by

Sometimes the only way forward is remove yourself and your current way of thinking from the familiar path completely.            

Heavy-handed metaphors aside, what I and millions of others endured with Hurricane Helene in the fall of 2024 was earth-shattering in all the worst ways possible. The storm was supposed to veer Northwest once it made landfall from the Gulf of Mexico. Mother Nature had her own game plan and Helene shifted violently to the Northeast, laying waste to large swaths of Augusta, Georgia and Western South Carolina. Ashville, North Carolina was decimated and buried under horrific mudslides. Several hundred people perished. Thousands lost their homes and vehicles. Millions more went without electricity, water, and internet for weeks. Property damage was calculated into the billions.             

I was one of the lucky ones. I was spared. No injuries. My apartment complex in North Augusta, South Carolina was intact for the most part. The utility companies did a fantastic job of clearing the debris and downed trees that had been tossed about like discarded toothpicks. My car sustained some internal damage from fallen branches and the high winds. But it was drivable once it had been roughly towed from an under pass the day after the storm without my permission. But that, as they say, is a story for another time.             

With my utilities offline for several weeks, I stayed with my friend Christine Marino in Aiken. She was extremely lucky in that she had only lost power at her house for a single day and had access to all of her utilities. She housed me as well as another friend of hers for several days. I cannot thank her enough for her generosity. To have access to a bed, shower, food, and electricity for phone charging and distractions, was monumental during the area’s survival scramble as well as our own mental, physical, and emotional recovery. And I was able to get to work and back from her place which enabled me to keep my job with the City of Aiken.             

Cut to a few weeks later. One of my most cherished places in all of South Carolina to unwind and escape the hustle and bustle of daily life was Langley Pond Park. I loved to go there on a sunny day and hike around the lakeside trails and get lost in my own thoughts, sometimes for hours at a time. I very rarely brought friends with me when I went there as it was a much-needed solo mental sanctuary as well as a familiar place where I could stretch my legs at my own pace.             

In late October of that year, I was finally able to get back there and return to my favorite respite and immerse myself in some tree-covered hiking. Or so I thought.             

The park had been closed to the public for several weeks as crews were hard at work removing fallen trees and debris. This was to be expected. But I was still shocked to see dozens of downed trees around the parking lot and in some cases floating near the shore of the lake. The playground had made it through mostly unscathed as the equipment was mostly metal and fastened to the ground. The bathrooms were open and the picnic shelters did not appear too much worse for the wear.             

Other than the faint sound of chainsaws and wood chippers in the distance, I was the only person for miles around. I liked it that way on those days. Those days of mental escape and surrendering to the forest. Those days when I was always tired. Tired of work. Tired of friends and family drama. Tired of trying to promote my books when people in the towns around me were hurt, hungry, and dying. Tired of even being me; a forty-something unsettled drifter who dreamed of returning to California to hug his only daughter and remind her of her father’s infrangible love for her.             

All I wanted to accomplish on that crisp and clear Saturday morning was just to hike one lap around the lake. I needed to do something physical after being cooped up for weeks and I couldn’t afford a gym membership. So I had decided that even one lap—about four miles or so around the lake and back to the parking lot—would suffice for my rusty legs and weary head. Dark clouds had moved into the area and I was extremely skittish about storms having just experienced my first hurricane mere weeks before.             

Thunder rolled a few miles away but I was undeterred. Oh, no you don’t, I mentally scoffed at the dark clouds above me. The trail was soggy and half buried under twigs and leaves but easy enough to walk over.             

About a mile and a half into my hike, I came across a closed trail sign and clearly saw at least ten large tree trunks blocking the path, several yards on either side. I briefly thought about fanning out wide into the forest to go around. But I heard and then actually saw several county workers in neon orange helmets and vests using tools and shouting to each other in the nearby area and doubled back to the path.             

After several moments of creative and intense swearing to myself, I decided to circle back and try to hike around the lake in the opposite direction. Maybe it’s a sign of good character. That old ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ mentality. Or maybe I’m just a stubborn jackass. But either way, I’m kind of OCD about getting done whatever I’ve set out to do for the day.             

Several sweaty minutes later, I passed back through the parking lot and I hoofed it in the opposite direction passed the nearby water treatment plant. I was a man on a mission or delusional or both. I was vaguely aware that I was now sweating through my shirt and that sweat beads were now dripping into and stinging my eyes. I wiped them away with ever increasing agitation. Stupid sweat. Stupid human frailty. Stupid choice to go hiking today. But I had to keep going. Because nobody likes a quitter, right?             

The path on the far side of the lake was downright treacherous and was more of an obstacle course than a carefree hiking trail. In fact, the trail was only visible in random sections. Tree trunks, branches, leaves, and scattered papers and food wrappers had blanketed almost everything along the way. I grew more pissed off and my clothes and state of mind became even more disheveled.             

This won’t stop me, I tried to incentivize myself. You’ll feel so fulfilled and get in one hell of a workout when you finish the lap. Who the hell needs a gym when you have Mother Nature’s obstacle course right in front of your damn face? My mind was in overdrive. The scrapes, cuts, and bruises were accumulating but I was obsessed. Besides, I reasoned, what the hell are you going to tell people? That you went to the park for a hike and it was mostly closed for storm debris removal? What kind of chicken shit, half-assed, nobody cares story is that? No way, buddy. You’re going to finish this stupid hike or die trying!             

And then I came across a second trail closed sign. This one was haphazardly leaned against a large pile of tree trunks strewn across the path. With no clear evidence of cutting or path clearing, it was painfully obvious that the work crews hadn’t even made it to this side of the lake yet. A park ranger had probably stuck the sign there in the mud because he had been ordered to and forgotten about it weeks ago.             

Well, fuck me running, my mind sighed wearily. At that moment, my legs became unsteady and I slumped against a nearby tree. Heavy rain began to fall, instantly soaking me. I didn’t move. I only gazed at the raining pelting the surface of the lake a few yards away. I felt like each raindrop was a pointed icicle piercing my already tattered soul.             

Is this it for me? Am I just useless? I can’t even finish a simple hike around a lake. The rain soaked my socks and was now in between my toes. Should I just lay down and die here, merge with the moss and grass and fast food wrappers? Human trash serving no greater purpose. What good am I to my daughter or friends or family if I cannot even complete recreational tasks of my own free will?             

My thoughts became icy murderous hands that tightened around my neck and I began to cry and cough in the downpour. I tried to turn my head from side to side but the invisible anvil on my chest wouldn’t budge. Finally, the numbness in my hands subsided and I slapped myself roughly.             

Snap out of it! My mind eventually calmed and the imagined weight disappeared. I wished that I had a bottle of sleeping pills or a flask of whiskey to numb the pain—to take the edge off—or whatever bullshit that I could come up with to run away from myself. What was I going to do the next time a wave of depression hit me like this? Next time, would it be much more inane, like not being able to open a jarof pickles or running out of creamer for my coffee? No, life goes on and we must suck it up to carry on. It’s okay to not feel okay. But life is also enduring pain and feeling down in order to appreciate the good times even more.             

I eventually pulled myself up and began to limp/walk back to the car.            

I decided that I wasn’t going to stop off at Walgreens on the way home for sleeping pills or whiskey or even ice cream. I needed to feel this thing, whatever it was. This setback. This non-event. This unfinished hike. Because in the grand scheme of things, who the fuck cares? I could technically say that I went for a walk in the park. That was true. In fact, people might want to know more about the storm damage anyway. But also, who really gives a shit what other people think. I set out to go for a hike in the park. It may feel like to me that my goal of making it completely around the lake was unfinished. But so what? I could still go home and do something, anything else. Because no matter what, I will still continue and have a future.             

I slimed my wet filthy frame into my car seat and took a few deep breaths. I had made it back to the car in one piece without hurting myself or anyone else. I was glad that my screw-it-all temper tantrum that had egged me onto the second leg of the hike had subsided. Had I forced myself to continue out of some unprovoked shame or fear or ego bruising? No one else had been on the hike with me and nobody would even truly care about what happened than me, either.             

With a fatigued turn of the key, the car engine sputtered to life. The radio blared at high volume. The local rock station was blasting out the chorus of “Why Does It Always Rain on Me?” by the Scottish band Travis. I had never thought too deeply about the lyrics before. But the instant that I heard the words, I began to laugh and belt out the chorus to the point of becoming hoarse. I reclined the seat and continued to chuckle to myself long after the song had finished.             

What are the freaking odds? I stared up at my Buick Lacrosse’s aging ceiling. We all take our punches along the way, don’t we? But we keep going. Not all of our scars are visible. Our trauma shouldn’t be transactional. We need to discuss our foibles and normalize our own ebbs and flows. Mental health is a cause that everyone should champion.             

Even with physical obstacles in our path, our minds seek endless detours. Even as we sit motionless in our chairs, we move forward. Always seeking that unknown adventure just over the horizon.