“It’s the End of the World As We Know It, and We Feel Fine”
I steadfastly believe that the ultimate inspiration for anything worth doing in school is derived from authentic life experiences and lessons. This is the second essay from my Authenticity Series.
@andrewmlarson
In March of 2020 we were all in for a few shocks, but I would argue that my Columbus Signature Academy Adventure Club received an extra dose. A week earlier, speculation had ensued that we might have an extended spring break as the Coronavirus started to escalate as a public health crisis.
School or no school, adventure awaited. My son, Avery, and his two twin brother pals, Jack and William, had organized a trip to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park as the culmination of their senior project. Canceling this trip would have broader implications than simply missing out on a life-changing experience; their graduation was at stake (at least in their minds. In subsequent months we learned just how many exceptions would be made for nearly anything.)
What did hang in the balance was the promise of initiating our new recruits on their first wilderness adventure. For months in class, Barrett had been chattering with excitement, making numerous queries about boots, food, and terrain. Femi rarely asks questions, or speaks at all, for that matter; he simply shows up for all of our club outings and gets on board with a smile on his face. Always with candy in hand, his quirky brand of humor always leaves us in stitches. He is pals with Adler, my son in 9th grade at the time, who was to join on the trip along with Sarah, the other chaperon. She was to be the only female, only because Coronavirus canceled student Kate’s plans.
To my disbelief, we were given permission by school corporation leaders to carry on with the trip. After all, assuming that none of us had been infected, we would effectively be isolating.
“Say no more!” I may or may not have said aloud. The mountains called and we needed to go.
The days spent along Big Creek were resplendent. The Smokies were lush and magical as always and we lost ourselves in their splendor. Little did we know we wouldn't see each other for months after returning home.
We played Mafia and Euchre and ate like calories were an abstraction. A culinary highlight was my specialty, “Faux Pho,” some stewed beef heaped onto ramen along with peanuts, lime, bell peppers, onions, cilantro, and naturally, Sriracha. Femi, who seemingly is sustained on candy alone, ate an apple and liked it. Sarah brought enough of her own food to keep us all out for three more days.
We submerged ourselves for a few seconds in the frigid rushing water of Big Creek and basked, sans souci, in the dappled sunlight amongst lush undergrowth and huge granite boulders. We napped in hammocks and took strolls, looking for salamanders and bears (no luck on the bears.)
One day we hiked up to the Appalachian Trail for the pleasure of it. While we straddled the Tennessee/ North Carolina line, up ambles a through-hiker on his way to New Hampshire, after having started off in Georgia a few weeks prior. He was as thrilled to see us as we were to see him. Meeting a through hiker is like meeting a pro athlete, and -- no offense to pro athletes-- through hikers are more impressive. And like us, he was oblivious to the early tremors of the pandemic spreading the globe all around us.
A heavy rain on the last night found us waking up wet. Not knowing the forecast (because we had no cell service,) we hurriedly packed and set off, eager to beat any thunderstorms that might have materialized. We made quick work of the six miles along Big Creek. By the time we arrived back at the van, we may as well have been on a swimming trip. We did had the foresight to leave clean, dry clothes in the van because come Hell or high water, we were going for pizza.
Once in the van, the phones powered up and for many miles, they searched for a signal. When finally we had emerged from the valley and managed a single bar of service, the news of the pandemic began pouring in.
It was as if the apocalypse had arrived during the three days we were away in the woods. Our scheduled rafting trip the next day had been canceled. Sarah’s mom had left texts describing scenes of pandemonium, grocery and toilet paper shortages, and deaths. The world, it seemed, had gone dark.
As we drove down the interstate we listened to the president describing the deployment of an aircraft carrier to serve as a medical triage center off the East Coast. We were incredulous.
“Can we please just go back to the woods?” asked Barrett.
My sentiments exactly, although the news of unrest back home left me rattled. We needed to see for ourselves what the true scope of this situation was. Gatlinburg, typically bustling with tourists, was desolate. We ordered pizza to go, opting to eat it outdoors; given how little we knew about virus spread at that time, I am retrospectively impressed with that decision.
As we drove north we turned our attention to processing what was seemingly happening to the world. In our oblivion, we had neither knowledge nor concern of the dire situation unfolding everywhere but where we were. The experience left us all with eyes wide open to the power of immersion. Maybe it was an “ignorance is bliss” situation, or maybe it was “retract from society to avoid its pitfalls.” We seemed to need only each other and some imagination, and maybe some of Sarah’s extra food, in order to remain happily apart from the tragedy, anxiety, and turmoil of the pandemic. Less truly is more.
And sometimes knowing less means living more. I do not equate ignorance with bliss. But unplugging and getting gone has its virtues in the same sense that being a responsible, informed citizen does. Done in equal measures, both make a person whole.