Alice In Wonderland (part IV)

Alice gets through the rehearsals without much problem. It’s when the pressure’s on, that Alice becomes a little fragile. And she’s also mean, and more than a little surly. All the other cast members feel this. Alice’s ego can wreak havoc. But Alice is the star, and she’s been in this Adventure ever since she was a child. Everyone on the set knows their place and they know that Alice is the diva here. At least she thinks she is, whatever it takes to make Alice happy. Of course, Alice is never happy. Louis Comfort always feels the brunt of this, because Louis Comfort was the creator and the force behind the production. Lewis Carroll just took credit for the prose.
And Alice drank her bourbon and smoked her cigarettes. Sliding down the glass menagerie that she saw as a “Rabbit Hole.” Alice always made it look so easy, not that she ever made things easy. Alice was Alice, after all. And The Burning Man was The Burning Man. And everyone was in the desert and trying to survive the elements. But the show must go on, and Alice has been doing this for a while. She grinds herself down. Alice puts her game face on and steals the show. She becomes the darling of The Burning Man Festival. She slides down the “Rabbit Hole” with grace and wisdom, befitting so many years of experience. And when the productions over, Alice is a mess.
I arrive with my Grandmother in tow, who’s not very excited about The Burning Man Festival. The desert doesn’t agree with her, after all she is quite elderly and becoming a child again. And she still doesn’t believe that Alice is the real Alice. She still believes that Alice in Wonderland is complete fiction.
Louis Comfort knows it’s not fiction. He knows because he made the damn thing. Alice in Wonderland was his creation. The “Rabbit Hole” was one of his sculptures. Lewis Carroll was too busy doing his math problems to understand about true fantasy. When Alice in Wonderland played at The Burning Man Festival, the real Alice arrived. And she played her part like the “old pro” that she was, which then landed her a six-week stint in Vegas. Alice is making top dollar and getting her money up front. She drinks her cheap bourbon and smokes her cigarettes. Alice is perfect for Vegas. She’s has been playing fantasy for a while, and the show goes on every night. Alice puts her game face on and makes it happen. She makes Vegas work for her. She’s still mean and surly, which is just the way it is. Watch out for Alice.
I watch out for my Grandmother. She’s an elderly woman, a woman that’s slowly becoming a child again. And my Grandmother knows Alice because I introduced her. She even saw the production at The Burning Man Festival. But she still doesn’t believe that Alice in Wonderland was for real. And what she does know about the Adventures of Alice, she thinks she learned from Lewis Carroll. And my Grandmother’s wrong about this, because Louis Comfort was really the creator of Alice in Wonderland. It’s Louis Comfort that deals with Alice, and keeps her sliding down the “Rabbit Hole. And Alice is Alice after all, which is never easy on anyone.

Alice In Wonderland (part III)

Lewis Carroll was nothing more than a mathematician disguised as a writer. His clever word rhymes were always a little corny. His writings were always a little too precise. The math mind can do funny things in the world of literature. He certainly didn’t have anything to do with Alice’s Adventures, even though he had always received credit. It was really the glassmaker that made the story such a great story. Louis Comfort created Alice. He made Alice who she is, which has always been a bone of contention. Alice is now a bitter woman. She’s a drunken woman, and a mean woman, and not anything like what she used to be. She’s gruff and cagey, and she likes her money upfront. Alice doesn’t have Adventures for free anymore.
Spending a lifetime trapped in fantasy has taken a toll. Poor Alice now has a hard time being herself. She’s been dressed up as Alice in Wonderland for so long, she no longer knows who the real Alice is. She’s tired and ready to call it a career, ready to walk away while still on top, or down, or wherever the hell Alice is these days. She’s drunk and mean, and usually hacking on her cigarette smoke. Don’t cross Alice, because Alice will fight back. Playing Alice in Wonderland for a lifetime would take a toll on any actress. If Louis Comfort had known things would be so difficult, he may have created something entirely different for Alice. His fantasy had come at the hands of Alice’s demise. Poor Alice had become lost in the fantasy, or maybe it was the bourbon and the cigarettes, or the other things that Alice did to make herself feel better.
And now a West Coast producer wants to bring the show to The Burning Man Festival. They are willing to pay top dollar to bring Louis Comfort, and Alice, and the “Rabbit Hole,” into the desert. Alice will have to work hard on this gig. She’s going to be tired and grumpy. Luckily, she’s an “old pro.” They’re going to put Louis’ glass into the desert and see what happens. This will be Alice’s swan song. Or so Alice tells me, when she calls to invite me, insisting that I bring my elderly Grandmother. My Grandmother still doesn’t believe that Alice is real.
Alice in Wonderland is very real and on a West Coast swing. They’re putting on the full production out in the desert. And I know that poor Alice is just trying to hold it all together. Alice has never been to The Burning Man Festival. She’s not quite sure what she’s up against. She has a case of bourbon and ten cartons of cigarettes. She’s ready. She’s able and willing to go that extra mile, even if it is out in the desert. Like I said, Alice is an “old pro.” Just don’t cross Alice, and stay away from her when she’s drunk.

Alice In Wonderland (part II)

Louis Comfort worked away in his Tiffany Studio. He pieced together a masterpiece, hoping that Alice would be impressed. Of course, Alice was never impressed. She would sit in her own cigarette smoke with a sourpuss scowl. Perhaps it was the circumstance of being typecast as a one-dimensional actress. Poor Alice could only play herself. She could only recreate her own Adventures, playing a role she had had since childhood.
And now, Alice was haggard, and old, and beaten down. Her life had been spent in Theatres of all shapes and sizes. Her role had taken her just about everywhere. The fantasy pulled her towards every corner of the world. And every night she would slide down the “Rabbit Hole,” while smoking her cigarette and more than a little drunk on cheap bourbon. Every night Alice would recreate her own Adventures.
Alice’s story was a good story, the main reason she had been typecast for so long. At this point in her life, the fantasies were real fantasies. At least she thought they were. Even though it was quite obvious that her mind played tricks on her. Maybe it was the bourbon, or the cigarettes, or just all of those years on the road, but poor Alice had sort of lost it, and nothing seemed to make her happy.
Louis Comfort was a brilliant man. The way he pieced together the glass was incredible. The leaded glass was always thick and colorful. And the glass made a perfect ramp for Alice. The way he curved the leading made a natural slide. And Alice was fragile and demented. She would always think it was a real “Rabbit Hole.” The production was ornate and gaudy, and quite the task for an Artist. The “Rabbit Hole” was nothing more than Louis Comfort reaching for his potential.

Alice In Wonderland

The truth was revealed to me in a dream. Lewis Carroll never had time to write Alice in Wonderland. He never had the desire. It was Louis Comfort who made the damn thing. He was building his colored glass, when he thought of Alice. He documented a true story that My Grandmother always told me was fantasy. And now she’s quite elderly and slowly becoming a child again. Yet, she still doesn’t realize that Alice in Wonderland was for real.
Of course, this was before I knew who actually constructed Alice’s Adventures, and back before I knew Alice. Lewis Carroll was busy solving math problems with his literature, while Louis Comfort was becoming much more than another Tiffany Artist. This is even before my Grandmother’s time. This is back before the days of The Burning Man Festival. Back before Alice spiraled into the “Rabbit Hole,” which would eventually make her a household name. That “Rabbit Hole” wasn’t even a real “Rabbit Hole.” It was a glass menagerie constructed in the Tiffany Studio of Louis Comfort.
Louis actually built Alice’s Adventures out of glass, his own glass. He would piece together the stained glass for Alice. Of course, Alice was a different sort in those days. This was before fame forced Alice into the closet and out of the limelight. This was well before Alice started smoking three packs a day. Well before she developed a taste for low quality bourbon. Back before she started yelling at everyone, and her fantasy became replaced with wilted nerves.
Alice had many miles beneath her swollen feet and the lines in her face were cut with age. She had not aged gracefully. Her years on the road were tough years, with hard living, and bouncing from highways and hotels. Only her Adventures had continued untarnished, captured into the glass menagerie of Louis Comfort’s creation. Lewis Carroll had disappeared from the scene all together. Of course, he never had time for such nonsense. His fantasies never seemed to take him very far. Who would have thought you could make an adventure out of glass?

Kathleen's Killer (part VI)

The madman then fell to the ground, rolling around in agony. I kept the pistol upon him, ready to fire a second shot if need be.
The grizzly creature rolled around on the ground in serious pain. I had shot him in the leg, in the knee actually, knocking him down and keeping him at bay. I held the gun upon the killer and then out of nowhere, The Police descended from just about everywhere. Almost like they had been hiding in the brush all along. They arrested the suspect and took Marlene’s gun away from me. They took him away, and then took me into custody as well. They wanted to understand why, exactly, was I in the woods looking for a murderer.
I told them that I was nothing more than a man facing his own clairvoyance. The Police thought I was crazy, and they may very well be correct. But the killer was now captured. Eventually, he was sentenced to life in prison, sent away with a noticeable limp. I eventually collected the reward money for capturing Kathleen’s Killer. And I proved to myself that my sixth sense really does exist. I came to terms with my own clairvoyance. I felt the evil in the forest. Poor Kathleen lost her life, and then her killer escaped into the woods. He put his eyes upon me and I felt him close to me. And then I faced the fear and my sixth sense saved the day. I have now taken the woods back for myself. I can enjoy the peace and serenity and all that nature offers me. My campfire can now burn big and bright again, and I can find peace in my own solitude, and that sixth sense will stay buried deep within.

Kathleen's Killer (part V)

Grandiosity rolls around in me like electricity. The megalomaniac in me rises to the surface, while the twigs continue to crunch beneath my feet. I slowly transform into the predator that I need to be. I transform into the hunter that lives within. Digging into myself for strength and for self-preservation. Of course, I know that I’m crazy to be out here. I know that my ego may be writing checks that are not really worth anything. And I know that I could very well lose my life.
The trail twists and turns around the contour of Mount Worth. The trees hide the trail and cover what lay beyond. This does not work in my favor. I may very well surprise. But then again, this killer may very well surprise me. I follow the trail all the way to the top of the mountain, where there’s a small cabin nestled in the brush. I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck. I’m scared, because I feel like I may have very well have discovered the lair of a murderer. I’m out here hunting for a killer that deep down, I really hope I don’t find. This small cabin feels creepy. My sixth sense feels the uneasiness, as my clairvoyance rises to the surface.
I hide in the brush for a moment. Now that I’ve actually found what I’m looking for, I’m not quite sure what to do. I feel a panic rise in me. I’m scared and want to run away. Maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake coming to terms with my sixth sense. Maybe, clairvoyance is nothing but a funny feeling that should have been kept to myself.
And just as I’m about to backtrack and reevaluate, the cabin door swings wide and a grizzly creature stumbles into the open. His thick gray beard looks disheveled and his wild hair is matted. He looks unkempt, and he looks crazy, and he looks dangerous. He moves towards me without knowing that I’m right in front of him. I move quickly and confront the madman.
“Don’t Move!” I yell with a deep ferocity that startles even me.
The grizzly, looking man grumbles and snarls something that is unrecognizable. His clothes are covered in muck. He’s dirty and his eyes are beady. He feels of pure evil. The hair remains standing upon the back of my neck as I confront the creature.
“Get down on the ground and don’t move!” I yell, sounding very much like a Police Officer taking a prisoner into custody. I sound like a man who has seen one too many episodes of Law and Order.
The madman snarls and hisses and then lunges at me. I pull my gun and point the pistol at the murderer. He sees my gun, but continues moving towards me. What happened next, happened without proper time to reflect and contemplate. I fired Marlene’s pistol at the madman. First closing my eyes, mostly because I was unsure about what I was doing. Although I sounded like a Police Officer, I was most definitely not. I was not fluent in the use of a firearm. I pulled the trigger out of self-defense. The gun exploded and recoiled, with the explosion knocking me back.

Kathleen's Killer (part IV)

The Forest rises into a mountain when I get towards the back of Bingo Brook Road. I decide to spend the night on the side of Mount Worth. I build a large fire and then burn the wood down into nice hot coals. I create some nice heat and some nice light. And I stand out of course, all alone on the side of the mountain, with my rather large bonfire. And that’s when I initially knew that I was being watched. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel strange eyes upon me. The hair began to rise on the back of my neck. That sixth sense jolted me. My senses were pounded by the perception of evil in the woods. And the evil was very real, even though I kept trying to convince myself that my mind was playing tricks. Paranoia can splice a man.
Eventually, I housed my sixth sense that felt the strange eyes upon me. I closed my own eyes and went to sleep. I made it through the night. My own eyes opened the next morning to nothing but solitude. I was safe and unharmed. And I was also unhinged in that way that shines through when you know that something is not quite right. I knew those strange eyes were evil. I knew that I had not been alone.
My clairvoyance began to clarify itself only later when I learned a murderer was on the loose. An evil soul capable of harming a young woman tromped through the wilderness. I felt this predator. And I felt the madness. But mostly, I felt the strange eyes locked upon me. The eyes of a murderer nestled into my mind and I couldn’t let go. I took a deep breath and exhaled. I was probably lucky to be alive, just like I also knew that my clairvoyance would pull me right back into Bingo Forest. I knew where this madman might be hiding. At least I thought I did. When I called The Police, they were suspicious of my story. After all, I had not seen anything. The Police think my imagination might be getting the better of me. The Policeman chuckles when I tell him that I felt “strange eyes” watching me.
“Will your sixth sense pull this madman out of a line-up?” The Policeman asks me with his deep baritone mono-voice. Letting me know that he thinks I’m suffering from certain paranoia. He thinks I’m nothing but another lunatic trying to get his name in the paper, and of course there’s a reward. “I really felt strange eyes upon me…” I reply. The Policeman chuckles again, and tells me he’ll call me if he has any more questions for me. His deep baritone mono-voice disappears with a click and there I am, alone with my feelings. I still think I know where the murderer is hiding.
All of this leads me back into the Bingo Forest after a murderer. I drive back to my campsite and leave my vehicle. I walk into the forest and feel the twigs crunch underneath my feet. I travel down a path I’ve traveled before. And like the last time that I came to this place, I’m scared. I still feel the murderer. I feel his presence sure as I walk into his domain. And I know that he is still here. His energy has a scent that my sixth sense jumps upon.
I’m hunting down a predator, which means that I have to be a predator. I’m talking about a hunter, a sniffer-outer. And the twigs continue to crunch underneath my feet giving me away. I walk further from my comfort zone. I crunch my way through the forest. I look for the murderer, even though I know that he might very well harm me. Murderers have that way of harming people and I feel this.

Kathleen's Killer (part III)

Clairvoyance first came to me in a place very different from Bingo Forest, in another dense forest called New York City. A wilderness of it’s own that sits not too far from here. The City unfolds into concrete and people. You can find whatever you want to find in the City. And like what I’m feeling here in Bingo Forest, sometimes I used to find evilness in people. It sits upfront in the air. I would walk the City streets and feel the pockets of creepiness, which would quickly whither away. I would feel the traces of coldness while seeing nothing peculiar. Leaving me standing there without concrete proof of the supernatural, but with that distinct feeling that something is wrong here, and that something is missing. I feel the same way here in Bingo Forest. That sixth sense jumps from my feelings making me alert.
This same clairvoyance has now drawn me back to my initial encounter. I once again find myself at the end of Bingo Brook Road knowing that there’s a murderer on the loose. Two nights have passed since my first encounter here. Perhaps my imagination is getting the best of me, but I think I know where this murderer is hiding. I just have a feeling. The Police aren’t taking me seriously, so I’m on my own. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m going with my intuition.
I drive slowly until the end of Bingo Brook Road. I maneuver my vehicle around each turn expecting the culprit to jump in front of me. I know that this won’t be easy. My sixth sense perks and the hair rises on the back of my neck as I proceed into danger. At the end of the road I slowly roll to a halt, breathing deeply and second-guessing whether what I’m doing here makes any sense. Has my brain gone haywire? This person in the woods could try and kill me.
I’m drawn in anyway, as I leave my vehicle and walk down the foot trail. The grass and twigs slowly crunch beneath my feet giving me away. I move as quietly as I can in the late afternoon light. My senses are heightened by the adventure of it all. I’m alert and alive. The bitter feeling of coldness rises around me in the thick forest. The afternoon light glows, but I am still unable to see very well. And I still feel cold. I’m chilled and not by the weather. The frigidness comes from a different place. I head down the foot trail, slowly winding up the side of Mount Worth.
This predator has taken the woods away from me, and I love the woods. I love nature and the peace and serenity, and I want all of things back for myself. This predator has put fear into me. I am no longer comfortable being out here, and I don’t want to feel this way about a place that I revere.
But then it also occurs to me that I really don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m just plain foolish. Should I really be out here? I feel the adrenaline running through my veins as fear shows itself. I won’t give into fear. I’m facing this terrible feeling that I have, even if there is a chance that I could lose my life.

Kathleen's Killer (part II)

I eventually shake the paranoia. I convince myself that my mind is playing tricks. And of course, nothing happens to me. I crawl into my camper and eventually fall asleep, although not easily. I remain undisturbed until morning. I move into the next day just fine, in one piece, yet knowing that someone or something was out there watching me. I came down off of the mountain and into the small town that I live. The morning chatter centers upon the rather disturbing story of the murder of a local woman. Kathleen Smith was found strangled in her home, and her empty car was found abandoned at the top of Texas Falls Road. The killer then escaped into the woods, or so it seemed.
All of this again stirred the paranoia in me. A maniac murderer was on the loose in the woods, and not too far from where I spent the night. Could it be that I was really being watched? Could I have buried that sixth sense that told me so, or was I drowning in my own clairvoyance?
I called the Police. They asked me if I had seen anything. But I hadn’t seen anything, I just felt funny. The Police shrugged me off as someone with an overzealous imagination. Someone or something sat just over my shoulder, yet I walked away unharmed. The Policeman told me that I had probably been lucky. The Killer probably had been watching me with my rather large campfire. He was definitely in the same area that I was. But I didn’t see anything, so I was pretty useless as a witness. The Policeman dismissed my funny feelings, just like I had dismissed that sixth sense that told me that I was being cased.
I knew that I had come close to a murderer. I could feel his energy within the brush of Bingo Forest. Delusion and insanity follow this monster and I feel this rather vividly. I felt this by the campfire, wondering if my mind was playing tricks on me. And I feel it now as I try and recapture the coldness and chill looking over my shoulder. I know that someone or something is still out there. I can feel the coldness and the evilness. My sixth sense arises and once again I feel my own clairvoyance. Once again, I feel alone and vulnerable. I’m aware that there is madness out there. I know that there’s a human being out there capable of killing another.

Kathleen's Killer

I came back because I had too. My campsite sits well hidden in the back of Bingo Forest. The lush colors roll through the Green Mountains and serenity captivates. The Bingo Forest hides on the south side of Mount Worth. I’ve come back to face what happened to me the last time that I camped here. I want to understand my senses and I want to come to terms with my clairvoyance. Mostly, I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Fear digs into me while nature guides, often reminding me how insignificant I really am.
The stars begin to show themselves in the early evening darkness. Poking through the evening sky while my campfire warms the vicinity. The horizon becomes limitless, yet I’m still not comfortable. I still feel like someone or something is watching me. I can feel “strange eyes” upon me. The stars become my roof in the night, while those “strange eyes” become my walls. I feel that uneasiness created by a predator, even in the peace and serenity of what usually seems like an empty forest. I suddenly know that I’m completely vulnerable out here.
Time hides in the brief period between dusk and darkness. The wilderness becomes completely black. The sun falls from the sky while the moon has yet to venture upon the horizon. Even with a large campfire, the trees become no man’s land. Yet, I know that someone or something is watching me. I sit six miles deep in Bingo Forest, at the end of Bingo Brook Road. I have a foam bed in the back of my camper. I’m trying to get away from people, from work, from everything. I want peace and I want nature, only I’m scared.

The Wrong Side of the Food Chain (part IV)

The Pack was obviously not hungry enough to take on a “ski-wheeling snack” like myself. They let me go, allowing me on my way. Very quickly I put my skis upon my feet and continue down the trail, not hesitating in the slightest lest the animals change their minds and decide to return.
Light snow continues falling. The burn in my legs no longer feels the pain of making fresh tracks. My brain and body run completely from adrenaline. The experience seems rather surreal and my nerves are frayed. I can’t say that I’ve ever been so close to the food chain, nor ever been on the wrong side of it, for that matter. I brush against the wild with a predator behind me and just a sliver away from immortality. Their eyes had me in their sights and they had numbers. I was in trouble, and the wolves knew this, and they let me live.
Eventually I came out of the woods, arriving at point B. Completing the line from point A to point B and finishing my journey. The inner-challenge has been fulfilled, until the next adventure, and the next chance to expand myself into the Wilderness. The primitive man in me has found an experience to sink his teeth into, defining himself just a bit more. Maybe, I’m not more of a man from this experience, but I feel like I am.
After returning from the woods, I find civilization much like when I left. Still remaining rather civilized. Managing everyday living amongst my own seems rather easy compared to defending oneself in the wild. There’s nothing like being on the Wrong Side of the Food Chain to teach new perspective in life. The Pack looked me in the eye today and they let me go. I certainly know that I’m lucky to be alive.

The Wrong Side of the Food Chain (part III)

Wolf attacks used to be an everyday occurrence. Wolves used to feed upon human beings regularly, until the invention of the gun anyway. Most rural communities were at the mercy of the Wolf. The gun changed this, with humanity now possessing the ability to shoot and kill, marking a dramatic shift in power. The gun created a cause and effect scenario between mankind and the animal. Wolves learned to stay away from Human Beings. This highly adaptable creature still remains no match for a firearm. And the Wolf knows this. Unfortunately, I’m not carrying a gun. And I think the pack of Wolves following me has now figured this out.
I take another practice swing with my cross-country ski. I grit my teeth and face the canines. They have stopped now. They hide in the brush very close to me. There’s a group of what looks like five. They are hiding, obviously trying to decipher what I’m made of. I see the Gray hides tucked amongst the periphery. They are in the bushes but I can still see them. I feel them deciding amongst themselves how hungry they actually are and whether the “big me" seems worth the trouble.
“Let’s go,” I snarl one more time, taking another practice swing with my makeshift baseball bat. I see their eyes reflecting in the light. I feel the predator closing upon me. I know that they can take me if they so desire. I’m outnumbered and I’m outgunned. I know that my cross-country ski won’t take the whole pack. Their eyes undress me. They taste me, even through the brush. My heart pounds, and I feel my heartbeat, and I know that the predator feels my heartbeat as well. All the while, I swing my club, and grit my teeth, and just try and remain “big.”
The gray fur moved even closer. I smell the muck in their fur. I feel their wildness. I swing my ski again, ready to go. My heartbeat pounds, and I can’t help the fear from seeping in and taking over. Their piercing eyes are powerful and I know that I'm in trouble.
And then they disengage for no apparent reason. They continue into the woods. I follow their gray silhouettes until I can’t see them anymore. I put my skis back upon feet. My hands are still shaking from fear. I take a deep breath and shake my head in amazement. I know that I am lucky to be alive.

The Wrong Side of the Food Chain (part II)

Wolves are an adaptable predator. In fact, they really aren’t even Wolves anymore. Even though that’s what we call them here in the Eastern United States. I’ve read stories about the Wolf and how she has evolved. Over the course of time, Coyotes from the West have migrated into the East. The rather large Wolf never used to crossbreed with the Coyote. The two Species remained separate, with the Coyote being superior in intellect and cunning and not very finicky about their dining experience. The Wolf has superior size and strength, relying upon athleticism and physical prowess. The Wolf is often attracted to larger game. Over the course of time, with mixing and mingling, The Coyotes and Wolves have begun to breed with one another. With the Wolf’s physical characteristics, and the Coyote’s incredible adaptability, a sort of Super Species has been created. This hybrid creature has thrived. And because they are half-Coyote, they are not always picky about what they eat. And because they are half-Wolf, they have the ability to hunt larger game. And when they are hungry, they adapt their skills, and they accommodate themselves.

This Super Species of half-Coyote and half-Wolf has been causing serious problems along the trails of the Eastern United States. I’ve only read all of this and heard stories, but now it looks like I might actually have a real encounter of my own. I move cautiously down the trail, afraid to be afraid, because I know that I need to stand strong. I just need to make myself big, real big. And I know that there’s a predator gaining on me.
I glance over my shoulder, catching the faint wisp of a gray shadow in the trees. I can see the figure of a canine. The animals have tracked me down and are now close. I stop in the middle of the trail and quickly jump out of my skis. I turn and face the dogs, trying to stand as large as I possibly can. I puff my chest and slap my hands together creating noise. I yell “Let’s go, reaching down and grabbing one of my cross-country skis, cupping it like a baseball bat. I’m scared but I can’t afford to be. I know the animals will only feed upon my fear. I see their silhouettes coming very close. I see their eyes looking me over. “Let’s go,” I yell again, taking a practice swing. I square my shoulders and puff my chest, gripping the ski tightly. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. These wolves are going to have to work for their meal.

The Wrong Side of the Food Chain

At first, I only feel them. I have an awkward sensation from behind, like I’m being followed. And I am being followed, only I can’t quite figure out by what. I keep moving down the trail, keeping a nice pace, occasionally turning to look over my shoulder. And then I see them. A distant movement in the trees catches my eye. The gray patch moves silently. I remain still and quickly decipher that I’m being tracked by a pack of Wolves.
I continue moving, yet constantly turning around. I know that I can’t outrun the pack. I also know that I need to get the hell out of there. They can hunt me down and all I can do is give them my best fight. The worst mistake that I can make is to be afraid, even though I am. I have to put my game face on, appearing as large as I possibly can. I have to make myself huge, both in stature and in force. I have to make myself larger than the pack, even though I know that I’m not.
I had begun my trip early in the morning in the midst of a snowstorm. I went into the woods looking for serenity and a higher level of understanding about nature. Of course, I’m also trying to get from point A to point B. I’m on a journey which will fulfill some sort of primitive longing deep in my core. Backcountry travel leaves such a strong feeling of accomplishment.
I move through the fresh white contour of the Wilderness. The steam rises from my body and melts the big snowflakes. I slide one ski in front of another. The fresh powder weighs upon my legs. The heaviness of the new snow grabs my skis. I continuously plant them and kick rhythmically, almost like I’m swimming through the forest. Grinding along uphill. There’s a psychology that goes with climbing, a resolution which must be created within the climber’s mind. The mind must break the climb into complete simplicity. Starting with breathing, which then evolves into putting one foot in front of the other. The climber develops a rhythm and you have to keep this rhythm until you get to the top.
I forge through the fresh snow for hours. I glide through the snow and am really enjoying myself, until I feel the sensation of being followed. I feel this well before I actually see anything. I feel a presence, although I’m not exactly sure of what I feel, and I can’t see anything through the snowstorm.

Skiing in Circles (post script)

The next morning I’m up early. The condensation has frozen and I’m nothing but a frost ball. It’s cold outside and I’m cold, which makes me hustle to get back onto the skis so that I can start moving again. Soon, I’m backtracking from my initial backtrack. I pick my way along, the virgin Trail in front of me sits completely covered in white. Sunlight having replaced the blizzard of yesterday. It’s beautiful outside today, but I don’t care much. I just want to find my way back to the Trailhead.

I can’t seem to find my way anywhere. I have systematically spun myself in circles. I’m tired of wearing this heavy backpack. I can’t find the Trailhead, but I do eventually stumble across the highway. My compass tells me that I need to head north. I pitch my thumb and start trying to hitch a ride. And I try for a while, with just about everyone driving by. I must look terrible, the backcountry having gotten the best of me. Finally, an old Hippie stops his jalopy and proceeds to drive me for several miles until my vehicle appears. Sitting right where I left it, only yesterday. Suddenly, I’m out of the Vermont Wilderness and back into the safety of my operating vehicle with a heater.

I start my vehicle and begin the long drive home. I’m exhausted and my shoulders hurt from carrying the backpack. My knees hurt from skiing with the wrong skis, and of course the pack. I’m wet and mangled and Route 18 has pretty much kicked my butt. Even though I never really skied Route 18. I sort of circled around it, never really going anywhere. And now I’m going home, yet I feel like I’ve actually been someplace. It occurs to me that even the worst adventures are still adventures. It also occurs to me, sometimes going absolutely nowhere can still be quite challenging.

Post Script:

The Catamount Trail (Vermont)

Route 18 attempted February 10, 2010

Aborted: Poor Weather and Unmanageable Conditions

 

-Poor Training Regiment: I need to train with a heavy backpack so that when I’m on the Trail, I’m used to the bugger.

-Heavy Packs and Light Touring Skis Never Mix. Bring backcountry carving skis, with grid, properly waxed, for support and manageability, with solid backcountry carving boots. 

-Private Lands mean poor signage. Bring a GPS system and study Forest Service Maps. Make sure that I carry two sets of maps so that I can compare the two.

-Bring tent instead of tarp because of the condensation factor. Sweat is tough to overcome when backcountry skiing.

-Pick a beautiful day to ski terrain that I don’t know, blizzard conditions spell trouble.

Skiing in Circles (part II)

After several hours of moving through the blizzard I realize that the Trail seems familiar. And then I realize that I’ve skied this section before. Somehow, I have circled completely around and am right back where I started. I turn around on the Trail, while now backtracking the section that I have already skied. Of course, this section is mostly uphill, just for fun. Now I'm hours off of my schedule and tired. I also realize that my light backcountry ski set-up, while light, doesn’t give me much support with the big backpack and the top-heavy load. I proceed to crash on several of the more finicky, downhill sections. It’s blatantly obvious that I don’t have the right skis for what I’m skiing.

I finally get to the split in the Trail where I initially made my error. This time I head in the right direction. Moving into the now fierce blizzard. It doesn’t take long before I hit another section of Private Lands, where the Trail markings become few and far between. Between the blizzard, and the now snow covered Trail, and the poor signage, it’s fair to say that I’m playing Roulette. I move slowly, trying to find my way, while it occurs to me that I’m in a tough spot. Of course, I eventually make the wrong choice again. I keep moving, climbing uphill, which is now beginning to take a toll, especially because of the heavy backpack and the flimsy skis. I get to the top of the Green Mountains, where I get to ski downhill for quite some distance. Once again, crashing at regular intervals because of the flimsy skis and the finicky terrain. Eventually, the trail begins to look familiar again. And then I realize, that once again, I have made a gigantic circle.

The late afternoon shadow begins to set upon Route 18. All I’ve done is ski one giant figure eight. I’ve traveled in circles, through a merciless blizzard, while managing to not really get anywhere. The late afternoon shadow moves toward that deep shade, which signals nightfall. I begin backtracking towards my vehicle, while deciding that enough’s enough. Aborting my ski trip now seems like the only practical solution. I hustle to get back before complete darkness.

I move quickly, crashing several more times. I put on my headlamp, so that I can see the Trail in front of me. The late afternoon shadow quickly falls into nighttime and I’m still skiing along. And I ski further and further into the darkness, until I feel like I’ve skied too far, and I think I have. The Trail just doesn’t seem right.

I decide to camp for the night, knowing that I’m close to the Trailhead, yet I don't have a clue where it is. I’m wet and tired, having now skied all day with the heavy pack. I bury myself into my sleeping bag, after removing all of my wet clothes. I wrap myself in my winter bag. The condensation covers me, drawn by my body heat and the frigid temperatures. I fall sound asleep from exhaustion. Tossing and turning from such a tough day of skiing in circles and never really getting anywhere. 

Skiing in Circles

The early morning light opens upon Vermont Wilderness. The skies are gray today. Snowfall has been predicted and from what I’m seeing the clouds are about to unleash. None of this is slowing me down, because I really want to get into the backcountry. I’ve chosen Route 18 of the Catamount Trail, just down the road from Mad River Glen Ski Area. The small parking lot at the base of the Trailhead sits empty, small specks of white begin to fall from the sky.

Route 18 climbs south towards Sugarbush Ski Area, eventually traversing The Lincoln Gap. I’m carrying a big backpack today, because I’ve decided to head out for several days, while skiing Route 18, and then 17, and then 16, while eventually landing at The Rikert Ski Touring Center, which sits just down the road from my home. I plan on being out in the Vermont Wilderness for two nights, but I’ve brought enough food and clothing for three, just in case.

I travel as light as possible, but I’m still carrying a twenty-pound backpack aboard a pair of light backcountry skis. The Catamount Trail twists and turns like a snake, traversing the entire length of Vermont. And I twist and turn with the Trail, moving slowly at first, knowing that I’m going to be climbing and descending all day.

The weather turns miserable. A barrage of white flakes pounds against my face, covering the Trail in front of me. I move cautiously, just trying to stay on the Trail. The Catamount System marks their routes rather thoroughly, but only on Public Land. The markings on Private Land seem rather minimal. Bright, blue markers guide the way. Thank God, because skiing Route 18 in this terrible weather isn’t going to be easy. I pick my way along, moving uphill, heading south towards Sugarbush.

I soon learn something about The Catamount Trail that my guidebook doesn’t really delve into very deeply. Roughly sixty percent of the Trail, that’s nearly 180 miles, travels through private lands. I soon have an almost impossible time figuring where I am, because it’s not real clear where the Trail moves through these private lands, at least near Sugarbush. And eventually I make a left, instead of a right. I keep moving, while twisting and turning through the Green Mountains, not quite sure if I’m still on the Trail. Not quite sure of anything, except that I’m skiing in a blizzard. 

Rule Number Seven

I cross the Seventh Stream without realizing so. I find myself standing in a dry creek bed. The flow of water is no more. Only the pebbles remain, still sitting perfectly next to one another. Yet they are now on top, collecting dust, without a constant flow of water to wash them. The grime of exposure slowly begins to affect this place that once held current. But like everything else in nature, there is a time period before change. Everything in nature stays perfectly organized with a starting point, and then eventually a stopping point. That’s just the way it is. And if you look closely, you can see these small cycles everywhere. The starting points and stopping points of life eventually reach the backcountry Traveler. As today’s Traveler, I bask in the choreography.

I reach Suckerbrook Pond just before the sun disappears into the twilight. The day is done and so am I. My body has been drained and I’m tired and hungry. The day has been fulfilled and another starting point and stopping point have been completed. The Traveler has been aged and matured for the better. I have crossed Seven Streams to reach my destination. Each Stream became a teacher in a world of infinite lessons. Today, I learn about myself, just like yesterday, and hopefully, just like tomorrow. I am grateful for nature and for God showing me my way. I see the order, and I see the grace, and I know that I am part of Nature.

The Seven Streams will eventually change in time, just like I will change. Those starting points and stopping points will evolve into many cycles. The current will become strong and then stop. The flow of water will then disappear for good. The dirt will settle into the streambed covering the pebbles. And eventually, that same dirt will cover me. Eventually, I will become part of the dirt, with another cycle being completed.

I prepare for sleep, tired after an exhausting day. I close my eyes in peace knowing that God is watching over me. I rest for tomorrow’s Adventure, another walk into a different part of the forest. The unknown still remains around each bend, and the space is infinite. The backcountry Traveler never knows how the Adventure will unfold. New Streams will emerge. The crossings will take different strategies, with new steps taken on many different stones. The Traveler moves forward into the backcountry knowing that nothing remains the same.

Rule #7: There are No Rules

Rule Number Six

Rule # 6: Count Your Blessings

Soon, I find myself out of the second crater and looking back. A powerful River will one day return, but not today. Today, the backcountry allows me to continue my travels. I move up the Mountainside in harmony, an evolving reflection of the world that I find myself. Rubbing against such beauty forces me to wallow in beauty. I feel enriched. I feel fulfilled. Nature sinks her teeth into my soul. I know that I am a better man.

And I feel lucky today. I have carried a large bag up the Mountainside. I put my feet down with power and grace. I make strides into the forest, one step at a time. I don’t move quickly, for good reason. I want to see everything that I can possibly see in my Adventure.

In my slowness, and rhythm of breath, I reach the Sixth Stream on my journey. There have now been many steps in reaching this Stream. I have been lugging my sack up the mountainside for most of the day. The sun has moved across the sky and slowly matured into a late afternoon setting. I feel my own sweat and my legs. The grind of moving has begun to wear upon me. Yet somehow, I’m invigorated by my tiredness. Endurance exposes the confidence in a person.

Once again, I stand beside the flow of a larger Stream and gaze towards the other side. I map my way across the flow, picking my steppingstones. I’m strategic. I’m sure of myself. I make my plan and then execute. I don’t think about falling anymore. My thoughts have matured, and my pessimism has disappeared. I maneuver across the Stream, stopping for a second after the crossing. I decide to say another prayer. I thank God for watching over me and for showing me my way.

The twilight of another finished day soon shows itself. I begin to think about stopping my Travel. The Trail remains true, yet the light begins to teeter. I feel my destination in the not so far away distance. My steps are now labored and heavy. My limits are beginning to become extended. Nightfall begins to mark a period of rest and recharging for another day. 

Rule Number Five

Rule Number #5: Embrace Your Choices

When you make a decision, stick with what you believe. This especially applies in the backcountry. When you put your foot down, make sure that you plant that foot. Find that rock and step upon the stone that you see. Put your foot down with authority. Make a decision about where you are going and just go. Because if you hesitate, you might just fall, and we know where falling gets you.

I feel the dirt underneath my feet. The heavy pack weighs me down, which makes my boot’s imprint that much more distinct. The dirt sits beneath me, holding me, and allowing me to stay on my own two feet. Dirt is thousands of years of decay, clinging to my boots, nothing but the remnants of life. Generation upon generation of everyone and everything swirling around and taking the form of “brown gunk.” I move along the dirt trail with privilege, after all I love to travel into the backcountry. And I know that my roots and ancestry are mixed into this dirt beneath me, guiding me along.

The Fourth Stream comes upon me suddenly and by surprise. I don’t hear the distinct trickle of moving water. I find myself standing on a ledge looking down into a steep gully. The water has washed away the Trail and carved a deep hole in the earth. The water has eaten the dirt. I gingerly move my feet and my big sack down the hole and across the now reserved Stream. The trickle is small today, much too tiny to inflict the damage that I’m seeing in front of me, and that I’ve had to climb into. This Stream has most recently turned itself into a raging River, and now into a Stream again.

I move carefully down the slope, remember I’m extremely top-heavy. The rocks are jagged and this could be dangerous. I pick my way along, even more carefully than I have been. I move across the stream and up the opposite side of the hole. To my surprise, another hole appears, and another Stream trickles through a giant crater. An angry river has barreled through this space giving birth to two distinct Streams. Again, I descend into the hole created, and I cross the small trickle. The Fifth Stream appears to be the exact twin of the Fourth Stream. They are both running along at the same speed and are the same size. They both occupy the bottom of massive craters, dug by the powerful flow of storm, and run-off. A monster had come roaring down the Mountain. The flow of water will eventually return, swallowing the two gentle Streams again, and making the Trail impassable for the backcountry Traveler. 

Rule Number Four

Rule Number #4: Learn to Love

The Stream trickles into the forest. The water moves slowly, like I move slowly. We grind along at our own pace. Moving so that we don’t miss anything. I can breathe the scent of flowing water and feel the character. I see her small pebbles sitting on the bottom. I know that this small Stream is perfect. I step over the tiny sliver of water with one step. I look back upon the small Stream with fondness and admiration, and with love.

The Trail pulls the backcountry Traveler into the forest and away from the everyday trials of living within the confines of humanity. The trampled dirt cuts through space into either two directions. It’s a simple choice for the Traveler really, one-way or the other? The Traveler decides upon the direction of travel, and then puts one foot in front of the other. Space opens as the Traveler moves into the forest, never knowing what will lie around each bend. 

Rule Number Three

Rule Number #3: Listen Carefully

I hear the water roar before I actually see anything. I can hear the movement in the distance, even though the trees have cloaked the running current from me. And from what I’m hearing, this Second Stream is not even a Stream. This path of water could really be considered a River. My ears contemplate the power that I cannot see. But when my vision catches up to my hearing, and the Stream sits in front of me, I am not surprised. I know that I have a problem on my hands, because stepping across this bed of water will not be easy. Sparsely placed rocks protrude from the water’s surface. My stepping points are few and far between. I develop a plan by standing in front of my obstacle and mapping my trail. And then I move carefully, and precisely. I pick my way across the water and land upon the other side. I move soundly, with balance and confidence. I have to be this way in the backcountry, otherwise I will fall.

The Third Stream lay just beyond the Second, although unlike her predecessor, she is docile and calm. She’s a small trickle in a thick forest of trees. She ‘s dainty, and sweet, and she’s calm, and she makes me stop and admire her. I breathe the smell of her moisture into my nostrils. There‘s a distinct smell in moisture that’s sharp and holds true. There’s a chill that cannot be replicated. The smell mixes with the smell of the trees, whipped up by the wind on a nice, crisp afternoon. And I know that I’m in Heaven, if there is such a place. I stand with my big pack by the small Stream and I admire her. In fact, I fall in love with her.

Rule Number Two

Rule Number #2: Be Prepared

I reach the First Stream of my journey. I lug the large sack to the edge and stop for a moment. I look into the water and listen to the trickle. The translucent flow runs over the rocks and I see the bottom. Small pebbles sit next to one another in perfect harmony. Each pebble has been pulled down the mountain by the flow of water. Each stone has been chipped from another stone. Each stone is then completely unique, until again divided by the water. There are different shapes, and different textures, and even the colors are never quite replicated. The water constantly grinds the stones, carving them down.

I stop for a moment and reflect upon these stones. I watch them and say a prayer. I ask God to watch over me, and to help me achieve harmony, much like the small pebbles that I’m seeing. And when I’m done, I move forward and place my feet solidly upon the larger stones protruding from the top of the flowing water. I pick my path carefully, and focus, moving gracefully across the top of the water.

I move slowly, methodically, capturing each breath and savoring the taste. The trail continues up the hillside and into the trees. Carved by the feet of Travelers like myself, as they continue on their journey. Travelers called by the trickle of water in the distance. The sound beckons towards a more contemplative light. Nature calls, and the Wilderness Calls, and I listen. What I hear is the sound of a challenge and a higher force calling for me.

Rule Number One

There are Seven Streams to cross before reaching Suckerbrook Pond. The Trail leads into the forest and pulls me up the mountainside. A chiseled line cuts into the earth and guides me into the water. The Trail then reemerges on the other side. Each Stream trickles over the path, leaving only distinct rocks sticking out of the water. My boots bounce from stone to stone until eventually hitting the other side. Crossing each Stream has challenges. Each stone diagrams a path, but the path is never certain. Loose rocks can shift, leaving me in certain peril. A misstep most certainly means falling into the Seven Streams. Wetness leads to coldness, which then signals the end of an enjoyable Adventure.

Life slows down in the backcountry. Every action dictates a slow paced reaction. Rudimentary skills take preparation and thoughtfulness. The most mundane of tasks takes dedication and perseverance. A backcountry Traveler must place each boot in front of the other, carefully. The Traveler does not want to fall into the Seven Streams.

I keep all of this in mind as I follow the carved path into the forest. The pack upon my back is heavy and prone to sway with quick shifts of my moving feet. I’m top heavy and clumsy, which makes me vulnerable to falling. Needless to say, if I hit the deck, God knows what I might land upon. This is a sure fire way to become injured in the backcountry.

Rule number #1: Don’t Become Injured

Of course, there are other things that can happen to the backcountry Traveler. You can become wet, or disoriented, or moved into an uncomfortable position. There’s a list of things that you don‘t want to have happen to you in the backcountry. You can become twisted and disheveled, but you don’t want to become injured. You can move downhill in a hurry, but you better watch yourself. Many bad things can happen if you fall and hit the ground. I keep all of this in mind as I climb the trail. For the most part, I’m moving uphill, which means I’m moving rather slowly. I’m heading towards the top of the pass, where Suckerbrook Pond sits tucked in a bedding of trees, and where I plan on spending the night.

There’s a psychology that goes with climbing. There’s a way of clearing the human mechanism, of emptying the mind and focusing. There are tricks in developing a rhythm, and of finding a breathing pattern. There’s a way of slowing down the climb, moving up the hill despite the difficulty of fighting against gravity. Sure, it helps having the cardiovascular strength, and leg muscles to pound up the mountain. However, there are other intangibles involved in getting to the top.

The pack weighs upon my shoulders, especially on the steep sections. I have to keep moving or I will break my rhythm and lose momentum. I make every foot plant solid and sturdy. The worst thing I can do is fall. Remember, falling can lead to injury. I proceed with caution and trust my instincts. Most importantly, I make sure that I’m prepared to be out here. Climbing invokes the science of mental preparation. Getting from Point A to Point B successfully, takes well-orchestrated mental management. What lies between those two points is very much up to the Traveler.