His garb is informal, yet typical for his background. Rugged, moss green pants are topped with a long-sleeve rust-colored crew shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Appalachian Mountain Club. A well-worn wide-brimmed camouflage hat, adorned with a multitude of vanity pins, lays draped over the arm of the leather chair he currently occupies. His hat-flattened hair, auburn with touches of gray at the temples, hurriedly groomed for the occasion, belies the age evident in the wrinkles around his eyes, the pair now cast toward the rain-streaked windows as nervous fingers stroke his gray-streaked tightly-trimmed beard.
As he turns his attention to the other, expectant members of the club, he coughs suddenly, a dusty thing that rises like a bucket from a long emptied well. Turning aside and raising a clenched fist to his mouth, he calms himself and once more faces his audience.
Is it possible to be in love with a road?
Keep in mind that I speak not of nostalgia nor of utility, though such characteristics give flavor to the feeling, like the way the curve of a cheek or the gleam of an eye may attract a lover. No, I speak literally of the road itself.
Interstate 93 runs from somewhere south of Boston, Massachusetts up through the heart of New Hampshire to St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Along the way, it passes near my hometown of Dracut, Massachusetts, near the Lakes Region where my family spent numerous summer vacations and continues on through Franconia Notch in the White Mountains. Throughout my childhood and later adult years, I-93 was the conduit between where I lived and where I wanted to be. From I-93, and its associated, connected routes, I could reach all the varied places where my heart could find its home.
This highway exists in my earliest memories. I remember the days before the Hooksett link was built, when the highway shifted west and merged with the Everett Turnpike south of Manchester. I remember my first independent hike, fresh out of high school, when I-93 ended abruptly onto US-3, before the Franconia Parkway was built, when views from the summit of Cannon Mountain featured the fresh, twin cuts of the nascent roadway making its way north through the woods. I remember every mountain climb I took, every glimpse of true freedom that began with an early morning drive northward.
I especially remember one particular hike, a solo attempt to bag the three northern Presidential peaks and the Great Gulf Wilderness in one epic day trip. After putting yet more miles on my favorite highway, I arrived at the trailhead at 6:30, geared up and set off into the woods.
The ascent up Mount Madison was a dream. The weather was perfect, autumnal without winter’s chill and I was in my element, at one with the beauty of nature around me. When I crested the summit and felt the unflagging strength surging within me, I knew that I was in for a memorable day. Such was my strength and confidence that, had I known what the rest of the day had in store for me, I would have continued onward anyway.
After descending into the col between Madison and Adams and refilling my water bottles at the Madison Springs AMC Hut, I took the trail that leads around Star Lake to the summit of Mount Adams. The weather, as I said, was perfect and the calm waters of the pond were peaceful and serene, so much so that I decided to rest by the rocky shore and dip my feet into the water.
She found me there, leaning back on my elbows on a weathered slab of granite, calf deep in the crisp water. Her name was Sylvie Dumont, a lean yet buxom beauty, with thick red hair and bright green eyes, who was also hiking the northern Pressies. After quick introductions, she sat atop another of the ubiquitous rocks and dipped her feet into the cool water as well. As we each sat there, sharing the experience amidst bursts of small talk, we decided to hike the rest of the route together.
Feeling refreshed and ready for the challenging trek ahead of us, we geared up and continued on to Mount Adams and eventually Mount Jefferson. In spite of the difficulty of the terrain with its rocky talus-covered slopes, we flew over the summits. Miles passed in sharp contrast to the time. After summiting Jefferson, we dropped into the fertile fold known as the Great Gulf by taking the Six Husbands Trail. Here, as before, we seemed untouched by the difficulty of the descent. Sure, at times, we had to guide each other’s steps and occasionally hold each other’s hands over some of the trickier scrambles, but we were both experienced hikers, well versed in the ways of the woodlands. The camaraderie and respect for each other’s abilities came naturally.
The Six Husbands Trail was not a well-used trail due to its remote location and the difficulty of its slope. That, coupled with the lateness of the day, had kept us isolated from other hikers in the area. We were truly alone, a fact that didn’t register until later.
We’d just come off the end of the steeps, silently, each caught up in our own reverie, when the sounds of rushing water were carried to us on the wind. Sylvie was leading at this time and pointed ahead as she called back to me, “Look.” There, just ahead to the left, was an unmarked trail branching away. “Buttress Trail?” I asked her. Although, the intersection with that trail was imminent, it was much too soon. “No,” she had replied as her eyes lit up. “Come,” she said, “you should see this.”
Now, you have to understand. I had never hiked in the Great Gulf Wilderness before. Sylvie, however, was very familiar with the area and, so, I deferred to her judgement and followed her down the trail, none the wiser. You see, there are plenty of unmarked side trails in the Whites that lead to such features as waterfalls, cliffs, scenic vistas and the like. I myself have gone down or bushwhacked many such trails. Still, I was unprepared for what I saw.
After a fifteen minute trek, we came to a clearing dominated by a 50 foot cascade falling into a large pond. Even with the gorgeous views I’d already witnessed throughout the day, the sight of it caught my breath.
We both walked to the shore and dropped our gear. Sylvie then took her boots and socks off, rolled up her pants and waded out into the pond, beckoning me to follow. I did so, but with much trepidation. The hike had been a long one and, with the daylight fading, I still had a long way to go to get back to my car. Still, it was a good time for a break, so I removed my boots and socks and waded into the pond as well.
The bottom was rocky, but well-formed, unnatural. I was about to make a remark to that effect, when Sylvie suddenly turned and pushed me, knocking me into the water. When I regained my feet, soaked to the bone, she just laughed, so I rushed her and knocked her into the water as well. She hadn’t expected that reaction and floundered around a bit, so I quickly helped her to her feet. When I did, I noticed her t-shirt clinging semi-transparently to her body. The sight caught me by surprise and I just stood there staring at her.
The mood immediately changed and I was ill-prepared for it. In such close proximity, flushed by the hike and the cool water around us, we both surrendered to the urges that overtook us both.
We made love then and there, though the phrase is far too bland, and other euphemisms much too vulgar, to describe the experience. No, this was something else entirely. It was spiritual, as well as physical, and the depth and breadth of it remains etched in my memory. We were truly one as we coupled in the roiling water and lay among the soft moss along the shore. My last conscious memory of it all occurred amidst a heaving, climactic frenzy on that same shore. As I hovered above her, poised near the point of release, I willed every ounce of myself into her, both physically and spiritually, and soon collapsed senseless under the sweet surrender of it all.
When I came to, it was deep twilight and Sylvie, the pool and the cascade were gone. Instead, I was naked and soiled, entwined among the dense flora that was typical of the off-trail terrain. It took me more than a few minutes to extricate myself and regain my footing in the failing light, but, thankfully, I had come prepared and was able to retrieve my headlamp from my backpack. After putting my clothes back on and gearing up, it took another 30 or so minutes to bushwhack through the tangled undergrowth and regain the main trail.
Though the hike back to the car was uneventful, I couldn’t help but try to figure out what had happened. Had I somehow fallen down the mountainside? Had it all been a dream? My body bore no marks or other signs of injury, however, and, if a dream, then how to explain how I ended up well off the beaten path.
In the end, I decided that I didn’t care. Whatever misgivings that I felt about the abnormal circumstances of the encounter, or my shattered marriage vows, were more than outweighed by the experience of it.
However, as the days and weeks passed, I found that I had lost something of myself. Nothing aroused me anymore, in any way. Not my wife, not the televised displays of bikini-clad twenty-somethings at the beach, not pornography. Not even work or watching my son grow up into a man, though these, of course, were emotional, rather than physical, stimulations. Only one thing, I discovered, would set my heart and mind racing.
The first hike after my encounter with Sylvie came the following year and the intensity of my yearning surprised me. You see, it had been a barren six months for me without a hint of arousal of any kind, so, when I drove up the on-ramp onto I-93 and felt the stirrings between my legs, I was a bit shocked. Immediately, my thoughts turned to Sylvie and our encounter and I drove north in that heightened state all the way to the trailhead. Throughout the journey, and on each hike thereafter, I tramped expectantly among the woods and peaks and several times thought I caught her scent on the wind, but it was always fleeting, just beyond the approaching summit or turn in the trail.
As the years went by, I hiked more and more to the exclusion of everything else in my life and that, coupled with the lack of passion in my marriage, or anything else frankly, led to the eventual divorce from my wife and estrangement from my son. Even after their deaths, decades later, my need would remain unsatisfied.
I love Interstate 93. I know every inch of her and the time I spend gliding over her surface gives me purpose. But as much as I love her, she is my second love. My first is –
The speaker is interrupted by a soft glow shining in through the raindrop-adorned windows. The afternoon sun finally makes its appearance and heralds a much-anticipated change in the weather. The hiker quickly dons his hat, eyes his apology to the assembled members of the club, then bolts for the door, scooping up his backpack and walking stick in one smooth motion.
Author’s Note:
This story was inspired by “Victoria Silverwolf”, the pseudonym of a published writer who, as a member of the Barscape forum in the mid-2000s, wrote a series of short stories on the forum dubbed The October Club. The theme of the short stories of The October Club was mildly gothic and supernatural. This was my attempt to add to the canon and her positive reaction to this addition remains with me still.
© 2006, Kenneth F. Guerin