructed metal steps that protected the erosion the many hikers caused and made the trek a bit more compatible. Down, down the steps they went. Finally, at the bottom, with Brad huffing and Charlie Brown pulling on his leash, the arrived at the lower falls. They sat on the benches built into the platform that looked out onto the falls. The parson sat the trash bag to the side, now partially filled with the litter he'd picked up along the way.

“Whew,” said Brad, “that was quite a trek. When you said I could tag along, Parson, I didn't know it was this long a hike.”

“Well, look at it his way, Brad,” said the parson, “we've finished half of it already.”

Brad smiled and said, “Well, that's true. You know, I didn't know I was this much out of shape.”

They talked a little more, drank some water and headed back to the canyon's rim. About a third of the way up, Brad asked is they could stop for a minute. Charlie Brown, feeling the tension on his leash, turned and stared at Brad. The parson and Brad rested on a bench the park rangers had placed at intervals along the way. Charlie Brown plopped down on the ground with an audible grunt.

“You know, Parson,” said Brad, “you're evil.”

“I'm evil?”

“Yeah. When you made that remark about we'd done half the hike you knew the last half was a thousand feet straight up.”

The parson chuckled, “I did, Brad, I did. But if you remember I warned you when we talked about this.”

“I remember, but I didn't have a point of reference. Now I know better.”

“It's just one foot in front of the other until you get to the top.”

Brad stood. “I guess we'd better keep going. I'm going to get cramped up if we don't.”

They continued their hike up and up using the steps for the steepest part. But, as Brad would count, there was over nine hundred steps.

At the canyon's rim, they paused and looked out over the fall foliage. Brad turned to the parson, “You're almost twice my age. You do this every other week? Why?”

“Because I can, Bard. Because I can.”

A Perfect Day

Consistent was the day. The morning was quiet and progressed toward noon with a quiet, slow progress. The parson willingly and effortlessly synced himself with the day, his countenance reflecting its ease and peace.

Noontime announced the continued march of time, but the day moved still slowly forward. The parson closed the now finished John Grisham novel, rose from his chair and headed to the kitchen. There cucumbers, tomatoes, onions and a few beans were chopped, tossed into a skillet, doused with raspberry blush vinegar and cooked slowly as the parson dished a spoonful of leftover sausage casserole on a plate and placed it in the microwave.

The parson ate the meal as he began reading E. Brooks Hollifield's book on the history of the clergy in America. Long after the meal was consumed the parson continued to read, the laid back day seemingly refusing to intrude. The end of chapter three was punctuated by the arrival of mid-afternoon.

With no particular rush the parson rose, gathered the plates and skillet into the sink and began to wash and rinse. Task completed, the parson retrieved a dishcloth and began to dry. Nothing more pressing was occupying the day.

Mid-afternoon began an imitation of morning, each hour content to dwell as long as possible before the arrival of the next.

“Come,” said the parson. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, rose from his resting place, extended his front legs forward and attempted to move his back into a “U” shape. Straightening his back he then extended his back legs outward, one after the other. Stretched, he moved to the door and waited for the parson to put on his sweater.

The walk in the woods behind the parson's house was leisurely. Only Charlie Brown's occasional break from sniffing and marking to dart here and there gave contrast to the day's settled pace. Even the wind seemed hesitant to rustle the leaves.

Eventually, despite the reluctance of its happening, the blazing red prelude gave way to darkness' insistence on closing the door to the sky. Day was gone. Night, however, moved no faster.

Even with night as uneventful as day, the parson face a choice. He could watch the salmon bake in the oven or search for something to watch on Hulu. He chose Hulu.

Charlie Brown approached, placed his left paw on the parson's knee and made a long, low, growling sound. The parson's choice was now interrupted by Charlie Brown's never-to-be-denied appetite.

Eventually, the hours moved close to tomorrow. The parson moved down the hall to the bedroom. He pulled the cellphone from his pocket to plug it into the charger. He stared. Realization brought understanding.

A meeting the night before prompted the parson to power off the phone. Only now did he turn it on. There were seven text messages and fifteen voice mails. The parson read and listened. Nothing was urgent. He looked at the clock. There was time to respond to a few. The parson paused. He pondered the messages and he pondered his day.

Placing the phone on the table beside the bed, he plugged it into the charger, looked at Charlie Brown and said, “Why ruin a perfect day?”