There Goes Your Life
“All he could think about was,
how I’m too young for this.
Got my whole life ahead.
Hell, I’m just a kid myself,
how am I gonna raise one?”
Ken’s change in posture grabbed my attention from the driver’s seat. His head was hanging low, and his arms were overlapping across his chest as if he was giving himself a hug. His long silver ponytail draped over his left shoulder and nearly reached his elbow. And he was studying his knees through the lenses of his tortoise shell frames. Maybe if he fixated his gaze on something steady, then it could keep ahold of his tears. Keep them from falling.
“All he could see were his dreams,
goin’ up in smoke.
So much for ditching’ this town,
and hangin’ out on the coast.
Oh well, those plans are long gone.”
The lyrics of Kenny Chesney continued to swirl around the inside of the car, pulling from Ken, cherished thoughts of his daughter. Her serendipitous entry into his life, and the miles that live between them now.
“It’s Ashley, ya know?…”, Ken’s voice cracked to silence. But Chesney picked up where Ken left off.
“And he said, ‘There goes my life…
…there goes my future, my everything,
might as well kiss it all goodbye…
There goes my life…’ ”
I gave Ken his privacy and his time to feel, despite our close proximity, without my questions. I placed my right hand on his back with intention. With my visceral understanding. I pressed it firmly in between his shoulder blades. I could feel his heart pounding through his back. As if it was the beat of my own Father’s. And I saw snapshots of my Dad’s life in the rear view through Ken’s mirror. I kept my hand there as my car swallowed up the double yellow lines, like years flying by. My touch said, “I see you. You did the very best that you could.” And Ken’s silence said, “Please, stay.”
“A couple of years up all night,
and a few thousand diapers later,
that mistake he thought he made,
covers up the refrigerator.
Oh yeah, he loves that little girl.”
The double yellow lines began to blur between my own tears and the pavement.
“Mamma’s waitin’ to tuck her in,
as she fumbles up those stairs.
She smiles back at him,
draggin’ that teddy bear.
Sleep tight, blue eyes and bouncin’ curls.”
My Dad’s cheese omelets. His homemade paper airplanes. His knack for weaving my hair into braids so tightly that they’d survive days of softball tournaments in the summer sun. It was as if these memories were flashing in sequence as I clicked between weathered photo slides.
“He smiles, ‘There goes my life…
…there goes my future, my everything,
I love you, Daddy, Goodnight.
There goes my life…’ ”
My parents were young parents, taking detour after detour, their years escaping them like the double yellow lines on a highway. I wished that my Dad was in the car with me that day. But because of my friend Ken, he was.
“She had that Honda loaded down,
with Abercrombie clothes and 15 pairs of shoes,
and his American Express.
He checked the oil, slammed the hood, and
said, ‘You’re good to go.”
She hugged ‘em both,
and headed off…to the West Coast.”
Ken’s gaze released his tears at Chesney’s mention of a cross-country move. Of California. Of Ashley’s home now. “I wish that she lived closer. That we called one another more. That…that we wrote more.”, Ken wasn’t staring at his knees any longer. He was surveying the trees and the horizon. And the double yellow lines as we sped right through them. Ken was alive with resolution.
“And he cried,
‘There goes my life.
There goes my future, my everything.
I love you, baby, goodbye.
There goes my life..’ .”
“Dips, your Dad…he did the very best that he could. He did good. Just look at you, kid...”
“You both did good, Ken.”, my hand was still pressed against Ken’s back and metaphorically against my Father’s.
Ken and I made our way to New Hampshire from Virginia, spinning miles on tires this time instead of on the tread of our trail runners. The route from Damascus, Virginia, home of the annual Trail Days festival, to Lincoln, New Hampshire parallels the Appalachian Trail. The 2,200 mile footpath that both Ken and I walked consecutively in 2021. Through Marion. Atkins. And then Pearisburg, Virginia. That’s where Ken and I first met. At Angel’s Rest Hiker Haven hostel in Pearisburg. In the dining room. When I complimented him on the sole black and white, ceramic Yin-Yang stud that still lives in his left earlobe.
Those that are interesting have a past.
And often, our pasts live under paperweights.
“Your problem is how you are going to spend this one odd and precious life you have been issued. Whether you’re going to spend it trying to look good and creating the illusion that you have power over people and circumstances, or whether you are going to taste it, enjoy it and find out the truth about who you are.”
Through Daleville. Troutville. And Waynesboro, Route 81 weaved. It was in Waynesboro, Virginia that I last saw Ken while on our thru hike of the Appalachian Trail. But he was always just a stone’s throw ahead of me, reminding me that my tomorrow was possible.
Through the Shenandoah’s. Front Royal. And Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
The double yellow lines didn’t know the half of what went on in their very own backyard. Behind the trees. And in the woods. In the fucking wild. While on foot. Without their parameters of algorithm and alignment.
They tried to keep up with us.
Through Jersey. New York. Connecticut. And Massachusetts.
If you want to go fast, you fly. You travel by train. You drive.
At 75 miles per hour, we cruised.
Through the Glastenbury Wilderness. Past Mount Killington. And then Rutland, Vermont.
But if you want to stop and smell the roses, if you want to watch them make their entry into Spring in real time, while the snow melt drips from their branches, well…
…well, then you walk.
It took us 2 days to traverse by car what had previously taken us 3 months to walk on foot.
And finally into New Hampshire, we were, once again.
New Hampshire, the home of the White Mountains.
The home of New Hampshire’s 4,000 Footers and all of their death traps, breath steals, and generous portions of humble pie topped with dollops of nausea. Coatings of sunburn. And unsparing dustings of wind chafe.
And austerity. Majesty. Triumph. And views made of straight Chanel that stretched as far as you could see.
The “New Hampshire 48”.
The peaks that were robbed from Ken and I last August when COVID paid us a very uninvited visit.
We were back.
And I didn't want to do it.
But I didn't want to not do it.
Just like the bicycle trip to Washington D.C.
The full marathon.
The thru-hike.
All Type II fun.
Type II “fun” is utterly miserable while it’s happening, but it is fun and highly gratifying in retrospect.
Think of an ultramarathon. Of a Polar Plunge. Of childbirth.
I don’t want to not finish the 48.
When Ken and I checked into New Hampshire’s Barn Door Hostel, I raced for their showers. Its hot water coated my body and mixed with my tears. I raised my palms to my face. I pressed my eyes shut with my fingers as the hot water ran down my back. And I wished that there was someone there to put their hand on mine.
Maybe then, my tears would stop.
It had been a hard day. A long and winding road. One that baptized me with an understanding for my “whys”. The “whys” of my Father. And of my parents. I lathered my hair in the L’ORÉAL Ever Pure shampoo that was free for the taking. And I scratched my scalp. It felt so good. So refreshing. Luxurious after a week of camping in Trail Days’ tent city, followed by days on the road. After the surfaced realities of Kenny Chesney’s lyrics. They were still living on my skin. Like barriers. The fine bubbles slowly crept down my forehead and over my nose in globs of foam. And they smelled familiar.
But painfully familiar.
Where had I met them before?
I scrubbed harder.
And harder.
Then maybe I would remember where I had met the smell of this lather before.
It was Parker Drive.
2011.
My marital home.
The captivity.
My divorce.
The pain.
It was the Ever Pure.
And it triggered me.
I released my grip from my face.
And I looked up to the shower head, my eyes wide this time.
Its rain passed by me like a speed train.
Just like the double yellow lines.
Just like the years that had passed me by.
“I had to make you uncomfortable, otherwise you never would have moved.”
Steam your favorite trousers just to wear them around the house. Because you don’t need an audience for your “why”. Because you don’t need an audience to feel sexy. Make it homemade. The soup. The salad dressing. The pickled beets. Because that is what your Grandmother would have done. Keep it simple. Cut fresh flowers and put them in a jar with tap water. And place that jar on your kitchen counter. Because those flowers will start each of your days with beauty. With color. And the reminder to keep growing. And set your own boundaries. For if you don’t, someone else will set them for you without your permission.
And remember.
That not all pain is public.
Place your hand firmly on someone’s back when you sense that they are gatekeeping their demons.
Because they need you.
We need you.
And love your parents.
Like, love them, love them. Love them for who they are capable of being.
See them. And not just the in the flesh type of “see” them. Well, that too. But the understanding type of “see” them. Call them on a Tuesday afternoon just to tell them that you crushed your finger in a door jam. Surprise them with their favorite ice cream if you are close enough to visit and if they are healthy enough to eat it.
And tell them that you forgive them.
Because they did the best that they could.
You are because they were.
And please.
Please, stay hungry.
Set out to do the things that you so very much want to do. The things that you so very much want to experience. The things that you so very much want to see.
And the things that you so very much want to say.
If you had the courage.
Before it’s too late.
Because…
…because, there will go your life.
This is Ken.
And this is my Dad (wearing a sweet hat!).
And these are my parents celebrating my Mom’s 76th Birthday.
Thank you for wearing this fedora in public Mom, you wear it so well!
Pittsburgh Pirates’ home opener with the Minney’s!
Brooke Annibale and her lyrical genius got me up and over my very first solo Appalachian Trail summits while she sang through my headphones.
And I got to meet her in April.
And she signed an album and gave me a t-shirt.
“If I’ve learned anything at all about this life, it’s the things that scare you the most that are always worth the time. Patience, hold me, let me feel this lonely. It’s the things that scare me the most, that I know…I need.”
My Mom and her “little” brother, Uncle Jimmy!
And his Grandson, my second cousin, Aiden!
New ink day at PMA Tattoo!
Happy (surprise!) 70th birthday to my Uncle Dips, the one that got me to the starting line!
“Let them be little.”
~Billy Dean
Homemade Mamma’s Day brunchy.
Broken Fiddle Hostel in Damascus, Virginia is the G.O.A.T.!
And Treehouse runs the Fiddle. And Treehouse is from the Burgh. And I’m from the Burgh. So he got a 278 mile Primanti Bros. Uber Eats delivery! IYKYK!
And, in turn, I got Bernie as a bunkmate!
Following my rocks on our way through Trail Town, Damascus.
Charley’s AT trail magic!
Papa Smurf, Class of 2024.
Graydog (Class of ‘71) and Ken (Class of ‘21) show Kula (Class of 2024) how to adjust his fanny pack. The fanny pack that I gifted to him to return to Katahdin.
Pipes on his pipes.
Serendipitously reunited with Red Beard!
Red Beard saved me from the fog, but more so myself from myself, as I crossed into North Carolina from Georgia over Sassafras Mountain on our thru hike.
Annual Hiker Parade down Laurel Avenue.
Trail hair, don’t care.
Ken loves potato chips.
In Wilderness Bob, Kula, myself, Ken, and Graydog, are five generations of thru hikers.
“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”
~ Terry Pratchett
“He checked the oil, slammed the hood, and said, ‘You’re good to go.”
“I want to wear those.”, I said.
“They are wall decorations, Dips.”, Ken said.
“Ma’am, may we wear those sombreros while we eat these burritos?”, I asked.
“Young Kenny Nice Toes” clips his nice toenails on a swiveled leather office chair outside of a Motel 6, New Market, Virginia.
Gahhh, so good to be back!
76 year young Kenny climbs Mount Cannon!
One “Grateful Hiker”!
Marking my territory!
My Old School Sprout!
Rocks, for the trifecta!
Post-holing in the snow at the peak (as sweat dripped down my back…)
A 4 season hike in a single climb.
Wild.
Hiking the Whites with a ‘lil help from my frands!
This is the “trail”, A.K.A. Mount Osceola’s “Chimney”.
And this is Rocks climbing it.
And she is a Bad A$$.
The decorated female rock climber, Nina Williams, spoke about “Riding the Wave” at Rumney’s Barn Door Hostel.
Weaving friendship bracelets in the common area…
…and also in the car.
Eye candy.
Full circle, and back in Pittsburgh, Ken wove a trivet out of wooden coffee stirrers for my keeping.
Homegrown kale. Because it’s real pretty, and because it tastes real good.
Shiny new toys look different nowadays.
Werk stuff.
My pretty city!
Crush paid a visit to Hostel de Dips after his section from Swatara Gap to Jersey!
Happy Father’s day, Daddy.
“Babe, that Dr. Pray…he has some nice shoes!”
My Dad wanted the same sneakers as his Cardiologist.
So I bought my Dad the same sneakers as his Cardiologist.
We won’t tell Dr. Pray that we polished off a pizza together.
I met her in 6th grade. We were opposites from the start. But yet, we were the same. Diane went on to marry the love of her life, have 3 beautiful children, 3 very magnetic and accomplished children. And me, I climbed different kinds of mountains.
Yet, they were always the same.
My Lionel, my Diane, got the phone call last winter that each of us believe that we are invincible of receiving. The one that tells you that you have breast cancer. And on April 2nd, after major surgery and extensive radiation therapy, my best friend received a clean bill of health.
And so we went to see our namesake, Lionel Richie, in the flesh. If you know us, you know this about us. About Lionel and I. About our nickname. About the undies and the vinyl. And we laughed all of the way there and all of the way home from the seats of her minivan. While she asked about the backstories behind my new tattoos.
Still opposites, yet still exactly the same.
“Stuck on you.
Needed a friend.
And the way I feel now, I guess I’ll be with you ‘til the end.
Guess I’m on my way.
Mighty glad you stayed…”
Pitch, Amelia and Wyatt at the WYEP Music Festival.
Wyatt in mid air!
‘Dat Asia Way Advantage!
Bone broth with veggies because my little heart needed a little soup.
My Father cleaning the headstone of his parents, Walter and Aurora, “Together Forever”.
This is my new friend Christine Reed, and she is sheer beauty. And she is strength. And she is fearless. And she tells the truth. And she just launched her second book, Blood Sweat Tears.
It is a collection of stories by 26+ women about hiking, backpacking, trail running, and mountaineering. But it is also about relationship to body image. Mental health. Menstruation. Belonging. Sobriety. Motherhood. Chronic Illness. Disordered eating. Grief. Menopause. Injury. Mortality. Identity.
And you should get yourself a copy. Because it’s for all of us.
Lucky and Giggles, Class of 2024, finishing their “Half Gallon” ice cream challenge at the Pine Grove Furnace General Store!
See one, do one, teach one.
Pitch took her son Wyatt out into the Great Smoky Mountains alone on an overnight after our time together in Georgia this Spring.
I am one proud Mamma Bear!
Small plates and live jazz with the OGs, Gail, Wendy and Karen! Lots of broken glasses and honest advice.
“What does writing mean to me?”, I ask myself on the daily.
Not fame.
Not fortune.
But when I am able to hold my story, hundreds of pages bound. Cover to cover, and in my hands. For even if one of my shared vulnerabilities can impact even one single person.
That will be my success.
My summit.
That is my next Katahdin.
That is what writing means to me.
“Quit or keep going. They both hurt.”
20 more summits.
See you again very soon, White Mountains.
“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you will look back and realize that they were the big things.”
