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Holly Kays photo
The Best Medicine
At home in Maryland, a paddle on the Antietam River (above) was the prescription my mom needed after a stressful, cooped-up month.
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Holly Kays photo
The Best Medicine
Mountain laurel blooms were abundant in the Abrams Falls area during the last week of April.
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Holly Kays photo
The Best Medicine
Two nights sleeping in the woods always does my psyche a world of good.
I sat at a long table at Fontana Village’s Wildwood Grill, sinking my teeth into an enormous burger and enjoying a depth of peaceful happiness that I rarely achieve without a large dose of time in the woods like the one I’d just had.
Two nights in the backcountry of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with the eight fantastic ladies who now shared the table with me, no internet connection, and forecast-defying perfect weather (except for that brief downpour an hour or so into our arrival) had brought my reeling mind to a rocking rest of stillness and peace. When I closed my eyes, I saw a rainbow of wildflowers and the rushing waters of Abrams Falls.
It was a feeling not only of joy, but of complete presence in the moment. Faraway wars and squabbles in the halls of power were forgotten, and all that mattered was noticing, appreciating, remembering the fleeting moments surrounding me.
I pulled the metal square from my pocket, regarding it with trepidation. For the past few days, it had served solely as a camera and a clock, but soon I’d hit a button that would turn it back into what it really was—a minicomputer with instant connections to billions of other minicomputers across the globe. Once I pressed that button, the tragedies and trivialities of the past 36 hours rush into my fingertips.
Usually, the weight of the world comes back slowly, a yoke I’m not aware I’m wearing until it becomes too heavy to remove. This time, it was instant. My dad had fallen off the roof, I learned from the barrage of texts that filled my inbox, and he was in the ER with multiple fractures. My heart froze as I imagined the worst, the zen I’d brought back from Abrams Falls evaporating into the bright spring air.
I began to breathe again as I read down the chain, discovering that, while it was a serious injury, there hadn’t been any head trauma or spinal damage. My dad had a long road ahead of him, but he was expected to make a full recovery. Still, these are the kinds of things that remind me how far 500 miles is. I love living in Western North Carolina, but there’s no popping over for a quick Sunday afternoon visit to my parents in Maryland. It’s too far away.
It was a month or so before I could take a few days off work to make the drive for a long weekend. Dad was doing better by then, able to take short walks and navigate stairs with the help of a cane. Most of his days were occupied with going to and recovering from physical therapy, or resting in the new lounge chair they’d bought to support his recovery. I looked around for ways to help and discovered that the most pressing issue in the Kays home seemed to be that western Maryland was in the midst of a perfect Appalachian springtime, and my mom, having lost her favorite playmate, was feeling a bit stir crazy. I magnanimously offered my services.
We spent the next several days revisiting the paths that had once been home to me—the level dirt towpath of the C&O Canal, the gentle rapids of Antietam Creek as it makes its way to the Potomac River, the neighborhood roads where we once walked the family dog, a sweet border collie named Star, every night after dinner. Each day was sunny and in the 70s, the perfectly warmed spring air sliding over our skin like a smile as we explored trails and riverbanks lined with the bright greens and nodding flowers of late spring.
I thought back to my high school self, how eager she was to leave this dumpy little town, move far away, see the world. I knew these perfect sunny-and-70 days were a ruse, that in a few short weeks the thermometer would embark on regular pilgrimages north of 90 degrees, and the air would become suffocatingly humid.
But as I pedaled the canal, the hopeful, flowery air of late May wafting through my nostrils, I started to think that maybe my high school self had it wrong. She needed to move far away and see the world, this corner of it was more charming than she’d given it credit for. It was a different world than the Smokies, but it, too, offered the opportunity to escape into nature, shed the weight of the world, and step into the peace I’d felt a month earlier at Wildwood.
Eight hours is a long way to drive, but at least it’s close enough that, when duty calls, I can show up and ride bikes.