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                In an attempt to relive wonderful childhood memories, I took my wife and two children (ages 11 and 14) on what was supposed to be a fun hike along the Appalachian Trail.  The same segment I often roamed in my teenage years, located between the Rte 220 and Rte 311 trailheads in southwestern Virginia.
         I pre-planned the hike several weeks in advance, searching maps and satellite imagery online.  Searching for the easiest route for my less than experienced trekking team to the awe inspiring camping I remember from 23 years ago: challenging but beautiful hikes along ridges with picturesque scenery of rolling farmland to the east and the relatively untouched Carvin’s Cove reservoir valley to the west.  The trail leading to a mountain oasis campsite with crystal clear mountain spring water moving swiftly over limestone falls, forming pools one can bathe in (assuming they could bear the icy coldness), that were surrounded by relatively flat, level  ground perfectly suited for cooking over an open fire and lying comfortably in a tent.
         All necessary hiking and camping equipment was painstakingly located, fitted, and purchased for the family.  I made sure nothing was left to chance, as far as letting a piece of equipment hamper the trip.  Training hikes around our Colorado home pushed my team past their limits, and sometimes to tears.  I knew, in spite of my route planning, it would prove to be a physically challenging walk in Virginia.
         My map recon told me that we could park between the two afore mentioned major trailheads, and travel the Andy Lane Trail three miles from Rte 779 (a curvy, two-lane ribbon of blacktop I walked, rode, or drove daily from 1984 to 88), to where it intersected the Appalachian Trail exactly mid-segment.  My teenage romps through those woods, so many years ago, never included a map or known (to me) locations.  So, I tried to deduce the location of the campsite through memories of direction and distance from my home at the time.  Raw estimations were applied as a mental overlay to the maps on my computer screen.  I saw three possible dotted blue lines (streams) in the area I estimated.  Knowing the access trail was three miles long, though I had no accurate scale for my online imagery, I estimated another two to three miles from the trail intersection to my mountain oasis.  Easy.
         The entire journey was to take 48 hours, roundtrip.  With 15 years of infantry experience under my belt, I knew untrained bodies carrying enough gear, food, and water for that trip, over that terrain, would move at an average of one mile per hour.  I did not want it to be a “death march” that would preclude my children from ever wanting to hike to a campsite again.  Ridding the mood of military do-or-die overtones was important.  That meant plenty of breaks, slow pace (see 1 mph estimate above), enjoying the surrounding beauty, and not starting too early.  The point of vacation, after all, is relaxation.
         Water is heavy, really heavy.  It also takes up enormous space within a backpack.  In an effort to mitigate that issue, I purchased a water filtration system.  The water at my oasis would undoubtedly taste phenomenally good, and be so wonderfully cold.  We packed plenty of water for a five or six mile trek, but not much more.  This would prove critical.
         The night before the trip, we stayed at my grandmother’s house in Lynchburg, VA.  A house she has lived in since long before I was born.  My memories stir just thinking of the place.  My wife and I organized and packed all four backpacks.  Distribution of the food and equipment was done in a way to align with each person’s perceived strength and body weight.  My youngest weighs 63 pounds with a slim frame.  I, however, was an athletic 185.  So, she had a “full” pack I could lift with two fingers.  Mine?  Well, knowing what it weighed on my last backpacking voyage (because the airline complained) was a little over 70 pounds. 
                Psychological strength comes into play in a huge way on occasions such as this.  My children live a modern, middle-class lifestyle.  In other words, everything has been given to them with little or no effort on their part.  Psychological strength, therefore, was an extreme unknown to say the least.  Though I remained optimistic, I had no doubt it would become a test they did not expect.
                The next morning, we woke up around eight.  Again keeping my usual military intensity to a minimum, we took a leisurely drive to Daleville, shopped for a bottle of red wine (no need to chill) for the campsite, ate “one last regular meal” (according to my son) at a fast-food joint, and cruised over to the parking area at the Andy Lane Trail.  So far, so good.
                Remember, I had never hiked the Andy Lane Trail.  It was named in memory of a local trail builder.  I have no idea when he lived or died, much less when that trail was built.  I had never heard of it before my map recon.  All I knew was it was three miles long and, almost all of it, uphill. 
                Within a quarter of a mile, I could see the look on my daughter’s face that told me things were going to be rough.  The look that said, “Tear ducts preparing to open!”  And then, they did.  She was unprepared for the discomfort (although she called it pain) of a loaded backpack.  “Loaded” being relative.  Relative to the fact that she didn’t know what loaded really feels like.  That led to a scheduled, packs-off rest stop every half mile.  As the incline steepened and the miles passed, the stops became more frequent. 
                I was tracking our progress on two different GPS devices.  Top-notch units with full-color topographic maps, etc.  The “are we there yet?” questions were answered with exact distances and terrain forecasting.  On the Andy Lane Trail, I knew exactly where we were and how far we had to go.  Even so, it was a bit more taxing than anticipated.  We lived in Colorado, after all.  6600 feet above sea level was home.  Our family hikes there, to that date, took us as high as 10,000 feet above sea level.  Our current position would top out at less than 2500 feet above the waves.  There was no reason our conditioning wouldn’t see us through with so much oxygen to breathe at that low altitude.  Except, maybe, the higher than usual weight on our backs, combined with the demanding grade and terrain.  Add to that, humidity that saddled my native Colorado family, producing a volume of perspiration never known to them before.  The beads of sweat were striking the ground like rain.  Ah, cool water to quench our thirsts…
                We arrived at the trail intersection at the three hour mark, as planned.  The sense of accomplishment seemed to re-invigorate everyone.  My wife and daughter shared an MRE (Meal Ready to Eat), while I used the GPS to confirm which way to go from there.  Again, I see three sources of water on the map.  So, after a good break and full bellies, we were off to find my favorite campsite in memory.
                The route immediately showed its difficulty.  A long, steep decent had my legs shaking uncontrollably under the weight of my pack.  My knees were going to snap at any moment, I was certain.  Shouldering my backpack had required my wife’s assistance from the beginning.  As the heat and the hike usurped my strength, I perceived the weight doubling by the mile.  My daughter’s crying became audible, though faint.  The death march had commenced.
                  Never having approached my destination from this direction, nothing seemed familiar.  “A shelter downhill to the west of the trail,” I thought to myself, “Had that always been there?”  Memories are imperfect, but you don’t realize how much so until you need them to be accurate.  I checked my GPS incessantly, hoping for it to show me, undeniably, the point we sought. 
                  As we reached the terminus of our plummeting decent, I searched for recognizable terrain features.  Nothing.  An all but dried up creek bed scratched its jagged way through a small valley floor.  In addition to being almost dry, the creek ran the wrong direction.  The valley floor, though small, was larger than the campsite I remembered.  I concluded this spot, a mile from the trail intersection, was not MY spot.  On we went.
                  A phrase was born of our experience that day: That which goes down, must go up. Way up.  This was true at the end of the first valley.  We hiked upward for an eternity.  My son was doing very well.  A middle-school track stud, built like a stick figure on a diet, he impressed me.  The optimistic smiles had long left my wife’s determined face.  From someone who has given birth naturally, four times, that’s a bad sign.  And my daughter, she was in her own personal hell.  Tears were streaming from red eyes.  She tugged helplessly at heavy pack straps, completely not in control of her own situation, as big brother antagonized her with every step, pointing out her weakness.  All of this pain and suffering rested levelly on my shoulders.  I put them there.  I pushed them forward.  I was to blame.
                  There were two more water sources that were supposed to intersect our trail ahead.  As we neared the next one, located five and a half miles from the car, I could see it was actually a quarter of a mile west and downhill of the trail.  That meant it was not MY spot.  It also meant our water situation was becoming dire.  We were down to one and a half pints of water, total.
                  There are two arrows on my GPS units.  The green one is where you are.  The white one acts as a cursor that you can move around.  It was at that moment that I learned the distance from the green arrow (our position) and the white arrow, according to map scale, displayed in the upper right corner of the GPS screen.  I placed is over the next water source.  The feeling you get in your stomach as you are about to show your father an ‘F’ on a report card or tell your boss you crashed the company car washed over me.  “2.34 mi.” 
                  “How much further, Daddy,” squeaks a tired and pained voice.
                  “We just follow this ridge for a while.  It turns right, then a long curve back as we go down to the water,” I say as I try to assuage the doubt, mine and theirs.
                  Trying to ease their pain, I stop at the top of each climb, taking our packs off and pointing out the fantastic views to the east when it was a really hard climb.  The green arrow seemed to have stopped moving across the screen.  The hike had lost all semblance of fun or enjoyment.  It was an urgent movement to life sustaining water at that point. 
                  Downward, the trail started going downward.  At last, the water would be close now.  “At least we are starting to go down.  That’s a good sign,” the first words from my wife in an hour.
                  The GPS shows we have another mile to go, as we round the slow curve on the screen.  Thinking of the trek back to the car, the steep and rocky trail is of no comfort.  “We will have to climb this tomorrow,” I said to myself, as the weight of my pack reached unbearable status.  We reached another climb!  DAMMIT!! I throw my pack down.  Sure I couldn’t go another step under that weight.  Looks of desperation in the faces of my family drove the stake deeper into my heart and my mind.  Pop-tart!  I shovel two frosted raspberry Pop-tarts into my mouth and wash it down with the last of my water.  With my blood sugar restored, my brain powered up and made a plan. 
                    My son gets to carry the medical bag that had been strapped to the top of my pack.  I removed the four-person dome tent from my pack and carried it in my hands.  It made a huge difference.  The plan is for us to get to the next creek crossing.  If there is no water, my wife and daughter will set up the campsite (tents, fire, etc.), while my son and I will take the empty water containers 1.25 miles to the lake below for water.  The 1.25 miles back up the mountain with full water jugs is something I chose to put out of my mind.
                    Dry.  DRY!  Of course, the next creek bed, 8.18 miles from the f@#*ing car, is dry.  Not to mention, it’s not MY spot!  I saw a clearing at the top of the next rise.  I heard voices and a small engine in the distance.  Without saying a word, I stormed up the rise to find a fire trail.  A 50-foot wide swath cut through the foliage, for the entire width of the mountain.  I saw no one.  Worse, I saw no water.  I threw my hat and sunglasses in disgust, and told my wife to find a suitable spot for the tents.
                    Walking up to the crest of the fire trail, some 50 yards from the trail we traveled, and things started to register in my old brain.  There was only one fire trail I knew of on Tinker Mountain, the one near my old home on Rte 779.  How could that be?!  If it was true, we would have walked over eight miles along the Appalachian Trail without finding MY spot.  My map recon had already proven to be faulty on distance estimation, as well as finding water.  Now, I’m thinking one of the water sources that I thought could be MY spot was within eyesight of the fire trail I used to unknowingly invent downhill mountain biking?! (that’s a whole different story)  If you had told me that was where that water source was located, I would have known for certain not to walk that damn far.  MY spot is at least a half day hike from that damn fire trail, IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!!  The direction we came from!  Where is my hat?  I need to throw it again!
                    At the crest of the fire trail, I found a flat spot with a used fire pit.  If it was good enough for someone else, it was good enough for us.  I called the family up to that spot.  As we unpacked the tents, I heard an ATV approaching from the eastern slope.  It was so steep, I wasn’t able to see them until they were on us.  I had a baseball-sized rock in my throwing hand, body bladed so they couldn’t see that hand.  An over 40 hillbilly on one four-wheeler, and a late teen hillbilly on the other, came to us and stopped.  I say “hillbilly” because that’s what they were.  It’s what I am.  It was not a derogatory stereo-type, but a statement of fact.  Those of you that are not hillbillies or rednecks might confuse the two as one and the same.  We are not, but rednecks and hillbillies know the difference, and that is all that matters.  One group wears pointed boots and big buckles.  The other may not wear shoes at all.  Figure it out from there.
                      To illustrate the scene, dirty mesh trucker hat, shoulder-length wavy hair, minor but obvious dental disrepair, unshaven, a less than clean shirt with the sleeves cut off, khaki-ish shorts, etc.  The younger one was less damaged, but he was much younger. 
                      The exchange went something like:
                      “Hey, where you from?”
                      “We’re from Colorado.”
                      “I’m from the bottom of the hill.”  We laughed a little, not knowing if we should.  “Need anything?”
                      “We’re out of water…”  He, “Joey”, agreed to take our empty bottles to his house and fill them, then return them to us.  Having been double and triple-crossed by ones I thought I knew and trusted completely, I found it hard to trust Joey.  He returned a little while later with our bottles filled with that necessity of life, water.  Or was it?  Hmmm.  I drank some first, to see what would happen.  Joey also offered to take me to get my vehicle the next day if I wanted, and gave us directions to his mobile home. 
                        Instead of his son on the other ATV, there was a very attractive twenty-something young woman, named Marie, wearing a tank top and sweat pants.  She asked us some questions about our journey.  I could tell she was educated, and she didn’t have the resident southern drawl.  That raised my alertness, not putting me at ease in the least.  I was trying to not be too specific, but she was prying.  Joey asked, “What part of Connecticut are you from?”  I reminded him it was Colorado.  Upon reflection, I believe he was playing country-dumb with that question.  He was checking if I would change my answer.  He looked at Marie and asked, “Whatcha think?”  Then some small talk and they left.
                        At first, I thought the two of them were planning to use our skins to make lampshades.  In retrospect, I’m certain they were making sure the strangers camping a few hundred feet from their homes weren’t dangerous, or criminals of some sort.  I still slept with one ear open for the sound of an ATV.
                        It had been a long, hard hike to nowhere.  I wasn’t able to find MY spot or provide an enjoyable experience for my family.  The only way I was able to supply them with life-saving water was not the $75 water filter I researched and bought for the trip, but the happenstance of meeting Joey at that time and place in the universe.  To unwind and reflect on the day, my wife and I shared a bottle of red wine in plastic wine glasses.  My daughter had already passed out in mid-sentence with her stuffed platypus that she called “Duckie”.  Insects chirped in tremendous chorus, the thunder rolled, and it rained.  I slept a fitful night, listening for ATV’s and chainsaws.
                        The next morning, we got up late as we waited for the rain to subside.  Once it did, we walked further south along the Appalachian Trail sans packs.  Our goal, my goal, was to find the rock outcropping which I used as a meditation spot of sorts, as a teen.  From that location you could see all of Carvin’s Cove.  I have a photo of my grandfather standing on that rock, a smile worth a million bucks on his face.  He, at the age of about 65 and with failing health, climbed an hour up the side of that mountain in the summer heat.  In a button-down shirt, polyester slacks, and leather-bottomed dress shoes (his standard attire) no less.  That smile was proof positive of the value of that vista.
                          A high-tension wire tower was a familiar feature.  They had replaced the wooden tower with some modern material twin.  We walked past where I was sure that rock outcropping was, and then some.  My son was voicing the aches and pains we were all feeling from the previous day’s adventure.  I found a couple of possible rocks, but they just weren’t what I remembered.  The views were mostly blocked by the trees.  It was 23 years ago, but still… I was yet again, unsuccessful.
                          With the advantages of memories, topographical maps, satellite imagery, and state-of-the-art GPS devices, I was unable to find with planned precision that which I had frequented willy-nilly as a teen with nothing but a sense of direction.  As I said before, memories are imperfect.  Maybe, they are imperfect for a reason.  My recollection of that mountain oasis makes it the best camping spot, and one of my favorite trips, for the rest of my cognitive life.  If we did find it, might we have altered my previous memories or somehow lessened their value?  Possibly.  The trip to that rock outcropping was a palpable and meaningful moment between me as a moody teen with my now deceased grandfather who had a lot to do with the man I have become.  It was the last time I ever stood on that rock.  While standing on the same spot with my moody teenage son would be priceless, might it affect the ranking in the memory bank of my moment with my grandfather?  Possibly. 
                          Returning to locations that possess great memories, many years later, in an attempt to regain those feelings or strengthen those memories can only lead to disappointment, or worse, outright sadness.  Things change.  Locations, moments, people can never be what they once were.  This very moment, right now, can only be right now once.  Document experiences to the best of your ability.  Live in the moment.  Once the second hand moves, all you have are memories.
                          Once again under full packs, the hike down the steep eastern slope of the fire trail was more difficult than I remembered.  While 17 and 40 can seem like no big difference in the mind, the body begs to differ.  Joey’s mobile home was, um, not the worst I’ve seen.  He was home and agreed to take me to my car, some eight miles north on Rte 779. 
                            “We’ll need to stop by the Texaco for a few gallons of gas though.”
“No problem, I gotcha.”  He was asking me for gas money.  Since I wasn’t chained to a wall in a blacked out room in his single-wide, while he showed me my bowels, I was pretty sure he would have given me a lift for free if he could.  I filled his tank.  He saved our lives.  Fair trade.
                            My mind made up that I would no longer look for the joys of the past by trying to relive it in the present.  I drove back to Joey’s, to get my family, feeling better.  The drive down Rte 779 is a beauty.  Hundred-year-old farm houses, two-year-old houses built to look like hundred-year-old farm houses, surrounded by rolling green pastures lined with stark white split-rail fences, all backed by those Blue Ridge mountains.  I would like to live there one day.
                            Two things were certain, as I rolled into Joey’s hard-packed dirt driveway: my wife and kids were very happy to see the car, and change.