The Trembling Path

There will never be a storm

That can wash the path from my feet

The direction from my heart

The light from my eyes

Or the purpose from this life.

Swami Satmanda Sarasuati

Many years ago I hiked a challenging route in Olympic National Park called the Six Ridge Trail that takes the hiker from the Skokomish River, climbing and traversing the ridge to Sundown Lake and eventually to Graves Creek on the west side of that mountain range. It was like many obscure routes I used to pursue: isolated, infrequently traveled, and rarely maintained. The route is not a long one. As I recall I took four days to make the trek, allowing for an extra night at beautiful Belview Shelter, where the view to the south called for time to savor that vista and take in the solitude.

The route climbs steeply to the ridge top, then traverses the jagged ridge. Much of the lower slope is obscured by dense salal, which amounts to a thick jungle, the trail essentially invisible beneath the six foot high thicket. 

I started the route at the Staircase Rapids trailhead, hiked to Graves Creek, and then returned, a trip that took about seven days total, allowing for the extra night at Belview Shelter. The route finding and salal made for slow going. I saw no one at all until I got near the trailheads. It was just the kind of trail I seek out and celebrate.

But it is not the trail I remember when I think about that trip. It was instead the parking lot at Staircase Rapids, where another hiker was beginning his trek. Like most hikers at such junctions we talked about where he was going and where I had been, and I was surprised to learn that he was also planning to take on the Six Ridge Trail.

I watched as he put on his heavy pack, which must have weighed at least fifty pounds, then as he shuffled along towards the trunk of his vehicle, leaning upon it for support. He opened the trunk, where I saw he had a walker folded up. But instead of the walker he grabbed a fine sturdy walking stick, a beautifully polished piece of wood, which he grabbed with one hand. The stick seemed to strengthen his connection to the ground and still the obvious Parkinsonism tremor, with its characteristic hand and head movement, a wavering in his voice, the shuffling gait that is typical of this neurologic disorder. I was a Registered Nurse. I knew these symptoms. I was awed.

He told me he had allowed considerably more time than I had taken to make the challenging trek, hence the heavy pack. I thought of warning him that it was an extremely difficult route, but I suspected he knew that. I watched as he planted his walking stick carefully as he moved slowly away from his vehicle towards the trail, placing each step carefully to lift his foot above the ground, the stick making a reassuring thump each time he planted it.

I thought of saying something, praising him for his fortitude, but to do so would have meant acknowledging his disability, and I reasoned that the word was not in his vocabulary. He was simply a hiker, one that took appropriate steps to accommodate his needs on the trail: a slower pace, a sturdy waking stick, a heavier pack. It was hard for me to imagine this man making his way through the dense salal on that steep slope, but somehow I felt certain that he could do most anything he set his mind to do. 

I think about that man often, more so as I make the necessary adaptations to keep myself on the trail, upright and moving forward one step at a time, despite a fractured shoulder and an aching hip. My pack is substantially lighter than I used to carry. I take shorter days and allow for extra time in camp to sip my tea and take in my surroundings. At such times I remember and cherish: I am out here on the trail. It is enough.