🍑⛅ A Moment on the Trail: Finding Beauty in Simplicity

A passage from our book "Baguettes and Backpacking"

When I look down, my fear is present, though it is no longer paralyzing. I reflect on how far I’ve challenged my fears.  I see a crow flying over the vast expanse, I wonder if birds are scared of heights. It’s a silly thought and I say it aloud. Then I think, every bird is scared of heights when it first has to leave the nest.

To my Mother, who taught me that life is incredibly short.

February 13, 2023

Today is the first day we will ration our food. Finally it feels as though we are on trail. It is hard to explain but everything feels right. It is warmer when we wake and it is a welcome change. There was no frost on the ground and our tent felt warm all night. When I leave the warmth of piled clothes and sleeping bags it is to discover we have camped above the fog. The Valley below us sits in an ocean of clouds. When the sun begins to rise the colors are reflected into a rainbow. Our fingers do not freeze when we take down the tent. Breakfast, a red bull each and a few cookies–they have chocolate in the middle. “Breakfast of champions” we joke as we toast our cans. Always the best and worst food on trail.  But I am forgetting the can of peaches, Bobby’s idea. They taste fresh and the syrupy juice quenches our thirst after running out of water at night. We take turns slurping up a peach and drinking a bit of its juice before passing the can. “We can each have three,” Bobby says as he counts them.

“Now comes the real decision” I say as we finish packing our gear. “What book shall we listen to today?” In response Bobby begins to hum a song of the Shire. Someone has let our dog friend out again, I hear him barking in the distance. We leave before he brings humans or follows us himself. As soon as we descend the hill, into the fog, the temperature drops. This grass is covered in frost.

The hours pass into late morning, we walk on rolling hills, farm lands to our right and left. The fog follows us all morning. Random, a picnic table in the middle of a wooded trail. No complaints, we sit down to eat the last of our bread and cheese. The hike up into the small village goes quickly. This village or town, though larger on the map, is still small and almost everything in France is closed on Mondays. We found a convenience shop and arrived only ten minutes before closing. There isn’t much here, the place is small, the shelves mostly empty, but we find what we need. We must go next door for the duck tape. There is a coffee shop across the street and we stop. The server speaks French but we overhear her speaking English and learn she is from Texas. Odd, that is the second person.

The only tape we find is white. We patch up the holes in our jackets while we sip coffee. White tape on black jacket, we look fabulously like hiker trash. These villages may be small but their churches never are. This one is massive. It is beautiful, perhaps the most I have seen yet. Each great window is covered with stained glass resulting in rainbows reflected off of arched ceilings and ancient walls. There is music playing, an opera of soft voices.

When we leave town it is with the intention to hike until 3pm. We need an hour of sunlight to dry out the tent. Right at 3pm, there is a picnic table. We are ecstatic. The table sits under a tree next to a stone cross. There have been so many water fountains, and so many picnic tables, I love this trail.  Lunch is dry bread and a cheese slice, the only thing available at our convenience store, though we have bought some apricot juice