Walking life’s winding trail

I was able to walk the Appalachian Trail this summer.

Well, more specifically, walk several miles of the trail. To truly “walk the trail” means several months and 2,200 miles.

The walk in western North Carolina was just a trail taste but enough to understand the specialness of the legendary passage.

Equally special and timely was to spend that trek with my sons. This was the summer that our first and oldest was to move away. It’s surely not our last summer of togetherness, God willing. But it was our last summer in how we had known our family to be.

As parents, this has been on our minds for the past year, as we ticked away a string of “lasts” with our high-school senior.

The winding paths of the trail were metaphoric of sorts for the waning days of his time with us.

I had picked the trek and mapped out the day – much the way life has gone for us all these years. Of course, it was a shared task with a great wife and mom.

For the past 17 years, we laid out the best family plan for the boys – or at least our best. We exposed them to as many activities as we could. Fair to say that there were events as they were known to us; thus the boys missed their turn at cricket, chess, Shakespeare and a host of other things.

Some activities they took to; some they ran from; some are left for them to discover.

I would guess the best experiences of those activities are the ones from which they ran only to return at some point with their own appreciation and interest. In life, work and love, we don’t always find satisfaction in the first pass. But sometimes it’s there the second time around.

It takes some visioning to see life skills manifest themselves in a set of Legos, soccer tryouts or piano lessons. But we tried.

On the rugged and rolling Appalachian Trail, the boys eventually took the lead – more agile and equipped than their ample-sized dad.

At first, their lead was in my sight.

In time, they were out of sight.

That is the life chapter we are now opening. Two adult lives that revolved around three boys have begun to transition into five adult lives.

While I’m just as excited for them as I was with their Legos accomplishments, it is admittedly bittersweet.

I’ve asked plenty of parents this summer how they reacted to their first departing child. And if they had more than one child, was it different, each departure?

Each parent had a different story to share, and they were all unique; and most tales involved tears. A friend said the bittersweet is less about them and more about us and the ticking of time in our lives.

I remember when I drove off to college. I was full of zest and vigor and looked excitedly at an open road – having no clue of the places the road would take me.

While I remember my rugged dad in tears on the porch, I can’t remember looking back or even wanting to.

Our oldest drove off last week. We stood in the garage as the family van that took us so many places now took only him. His van now, it physically took him to New York. But where it’s really taking him we will just wait to learn and hopefully enjoy.

On the stretch of the Appalachian Trail we enjoyed this summer in North Carolina, the winding of the path through the forest made only your next 50 yards continuously visible.

The boys were well ahead of me; far enough that I could not hear their voices or the scuffling of their feet as they scraped down a path worn by thousands of others.

I enjoyed the time alone and forced some thoughts of our last 17 years. It was nice.

One hiker approached, headed toward where we came. Dressed all in green with a reddish beard, he was absolutely Yukon Cornelius from the Santa-Rudolph television show.

“How are the three boys up ahead,” I asked.

“Looking fine,” he said, laughing – probably more worried about me.

We did not stop; only passed. But as we did, I asked, “How far you headed today?”

His simple answer was great for me at that moment. It offered as much about life as it did of the trail.

“I don’t know,” he answered of his final destination for the day.

I wondered if up ahead, the boys were enjoying the walk as much as me. But it was their time and path to figure out what to enjoy.

After awhile, reality set in, and I was only wondering if they were worried about me.

I’ll do that later in life one day, too, I imagine. We all will. Wherever they go, will they worry about what’s behind them? I could have been better about worrying what’s been behind me in life.

Around a bend and atop a knob, the boys sat waiting. A bottle of water pulled from the pack sat on a rock as they looked back at me.

My smile meant a lot more than I think they knew.

Todd Franko is editor of The Vindicator. He likes emails about stories and our newspaper. Email him at tfranko@vindy.com. He blogs, too, on Vindy.com. Tweet him, too, at @tfranko.