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Health & Fitness

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It's 11:30 in the evening, and a deep fog sets out around me. I look up cautiously to the windows of my '06 Mustang, eyes wide open... Suddenly, there's a faint glow of headlights in the distance; they approach slowly, then zoom off into the distance, behind the wall of tangled trees and brush. Phew! That was kind of creepy. I've watched TOO many horror movies, I realize, but still keeping an eye and ear out for the unknown guests. This ain't my neck of the woods, I think, nestling myself into the soft leather seat. Crrraaccckkk.

I look up once more. It was the same dirty Bronco that passed in the distance. This time, it pulled in slowly beside where I lay nestled and tensed in the passenger's seat...

More hikers! You got it! More hikers, wishing to brave the stretch of the Appalachian Trail. For clarity's sake, my fellow hikers and I began the trek at the southernmost part - Springer Mountain, Georgia. To my side, my camping companion, a friend of nearly 3 years. We layered up in sweats over jeans, jeans over johns, and socks over socks, preparing ourselves for the still cold of mountain terrain. With an uneasy smile and gesture towards the trailhead, we set out on our weekend journey up the hills, steeps, and cliffs of Springer.

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About 30 minutes in, 1 mile out, we came to a small bridge, carved out from the trunk of a fallen tree, and marked horizontally across. We both stood there in awe for a moment, admiring the beautiful simplicity of the tree-bridge. In the swallows of rural and suburban life, everything is much and more. Tall, towering cement overpasses, lined with angry motorists, all unknowingly cursing the guy to the front of the line of autos, whose kid - unbeknownst to everyone else - is suffering an asthma attack. Or the woman who is looking wistfully at her phone, wheel in one hand, iPhone in the other, hoping her husband would call. And in this moment of simplicity, everything seemed as clear and ever flowing as the shallow stream that lay at out feet.

What many of us fail to realize is, in the hustle and bustle of traffic, board meetings, conference calls, sizzling grills and the buzz of auto everything, we forget to hear the simplest of things. The birds chirping in the trees, the rustling of wind beside the brand-spanking-new Mercedes our boss has, that we all secretly wish would get a flat on her way to the office. The complexity of all the events that take place each day, in each home, to each person becomes the base of our humanity, and the simple, natural things become a luxury to behold.

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Another 2 miles into the hike, and up, up into the trees we come to a fork in the road, er, trail. A weathered, split tree trunk that stood about 4 feet tall, with two boards atop the recycled bark, stood to our right, pointing to either direction. In our confusion - for the north to south, and east to west signage pointed halfway between each trail way - a message became quite clear: we were going to have to walk a ways up each trail to ascertain our direction. As she headed up the northern path, and I headed west, the white trail marker slathered midway on a tree that lie ahead, gave me clarity as to which direction we should head - and it wasn't this way. "I found it," she called, and though my legs wished so deeply to not backtrack, the show had to continue. Nature's lesson here is that your path will not be clearly marked at all times and, even in moments of opacity, a word from the North (from someone who was on the right path) was all that was needed to regroup, retrace, and set about the right course again.



As we trekked forward, up the steep, rocky terrain of Springer, the push forward became more and more of a desire than a probable, actual outcome. With aching legs, sore backs and arms, we found a spot to rest. The large stump - though it crawled with grubs and ants - became the stability and calm we needed to keep true to our goal. The final gulps of water in each bottle came as a rush of energy, and burst of hydration, more filling than any amount of Gatorade that had ever passed our lips. With a spring up and some encouraging words, we trekked forward, only to come to a stop upon the familiar sound of rushing water a quarter mile ahead. I looked to my right, taking in the sight of a beautiful fall and stream that seemingly begged a photo or two. I looked to my friend who, to my surprise, sat down immediately. "Guess I'll go by myself," I said with disappointment. I grabbed both walking sticks, and made my way down the 20 foot mudslide, scaled down a flight of slippery rocks, and came to rest on a huge branch that stuck from the earth. With a muddy bum, ripped pants, and a blunted stick, I sat there in awe (again) snapping picture after picture of the waterfall. Though I couldn't share this moment with my companion, I would not have given the chance of such a spectacular view, and clarifying moment, for anything. The hard trek down, alone, was well worth the story on my way back up. (And it's so much more awesome seeing it in person, as opposed to seeing the photos on a screen.)

You see, nature has a way of being quite poetic. If there is nothing else that you gather from this, remember that our greatest teachers are the streams, birds, trees, and lives around us. Surely, if the world outside buildings, roads, and cell phones can exist in harmonious balance, without the aid of machinery and the latest techno gadgets, there is something we can gather from the complexities of the simplest of things.

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