Originally published 1/23/17
In keeping with my desire to slow down 2017, Michael and I went for a long walk in the woods Saturday afternoon. We napped through the morning rain as Isabel took the SAT (ahhh...the joy of not being a teenager). As the sun finally broke through the clouds, we decided to drive over to Tracy City to walk the Fiery Gizzard day loop. Tracy City has two stop lights, a tea room, a burger joint, a bakery, an electric co-op, a small Episcopal church, a gift shop and an historical society. It's not quite enough for two stoplights, but that's because an alarming number of Tracy City buildings - including the county courthouse - were burned by arsonists or dynamited by vandals in the 20th century, giving the town a rather scurrilous reputation. It's in Grundy County, which is the poorest, whitest county in Tennessee. So what it's best known for (besides arson) is the Fiery Gizzard trail, a 13-mile trail that features some of the most beautiful and challenging trails in the Southeast. It's named after a coal burning oven built in the early 20th century that was designed to "coke" the coal found in nearby Coalmont; that is, get it hot enough to convert the coal to coke, which is a relatively pure form of fuel. There was a coal industry for a while in Grundy County, which officials believe led to the propensity of locals to later dynamite things, like water tanks and buildings (see arson discussion above). Mostly what remains now is nature, as God intended it, and as the rangers maintain it. Much of the day loop, a two-mile loop at the top of the trail, wanders along Fiery Gizzard Creek, which, after a good rain, then features pop-up feeder waterfalls that fall down the side of the mountain into the creek. The creek roars as the water works its way around rocks and down various sizes of falls. It's loud, wet and green. In the midst of poverty and mischievousness, God has placed a beautiful, peaceful, soulful stretch of Heaven. God can be funny that way.
The creek was full after the rain, and the water was loud, right.
It was a long week, and I haven't been sleeping well. So I was tired, and not up for a spirited game of indoor tennis, or even a power walk on campus. So a walk on the edge of a creek sounded like just the thing. A walk on the edge of a creek just after a good rain and a long week isn't as easy as it sounds. Nothing is ever as easy as it sounds, is it? Walking along a creek bed is not a walk in the park. A creek is usually in the cracks and crevices - the low parts - of the woods because water makes a path, right? And it's heavier than leaves. You know what I mean. So it's shrouded by 500 year old trees and cuts through 5 million year old rock. The roots of those trees have been crawling around for centuries, and have made their way around boulders, fought each other for precious dirt, and even stretched up out of the earth to help their tree seek the sun. And those rocks have been breaking apart for millenniums, creating stepping stones and platforms for flora and fauna alike.
So it's a good place to walk if you don't want to think about anything else but your next step. And, if you want to enjoy the scenery, you have to stop. Completely. You cannot keep walking and look up at the mountain of rock beside you, or at the waterfall ahead of you. Because you will trip, fall or slip. So as we walked, I kept my head down, stepping carefully on wet rocks, around slushy mud, and in between slippery roots. The elevation changed occasionally, but the trail sticks fairly close to the creek bed, wandering up and over a man-made bridge or two, criss crossing the creek or dodging a run-off waterfall. Michael and I alternate between talking and not talking, giving way to the soundtrack of the water or the width of the trail. We talk about the usual, kids, God, church, and I think about my list, work, software, dinner. And then the melted pimento cheese and ham sandwich we shared for lunch starts to talk to me. I ignored it, and kept walking. Breathing deeply, wishing that ominous feeling away. I headed down the trail, and one step after another, then another, then BAM. On my butt. I don't even know what happened. OW. It hurt, though, whatever happened. Maybe I was watching the ground, maybe I had looked up, but I had slipped on those slimy roots, and, not even any slo-mo, just a hard land on my right cheek, with a secondary catch by my elbow. I saw stars. How do football players do that 25 times a game? I caught my breath, and felt both my legs and my feet, and decided they were still there, so we continued. It's best to keep walking, I thought. I forgot about melted pimento cheese for a while. Deep in the woods, on soft ground and hard rocks, at the end of the trail there's Sycamore Falls. Towering 75 feet up with a modest flow of water dancing down, we admire its beauty and wonder where the wildlife is. The melted pimento cheese and ham start to talk louder, if you know what I mean. My thoughts turn to bowel management, and it's decision time. Now, as a girl, (if you're a boy you may not know this) I can hold on to poop for quite some time. But when you're a mile and a half into the woods, and there's no quick way out (of the woods) and something's asking for a quick way out (of your bottom), you're really left with no choice. Boys love to let it go outdoors. I remember my friend Lair's boys, when they were little, didn't even bother wearing clothes outside, so that when they had to pee it was that much easier. I have a picture of Jackson fishing in the nude, but I won't post it here. He's a full blown teenager now and even I won't resort to that level of embarrassment. But (most) girls just aren't comfortable with letting it all hang out in the woods. There comes a time, though, when you can't make that choice. It must be done. And so I did it. Michael pointed out a tree, and I marched through the thicket to it. He stood guard, in case there were any other waterfall watchers on the way. And I gotta tell ya, there's something freeing about hanging it all out there, like Mother Nature intended (I guess that's how Eve did it). Or maybe it's the sheer relief of the release, and the end of the anticipation and the not knowing. Now I know. There it is. Sorry about that. I wanted to walk in the woods mindlessly. To not think, and not talk, but to listen and let God talk to me. It's been a couple of particularly hard weeks, work-wise, and I'm frustrated and feeling defeated. We work in a hard business, and we work on a piece of software, which doubles our difficulty innately. Coupled with the innate failure built into prospecting, and the innate challenges of working with software, adding to it human beings and a sales cycle and a polarizing presidential inauguration, the business climate is not sunny. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. Jeremiah 29:13 So I've been seeking God at work, and I'm not sure where he is in that equation of failure and sales cycles and politics. I was hoping to hear from him on the Fiery Gizzard. All I heard was water rushing, a bottom thumping and poop landing. Again, sorry about that. I'm seeking God through all of that. I know he's here. I know he was there. I have a small scrape on my elbow, and by butt doesn't hurt from the fall. I was rather liberated, and I felt better, after I pooped in the woods. We saw some beautiful waterfalls, and I got to spend time with my husband. Maybe God is saying: watch carefully where you walk, but don't stop walking. And, don't get the pimento cheese and ham again.
Happy at the end of the trail!
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