even knew of it . . . My reason for doing the trail started out fairly simple and grew
in depth with time and experience. I originally wanted to get close to nature in a good whole- some way and, number two, to
find more of myself. I believe that I have done well at both of these. I am very satisfied. I wish the light of day would
give me more strength to finish these written thoughts but the night is rising and the shadows are no longer visible. The
night animals are out and I must go forth into the cycle that I have chosen.
Eustace R. Conway.
And, indeed, he did go forth into the cycle that he had chosen. Every other voyage and accomplishment in his life would grow
out of this one. For instance, when Eustace found himself a few months later sitting on a picnic table in North Carolina,
skinning a raccoon, a man came up to him and said, “You’re Eustace Conway, right? The last time I saw you was on the Appalachian
Trail and you were skinning a snake. I remember talking to you about wilderness adventure.” The man introduced himself as
Alan York, and the two talked for a while, and then Alan said, “Hey, let’s hike across Alaska together.” Eustace replied,
“I don’t think it’s possible to hike across Alaska, but I’m pretty sure you can kayak it,” and that’s what they did. Eustace
and Alan glided across the state, fighting cold and brutal surf, hovering inches over herring and salmon and kelp and whales.
After that, how hard could it be to travel into rural Mexico to study pottery and weaving? And that successful trip to Mexico
gave the enterprising young man the confidence to fly to Guatemala, step off the plane, and ask, “Where are all the primitive
people at?” It all started with the Appalachian Trail, though. And what Eustace particularly pictures when he thinks about
being nineteen years old on the Appalachian Trail is one moment, a moment he will always hold as the happiest of his life.
He is in New Hampshire. He has made it out of Maine without starving or freezing to death. He comes over a ridge. Everywhere
he looks, he sees exquisite pink morning light cast over snow and ice and granite. That’s all. A typical view of the White
Mountains in late winter. As the years pass by, Eustace will travel to many places more interesting than this, and he will
see some of the spectacular views of the world, from Alaska to Australia to Arizona, so perhaps this is not the most beautiful sight he will see. Nor is it as heroic and chest-thumping a moment as he’ll experience when he completes the trail
months later, down in Georgia, where he can haul out the heavy-duty “many-tales-I-can-tell” rhetoric. But this is better.
Because this is the backdrop for the moment when Eustace Conway first comprehends that he is free. He’s a man, and he is exactly
where he wants to be, accomplishing what he’s always known he could accomplish if he made his own decisions. He’s humbled
and exalted and simplified and purified and saved by this moment, because it holds the realization that—so far up here on
this handsome mountain—his father isn’t anywhere in sight. His father can’t reach him anymore. Nobody can reach him. Nobody
can control him and nobody can ever punish him again.
Eustace stands there, paralyzed by joy, patting himself down in wonder. He feels like a man who has walked away from a firing
squad whose guns have jammed, and he’s checking himself for bullet holes— and there are none. The air smells sweet and he
can feel his own heartbeat and he’s laughing and laughing at the realization that he’s intact.
It’s the best moment of his life, because it’s the moment when Eustace Conway first grasps the concept that he has survived.
CHAPTER FOUR
We are a little wild here with numberless projects of social reform. Not a reading man but has a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
W hen Eustace
in depth with time and experience. I originally wanted to get close to nature in a good whole- some way and, number two, to
find more of myself. I believe that I have done well at both of these. I am very satisfied. I wish the light of day would
give me more strength to finish these written thoughts but the night is rising and the shadows are no longer visible. The
night animals are out and I must go forth into the cycle that I have chosen.
Eustace R. Conway.
And, indeed, he did go forth into the cycle that he had chosen. Every other voyage and accomplishment in his life would grow
out of this one. For instance, when Eustace found himself a few months later sitting on a picnic table in North Carolina,
skinning a raccoon, a man came up to him and said, “You’re Eustace Conway, right? The last time I saw you was on the Appalachian
Trail and you were skinning a snake. I remember talking to you about wilderness adventure.” The man introduced himself as
Alan York, and the two talked for a while, and then Alan said, “Hey, let’s hike across Alaska together.” Eustace replied,
“I don’t think it’s possible to hike across Alaska, but I’m pretty sure you can kayak it,” and that’s what they did. Eustace
and Alan glided across the state, fighting cold and brutal surf, hovering inches over herring and salmon and kelp and whales.
After that, how hard could it be to travel into rural Mexico to study pottery and weaving? And that successful trip to Mexico
gave the enterprising young man the confidence to fly to Guatemala, step off the plane, and ask, “Where are all the primitive
people at?” It all started with the Appalachian Trail, though. And what Eustace particularly pictures when he thinks about
being nineteen years old on the Appalachian Trail is one moment, a moment he will always hold as the happiest of his life.
He is in New Hampshire. He has made it out of Maine without starving or freezing to death. He comes over a ridge. Everywhere
he looks, he sees exquisite pink morning light cast over snow and ice and granite. That’s all. A typical view of the White
Mountains in late winter. As the years pass by, Eustace will travel to many places more interesting than this, and he will
see some of the spectacular views of the world, from Alaska to Australia to Arizona, so perhaps this is not the most beautiful sight he will see. Nor is it as heroic and chest-thumping a moment as he’ll experience when he completes the trail
months later, down in Georgia, where he can haul out the heavy-duty “many-tales-I-can-tell” rhetoric. But this is better.
Because this is the backdrop for the moment when Eustace Conway first comprehends that he is free. He’s a man, and he is exactly
where he wants to be, accomplishing what he’s always known he could accomplish if he made his own decisions. He’s humbled
and exalted and simplified and purified and saved by this moment, because it holds the realization that—so far up here on
this handsome mountain—his father isn’t anywhere in sight. His father can’t reach him anymore. Nobody can reach him. Nobody
can control him and nobody can ever punish him again.
Eustace stands there, paralyzed by joy, patting himself down in wonder. He feels like a man who has walked away from a firing
squad whose guns have jammed, and he’s checking himself for bullet holes— and there are none. The air smells sweet and he
can feel his own heartbeat and he’s laughing and laughing at the realization that he’s intact.
It’s the best moment of his life, because it’s the moment when Eustace Conway first grasps the concept that he has survived.
CHAPTER FOUR
We are a little wild here with numberless projects of social reform. Not a reading man but has a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
W hen Eustace
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