I’m odd, it appears. Why, today? This is my favorite time of the year. The long sunny days are gone: the trees are changing color, misty cold fall rain and autumnal gales are in the forecast, and not-wearing-sweaters is no longer a viable option. The only item that is capable of keeping pace with people around these parts grousing about losing Sunshine-And-70F+ weather is my complete giddiness about 50F-And-Misty trekking. I Love Wet Walks, Wet Walkers, and Wet Walking.
This morning, I am solitary. Maybe I will get Natty B out to shoot some pictures later. Perhaps not. I feel like an astronaut wrapped in my capsule seeking adventure in a frightful region many now avoid like the plague. Lest I appear completely singular, I name Gregg, Eric, and Scott; Laura, Courtney Lynn, and Courtney Anne; a few score sons and Scouts: stalwart striders in the storm and willing Walkers in the Wet. Since EphemerADK operates on daily plans from A through J, we won’t cancel on a suggestion of Bad Weather (no such thing, only Bad Gear Choices) but lately that seems harder to sell. Over the years we’ve guided any number of clients, voluntary or prescribed, quizzical that I can be more and more happy as the weather gets worse and worse. A character flaw on my part, or theirs? The Client is always right, so leading by example is all I have to offer. Hence, today’s Soggy Stroll. Moist Meandering. Damp Diaspora?I’ll stick with a Wet Walk.
Like all else, my foul-weather approach stems from Charlie, middle-aged dad, game warden, child of the Depression. He worked too hard during the week to fob off weekends outdoors because of a little physical discomfort, so bunging us into snowsuits and ponchos and launching into precipitation was just what he did. Today, he would be considered something of a gearhead, I suppose. One of the most uncomfortable days of my young life outdoors was when he found a supplier of “itchy-scratchy” long johns in child’s sizes. The name says it all, a wool long-john set that was intentionally finished rough so it irritated your skin ever so slightly on every surface it touched. It was woven so that it touched every square inch of you, too. It kept you amazingly warm, wet or dry. My worst moment in that period was when I saw, accidentally, my dad showing off his newest thermal undergarment to my uncles, a soft-woven mesh Union-Suit where the idea was to hold out your next layer so that pockets of air could retain your warmth. BETRAYAL! In hindsight, it was a precursor to the layering principals I love today: at the time I was an Itchy Cocoon and he was a free-wheeling fishing net full of roast turkey. (No pix needed, I hope)
My mind suffers digressions when I’m Wet Walking like this. The dichotomy of me being dry and warm, surrounded by moist cool days. The occasional jangling in my Mind’s ears from Acquaintances and Occurrences, voicing their horror that anyone would seek out any situation not climate-controlled. A/Os would have us believe that The Outdoors must be kept Indoor. Cheering is heard when January temperatures are at 50 degrees, even as it doesn’t stop them complaining about all the ticks on their pets. (a direct result of no more deep freezes in our area because of changing weather patterns) Rampant lighting development everywhere because people want fewer shadows, and thus need bigger and bigger headlights so they can see past other people’s bigger and bigger lights- Interior Lighting Levels all over our Exteriors, for Pete’s Sake. Wow, I seem to have a lot of passive-digression stored up in here…
As I walk today (10-7-23) I am accompanied by the ghosts of my friends Gregg and Eric, along with our ghostly Scout sons Justen, Nik, and Chet. None of them are deceased: I can feel them walking alongside me, is all. All of the banter, grumble, and laughter of doing a weather hammered BSA Hiking merit badge with them is a susurrus in this October misty rainy stroll, just below but woven into the drops bouncing from my shoulders or dripping from my hat. The practicalities of all of us getting together now that all are moved-on and grown might be insurmountable, but I can take them with me anyway. I take with me the folks I met this August when we intersected on the Appalachian Trail in Maine. That day, the weather was lovely: we spoke mostly of their gnarliest, craziest days on the ridges of the East. Barring Natty B’s grudging accompaniment (I love her so I don’t drag out in the wet unless absolutely necessary!) I will hear a musical accompaniment, my staff and footsteps beating out We Will Rock You or Pink’s Walk of Shame for hours until the pace picked up, heartbeat sounding louder than breath. I take with me Charlie and Duane and Patty and Freckles, looking for grouse and pheasants in weather no self-respecting game-bird would ever fly in, so focused that actually stepping on a ruffed grouse in the long, wet grass brings only jet-propelled curse from the one and a rain-kissed laugh from the lips of the other, as it did again this morning.
It is grind to get this tale mounted on electrons, so foreign to the flow of the clouds toward the lake, drops on my parka shoulders, laughing rain on my lips. I have to do it now before the feeling fades back into the day-job, the honey-do, the personal grooming of self that should be everyone’s Plan A. Plan A has ultimate value and pride of place. Plans B and on are for the clients and your whims. I think I will leave Plan W exclusively for the flow of the rainy days, the necessary soggy sojourns, the Wet Walks, and be totally satisfied with that.
