The first in three-part series of an outdoorsy road trip around the Appalachians.

Panthertown Valley.  East Parking Lot–Schoolhouse Falls–Tranquility Point (1.87 miles)

It’s Little Red’s first backpack camping trip. There’s so much I want to tell her before she puts on her big-girl pack and gets on the trail. But on the ride up, the vibration from the kayak strap inhibited our conversation at times.   In that semi-silence as we head west, I realize that camping is composed of a thousand things, now-intuitive pearls of outdoor knowledge–knowledge I’ve gained over a lifetime; knowledge that she doesn’t know.  Some I can teach her; some she’ll learn through experience.

It even starts in town where we have to discuss the logistics of eating meals.  She chooses a bag of Chicken “Fried” Rice for her dinner and packets of oatmeal for her breakfast.  They’ll go in my bag.  For her, I’ve only packed her with a sleeping bag and pad, a hygiene bag, and whatever clothes she wants to put.  Keep it simple.  I’m pack-mule for everything else.

We’re on the trail by six, a slow descending switchback.  The parking lot was fairly full, which makes me worry someone has taken our perfect spot.  But P-Town is getting popular, so day hikers abound.  Each person we pass is a small elation: they won’t be on the mountain. That is until we pass the two huskies: Juno is at home with a bum foot.  I rarely hike without her.  I miss her companionship, and I find myself looking for her when I know she’s not there.

We make Schoolhouse Falls in about 30 minutes.  I fill water from the stream while Red ponders water up close in the pool.  After a week in NYC, I find something settling about being here, doing this simple outdoor task.  After the hustle and bustle of getting ready and the three-hour drive, this is harmoniously calming.

I show Red where she can go climb behind the falls.  Last year on a hike, she fell and busted her head open.  To this point, I’ve taught her lots about being in the woods, but that hike probably taught her as much as anything about being careful with her footing.  She’s a year older now, and she’s warier and wiser, and I’m a bit more comfortable letting her wander, knowing she’s learned to measure her steps more precisely.

As it nears 8, we begin the ascent up Little Green.  It’s not long (.67 miles), but it’s steep.  I try to distract her from the fact by letting her be in front and keeping her in conversation.  She finds a couple of snails, making it her mission to transport them up the mountain.  This sustains us as we consider ourselves in proportion to the snails and the mountains and the entire web of life around us. How do snails perceive us? How do we perceive ourselves?

When she asks “how much further?”, I reply “we’re almost there.”It’s a standard call and response, but I’m telling the truth as we cross the white arrow over a rock face and mount the campsite: the golden setting sun suffuses the open top through the trees. Thankfully, the site is empty; we take off our packs and make our way down to the rocks face down the spur trail.

Tranquility Point opens transcendently above the valley as the sun begins to fall behind the horizon.  She asks if we can camp here instead of under the trees.  I never have (as I’m usually in a hammock) but it seems safe enough, so we haul all our gear down to the rock face.

We begin to set up.  Putting up the tent gifts me the opportunity to teach about fixing broken tent poles.  Her job is to collect wood.  It’s hard to find out here. “Is this enough?” She asks. It’s probably not but she gets enough to get us started.  If she goes camping again, she’ll remember. Soon, I teach her about cooking with a camping stove (I’ll handle the boiling water for now), and soon she is wolfing down her bag of fried rice.  In the distance, we see the smoke of other campfires around the valley and we study the geography of the valley with the map, Big Green northwest to the left; Sassafras and a large cliff face is to the East to our right.

The sun is gone, but the rising full moon means we are never really in darkness.  Above the tent, we choose one of the potholes on the rock face to start our fire.  I’ve brought a 45 minute duralog, which is fortunate as the original haul of wood was barely enough to keep the coals going.  However, each time we run out, we go and end up finding more and more, each time, nurturing a tiny bed of coals back to life.

There’s something about this fire that allows us open up without distraction. We fall into a pattern, sitting and chatting around the fire, watching it almost die, getting up to find more wood, nurturing the fire back to life.  The conversation is unbroken in these movements. We talk about faith and philosophy and friends and family and mythology and all the tiny moments of life.  She is inquisitive and I strive to answer honestly and without guile.  We go on and on and on.  Time like this is rarely unbroken by distraction and obligation.  Nurturing the fire keeps nurturing our discussion.   It’s close to 2 a.m. by the time I force us to get into the tent; it feels like we could’ve talked all night, but that would’ve done horrors for our morning hike.  The moon is high now, and I relish the magic of the evening.  I wonder if I’ll ever get to sleep.

But sure enough, the cool wind through the valley wakes me in the morning around 7:30.  I get up, get the bear piñata down, and let Red sleep in a bit while I stretch and write about last night, but soon it is time for Oatmeal.