PCT Day 109
September 20, 2016 Zero Miles We’ve decided to take a zero day. Roadside needs a new backpack, I need new hiking poles (one of mine has broken along the way), and the nearest REI is in Portland. Despite the approaching winter, despite the feeling that we’ve been taking too much time anyway, we just want to take a zero day. First things first. Breakfast. I hit up facebook to see if any of my friends are willing to drive us there or back so we don’t have to hitch. I’m surprised to find that I actually have a lot of friends living in Portland, though I’ve never lived there myself. Then we check into the Best Western across the street. It’s a nicer hotel and doesn’t cost all that much more. Our rooms aren’t actually available yet, so the lady at the front desk lets us keep our packs behind the counter. My friend Nathan’s partner Tanya has generously offered to give us a ride. I’ve only met her once before, when Lindsey and I stayed with them for a week last January. It’s incredibly nice of her to take time out of her schedule to do this, knowing me as little as she does. We help ourselves to the lobby coffee while we wait. When she shows up she greets me with a warm hug. I’ve showered this morning, but my clothes have captured months of hiker smell and I’m self-conscious. Riding down in her car is surreal. We talk about Nathan, who is one of my oldest friends and is away on a work trip, and her kids. It doesn’t feel at all like I’m on a Grand Adventure, it feels like I’m just riding in a friend’s car on our way to go grab some lunch. I forgot how easy this feels, to sit in a car and talk. Soon this hike will be over, and I can get back to this easy life. But is that what I want? Tanya drops us off close to the REI. They aren’t open yet, so we walk a few blocks to Rogue brewery for an early lunch. When we return to REI, it’s open but nearly empty. I find a pair of lightweight aluminum poles quickly, but Roadside takes a little longer to try on different packs and get the fit right. I take a seat on a bench near the window and look through the glass at people walking by. I imagine that I am at a zoo or an aquarium, looking at the strange creatures behind the glass. There are only two species that I see: the ones that are in a hurry, and the ones that are walking with their heads down, buried in their phones. I can’t find a single person who looks like they are enjoying themselves. Emerson said “Cities force growth and make men talkative and entertaining, but they make them artificial.” Hustle is just another form of artificiality. We hustle to avoid despairing at the artificial world we’ve constructed around us, to rush through the discomfort and get on to the next thing. The problem is, once we get ourselves into that habit, we begin to rush through the enjoyable parts of life, too. To slow down would force us to look at the deep scars we’ve allowed into our lives. Yet that same hustle only serves to dig the scars deeper, build the walls around us higher. The only way out is to stop and let ourselves heal, to confront the damage we have done to ourselves and refuse to inflict it any more. How is it, I wonder, that I see this so clearly now, when I spent so many years thrashed about by the tides of civilized society? I come up with two answers: solitude, which allowed me out of the status trap, and wilderness, which allowed me to see the connectedness inherent in the world. Disconnected, it is easy to forget our own value, but in a truly efficient system, every piece has value. If we can focus on our intrinsic, underlying value as human beings, I think, it makes it more difficult to return to the self-harm that civil society tricks us into thinking is “normal.” We begin to see the lie when we do things like work ourselves to the bone, consume as much as possible, and entertain ourselves into oblivion. Roadside startles me out of my reveries and asks if I’m ready to go. We check out and step outside. “What do you want to do now?” he says, as we begin to walk without purpose or hurry. We have a couple hours until my friend Chris can meet us. I try to think through options. It seems like we should have many, in a big city like Portland, but all I can come up with is the bookstore, and I don’t want to carry more books. “How about food?” I suggest. I’m not hungry yet, but I know I will be soon. We find another nearby brewery called Ten-Barrel where we eat and drink and talk about nothing. Nowhere to be, nothing to do. Chris calls and invites us to meet us at Trinity Episcopal Church, where he works as an organist. He needs to do some practicing for an upcoming recital, and his girlfriend is going to meet us in an hour; do we mind the wait? I met Chris when my wife was getting her Master’s degree in early music from Indiana University. He was getting his doctorate in Organ Performance, and had started dating a soprano who was a good friend of my wife. The four of us often got together for drinks after concerts and recitals, and we enjoyed their company. Chris was affable and genuine. He was also an incredible organist. I don’t mind the wait at all. In fact, I am looking forward to the private concert. We walk several blocks to the church, where Chris unlocks the gates and lets us in. He takes us on a brief tour of the old church. I am tempted to walk the labyrinths, a particular type of walking meditation that I have always loved, but we continue on into the sanctuary, where he invites us to take a seat while he finishes practicing. The organ takes up an entire wall of the massive sanctuary, and fills it with bone-shaking sound. We are treated to Bach, Buxtehude, and several modern composers who show off the incredible power and beauty of the instrument. Recorded music has the same relationship to live music as a picture of a landscape does to walking it, to feeling the rocks and roots under your feet, smelling the pine and dirt, enjoying the fire in your muscles as you work to climb a hill. No recorded music, no matter how well-produced, will ever scramble reality, seep into your cells, vibrate your soul, juice your emotions, and turn the world upside down like a live performance. Listening to a practice session can be especially enjoyable, because you can hear the truth behind the notes, the ethereal something that the player is reaching for, better than if they play the passage only once. Participating in the music is best of all, of course, but the next best thing is listening to a solid musician truly practice. While we sit there in the pews, I realize that Roadside probably doesn’t have access to this level of listening, and I am sad for him. He likely has his own masteries that I can’t access in the same way he can, and it doesn’t make me better than him in any way, but I can’t help but feel like he must be missing a piece of life. Chris finishes his practice session and we meet his girlfriend Kate in the parking lot. Roadside is mostly quiet on the way back, but the conversation among the rest of us makes the drive pass quickly. When we arrive, Roadside goes back to the hotel and the three of us go down to Thunder Island Brewing company for dinner. We have a great time talking and listening as a nearby table asks another thru-hiker, who I haven’t met, all about his hike. When it’s time for Chris and Kate to go, I’m sorry to see them leave. I walk back up the hill to the hotel and spend the rest of the evening talking to Lindsey on the phone.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
Author
Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
Categories |