Father Time is a weekly column dedicated to the concept of time in a parent’s life, particularly a father’s life. The point of view comes from a father of two young sons, both under three-years-old, and how time really is just that: a concept.
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FEATURING GUEST COLUMNIST: RANDY SIMONS
It was early October. Cold. I sat next to a snapping fire as the sun rose bright, the gurgle of the St. Joe River sweeping past my campsite. A map lay across my lap like a blanket as the coffee pot percolated and a chipmunk skittered about amongst the fallen pine needles.
Circles and pen strokes were scrawled across various ridge lines and forest service roads on the map. A crooked red star marking the site of the Arid Peak Lookout. My destination. I could already envision looking out across a vast sea of mountains. Pine trees studded across their spiny peaks as they rolled away to the ends of the world.
Separation makes me appreciate the life that I have, no matter how chaotic. The single guy existence no longer appeals to me and the trip cements the fact.
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Avery is the closest form of civilization to camp, though I wouldn’t consider it a town. A payphone sits outside a shoebox sized post office, a way to check in with my wife in the evenings and tell her I love her, talk with the kids before they go to bed. Cell phones basically become bricks as you drive further east along the river road, deeper into the mountains. Just another bonus to the natural beauty of the place. I make this annual trip alone, and each year, I miss my family more. The loneliness gets heavier. Separation makes me appreciate the life that I have, no matter how chaotic. The single guy existence no longer appeals to me and the trip cements the fact.
The town started with loggers and railroad men. Their families. Trees were sawn and loaded onto railcar. Historical signs posted by the forest service tell their story. A few with black and white pictures of men in cork boots and canvas pants. The road I planned to take to find the lookout had been an old rail line, the last working one in the area.
I drove it slowly, taking in the views, listening to the gravel crackle under my tires as the road snaked along from ridge to ridge. I saw a dog trotting along the shoulder of the road, tongue lolling out, stub-tail wagging. Further ahead was an SUV, rear tire flat to the rim. A woman stood with a baby in her arm, a tire iron in her other. There was a thick scrim of dirt on her back. She said she’d seen a wolf, a real wolf, a mile or so back. Before the tire blew. Before our paths crossed.
If the loggers and rail men hadn’t come to the mountain first, there wouldn’t have been a road. A town. A moment stacked on a moment stacked on a moment. A humbling realization that time typically lies just outside the borders of our maps.
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The spare tire was caught underneath her trunk, the cable that cranks down bound on some unseen piece of metal. No amount of prying or tugging could break it loose. Her dogs, three it turned out, bounded into the back of my pickup. The woman strapped the car seat tight and we started back towards town. The woman was understandably nervous until our awkward small talk formed connections between people we knew and places we’d been. I dropped her and her baby niece and the dogs at her father’s cabin and she sent me away with a handshake a plate of cookies she’d baked the day before.
I didn’t find the lookout, though I searched all afternoon. Yet, I still consider it a good day. I think back on it and feel good about myself. Good that I could help a stranger out of a tough spot, even if I couldn’t change her tire. I think about the timing of it all and how our paths crossed at that exact time and place, in the middle of nowhere. If I’d not had a second cup of coffee or woke up a half hour earlier, I never would have seen her. If the loggers and rail men hadn’t come to the mountain first, there wouldn’t have been a road. A town. A moment stacked on a moment stacked on a moment. A humbling realization that time typically lies just outside the borders of our maps. Just outside our understanding.
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Photo credit: Robert Couse-Baker.