The man who walked down the rocky trail of that sacred mountain for the last time was not the same one who had walked up. I knew I would never be the same. I had grown, learned, and loved, and it felt good. The further down I walked, the more I understood I was leaving Emily behind forever in a time and place that I would always remember as if it were now, and I smiled. Two hearts and souls had touched in a way that would cross time and distance, and they would always be together. I smiled knowing that she would fulfill her life and her own destiny and smiled again because of the mountaintop days and the long nights by the fire, the swims in the stream, and the early morning fog that I loved so much. To this day, I can smell the fresh morning and the pine trees and hear the cardinal call my name, and I can feel the pure heart that I had found and would always remember.It was now late afternoon in the hills of West Virginia near the end of October 1966. I had lingered too long on my journey down the mountain toward tomorrow. The sun seemed to set even earlier in the heavens, hiding behind the pines and the foothills. I knew that hitching in the dark along a country road even in those days was not safe, and I was not likely to find a ride, so it was time to camp. My soul and heart would battle through the night with my desire to return to the cabin, which was a safe two-hour hike back and another mile to the paved road. I would not sleep. I could almost hear the old bear scratching against the fence just up the hill and feel Emily’s touch. At least for one more night and one more morning I would listen to the cry of the wolf and the song of the cardinal. I remembered the very first time I saw Emily’s eyes, long before the mountaintop days, and heard her whisper, “Wouldn’t you want them to do the same for you?”
The Hell Ride to Kane
The drive from Alderson, West Virginia, to Kane, Pennsylvania, was eventful, to say the least. I hitched a ride with an ex-Korean war veteran who chugged Jack Daniels and popped what I thought was speed to stay awake. He took mountain hairpin curves as if he were in the Indianapolis 500 time trials, and I heard every story about wars and whores and how he wanted to go to Vietnam but could not because he had lost a leg in Korea. I wanted to ask which leg but was afraid the fool would take off the artificial one to show me. I watched in amazement as he pumped the clutch and gas pedal and shifted gears. I also came to the decision that telling this guy my story was not a great idea. I was afraid he would toss me out without bothering to stop the truck or even slow down.
It was at about this time I realized I needed to change my name and adopt a new identity. With any luck at all, I figured the State Police would pull us over and I would at least be spared a gruesome death impaled on a pine tree. But if they checked my identity and ran it through some bureau invested in capturing a peaceful war-resisting desperado such as myself, on the run from a number of antiwar infractions, then my game of cat-and-mouse would soon be over.