In the mountains of North Carolina lies a small town secluded by fresh green oak trees and lined with dirt paths called Murphy. In Murphy everybody knows everybody because ‘downtown’ consisted of five stores and two bars; in a town so small, there isn’t a lot of room for hostility. I’ll never forget a trip I took to Murphy when I was five because it was one of the only trips I remember with my entire family.
The six of us rarely traveled together since my siblings are so much older than I which only made this trip more special. With the vigor of Speed Racer, I remember my father whipping our family’s Honda Pilot into one of the few gravel parking spots outside of Konehete Park. The park only consisted of a swing set and a half-assembled jungle gym that had either withered with time or someone was just too uninterested to finish.
I loved it.
With the curtness that only a father of four can muster, he dropped the us off at the park so that he and my mother could go antique shopping downtown. Torrential rain had been plaguing Murphy for the past three days and kept us inside so I can imagine he was itching to get rid of us.
Due to our suburban upbringing, the four of us only exercised under the watchful eye of gym teachers which meant we only enjoyed the jungle gym for about ten minutes before getting winded. The exhaustion set in quickly, our bones growing weary and faces sticky with sweat when we noticed something hammered into one of the trees on the outskirts of the park. A rickety old sign pointed to a dirt trail disappearing off into the woods labeled “.3 miles downtown” seemed to glimmer and glow like a sign from the gods above… or maybe a sign of heat exhaustion.
Our journey into the woods was something out of a Tolkien novel, it was scenic and triumphant and provided excellent teambuilding that we would forget once we were on the other side. The four of us had one common goal, the same type of goal that seems to drive a lot of adventurers: find mom and dad.
My 23-year-old brother Zachary led the pack with only the confidence an oldest child could muster. He crossed ahead of us, ducking under low-hanging oak branches and holding them up for the rest of us to sneak under like some sort of off-brand Tarzan.
Although the July sun blazed overhead and the pollen stuck to our sweat-slicked skin, my 12-year-old brother Lucas seemed determined to keep his jacket and jeans on. He trailed behind Zachary, wielding a large “walking stick” that he’d plucked off of the side of the path at the very beginning of our journey.
My 13-year-old sister Regan and I took up the rear. She kept her arms cross over her chest for the entire duration of the adventure, annoyance practically vibrated off of her over the fact that Zachary took the lead and delegated her to the back.
She was on babysitting duty.
I took pleasure in the satisfying gush of mud under our shoes following our every step, something about the sound and sensation brought my five-year-old self joy. Everyone else was so annoyed with my stomping in the mud that we all happened to miss the sign that read “Right to Downtown. Left to Trail,” etched into a passing tree and continued to the left.
We didn’t notice our mistake for another mile when my little legs started to ache.
“Wasn’t the trail supposed to only be a third of a mile?” Lucas piped up while his stick stabbed into the squelching mud at his feet, “I feel like we should be downtown by now.”
Zachary was more focused on ducking under hanging tree limbs leftover from the storm than focusing on Lucas’ concerns. With all of our heads down in our own little worlds, we nearly ran into each other like an accordion when we came across an old man. Maybe I was sick of walking but I swear there was angelic light radiating off him.
With his sharp calves and toned biceps, the man was arguably in better shape than the rest of us dressed in his athletic leggings and sunglasses secured around his neck via a nylon cord. Us novice adventurers were in the presence of an experienced hiker. His analyzing gaze swept across the four of us before his tissue paper-like cheeks pulled into a wrinkled smile. To my young eyes he seemed ancient and decrepid while –in reality– he was most-likely in his late sixties.
“You’re gonna want to make a right up ahead. You’ll come out on main street after hiking for a little while longer.”
Then man disappeared into the woods on his own journey like a southern Gandalf the White.
Turning right at the fork in the road and following along the dirt path, we paused when we encountered a creek about six feet across. It greeted us with gushing rapids and about a foot of mud on either side. We all knew what had to be done but none of us wanted to say it.
Every hero must sacrifice something in order to fulfill their journey. For Zachary, his sacrifice was his brand-new pair of Doc Martens that he had gotten the previous Christmas. Compared to Lucas and Regan’s flimsy sneakers and my crocs, his shoes were the only pair capable of braving the rambling creek.
Before throwing me over his shoulder, Zachary grumbled a few words that I’d only heard mom shout in traffic. I had the luxury of going first since I was the lightest which meant I got to sit on the other side and watch Zachary lug my siblings across nature’s obstacle course. Lucas met me and then finally Regan where, before letting Zachary tote her across, she glared and crossed her arms.
“Fine…” she muttered under her breath stubbornly, not quite trusting our brother to succeed in carrying her across such rushing water.
Every gushing step that followed in our journey served as a painful reminder of Zachary’s valiant heroism. Before things turned into a Lord of the Flies remake, we emerged onto the concrete sidewalk of main street from the woods like a group of displaced woodland animals.
At the same time, our parents happened to exit one of the nearby antique shops. I felt my little legs take off before my brain had any time to process what was happening and, within moments, I was back in my mother’s arms. I remember the weight being lifted from my five-year-old shoulders at the sight of my father’s exasperated smile and the scent of my mother’s perfume.
Our journey was finally over.