The Alexander City Outlook

Banks finally finds shelter, ends his trail journey

Editor’s Note: This is the last in a series of stories written by Dadeville resident Harold Banks about his hike and near-death experiences on the Appalachian Trail several years ago.

My gaze shifts down and to the left and a three-sided Adirondack style trail shelter rises out of the ground about three hundred yards away. I stare at it a few moments expecting the apparition to disappear. The reality of the shelter’s existence gains credibility and I begin to crawl out of my trance. Mind reconnects with tissue and I force movement.

At first I merely shift my weight and wiggle my limbs a little to find their positions. I compel my torso to lean forward and draw my knees under me into a kneeling position. The will to fight and survive returns and with great effort, I struggle to my feet. I plod slowly, carefully, and stiff-legged through the virgin snow to the shelter.

Finally arriving at the much-sought place of refuge, thoughts are racing through my brain as it searches for a formula to revive a barely functioning body.

Low and behold, the last person to use this shelter, a true angel, has left a generous supply of dry firewood and tinder under the roof overhang. I drop to the ground and roll onto my back so that lying on top of my backpack, I am able to release the hip belt and squirm out of the shoulder straps. I reach into my pocket to pull out a cigarette lighter, but my stiff hand cannot even close around it.

I stand and strain to do weak jumping jacks while swinging my right arm vigorously to send warmer blood to my hand.

I stack small sticks over some splinters of fat pine and supplement the tinder with a few sheets of toilet paper. After several frantic attempts, I manage to spark the lighter and ignite the little pile. I feed the blaze as fast as it can take fuel while leaning directly over it.

Enduring a little smoke is a small price to pay for the life restoring heat. The fire is high and hot before Jim and Danny spot it from a distance and make their way to the shelter. “How did you find this place?” Jim asks. “Oh, I knew it was here all along, but just figured you young fellers needed a little more exercise” is my smarta – - reply.

Epilogue

I have recalled the Mount Rogers experience several times and pondered its significance. On the side of that mountain while slipping into hypothermia, my senses seemed extraordinarily acute and my vision in particular was unusually clear. I had never before felt so aware, so peaceful and content, so tuned in to the timeless rhythm that joins all things in the universe.

What a contradiction that I never felt more alive than when I was closest to death. And what about my responsibilities? Why did I not once think about my wife and kids? Why did unfinished business never cross my mind? Where were the flashbacks of life lived and unlived–the unfulfilled dreams, the regrets, the guilt? Why was there no concern for my ebbing life flow or the future of my soul?

I have no answers. The only thing certain about any life is that it will end. But even when there is no possible hope, the most miserable, wretched life forms futilely grasp for that last breath or movement. Yet on that one magical night, I could have easily, willingly, even gladly relaxed in perfect peace and ceased to be.