Suburban Regalia

I don’t exactly have a backyard. In fact, I definitely don’t have a backyard. Nonetheless, this very day I discovered a wonderful place in my own backyard. It’s really the sort of thing I should have known about years ago, and I know I had the opportunity to do so. I knew the name of the location, and I knew that it had a place to do some rock climbing. But it remained vague and distant until today.

Vickery Creek and its accompanying trails comprise this wonderful place. Not two miles from my current dwelling lies a small wooded area containing a few miles of scenic trails. These trails criss-cross the wood and follow the creek as it twists its way toward the Chattahoochee River. I would have never ventured into this realm had I not learned a vital fact – there is a waterfall along the trail.

Water has always been a key inspiration for me to go hiking. Forests are pleasant, but they lack the vitality of waterfalls or even creeks and streams. And there exist few boys who do not enjoy getting wet on a warm day.

So when I found out about the waterfall, I pledged my loyalty to the trails even before I had seen them. And I woke this morning eagerly anticipating my day’s planned adventure, right in my own backyard. Sometime around 11 o’clock I gathered up my small hiking knapsack and filled it with a water bottle, a sandwich, a small pad, and a pen for I intended to lunch and reflect during the hike.

I drove over to the trailhead and began to tromp up the trail. (I never merely “hike.” Tromping is much more invigorating.) Not two minutes later I encountered a long entourage of middle-aged hikers and realized reflection might be a little more difficult than expected on a beautiful day like today. But they passed rather quickly and I let them get ahead a bit to at least create the illusion of solitude in the woods. I presently forgot how near humanity was and relished the sylvan atmosphere.

About ten minutes later I came back in sight of the creek and started to hear what I believed to be the waterfall. The thrill of being outdoors in simulated seclusion, breathing the fresh air, feeling the dirt beneath me, greatly lifted my spirit. I began to see myself like some conquering hero, ruling over the path before me like an Olympian god. Tromping can do that to a fellow. Then I tripped over a protruding root, and my hubris came a’tumblin down like Icarus. Fortunately, metaphoric falls do not often kill.

My pride back in check, I could now tell that I was very near the waterfall. Then the beauteous vision burst through the thick February foliage of bare tree limbs – the falls themselves, tumbling over a mighty precipice into a bottomless abyss, churning and flinging up mist in such quantity as to instantly drench anyone who dared venture near this manifestation of mighty Nature.

I tripped again and decided to keep my romantic side in more control for the remainder of my tromp. In reality, the falls were only about twenty five feet tall, flowing over the remains of the old dam that I believe helped power the Roswell mill in days of yore. Though the scene could not compare to the splendor of natural beauty elsewhere, the eroded dam and the falls were a very pleasant sight in the midst of suburbia. I climbed down a little closer to the water and sat on some rocks to eat my sandwich.

The group of hikers I had seen earlier seemed to have taken a different route than I had, and presently I saw them appear up the trail and come down to look at the waterfall. They lingered for a few minutes and moved on. A troop of boy scouts followed shortly thereafter, and their leaders diligently kept them from the water’s edge. They too lingered briefly and then passed by.

But it was the opposite side of the creek that really kept my attention. There was another path across the way, a paved trail that led down from the mill and the historic part of Roswell, and there was a steady flow of walkers there as well. In fact, there were many more on that side than on mine. That didn’t surprise me much; their side was paved and flat; it had nice viewing areas, and it was only a few hundred yards from parking, shops, and restaurants.

And yet, nearly every walker carried a burdensome load of hiking gear. Many had backpacks stuffed to the brim; most had some form of walking stick, and all looked as if they had been working very hard so far. At first I thought they must have crossed over the creek further down (where there is a bridge) and had been hiking on my side beforehand, but this proved an untenable belief as I watched group after group come down from the parking lot, take off their sacks to view the falls for a few minutes, and head right back up to their cars, leaning heavily on their walking sticks. And even if they were hiking on my side of the river, the gear could not be justified; I doubt there is more than three or four miles of trail in total. I couldn’t help but laugh at one man in particular who had the complete outfit – a steel-framed hiking backpack completely full, two walking sticks, a hat brimmed all the way around, and a variety of other objects dangling from carabiners on his pack.

Such is the regalia of many suburbanites (or, perhaps more accurately, super-urbanites, for Roswell is north of Atlanta). We love to show off our fancy gear amongst our neighbors, even if it is completely unnecessary. And we justify it as preparedness. After all, you never know when you’ll be walking a quarter mile and fall, breaking your face, desperately needing gauze, Neosporin, and a nice side of roast beef with roasted parsnips while you wait for extraction. This desire for security carries over into other parts of our lives all the time.

Risk is always unnecessary; there is insurance for nearly everything. From our health to our lives to our jewelry to our cars to our luggage to our mail to our weddings to our dogs, if we spend money on it, we can buy insurance for it. And we often do. And when there is no insurance available (or even when there is), we have intruder alerts, credit checks, car alarms (which have woken me two nights in a row and never seem to prevent robbery), background checks, smoke alarms, personal references, carbon monoxide detectors, warranties, good faith agreements, never-ending return polices (or just take it to Wal-Mart), rain checks, and – if all else fails – you can always sue.

These same litigious folk have taught us well how to travel. It all comes down to planning. First you plan for the travelling portion of the trip, because it comes first, and we are a people most concerned with the here and now. So break out the entertainment: the computer with a multitude of DVDs, the ipod, the Kindle, the Blackberry, and your portable satellite radio (for sports), and of course you will need a charger for each device.

Next consider your clothing and toiletries. Fortunately, there is a useful volume formula:

(Number of Travelers)(Number of Nights Spent Away + 3) = Bags Needed

For example, if my wife and I are going to Savannah for three days, we would need

(2)(3+3) = (2)(6) = 12 bags!

So fill them up! You just never know when you will need a safari shirt or a ski mask.

I understand that it is a fundamental human need to feel safe. Life does not flourish without security. But I would also argue that some risk and uncertainty is equally important. It pushes us to new achievements; it keeps us motivated; it reveals our weaknesses and hones them into assets. Even the most protected person will one day encounter something completely unexpected and frightening. If they have spent their lives only trying to be safe, they will stumble and fall. But the one who has shunned the secure regalia of suburbia to face reality from time to time will stand beneath the pressure.