When you are going out into the woods, it’s a good idea to call someone (your wife, a friend, the answering machine at work) and let them know where you are going and when you expect to be back. When you are going into the woods in the general vicinity of a location where people have disappeared, it’s an even better idea to call someone (your wife, a friend, the law.) The trick is to remember to do this at some point prior to the loss of cell service. Failing that, I recommend taking along a kilt. And if you have tattooed arms, wear a sleeveless shirt. Crazy people don’t like to mess with crazy people. That would be crazy.
So it was with this theory in play that I set off on a kilt run to commemorate the 37th anniversary of my birth. 37 is worth celebrating; it’s a pretty good number. (Nice subtle frames in that site, btw.) There are, for instance, 37 miracles in the Bible. On the other hand, you have to be under 37 to apply for a job with the Secret Service. I’d still take a bullet for the President. Preferably in a finger or something. Somewhere noticeable so that people would ask, “Hey, what happened?” and I would say, “Oh, no big deal. Took a bullet for the President.” and they would say, “Which one?” and I would say, “Heston.” Maybe they would not get it, but I’d be filled with the ironic glory of it all. So, being 37 does not mean that such a thrill would be denied to me.
That is, if I make it out of the woods alive, which is none to sure as of this point because in addition to crazies, we have snakes to consider. Not that I considered them before setting out, but the first one I came across (kingsnake, dead) made me suspicious of each large stick I approached on the ground. In the end there was only one other (also a kingsnake, living). But still, that was a whole other thing to think about.
Which really got into the middle of my mind when I reached the first crossing of the North Fork of the Mills River. I knew I would be crossing the river (ok, creek but you have to give us a break up here. We don’t have much for big rivers.) The whole point of being on a kilt run is to get nasty and do some sick climbing and all that. So here was the nasty part, but I kept remembering the first river crossing in Lonesome Dove and how that kid got bitten to death by snakes. Well, it was either going to be a kilt run or it wasn’t, so I tightened the laces on my shoes and started across the creek.
Truth is, no cold blooded snake in his right mind is going to spend three seconds in the North Fork of the Mills River regardless of how tasty the crazies in their kilts might look. A viper would catch his death of cold hanging out in that water. It was probably a better place than the tall grass to avoid reptilian contact. I emerged from the other side aware that the true run had begun and grateful that I had not exchanged my thin wicking socks for something thicker and cotton. Much to my surprise, the water gushed from my shoes and allowed me to spring down the trail.
On either side were ferns that shone almost luminescent in the overcast day. This is their season as well as that of the new growth of rhododendron and mountain laurel. I ran through tunnels of each and what remains of majestic stands of hemlock. Each stream crossing provided a cool, clear boost to my feet and my spirits. Having circled back to the path which brought me down to the river in the first place, I ascended, climbing away from the bottoms.
It was not time for this run to be over. I wanted to linger by the river. I wanted to feel my hamstrings strain against the climb some more. I wanted to glide down the final descent for two or three more switchbacks. It had only been 90 minutes, but this was supposed to be a recovery run anyway. To finish with a longing to do more is something to be grateful for, I suppose, as is not getting bitten by adders or abducted by crazies. Not to mention having an epic start to the coming year.