The Memory of Feet

"I've never done a rock scramble!" said John, dazed and worn as we made our way up to the summit of Albert Mountain. "Three times my pack pulled me backwards and I had to hang on for dear life."

It wasn't an easy day by any means. A lot of up, a lot of down, more up, and then the cliffs. The AT no wider than a foot in places, the dropoff from its edge a sheer thousand feet, or so it seemed.

I stopped cold at one rock hop, afraid, before I took a leap of faith. Made it! And felt abashed, moments later, at my fear, as a couple fathers with young sons dashed downhill past us.

"Your feet know where to go," John noticed, and when we got to the sheer rock climb of Albert Mountain I realized what he meant.

I grew up among giant glacial boulders in New Jersey. My feet remembered. It wasn't easy, but they found the right crevices and hauled me up steep inclines pitched towards open space.

I couldn't help John up those cliffs to the summit, and that terrified me, too. I waited, worried. Relief came as he joined me.

A panorama from a mile high filled the horizon. We ducked through a tunnel of mountain laurel to find Gutsy stretched out under the fire tower, reading a book.

A fence here kept day visitors from tottering off the cliff, unlike where we'd climbed from in the opposite direction. It felt good to walk upon the rocks and survey the mountains we'd crossed, those days of hiking behind us.