Energy Never Dies

by: Marisa Ackerman

As I look out across the vast nothingness that is the Appalachian Trail in the dead of winter, I closed my eyes and tried to conjure something— anything— constructive. My father had been sick for over a year, and while the family was thoroughly prepared for his passing, the monumental shock and grief of losing my best friend had still swept me off my feet. It was almost worse knowing for months that death could just mosey around the corner and take him from me, at any time. We had always wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail together— the whole thing, not just the bridge from New Hampshire to Maine or the steep climb up Springer Mountain in North Georgia.

“I’m gonna need you to go on and do this without me, son,” he pleaded, wiping away a single tear from his eye the day he broke the news to me. We had become more distant when I left for college, but we still talked on the phone at least once a week, usually more. What our conversations lacked in depth, they made up for in passion, nostalgia, and innocence. He kept me up to date on the World Series, and I tried not to complain too much about the workload of a biomedical engineering degree. I tried to only give my father the good news, a promotion, or a fantastic grade. Breakups and financial hardships slipped my mind when I was talking to him. Anytime I visited my parents for holidays or breaks, my Dad would hand me a sweaty Corona with a wink when my mom wasn’t looking, and we’d pull out the tattered, yellowing map of the trail we’d been making since I was seven.

I’m looking down at the same one now, struggling to read some of the handwriting that had to be over a decade old.

“Please, John,” my mom had begged me in the week before my departure, “bring a backup map. A second map. There are so many all over the internet, you can still take the same trail, you’ll see the same things…,” But I was adamant. It had to be our way. She was also vehemently against my plan of leaving only a week after he died, at the end of December. I couldn’t explain it, but I had to go. My blood ran cold right around the time the old man’s heart stopped beating, and I felt an immeasurable amount of pain. Snow, wildlife, and isolation were miles away from deterring me from his dying wish, to fulfill something he never got the chance to.

It’s rough from the get-go, but the freezing temperature and obstacles only seem to push me harder. It’s the small campsite I come across seven hours in that completely breaks me down. I don’t need to look at the family to know they’re happy. A child’s laughter comes in waves while flashlight flickers float in and out of my gaze. Maybe it’s the smell of blackened marshmallows wafting towards me, or the crisp air that only has the power to bring people together while alienating the weak ones and freezing them out. The happy family pushed me into thinking of my dad in his golden corduroy jacket, when he was trying not to laugh every time I mispronounced the word watermelon until I was nine, chewing on a toothpick after every meal out whether they had them at the host stand or not— he brought his own. My father had been a man of preparation and detail.

As I try to quiet my mind of all the memories dancing like leaves in the wind, I hear his words echo in the back of my head. Don’t be afraid to stop. Smell everything. Investigate every sound. Focus on the solitude of nature and get lost in it. I continued breathing deeply, trying to open my mind and widen my gaze. I was looking for him, here in the forest. The gnarled, aging wood on the tree trunks peeking out from under the stark white snow reminded me of his hands, specifically his knuckles. The cloudless sky was blue with a hint of grey, like the ocean after a storm, gentle but unforgiving. His eyes are looking down on me still, after all this time. The wind howling in my ears was both painful and pleasant, like remembering his laugh, how contagious it was, how I’ll never hear it again. I feel the solitude he mentioned, and it cuts like a dull knife in my side. But I feel him with me here, and I keep pushing.