- Miles 958.7-972.1 (13.4 mi.)
- Total ascent: 2241′; descent: 3917′
Today was one of those days I wish I had more to say about.
I hope I didn’t fail to pay attention or to appreciate. I worry about encroaching normalcy: views I don’t bother to see because I’ve seen so many, sore feet that become injured because soreness is constant. What a shame it would be to let something I saved and planned and trained for become quotidian.
Normalcy is always more flexible than it seems. A good example is pooping in the woods, which Rachel suggested holds a lot of people back from hiking.
I began to say it would be ridiculous to let such a small part of the experience stand in the way, until I realized it might be me whose perspective is ridiculous. Pooping anywhere but in a toilet is, at a minimum, weird, if not outright taboo in America.
I don’t want to lose sight of what’s weird to others. I already feel as if everyone else received some instruction manual to life that God decided I didn’t need to see. It’s easier for me to put the furnishings together when I can see how others are doing it.
Recognizing weird is the first step to embracing weird, which is really a euphemism for leaning into curiosity. For something that comes so naturally to children, staying curious can be surprisingly tough to do as an adult.
I did, if I think about it, see all sorts of non-normal things worthy of wonder today. I saw two parent-child deer couples, including a fawn frozen in the underbrush with its eyes locked on Rachel, and a lazy rat snake. Just before crossing the northern boundary of Shenandoah, I met a natural resources expert on a hike in order to spot invasive plants. She pointed out garlic mustard, which I noticed crews had been spraying earlier, as a particular problem in the park.
The joys out here, and probably in the wider world, are either comforts or curiosities. How great it feels to add another plant to my knowledge bank, and how equally great it is to simply sit in this hotel desk chair.
I must be willing to write about the mundanities as well as the curiosities on this trip. I struggled to start this post because I felt I had nothing new to share, save for getting out of Shenandoah and into Front Royal, but I found upon “just starting” (a great trick for a writer) that I had lots to say.
One goal I have for this blog is to give my readers a sense of both: of the weirdness — the orange newts and naked guys hugging rocks and Tyvek clothing — and of day-to-day life out here. Much of the fun is found in things that feel silly to document, like simply walking on a bed of pine needles or drinking cold water from a spring.
I respect nature writers enormously for attempting to share those small joys in words, knowing they’d be scorned with stuffy phrases like “weak narrative arc.” To be able to do that sort of descriptive lifting is impressive in a place that, to a lazy eye, doesn’t change.
The lazy eye isn’t curious or aware or appreciative. It tells the brain that, unless it’s chased by the tiger, there’s nothing worth reporting.
The figurative eye is as muscle-bound as the literal one. Training it is a matter of challenging oneself to notice and understand ever more deeply, just as a physical muscle grows stronger with progressive resistance. Also like a muscle, it needs rest.
I will make more effort to describe “normal” on the AT not just because it’s good writerly exercise, but because I suspect it actually is interesting enough to discuss.
The reality is, even Annie Dillard can’t describe a creek well enough to hold every reader’s attention. But never does she let a slow day stifle her curiosity, and that’s an accomplishment just about all of us would do well to appreciate.
