Meg Workman's October 2006 Hike to the LeConte Lodge with her dad.

LeConte holds a special place in my family memories. After living along the Redwood Coast in Northern California for a while, I realized that my first visit back to my homeland South must coincide with my family's annual trek up The Story Mountain. After all, a particular travel authority purports that the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is the 5th best place to experience fall foliage. Besides this goading tidbit, I had really delved into my study of place and personhood, one's connection to his various environments, and the interaction of one's childhood space with later claims of identity and its influence on the formation of personal operating systems. I claim these mountains as my heritage, and I was on my way to re-ignite the fires of our familial relationships against the backdrop of my personal story.

           I took a seven-hour bus ride down Hwy101 to The Bay Area to hang out with a friend in Oakland for a few hours before boarding a red-eye flight backwards in time to Atlanta , Georgia . This was the beginning of my journey up LeConte the October of 2006. After about a week of visiting friends and locations I loved, I caught a ride with a good friend up to my hometown. I was getting closer. The week prior to the annual ascent was a whirlwind of books and treasured time with family and rest in my first home spot, a warm berth of purity. I also talked to my dad and cat about the upcoming trip. I dealt with the disappointment that my mother would stay behind for the first time. Daddy and I had done quite a few hiking and/or camping trips without Mama but never to LeConte. If anyone were left out it would have been me, in consideration of all my wanderings as well as the demands placed on me both at school and work. I was determined though that this weekend on LeConte was going to be great despite this new challenge.

           Daddy began prepping me by letting me borrow two mini books about LeConte Lodge. I had seen him read these numerous times over the years, and I recognized many of the books' anecdotes as common fodder for conversation with my dad. This was fun for me, because I could imagine again these places in their untouched wildness being sculpted by their admirers. I snuggled under the sheet covering my childhood trundle bed in my long-sleeved LeConte t-shirt and drank up this specialized history in anticipation.

            Friday came, and I had packed all my bags for returning to California once the weekend had spent itself in the wilderness. In the midst of this sorting task, I set aside the essentials for a weekend at LeConte Lodge. This was a breeze. Not much variation is needed from year to year; the secret is to practice simplicity and efficiency. A book, warm gear, and a flashlight are on the top of the list. I kept the morsels from the stories I had just consumed on the tip of my brain so I could mull them over on the trail during the next couple of days.

           Daddy and I hit the sack early in preparation for a pre-dawn departure time. All through the night, visions of giant peanut butter cookies danced in our heads - along with an occasional boomer-squirrel playing thief. After breakfast, we both kissed a still-sleeping Mama on the forehead in the dark. "Ya'll have fun. Don't forget how much I love you," she replied, and we were off.  

About three hours later, Daddy and I had arrived at the Alum Cave Bluff trailhead . I was asleep during most of the drive, but Daddy had awakened me around "T minus 30 minutes" so I could get all excited by gazing out the window. We were aiming to be on top before our stomachs started growling too loudly to ignore. We were both a little chilly at the beginning, but we were planning on scampering up that mountain as best we could within our abilities so our hopes were high for solving that slight annoyance. The creek was running along to the tune of "Happy Birthday, Gracie" whose day would be celebrated during our descent. I was invigorated by the idea of a woman so in love with a mountain that she structured her daily life in such a way that she could climb it as often as possible to the very end of her days. The adage, "Where there's a will, there's a way," has rarely been better personified.

           Daddy and I joined our chatterings to those of the water – recounting previous trips and generally speaking whatever came to mind. I felt more at ease and unified with the experience than any trip previously so the conversation mixed easily with my environmental observations. The weather was the most perfect either one of us could remember, just like each year's Christmas tree. We could be comfortable hiking in shorts and long sleeves while the sun dappled our way. Perfect.  

We climbed through the little starter tunnel while paying homage to the men who carved these steps and inserted these poles. I considered the difference between how those men experienced this trail and how my dad and I were encountering it. The sassafras hiking stick that my dad had carved for me many years ago served a dramatically contrasting role in my hand compared to the tools swinging from the mountain men’s grasp. Those men’s labor allowed for my peaceful trek.  

And we continued toward the summit , engaging in casual banter with fellow hikers. We talked about Mama, what she might be doing, and what she might say at that point of the trail if she had been with us. Gracie’s observations were also mentioned as well as those of Paul Allen. But quietness was shared too. As I have grown, I have become comfortable enough with myself that I can embrace silence to be enjoyed with the people I love and respect. During those moments, I can truly appreciate living life alongside such special people, such as my dad.  

Our tummies were cheering with ferocious growls as we stepped out of the final tree-lined corridor onto sun washed Flat Top. We had made it, and it was cabin kickback time.  

A day lazily spent around the LeConte Lodge clearing is a luxury. A peanut butter sandwich “saying hello to my stomach right now” while soaking in the full bath of noonday star goodness next to a new porch equipped with sturdy rockers – oh, you thought I was describing heaven, didn’t you? What an amazing day.  

I paused from my book since distracted by my brain trying to figure our how I could explain this journey’s significance to my California friends. They hear my glory stories about the Great Smoky Mountains all the time, but, for them, the gleam in my eye and the excitement in my voice are the closest things to experience they could boast. Well, I knew there sure would be plenty of that for everyone to have a bite. Just don’t forget anything, I reminded myself.  

Daddy and I chose old shingles that were going to be trashed to take with us as souvenirs. He wrote Mama a letter on one to ensure that she would know he missed her. I read the book she lent me so we could discuss it Sunday night. Mama would have been reading in the sunshine too if she had been there.  

Supper was a joy and a beautiful transition into night as always. We caught up with two young women who, like me, had grown up climbing this mountain on this day with their dad. It is as if we are all one family for one night a year. Pass the cornbread, just once more . . .  

Neither Daddy nor I were able to keep our eyes open too late that night. We were able to manage a walk to Cliff Top for one more mystically cloudy sunset with our ranger friend from Grundy, VA, and a short spell of sittin’ in those rockers before it was time to say good night to the moon who was getting ready to be full on the following Wednesday. We both fooled ourselves into thinking we could read a while but concluded that the films screening on the back of our eyelids took priority. I clicked off my book light and listened to Daddy snore on the bottom bunk as I revisited the daylights’ images of the heavy clumps of red berries . . . hanging from the silver branches of the mountain ash . . .  against the Fall-blue sky . . . turned dark  . . . turned star-dotted . . . . . . turned burning new and softened in the furry fog of morning.  

Daddy said it rained hard during the night, and it was cloudy still just before sunrise so he had returned to the underside of those bless-my-soul Bay blankets instead of waking me up for a Myrtle Point visit. We comforted ourselves in the memory of past eager sunrises and the current deliciousness of being well-rested. It was almost time to retrace our footsteps, back to that little mama.  

Daddy and I first retook our seats in the dining hall to refuel for the downward portion of the hike. I marveled again at the characteristically challenging task of choosing vegetarian in an omnivore world and was thankful that I could do it with my dad. We say our goodbyes to the staff, to the once-a-year family, and to the mountain I carry in my mind and in my personal story all the time without stopping.  

The trip down the mountain by foot and by car was quicker than in the opposite direction 24 hours earlier. Daddy conspired with me to illegally collect a single Orange Jewelweed blossom for my vial of Mt. LeConte as we drove out of the park. My vial accompanied me back to California and stands beside me now, four months later, as a symbol of the mountain-sized love my family is blessed to share – also all the time without stopping.  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY on Feb14, DADDY (AKA: FRED)!