When your companion is a trusting, fearless adventure dog, you end up being the one voice of reason in the relationship. Hiking to Looking Glass Rock should have raised my risk awareness, but for some reason it hadn’t dawned on me that a hike named Looking Glass Rock wasn’t to a place to view the Rock, but rather was the trail to stand atop it.

I had wanted to do it back during our Asheville tour last year, but ended up running out of time. With Georgia in the rearview mirror and a Thanksgiving roadtrip begun, our first stop was our favorite town in North Carolina for a one day stroll up a mountain.

​​Here’s a stock photo of Looking Glass Rock:

It is named so because in the winter (which is just upon us) hits, the water and snow melt into a sheet of ice on that vertical stretch of rock. Again, I wasn’t really thinking about that fact, and that my faithful companion didn’t see any risk of climbing to a place with a slippery 45 degree angle off a cliff.

​The trail itself was a meandering, upward hike of 1700 feet elevation through the woods. Autumn was taking its final breaths, so the even though we were deep in the woods, we could see out to the rolling Blue Mountains beyond. 

I can only imagine how green and cozy the trail must be in the height of summer. I wouldn’t want to hike it then, with the sweltering east coast heat. Sixty-five degrees is just the right temperature for a straight uphill journey to a mountaintop.
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Tucker took a “this is what we’ll look like” moment about half way up the mountain to prepare himself for an even steeper rock.

The trail should have been called Stairway to Heaven. Although lacking actual stairs (which was a surprise given the strange places I’ve seen stairs—including Kennesaw battlefield), it was quite uphill the whole way. We paused for a moment when we saw the trail go downward.  A couple sat on a fallen tree, eating lunch with their dog beneath them. Tucker and I started downhill then stopped. Alltrails said we had reached our destination, but there was no sprawling vista. It didn’t seem like we had reached the end. The last thing I wanted to do with go downhill just to have to come back up with zero payout. Another couple had started down the hill while Tucker and I waited and then they returned.

“Was that the right way?” I asked.

They weren’t sure. They had turned around before reaching anywhere that seemed like a giant vertical rock face.

A couple behind me paused and we both contemplated whether or not to take the extra steps to find out for ourselves. Tucker and I had been walking for over two hours and risen over 1600 feet in three miles. We weren’t going to walk away without at least trying to find the endzone.

Tucker and I descended the trail that looked more like a slightly muddy old riverbed. The center was a deep gash in the earth two feet deep. I walked along the edges and Tucker ducked in and out depending on what terrain he felt like trying. We were walking for about ten minutes when someone came up.

“Is Looking Glass Rock down there?” I asked.

“Oh yeah!” they said, breathless from the upward climb. “Just keep going!”
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Tucker and I did, and were rewarded with the ground flattening out. Like Alice emerging from the the woods, Tucker and I came across a small opening in the bushes, and walked through, expecting to come out in Wonderland.

​At least Wonderland was flat. I have this inexplicable feeling anytime I near the edge of something (like a bridge or cliff) that I’m going to lean forward and fall off. The pictures I took don’t give you the full impressions of the slope as I was utterly terrified to go anywhere near the edge—unlike Tucker, who wanted to race down the slippery granite to the hang this head over the edge. Once again, I wish I had Tucker’s sense of adventure and lack of awareness for mortality.

I sat down and scooched myself across the rock. Trees had been able to take root. Surely that was a sign that my inadequate human feet in manmade footwear could also get a hold on the earth near there. I was envious of the people who walked confidently down to the edge, with no feeling of suddenly pitching forward as I had the moment I stood up, even thirty yards from any actual danger.

​The views from the center of the rock were still good, even given that Autumn's peak had passed; the colors muted as the trees prepared for snowfall.

Trickles of water had become ice on the rocks, and I carefully stepped (or sat my butt down) around them.  I was ashamed for being the only one truly fearing for her life. And then I turned around and saw a dog experiencing the exact same thing.

Unlike Tucker who stood solid and proud, his elbows turned out, on the granite slope with no fear of falling but only harboring disappointment for not being able to run right up the edge, the coonhound up the rock behind me was quaking from snout to tail, hiding behind her young owner’s leg, trying to get as far up into the bushes as possible.

“Your dog looks like how I feel,” I told him.

He laughed. “She’s a scaredy-cat. That’s why we brought here—to get her to be not so scared.”
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He dragged the poor girl down the slope a little (nowhere near the edge) and held her between his legs to brace her. He smiled, looking toward his hiking partner to take a photo of them. I saw the whale eyes… I noted the tail tucked far up underneath her… I smelled the fear… I was astonished that the little girl didn’t just turn to the man, bite him in the nuts, and run up into the hills. Dogs go beyond their own emotions for the sake of their people—and dial it back when we need them to. I felt blessed to have such an understanding companion, unlike the coonhound whose companion wasn’t respecting her limitations.

Other people walked about the rock with ease, took pictures, and stood on the edge. I know Tucker was disappointed and perhaps I was also a little disappointed in myself, but as I’ve gotten older, my aversion to risk as increased. I’m not sure if it’s age or just the fact that I have another being relying on my existence to sustain his life.

Tucker and I enjoyed the view long enough for me to stop slightly trembling from my fear. Then we stepped back through the portal in the bushes to climb back up the muddy riverbed path.
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We paused for a moment to explore a trail that went nowhere at the top before heading back down through the woods. I gave thanks for having such an adventurous dog. 

I’d rather it be me, not him, that holds us back. He takes disappointment far better than I do (although it means I have to look at his sad, pouty face which is plenty of payback for my inadequacy.)

As we drove back through the wooded lanes, the last echoes of Autumn fading from the treetops, I wished upon a falling leaf to return to the Blueridge Mountains soon. Although it’s all one big planet, some places feel more like home than others. For Tucker and me, Asheville holds that title. Although there is a familiarity about it, I think we could spend years here and still find new places to explore. It’s like falling in love with someone: you love them for who they are, but the joy of that love is that no matter how well you think you know them, they can still surprise you.
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I hope someday I surprise Tucker (and myself) by being able to fearlessly walk up to the cliff’s edge. I look forward to returning to Asheville to explore, and in the meantime take joy in every new discovery Tucker and I make—not only in the places we visit, but in each other.

A trip to the south just isn’t complete without at least one jaunt through a battlefield. And, honestly, given the sheer volume of battles throughout Georgia, it’s not to difficult to find yourself on a battlefield, even if by accident.

Although Tucker and I have spent an extensive amount of time over the years in Georgia, we never had visited Kennesaw Mountain on purpose or by just stumbling across it. A round trip of 6 miles and a thousand foot elevation gain sounded like a nice way to bid Georgia farewell (until next time… because there is always a next time.)
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Starting off immediately in the autumn woods, it felt a little New Englandly with the slumbering trees, slow ascent, rock outcroppings and the entire forest littered with leaves and smelling like Fall. 

​Occasionally, a manmade plaque showed itself from beneath the leaves, indicating a location of a fallen soldier or position of a Confederate troop. Walking through the peaceful woods, it’s difficult for me to comprehend that this is where America was fought and won. A disagreement on how to treat one another; an argument of states rights; a threat of succession from the union—all of this was resolved by young men hiding in forests, muskets in hand to kill one another. Having been to battlefields that are simply flat meadows where men were gunned down line by line, a forest fight seemed a least a little less pointless. Here the boys could hide, could cover, could get ahead in this ultimate live acton, mortal game of chess.

​As Tucker looked out over the valley, I imagined how this view might have been the last thing many of those men saw before they took their last breath on this planet. It’s a beautiful place to be. But I wonder how different it was with the smoke from cannons and muskets; the cries of pain; the chaos of war itself.

I’ve never been able to comprehend physical war. We live in an age now where one can bring down an entire economy with a few well-timed keystrokes. Not one person has to lose their life. And yet war still happens.
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Walking through the patchy sunlight, I wondered if Tucker was greeted by a ray of sunshine or a specter of a boy whose life was lost too soon. 

​I wondered if this was how arguments were fought because people valued life so little or because they valued their ideals so highly. Each side had to believe they were protecting what was right and good and honorable. Each believed the other side was going to take this landscape and destroy it with their ways of life. From a purely logical standpoint, I can reconcile a kidnapping and ransom to get one wants—it’s leverage. But I cannot reconcile using hundreds of thousands of souls in a fight in which so many lose their lives all over a disagreement of morality and politics. It makes we wonder how we came to be the most powerful species on the planet.

​Tucker looked out over the hills, knowing not what a mess we humans have made of the world. He only knows love and joy and pain and heartache (the last two I do my best to shield from him.)  He doesn’t know that his species aligned themselves with the most powerful and destructive species on the planet. He only knows that most people are good, and you get treats and love if you smile just right and do as you’re told. Sometimes you get treats just for being you.

​Today, battles are fought on the internet. A virtual reality that has so little resemblance to reality, it’s hard to even use the word. The internet does not have autumn leaves, the smell of fires in the winter, the beating heart of an eighteen year old boy who fears his life will end in a moment. This battlefield did. Cannons are still placed at the top, ready to fight back what one side consider the invaders. The other side, battled on continuing to do what they believed they were doing: rescuing the land and people from what they viewed as inhumane and unacceptable.

Tucker and I hope that a time will come when we no longer sacrifice our future for the fights of today. All lives matter, for each one is not a number but a soul with thoughts and feelings and family and emotions and destinies to play out and choices to make—right or wrong—and impacts to be made.

​The land that Tucker and I walked on was commemorated for the battle of Kennesaw Mountain. But the land itself has been there ages before and will be here ages hence. That one moment was just a blink of an eye in the universe; a grain of sand on the beaches of time. The souls that lost their earthly existence that day matter, and did not deserve their fate. They are not chess pieces; they are people. When we degenerate people to pawns for our use, we do not do them—nor ourselves— justice. We, as a species, are better than that. And we need to start living up to that.

​Tucker and I enjoyed our stroll through the woods that for many, were the last of this earth they’d ever experience. We gave our respects to those who did not make it, and know that most were pawns in another person’s battle. A grain of sand in time does matter, for without each individual grain of sand, there would be no beach.

​Perhaps one day we will evolve enough to recognize and respect that every soul mattes, regardless of race, creed, color, age, sex, gender, and species. Life matters. Be kind to one another. Be gentle. Be giving. Fight for what is right, but never use another’s life as a pawn in your own game. Instead of walking a battlefield, stroll through Nature. Give respect to those whose lives were cut short for another’s bidding, and vow it will never happens again. Life is too short, and the world is too beautiful.