Half way through college, one of my great friends introduced me to Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway seems to be a polarizing author- I've met some people who can't stand his books and others who think he is a fantastic writer. Generally, I fall into the second camp. One of the things that distinguishes his writing in my mind is his ability to not only describe a scene, but to convey the ways that the scene affects his characters. By turns, he made me long for cosmopolitan energy surrounding a table in a cafe on a Parisian boulevard in the 1920's, for the excitement and anticipation found in the heat and press of the crowds during the fiestas in Pamplona, and the soothing comfort of the white sands, clear waters, and warm breezes of a Cuban beach.
Some of the strongest impressions that he left on me, though, came through his descriptions of the fly fishing trips that he (and/or his characters. They are usually interchangeable) took across Europe and early 20th century America. He would start these trips early in the morning and set off-- by foot or by hitching a ride-- towards a stream or river that he knew of or had heard to have good fishing. He would spend the next day or two slowly traveling down the stream, eating sandwiches and fruit and drinking wine along the way. If he grew tired of one stream, he would set off across the land to find the next.
This may strike some people as a wholly unremarkable experience, but it becomes much less so if you have ever had the desire to try the same thing in modern america. Even if you are lucky enough to live close to land that could potentially offer such adventures, you will most likely find your trip cut short by two small words: NO TRESPASSING. We americans, more than most people in the world, it seems, make sure to emphasize the "private" in private property. Even if there is no development on our land and it is buried deep in the mountains of, say, Virginia, we do not want anyone else walking on our property and will gladly remind anyone of that fact if they dare try.
In our relentless pursuit to protect our little piece of the world, we carve the land up into discontinuous pieces that are unable to allow us to truly experience its complete offerings. In so doing, I think that we do ourselves a great disservice. We separate ourselves from each other, from the land, and from the remarkably satisfying feeling that accompanies the simple freedom of movement through the world that we live in.
The past two weekend, I have been able to get some of my first tastes of this freedom while hiking in the mountains of Albania. Most of the hiking in this country is not done on designated hiking trails. Instead, you simply pick a spot that you want to reach (I bet that the view up there would be great!) and start walking towards it. Usually, there is a small road or path that you can follow. You walk through fields, in and out of small villages, around flocks of sheep being tended by their shepherds, and past people's homes. On one of these trips, I was walking by myself (sorry mom!) along a dirt road when it abruptly ended in front of someone's home. A grandmother immediately came out to find out what I was doing there. When I explained that I was trying to reach the top of the mountain but wasn't sure which road to take, she simply pointed me in the right direction-- which happened to be right through their yard. I walked along the side of their house, through their gardens under the watchful eyes of their cows, and up a small path that put me out on a new road a short distance later.
The next day, I was hiking with Laura (one of the other volunteers living in my village) and we were having a difficult time finding our way through a village and up to one of the paths that could take us up the mountain that sits behind it. We decided to ask a woman who was working in her garden for directions. She stopped what she was doing and personally walked us through their land and up to one of those paths, but only after inviting us into her home for coffee. So at 10:30 last Sunday morning, we found ourselves drinking coffee and peach juice with three complete strangers (we were joined by the woman's mother in law and sister in law) and talking in somewhat broken shqip about who we were and why we were in Albania. Only a polite refusal prevented us from leaving their home with sack lunches and bottles of water.
I have always loved hiking, but this adds an entirely new element to the equation. It becomes an exploration of both the land and the people. In some ways, I feel as connected to these communities after a few weeks as I did after years in some towns and cities that I lived in previously. And the views at the end of the hikes? Those are pretty great too.
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