Walking Home is an inspirational novel about the midlife crisis of a man questioning his commitment to love. Tired of his life and his wife because they’ve grown apart and his solitary nature further challenged by the difficulty of relating to his two daughters, he escapes to the mountains where he was once happy. He reads an Appalachian Trail journal of a young man named Strider who found the ideal woman to love and, from encounters with various women along the way, learned to make a commitment to her. Now out of shape and unhappy, disillusioned and cynical, Walt wants to be left alone with his thoughts. As he walks a thousand miles, he has various experiences with hikers who alternately bother him and enlighten him. Thoughtfully plunging into life-changing experiences, he discovers in the mountains the surprising difference between the woman he wanted to love and the woman he needs to love.
ExcerptsFrom Walking Home via the Appalachian Trail
I saw a black cloud forming and hoped good old schizophrenic nature would rain itself out on the far ridges. But as the distant thunder got louder, I realized I was in for some punishment.
I stopped to put on my poncho, but large drops started pounding before I managed to pull it out of its stuff sack. Fierce winds suddenly tore at the ridge, ripping the poncho from my hands. Grabbing it and bunching it under my armpit, I hunched down behind a thin tree and straddled my pack. I ducked my head and hung onto the tree. The wind drove the rain horizontally at my face. When my legs started cramping from crouching over my pack, I tried turning around to back into the driving wind which lashed the trees around me. The thin tree I clung to whipped back and forth, once cracking my head like a whip.
The storm raged against this highest point of the mountain in its way. Lightning jabbed at the mountain top, terrifying me. There were no intervals between flash and crash. As I tried to shift my legs again, a tremendous shock slammed me against the tree, cracking my poor head again. Hot pain surged through my feet and legs. I gasped. I slapped my face to keep from blacking out. All the trees bent horizontal under fierce winds which tried to blow me off the ridge. Flash… crash. Flash… crash. Flash… crash. The thunder deafened me. I looked at my feet and legs. I couldn’t feel anything.
Panicking, I hefted my pack, slung it over one shoulder, and started running into the storm as the quickest way out of it. I knew I couldn’t escape by sliding down the steep sides of the mountain. There could be drop-offs. I knew if I died down there, no one would find a trace of me. Better to stay on the trail, I told myself. Another flash knocked a huge tree down just ahead of me. The trail gushed with water.
Several bats chased themselves around the dark trees near the shelter. My eyes were wide open, my mind coming to a truth that needed saying aloud. How can I have been so damn stupid? To overlook the obvious. I’ve been as clueless as that stupid blind man. Catherine was in that red tent too! Now she is thick, full-figured – she has aged, changed. But she is more than body. She is my Catherine. She is waiting. Waiting for me. And I am still looking though my damn binoculars. At what?
Walking Home
via the Appalachian Trail
Walking Home is an inspirational novel about the midlife crisis of a man questioning his commitment to love. Tired of his life and his wife because they’ve grown apart and his solitary nature further challenged by the difficulty of relating to his two daughters, he escapes to the mountains where he was once happy. He reads an Appalachian Trail journal of a young man named Strider who found the ideal woman to love and, from encounters with various women along the way, learned to make a commitment to her. Now out of shape and unhappy, disillusioned and cynical, Walt wants to be left alone with his thoughts. As he walks a thousand miles, he has various experiences with hikers who alternately bother him and enlighten him. Thoughtfully plunging into life-changing experiences, he discovers in the mountains the surprising difference between the woman he wanted to love and the woman he needs to love.
Excerpts From Walking Home via the Appalachian Trail
I saw a black cloud forming and hoped good old schizophrenic nature would rain itself out on the far ridges. But as the distant thunder got louder, I realized I was in for some punishment.
I stopped to put on my poncho, but large drops started pounding before I managed to pull it out of its stuff sack. Fierce winds suddenly tore at the ridge, ripping the poncho from my hands. Grabbing it and bunching it under my armpit, I hunched down behind a thin tree and straddled my pack. I ducked my head and hung onto the tree. The wind drove the rain horizontally at my face. When my legs started cramping from crouching over my pack, I tried turning around to back into the driving wind which lashed the trees around me. The thin tree I clung to whipped back and forth, once cracking my head like a whip.
The storm raged against this highest point of the mountain in its way. Lightning jabbed at the mountain top, terrifying me. There were no intervals between flash and crash. As I tried to shift my legs again, a tremendous shock slammed me against the tree, cracking my poor head again. Hot pain surged through my feet and legs. I gasped. I slapped my face to keep from blacking out. All the trees bent horizontal under fierce winds which tried to blow me off the ridge. Flash… crash. Flash… crash. Flash… crash. The thunder deafened me. I looked at my feet and legs. I couldn’t feel anything.
Panicking, I hefted my pack, slung it over one shoulder, and started running into the storm as the quickest way out of it. I knew I couldn’t escape by sliding down the steep sides of the mountain. There could be drop-offs. I knew if I died down there, no one would find a trace of me. Better to stay on the trail, I told myself. Another flash knocked a huge tree down just ahead of me. The trail gushed with water.
Several bats chased themselves around the dark trees near the shelter. My eyes were wide open, my mind coming to a truth that needed saying aloud. How can I have been so damn stupid? To overlook the obvious. I’ve been as clueless as that stupid blind man. Catherine was in that red tent too! Now she is thick, full-figured – she has aged, changed. But she is more than body. She is my Catherine. She is waiting. Waiting for me. And I am still looking though my damn binoculars. At what?