Silver Bay, 14 December 1994
Greetings from the Adirondacks.
Wind is playing hard on the surface of Lake George, and snow squalls hide the opposite shore. Ducks are diving for food, oblivious: buffleheads, goldeneyes, common and hooded mergansers (my favorite), and a mallard couple who’ve been my only reliable neighbors these past few months. I’d been looking forward to cooler weather, but a boathouse is, almost by definition, overexposed. I have water on four sides: ahead, to the right, to the left, and below. The approaching cold is visible in the color of the sky, in gray tree branches thrashing in the wind, and in the patterns on the lake. I should put up curtains, if only to keep my subconscious warm.
These days I spend a lot of time chopping wood; it is my only source of heat. In November I also chopped down four unfortunate maples that were standing in the way of Progress (a new septic system). I assumed the main challenge would be dropping the monsters without crushing anything valuable underneath – especially not myself. In fact, the hardest part was screwing up enough courage to kill a being as beautiful and dignified as a fifty-foot maple. The work itself was less complicated than killing a goat (the maples all went down exactly as planned, which is more than I can say for the last goat I slaughtered), but it cost my soul more. I did feel that felling them with an axe was more respectful than leaving it to the bulldozer. And though it’ll be a couple years before we can use their wood as fuel, those trees have already kept me warm for the better part of an afternoon.
In April I climbed on a plane and flew back to the States, after seven years in South America under the auspices of Habitat for Humanity. I miss Bolivia and my friends there with a kind of yearning desperation, but it was probably wise to leave when I did. In recent years Habitat has been getting more professional, efficient, and materialistic, at the expense (IMHO) of its grassroots accessibility, quality, and moral focus. We even felt this trend in Bolivia, to a degree. Habitat is a worthy organization, doing important work (especially in Bolivia, nudge nudge), but I was tired, and tired of arguing in defense of amateurism. I think anyone, at any stage of life, could benefit from dedicating a few years to some kind of service work, overseas or over the back fence. But you also have to know when to quit.
Upon arrival I got to spend a couple weeks with my parents in Rochester. Mom’s new life as the pastor of a (UCC) church has many unexpected frustrations and rewards. The congregation loves her. Her life is still too hectic, but the church gives her energies a healthy focus. Dad’s life may be more scattered, but he makes a great Pastor’s husband, and I suspect his ESL students really appreciate him. My brother Rob passed his bar exam and got a job in international commerce law with a D.C. firm, while his wife, Mary Beth is fast becoming Bead Queen (or at least, importer) of the Universe. My sister Rebecca, a CPA in North Carolina, got engaged to a fine guy named Bob in April.
What most eased my transition back to life in the US (retoxification?) was walking the Appalachian Trail. I started in late April at the base of Springer Mountain in Georgia, and reached the summit of Mt. Katahdin in Maine, 2150 miles and 65 pounds of gorp later, on the last day of August. I was always hungry, because you burn more calories walking than you can carry. Every day I had to find potable water and every night I had to find shelter. Doing this by choice felt a little ironic, since water and shelter were the two most important issues we were trying to address in Bolivia. On the other hand, the A.T. isn’t Walmart. It reintroduced me to the best of what the United States is: a beautiful and challenging country, with lots of really fine human beings.
One day in Pennsylvania I noticed something large shuffle off the trail up ahead of me. When I got there I peered through the foliage, hoping to see it. There were big black ears showing, and for a moment I thought it was an escaped mule. Then it turned towards me. I thought, “Wow, this is my lucky day”, because I had begun to believe I wouldn’t get to see a bear. Its facial expression reminded me of a big dog that wants to be friendly. Of course, a black bear twenty feet away is no puppy. It also occurred to me that a brief encounter with a bear is best, so I did not dally about looking at it. I continued down the path at what I hoped was a normal pace.
A little later I heard someone on the trail behind me. I turned around and there was the bear, about thirty feet back. I walked slowly and it caught up. When I sped up, it dropped back but kept me in sight. I jumped up and down, waved my arms, and yelled “Scram!”, but it chose not to understand. I did everything I could think of to shake the bear, but nothing worked. In the end, it heeled for three miles. We eventually arrived at a clearing with other humans: a boy of about ten and his younger sister (really cool kids) and their father (a moron). Three of us admired the bear and tried to convince Dad not to feed it. Dad gave it all his gorp and then tried to run away. (Kid: “Dad, you are such an idiot”.) The bear showed us its claws from two feet away but didn’t get any food from me or the kids, and eventually we all parted friends.
The A.T. was one long adventure from beginning to end. Being out in the weather all the time was a revelation. It was fun not having to stick to a particular schedule. Visiting animals in their habitat was a treat. The woods were lovely. I’ll never forget scrambling along the Knife’s Edge on Katahdin, a ridge a mile long and two or three rocky feet across, with near vertical cliffs on either side and a ferocious wind. But the best part was the walking itself, on less memorable and relatively nondescript paths, though the joy I got from it was personal and hard to describe. I’d also recommend this experience to anyone, at any stage of life.
When I settled down here in September, I had some glorious projects planned. I meant to paint the main house, and wound up only glazing a few windows. The main idea was to spend time writing a children’s book, and a long series of illustrated short essays about my experiences in Bolivia. These essays are meant to return what I learned there, in processed and written form, to the people who taught me: my partners. Both projects are still alive, but moving slowly. My other chore was to look for a job — either teaching or doing something like what I was up to in Bolivia. I haven’t yet been able to get enthusiastic about this at all.
Of course, just plain rest and solitude was another priority. Taken as a whole Bolivia strengthened me spiritually and mentally, but it was emotionally draining towards the end. The A.T. exhausted me physically. Unfortunately, while sitting around reading Kingsolver and O’Brian was refreshing and relaxing at first, I now feel uncomfortably lazy and apathetic. Those of us lucky enough to have choice are chained to the helm of our destinies, and I find myself in irons. On the A.T. I had the perfect response to the rednecks who yelled at me to Get a JOB! I yelled back, Get a LIFE! Now I feel I have neither and should be working harder towards both.
I’m hoping you all have a fine 1995. Unless I get to do something so interesting I can’t leave it for the few hours it takes to write one of these letters, I’ll try to let you know how mine works out.
./James (Phineas) Gosselink
P.O. Box 2504
Silver Bay, NY 12874
P.S. Thanks to all who have, in any way, supported my work with Habitat in Bolivia. I encourage you to continue, directing your good thoughts and designating any donations to “Habitat Bolivia” (c/o Habitat International, 121 Habitat St., Americus, GA 31709). The work there gets more important every time another gringo leaves.