Chapter 13, Counting the sacred steps to the Healing waters of Atagahi
Eagle flying bye stared up at the stars. The song of the pack rose up all around him. He sighed and pulled his mind away from the pack. He knew the time was near for him to start running with the pack. The wolves wanted him to run with them, but he couldn’t. He had to stay in his human form a while longer. The winter was well under way, and winter was a harsh time to travel in these lands, even for a strong untamed wolf walker such as himself.
“The wolves are active tonight.” A deep voice spoke quietly into the night, disturbing his silent reverie.
Eagle Flying bye heard the screams of the Doe, it pierced his thoughts, she was somewhere south of here, although he did not know where here was. He had been wandering aimlessly through the Badlands for a moon or so, her screams had brought him out of his confused state of mind. With clarity of mind and purpose the medicine Man concentrated on her voice. He would find her. He would save her. It had become his life’s passion. After all it was he who had offered her up to the great serpent.
He looked into the starry heavens, ‘At times it seems the stars are the only ones who want nothing of me.” That’s why he came out here. He loved looking at the sky at night. He discovered through the stars, his link to the wolves, before he knew what his destiny was to be, for wolf walkers were often feared, and alone, bereft of human contact.
Her voice was deceptively mild as she spoke. “Is that the only reason to be?” Shirley's voice ebbed and flowed through the recesses of his mind.
“You do talk to the wolves?" His tone was mildly amused. Eagle flying bye easily reached for the pack mind. Through the Wolf, he could clearly sense her; his keen eyesight scanned the hinter hills. He would follow her scent.
“Can you hear me, Shirley?” His howl echoed over canyons and steep valleys…..
Her voice was full of wonder. “Yes, yes! I can....I can feel your mind,"
The wolves, as one, swarmed his mind, trying to undermine his determination, and as usual, he found himself fighting desperately the almost compulsive urge to give in. Finally the tide of wolfish pleading ebbed. Eagle Flying bye sighed in relief, as he sought refuge with the pack under the full moon.
The medicine man awoke, refreshed, he would go to the great spirit of the lake, Atagahi, he would journey a thousand miles, as he took his first step. Atagahi, he would find it, not for himself, for the sake of all Mother Nature. He needed to record in his mind every nuance, every object, and every sacred footstep.
Rain
Can opener
Indoor Formula
Coffeepot
Ramen
Coffee
Nuts and berries
Wallet
Keys
Winter coat
wolf pack
Short tail over back of couch
Bottle of Injun Whiskey
Pouch of blessed tobacco, sacred pipe
Gasoline filled jeep, rope for climbing or hanging, axe, shovel, screwdriver. Screwdriver?
Razor, towel, blanket
Old photo Album.
I will be gone one or two moons
his face was glistening tears
Old photos from a long ago quest
Sometimes it Rains inside
I was reading about Atagahi
and I reached forth my paw and touched my tears.
Wolves crying, howling
Crossing Smokies on a dreary fall day
The moon breaks out.
Beautiful
Driving old Land Rover
The sun is going down behind in the back window.
There is an old Baptist church with a black sign stuck out by the highway saying Service at 5:00 p.m.
in white letters.
Come all who want to attend.
The moon rises and is an unexpected sight.
It is reflecting the light from the sun going down behind me.
Just past Caney Fork and another mile marker and past the rest stop.
I glance to my right at
the railroad bridge crossing Shawnee Fork
Now past Shawnee Fork River and up the Cumberland Plateau. Forty-five minutes
black asphalt and white lines and concrete barricades because there is continuing construction.
Moon rising with the color of violet beneath it and translating blue above it
gathering brilliance from the sun going down.
The asphalt weaves as does the Plateau.
Up and down, to the right to the left, a straight, and all around again.
two hundred miles on I-74
And still climbing the Cumberland to reach orange flame azaleas and Grays’ lily, striking tall, and cascading water running from the Little River and down past Tremont.
Cling man’s Dome
Parsons Branch
Chilhowie
Cherokee
Andrews bald
Abrams Creek...
trout fishing
Shifting gears
Clutch set in
Down in a low hum of first gear
Up into second and six cylinders humming
Clutch set in again and up into third and another whine.
Fourth and then clutch again
Pattern of gears
First straight down
Second straight up
Third straight down
Fourth straight up
Fifth gear to be driven to right and then up.
The Sepia, amber
The Plateau visible as I chant
4:07 p.m. by Central time
All stops out
and the reed of a clutch.
Smell of the Buffalo on the grassy knolls.
White Buffalo Woman pointing to red road
leveling out on the top of the Plateau.
The moon is rising in resounding curvature.
There is violet under the hanging moon and
into the tick of Eastern Standard Time
past Airport Exit and into a wide curve with a dented guardrail and down past laburnum trees.
The sky changes in a moment.
The time zones change.
5:39 p.m. Eastern Time
The violet is now above the full moon, caressing, and the blue is settling into subservience.
Hard right
Forty-five miles to next exit and on to Sweet water
on to Murphy,
Coker Creek a runoff of Tellico where there is still gold to be panned out of the water.
Desperate faces, small hands
Piercing eyes scanning pebbles and sand
Gold dust
Journey for best medicine
the hiss of Coleman fuel combines with the running sound of Porters Creek.
Fresh caught trout, and bacon grease, and wild mushrooms, and fiddleheads waiting.
The Coleman stove took a minute to ignite.
There was a Hornet’s nest in it
because I forgot to clean it before packing.
The skin of the trout I caught today browns and crisps.
The Coleman is set away from the lean-to as to not attract any predators of the night
Whether they be dangerous or just curious,
I set it away from the makeshift of dead scored branches covered with my old blue tarp.
I looked today for the stone that's shaped like a three-quarter fan.
But it must have been colder last winter,
Because I couldn't find it.
The fan must have shifted from the heavy snow and slicing water under the ice these last few winters. My marker is now hidden.
Because the water of Porters Creek no longer flows over the fan made of thunderhead sandstone.
Star moss like little green pincushions have sprouted up in the dry fissure
along with trailing pink arbutus and three-leafed lions tongue
because Porters Creek has changed its bed since I was last he
re.
I know because I searched for the fan all day, wading in Porters Creek in my old sneakers
and turning over displaced pieces of Porters Creek.
A flood has come down and has scoured out a fast running stream and has turned Porters Creek into a lazy pool of slow flowing water.
Sneakers are the best things for wading because you can feel the rocks through the thin soles of sneakers and you can feel the smooth bark of a fallen slick limb
and I forgot that my ankle might not be up to the hike; three and half miles one way.
I waded through the knee deep water and came up with my sneakers slick.
There had been one of those strange creatures gliding past, one of those Hellbenders, looking like a giant salamander crawling under the water and moving its head slowing and its long tail, crawling through Porters Creek.
I looked up from the Hellbender and back down into the wet shore before me.
Two pronged toes are in the coarse sand of Porters Creek.
A deer has come to drink from Porters Creek. She fixes her Doe eyes upon me….
“I’m waiting….” She whispers.
I’m beginning to walk to Thunderhead
And then Maidenhair fern soft lifting in swaying drift of air rising from the creek
and white pealing birches standing on tiptoes.
Trillium
Gray’s lily.
A hidden slipper of pink is tinged with violet and hiding under the maidenhair fern.
Almost embracing the lady slipper with fronds encased within a cobweb
that almost looks like lace from a bobbin,
weaving a pattern over a pillow with the needle of a fern. I will weave a blanket in honor of this beauty.
Drum and call of ruffed grouse
thrumming of grouse on a log.
Towheetoweee--toweee
Catbird yellow and red set on shield of folded black wing.
Titmouse tittittittittittitt
Bobwhite, with soft calling whistle…Sweeteetsweeteet
and then a tweaking pair of cardinals hovering over a nest.
I was seeking,
seeking Atagahi today.
Sweet Stink of black bear manure, he shit in the woods
Honey and heady musk scent of black bear.
Up past Alum Cave, through the wooded path Seeking Atagahi...today.
Past long logged timber.
Death and decay of virgin wood
I paused to tie my shoe because it was unlaced from its simple over knot
taught when I was two. I am missing my moccasins….
I tied my shoe again and leaned against a pealing white and black tree.
Then I stretched my cramped legs out and reached for my pack.
And then I set my foot down.
And then I could feel the ground once again.
The sun is bright today
I set out again to climb Thunderhead
Atagahi just around a bend…..calling to me…..
The trail is smooth under my feet.
My sneakers are laced correctly now.
I missed one of the grommets in my haste to get out of the car while at Alum Cave.
Had been in such haste to get to the trailhead
my right shoe is laced and tied in four figure knot.
My right foot rocks against the ground, step by step, soft leather, my toes and heels in calmness on the trail to Thunderhead.
The left follows and then forwards.
Right
left
Right
left.
Left
Right
Left
Right
I have remembered how to walk over the beginning to Thunderhead.
The trail to Thunderhead is smooth on outset. I must not waver in my calculated step.
I reach ascension and adjust the straps on my back.
The trail turns to the left for a half mile
then turns back.
I have only walked a few miles from Alum Cave.
The trail switches back again
the sunlight is beginning to fail through the trembling aspens and arrow leaves are falling over the trail to Thunderhead.
And my feet are already sore.
I will have to soak my feet tonight
in salted water.
There will be puffed skin tomorrow.
I’ll have to heat a needle to lance the blisters on my heels and will find some golden seal to rub in
but I will sleep tonight, satisfied that in my frail attempt to climb Thunderhead I have accomplished the first quarter-mile to Thunderhead
and all because there was the pealing of a birch tree behind my head and whispering in peeled and shredded bark
with a voice rooted deep into the ground.
Indications, small clues
I had rested my head up against the only birch tree that still had its root set deep into the earth of the beginning trailhead to Thunderhead.
All the other trees had sprouted root over fallen timber that had disintegrated with time and constant evolution
but the birch tree against which I had rested my head
to spend a quiet moment writing in my diary.
It was old, had a trunk that had cuts from a logging axe.
The cuts from a logger’s axe had healed over because the birch must have been just a sapling then
when the loggers came to cut down whatever treasure there was in hard wood
but there was no value in birch wood, but he speaks to me,
tells me to rest here tonight...
nothing to be gained it was too soft a wood but its bark was perfect for making a canoe that could slide over fast water and down descending rapids
and peal with a torrent of water up and down, bobbing and then fast rising up against a rock...and sluicing down over a short fall, shooting past white churning rapids into waters of an unnamed cascade and into currents
that ...
on the surface
looked like air bubbles escaping from the deep current billowing up in white foam
I would follow the roots of the Old Birch after I rested beneath his sacred canvas.
I hiked Past the Tears of Alum Cave today and past the bluff that tastes like salt. I must taste the salt of Alum Cave three times, to make it so.
I walked up the trail that leads past the weathered Bluff of Alum once again.
I brought my winter coat out of the closet for no reason.
The label said rated 15 degrees above.
I placed my hand against Alum for support, drew my fingers away and tasted the salt of Alum yet again today.
It was warm today.
I didn't need the coat I had on.
I didn't need the old gear
but I did need the square of buffalo jerky and the walnuts and the berries for the trail to Thunderhead.
The weatherman had said on the radio
blue skies today, weather should be clear as well
for three days.
But I had gotten my old coat just in case
other hikers had come down from the trail leading from Alum.
I wanted to see Alum.
Alum Cave...Five miles, up and back, moderate walk. Though this short trail promises an easy return.
I wanted to set my foot down again.
I looked at the trail near the signpost.
Alum Cave walks, very easy.
I knew what was on the face of Alum Cave.
I touched Alum again and tasted the salt tears of Alum.
The rain had almost torn Alum into bits and there had been
such rain, so much so that even the Smokies couldn't absorb it.
But the Smokies had shifted onto some other plane
the heights of the Smokies had shifted and had sunk down and
Alum had shifted and didn’t look the same.
Touchstone
Lodestone
White Quartz seam
ed with
Pyrites as like a fool’s vein.
Thunderhead, Sandstone
Granite. Sharp edged, as if it had been hewn from a chisel and hammer.
And hidden marble
and then grey fragile leafing slate that had come from nowhere except in ageless days.
I looked at Alum’s water and creek bed
saw all the rocks that were tumbled around.
They were all different
but you couldn't see their colors unless they were wet with water.
I rubbed my toes.
They were still sore.
I had spent weeks walking barefoot in the Badlands,
open sores and blisters turned once again to Thunderhead
but this time to Thunderhead
I made sure I had plenty of golden-seal in my pack
I held the tears of Alum in my mouth, tasting the salt for the third and last time.
Careful not to miss the tiniest detail,
only then would the Thunderhead call back to my echo,
There is no sound outside the cave. At least someone has been kind enough to leave some firewood.
There is no sound except for the snapping fire and the scratching of mice in the rafters and walls.
I have made it to Thunderhead today but not by much.
Today started out bright and clear, just like yesterday, but a little colder because of altitude and
over twenty miles to Thunderhead.
November must have rattled the leaves down.
I was walking today, watching my feet and not the sky. I didn’t notice the morning and afternoon sliding away in my wayward assault to Thunderhead.
Everything changed in ten minutes.
The sky turned to lead, moisture in the air changed, quivered
and then everything went white.
There’s nothing to see, no landmark, nothing.
Complete Whiteout before me.
Now I lay me down to sleep
Guide my steps before Thee take
and it’s cold even though I am still sweating.
Thank God someone has remembered to follow the courtesy of the trail. Very few come to Thunderhead, but someone has gleaned two miles back and I am reaping the benefits of that courtesy someone has left gathered firewood and a box of waterproofed matches double wrapped. And not only that, but has laid a dry fire of tinder and oak on the hearth.
And the ridge of Thunderhead glistens with over five inches of new fallen snow, snow covering Thunderhead like a feather bed, and the sky is as blue as Logan’s sapphire, and the Brave sun, rising, travels over the crusted snow.
I spun around today with my arms opened wide to greet and to embrace the fresh morning on Thunderhead Ridge.
Cleansing my five senses, all night vigil
fasting...
Chant to Great Spirit….wish for a cup of coffee
Alums salt tears are gone from my fingers today. Only forward steps now….
My head clear, my mind filled with purpose.
My spirit is lifted up as I gaze skyward to the smoky mountain ridge, white, ageless.
Thousands of ducks suddenly appear, as if from nowhere.
My ascent begins on the rugged walkway.
No one has ventured this far.
I am only Eagle Flying Bye
Not worthy to see the great spirit of the Lake
Atagahi, oh revered water!
Cliffs appear on both sides of me.
Ascension has stopped.
The trail now descends.
PURPLE water cascades from both sides of the cliffs.
Oh Atagahi!
Heal me, heal my affliction.
Kneeling down I pray to Atagahi,
who has graced me with his presence.
I pull off my coat and clothes,
plunge my sinful, broken body into the water...
Suddenly I am flying high over the hidden lake,
I am Eagle Flying bye,
My Eagle’s eye spies the Doe, She is on the periphery of my vision, she has followed me…….
Heaven sends it’s love
as the stars rain bowed lightning in the heavens of the sun
in the mirror of earth’s sorrow came tomorrow’s ruling one
when mother birthed the daughter and where daughter birthed the son, hiding truth where all’s inverted; where earthy evil runs;
the bride of resurrection hid, a girl inside his skin
through dark clouds masking glory all the gods saw her as him
the stranger in a manger called the morning star to send
a little light to stormy night, an evil world to mend;
the groom came for a wife and grew a womb absorbing fall
in the oceans of rot sea men, she founded my life’s call
helping end the hurt and pain of lesser light’s abusive maul
sharing perfect grace… perfect peace… pure truth releasing all;
come! Invert earth ways… find happiness; make love… have a ball
in spirit’s womb, truth’s wisdom… come! One and all,
Birthing the Lucifer star Page 29