Systems

‘System’ kind of feels like a hot word these days. And it’s got my thoughts tangled in its webbing. I am devoted to the Rocky Mountain Ecosystem, especially the GYE (Greater Yellowstone) which I feel is somehow the director to my life work, though I couldn’t show you on paper. So far.

It seems all drains lead to the ocean and watershed deliberately represents something that’s been going on. After 15 years of walking in the woods, asking questions and listening, I give my heart to the wolf; the most contentious predator. She is, after all, the species who can do more for the river than any. 

I honor the system of nature, and the bear, the bison, and the beaver beside the wolf who play pivotal roles in keeping things in flow. I walk in places where the wolves have been removed and listen to the land’s story.

Here in Appalachia I notice systems every day. I lifted a stick yesterday that revealed a mycelium network. White strands, thicker than webbing, let go of the stick and recoiled onto the earth. Like springy silver hairs amongst the earth’s black head. 

I watch moisture systems build and release each day. I don’t remember seeing that in New England before. For two and a half weeks life has been so steamy I could always see it. Clouds formed in every valley, then rose with thunder. 

I experienced a system loved by many, especially in New England. The hut system of the AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club). It is 149 years old and impressive. It shouldn’t be surprising in a land of such academic vigor, yet for me it is. The White Mountains of New Hampshire celebrate the worst weather in the world and yet have infrastructure all over the place. I didn’t pitch my tent once from Gorham to Wentworth (111 Miles).

My first two nights were opportunities to do a work-for-stay at Lake of the Clouds and Zealand huts. For an hour of work I was allowed to eat dinner leftovers and sleep on the dining room floor. The huts host hikers by the bucket-full and provide bunks and meals for roughly $150 per person per night. It would be a great way to have a dreamy family vacation in some of the most challenging terrain I know.

As a thru-hiker, I was grateful for the stay. It certainly wasn’t the best sleep I get on trail and dinner happened rather later than sooner, but I was grateful. The Zealand Hut was lovely since it’s staff was quite sweet and I spent hours in a shallow, rocky waterfall.

My next night, I bunkered down for a storm. Before ascending Franconia Ridge, I heard thunder. I knew in my bones not to continue on, and sat under my tarp as the rain came heavy. It lasted about an hour and was done at 6pm. I had been planning to make it to the next water source before stopping. That storm had thrown me off my groove. It would have been fine, there was plenty of trail mix and bars to keep me satiated, yet the call of a hot meal was alluring. Then the birds starting singing. I stepped out from under my tarp and looked around at the dripping trees. Three hours of daylight would be enough to get over Mount Lafayette and down to the Greenleaf Hut, where I could get water. I carried on.

Several hikers going the other way warned me not to continue. I suppose getting up to one of the most exposed parts of the trail after 7pm seemed unwise. Though their wisdom was questionable, having walked 2 miles above the alpine in a thunderstorm. I thanked them and kept walking. 

What happened was magic. I crested the ridge just as low clouds began to clear. Orange and purple hues streaked through a sky of grey and a shimmering landscape revealed itself beneath me.

And then came the sunset of a lifetime…

When I arrived at Greenleaf Hut, I was invited to stay in a bunk. Hikers had paid for a room they decided not to hike to. They requested it be offered to any wandering strangers, should they come roaming through. I was in the perfect patch of orange sky at the perfect time. There were giant bowls of leftover chickpeas, lentils, and rice. I was in vegan heaven. I offered to do a few chores and the staff insisted that I enjoy and join as a guest. So I did.

The next day I stayed at the Notch Hostel and slackpacked my last full day in the Whites over Kinsman Mountain. Then hiked on south over the gateway back into the soft life, Mt. Moosilauke. From the top of the last wild climb I honored the miles behind me, then dropped into an almost comical transition. From miles like this…

I found myself on trails as smooth as a baby’s bottom, like this…

And four miles later the colors changed. After walking a Boreal Forest for weeks, bright green leaves stopped me in my tracks. I often feel like the chlorophyll is shining as gold as it is green. I don’t understand it, but I experience it all the time. This moment truly amazed me. And still does.

Back home, my dear one was able to witness in person a presentation by the woman who’s work I admire most, Robyn Wall Kimmerer. If ever there was a leader to help us into a system, it would be her. In her best-selling book, Braiding Sweetgrass, she speaks of a system of reciprocity. One that has been around since the dawn of time. “All thriving is mutual,” she says. And she’s right.

Sometimes we are digging and reaching and stressing to hold humanity in a functional system. It’s already here. The trees never gave up on us. They still give. 

We’ll get there.