REACHING NEW HEIGHTS

REACHING NEW HEIGHTS

“Many waters cannot quench love; neither can rivers drown it.  If a man tried to buy love with everything he owned, his offer would be utterly despised.”  Song of Songs 8:7, NLT

Our 25^th anniversary was at hand and some generous family members joined resources to send us to the hills of West Virginia.  Not that they were trying to get rid of us, or anything. Their initial plan was an anniversary party, which I successfully squelched after discovering my not-so-subtle mother perusing the October family calendar on my refrigerator.  I still maintain that relief was her dominant emotion when she called me to share how appalled she was at my ruination of her surprise.

We left in good time, early on a Friday afternoon.  Imagining that West Virginia was just the tiny blip of state through which we passed on the way to Harrisonburg, Virginia, I was wretchedly mistaken.  Apparently the state continues off to the west in a most disorganized fashion.  At least it felt disorganized to those of us who originally imagined it to be a tiny blip.  I was thinking it would take us maybe four hours from home.  Six hours later we were still traversing the winding roads in search of our destination.  And we hadn’t taken any wrong turns.  I was somewhat unprepared for the stark lack of civilization.  Not that the West Virginians are uncivilized.  It is just that the buildings marking their civilization are so few and far between.  There was one particular stretch of road which seemed to go on forever.  And in the creepy darkness it seemed even more vacant.  After miles and miles of nothing but shadows, we noticed a great illumination off in the distance.  It looked large and it was lit up like a birthday cake.  There it was- large, glowing, and sitting in the middle of nowhere.  Predictable, yet depressing.  A WalMart.

The final 8 miles were the most ridiculous of all.  We were to turn left onto Smoke Hole Road.  And we did.  As the car climbed, my ears began to pop. Jim started talking about how this might be a perfect setting for a horror film or disturbing novel, thus causing me to become further creeped out by the lack of humanity in our immediate surroundings.  We had lost cell phone service about 90 minutes earlier so nobody would answer if I dialed 911.  And then the meandering began.  My steering wheel has never before seen so much action.   The word serpentine does not do it justice.  And in the dark it was unsettling to imagine that with one false turn of the wheel we’d be off the edge.  The only sight we came upon during our ascent up Smoke Hole Road was a gathering or two of tarps, tents and vehicles.  We later discovered that the tents did not contain weekend campers, but big game hunters. These outdoorsmen were apparently trying to get a jumpstart on hunting season which was to begin just two short hours after our arrival at the Inn.  Squirrel season to be exact.  The cute little furry buggers who steal the bird seeds from the feeders my back porch.  My floofy-tailed friends.  An apparent meat source.  Go figure.

Finding the sign at the end of the driveway, we climbed the impressive hill with tires spinning and no small amount of uncertainty. It was so very dark.  And late.  We were nothing short of ecstatic to reach our destination and find not just a comfortable place to lodge, but a beautiful inn with a very welcoming innkeeper.  Her name was Carol and she was like a Mom waiting at the end of a long school day.  She even came with a jar of homemade cookies.  And we had our very own hideaway cabin for the weekend.  With a swing on the porch and a quilt on the bed.

So as the weekend progressed and despite nearly reaching 900 miles from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening, all went well.  Delicious food by Chef Ed (Carol’s husband and resident culinary expert), neighborhood herds of deer visiting to receive handfuls of corn from the tourists (including us), amazing scenery with jagged rocks, beautiful leaves changing and transforming the mountains into a blaze of color, and a plan to visit our son for dinner on Saturday night.  

On Saturday morning after breakfast, we decided to venture up into the woods on a trail which would connect to the Monongahela National Park trails.  There was a nice little path to follow which exited the lovely herb garden at the inn.  The hike would be about 4 miles roundtrip, following a marked trail with red indicators and cairns, snaking over to an old logging road and then picking up the blue trail farther up the mountain.  I could do that, no problem.  We packed our little bag and set off.  It didn’t take long to realize that we were going up a lot more than we were going down.  And the going up got old quick.  At least for me.  Gravity is not my friend.  When I begin to whine, Jim is generally pretty good at not whining.  We balance each other well after all this time.  So I’m not sure if I was the only wimp who was hiking that day, but I strongly suspect that I was.  I’d like to believe that I’m in relatively good shape for a woman who has been married for 25 years.  That theory was tested at several points during the hike.  These were a few moments during which I would refuse to continue, landing on the nearest moss-covered rock to fix my errant socks, or to speak of my misery to Jim.  He, in turn, listened with practiced patience while cheerfully remarking about how amazing the scenery was….how much he was enjoying the hike…. “well, we can go back if you want to”…. blah blah blah….  I tried to hear his optimism but it was difficult to aspire to his hopefulness with my heart pounding so loudly in my ears.  Yes, there were rest stops.  All for me.  By the time we nearly reached the summit, I had startlingly clocked my heart at about 160 beats per minute.  I’ve got a pretty speedy resting heart rate normally, but 160 beats is just plain preposterous.  Not to be outdone by a mountain on a beautiful day or worse yet by my glaring athletic deficiency, I pressed on.  Of course the pressing on involved saying things to myself like, “I am SO never hiking this mountain again!”  But I persisted just the same.  Despite my discomfort.  Despite the overwhelming desire to go back to the inn and jump in the hot tub.  Despite the fact that there were no prudent cardiac warnings posted at the trailhead on the bottom of the mountain. 

And finally at the top was my reward.  Jim suggested we depart from the marked trail and look over the side of the mountain.  And as usual, he was right.  It was amazing, breathtaking and beautiful.  We saw huge birds soaring, valleys of green lush grass and water, and competing mountains of colorful trees looking like so many big bowls of Trix cereal.  We spotted two black bear and they were gratefully far enough away as not to cause increased distress to my overtaxed heart.  Jim insisted upon climbing the approximately three-story rock pile we discovered down the trail.  And I tried not to watch since the rock pile was skirting the mountain precisely at the point of severe drop-off to certain death.  He stood at the top calling and waving happily as though it were perfectly normal to risk life and limb without one’s proper climbing shoes. 

It mercifully happened that the hike took a turn for the better when we started down the hill. In fact, Jim noted my remarkable trailblazing skills when going downhill.  He was practically eating my dust.  And it was in close proximity to the bottom when I realized that the 4 mile hike needed a new name.   I believe strongly that the hike should be renamed ‘Childbirth Hike..’  I suggested this to the innkeeper because as I advanced to the top, I would have sworn never to do this EVER AGAIN, but by the time we reached the bottom, I was pleased and overcome with what a “lovely walk” we had just taken. 

And now since I’ve forgotten the pain I might just do it again. Just like a relationship.  There were years along our marriage trail when I was ready to give up because it felt too hard.  But you find out that the downhill climb is not only easier, it’s actually quite fun compared to those early years.  It is true that the things you found adorable while dating will make you insane after a few years together.  But if you stick to the plan and focus on the commitment rather than the way your heart is racing or the miserable way you sometimes feel, those things that were driving you crazy will probably make you smile again.  (Maybe a shaking your head with a sigh smile - but a smile just the same.)  And you discover that the one you married is just the one you want to be with when all the dust settles.   Another 25 years sounds good to me.