03 September

Although I set my alarm for 6:30 to get an early jump on the day, to catch the sunrise by surprise and witness its gradual ascent as it shyly popped over the mountain ridge I hiked part of the way into, my unconsciousness did not even make it to that point of the morning. The first waves of sun creeping through my eyelids had done just enough to pull me from my dreams and make the bugs landing on my arm noticeable to the point of being unbearable. I suppose that’s my fault for sleeping outside. There is one knot tied into the body of the hammock that demands to make itself known, effectively imitating the bed-like comfort of a small boulder or a rather blunt knife. In that flash of awakening that one experiences when they are sleeping in a new place and momentarily forget where they are or how they got there, my hammock cedes itself of its duty and drops me face-first onto the morning dew, the grass happy to relive itself of its aquatic charges and my face all too willingly accepts the water and dirt and hay strands that come with it. While it is a blessing to be rid of mosquitoes that had feasted on my legs, the sudden dampness of skin and shirt do not offer enough distraction to minimize the itch beginning to spread from the angry pinkish lumps covering everything from ankle to knee.

Shaking off the suddenness that is morning, I glance out into the world around me and again process the mountain bluff that I decided to make my camp. The spread out world that typically serves as the landscape of my morning is thousands of feet below me, my perch on top of the world the mountains that, until yesterday evening, seemed like the unattainable boundaries that dictated my life for the next couple of months. The full extent of the villages below have not come into full view, the ambling clouds and fog not fully burnt off by the rising  sun, the river that serves to connect foreign cities to each other seems to run south and slowly fizzle out, obscured from view for the time being as the world slows to rise. Sleep finally lessens its grip on my consciousness as I rub it from my eyes, and I take a seat in the soft dew to stir the embers remaining in the fire pit back into a blaze. Coffee comes next, a pot of Turkish espresso that has become the staple experience of my trip to Georgia (incredibly good coffee until the end, when the grounds mix in with the last few sips – no one in Georgia has thought to develop coffee filters or drip coffee). The cold water pulled straight from the river that trickles through camp is fresh and clear, clean enough to be bottled and sold, and infinity feels as though it will arrive before the small fire licks the muddy glob into something palpable.

The early morning has always been one of my favorite times of the day, the brief moments of silent stillness after the creatures of the night have nestled into bed yet before the birds and cows have announced the dawning of morning. So high up in the mountain, even the winds have stilled, unable to rise as quickly up the mountain as my hike the night before. The air is crisp and cold, cleaner than I am able to get even in the ‘country’ of Connecticut, although my sojourn to this part of the world has certainly redefined the middle of nowhere that I perceived Tolland all through high school. I slowly begin to rip the day old bread into manageable bits, although at this point the starch is basically something to quell the growling that has erupted in my stomach and serve as a vehicle for the salty homemade cheese that I cannot seem to stop eating. My breath escapes in a small swirl of vapor, exhales that only exist in the tangible world for a few seconds before dissipating into the warm September morning. It is a little colder climbing so high into the mountains, but between the visible breath and the chilly dew that has fully soaked through my shorts, it is hard to deny summer has begun slipping, losing its grasp to the impending fall. Even the leaves have begun to droop, the green beginning to give off a multitude of shades ranging from the light yellow to a dying brown, affectations of light that will soon give way to the reds, yellows, and dried browns reminiscent of New England.

The bubbles in my coffee, once slowly rolling along the bottom of my pan, snap and burst across the top of the water, sprinkling my foot with coffee grounds and reminding me that breakfast is far from over. The brown liquid is almost a syrupy consistency; the fact that the coffee is so strong furthered by the grounds that I cannot prevent from slipping into my cup, a coffee that my Uncle Brian could stand a spoon in and be proud. I curse myself for not bringing a coffee mug, opting instead for a regular glass as it was the only thing clean, and my fingers are forced to take a quick burn rather than drop the cup and start the process all over. On the plus side, my inability to hold the glass long enough to take a sip prevents me from burning my mouth, and I wait impatiently with music playing in the background, Zac Brown emoting a mixture of feelings while I survey the landscape putting me somewhere between nostalgia for the United States and completely complacent with my current position in life.  Thoughts of family and friends cross my mind, but I am slowly able to push them away and merely observe the slow awakening of the rest of the world, this opportunity that has been thrust upon me and forced into reality. The coffee is still too hot, but I take my first sip anyhow, a rush of warmth and caffeine rushing down my throat and snapping me out of my reverie just as the first crow makes his presence known a few feet behind me. The suddenness of his arrival forces me to jump and spill the last few sips of my coffee, and I begrudgingly stand to allow space for another living thing in the world.

Slowly camp is packed up, and I focus my gaze on the next mountain ridge. My laces are drawn and pack secured snuggly to my shoulders, the soreness and rawness of yesterday’s climb also awakening as the coffee takes full effect to start my morning. With one last furtive glance to the crow that reminded me I can only have these mountains to share, I set off at a quick jog, burning through the light clouds that have settled lightly on the hill, hiding the day’s hike from my current view. My first fall had settled on Georgia.