By Mary Schulz, Community Voices 

Walk with me. I recently spent a week traveling with two (male) co-workers to Atlanta. Sweet Jesus. It was very obvious when I first reviewed the agenda that it was going to be one long week. Immediately after our business breakfasts, four or five meetings per day, followed by dinner, (all work/no play), we’d end the day in the hotel lobby, me with a miniature bottle of cheap wine from the lobby quick stop, them with a list of notes to evaluate from the day’s work. Perhaps women and men just travel differently. Don’t misunderstand, I’m no stranger to a hard days work; but, come the end of the day, I’m ready for pardon. Come Friday afternoon, I was desperate for reprieve. 

Mary Schulz

The light at the end of the dark, exhausting tunnel was bright and luminous; my sister lives in Atlanta! After my last oppressive, dried out, and stuffy Friday afternoon appointment, with the help of “Sonya,” (the name I gave the rented GPS system that I’ll never be without again) I made my way across metropolitan Atlanta. For those who haven’t traveled the Atlanta freeway system, suffice it to say, your chances aren’t all that good; crazed humans driving faster than the speed of light, in lanes than are 6 inches skinnier than they should be. Utter madness.

I made it to my sister’s as a limp anxious ball of wrinkled polyester and worn frayed nerves. The amazing thing about my sister, just by her mere presence, she rights me when I’m wrong. We woke up Saturday morning, our one day to hang together. She asked, “What’s on the agenda?” With zero hesitation, I offered, “Let’s walk in the woods.” Off we went. My sister, Sonya and I, set down this tiny curvy little country road and found our way to Sawnee Mountain, a state park in the hills of Atlanta. The day was crisp, sunny, windy and perfect.

At the base of the mountain, wedged into the hill, sits a small amphitheater. As we entered, just concluding, was a very tiny, Renaissance-themed wedding. The air was filled with excitement, love and jocularity. The bridesmaids in forest green peasant dresses, the men in black tunics with hats, the groom with a long distinguished black cape, and the bride in a stunning cream queen gown with strings of flowers wrapped through her hair. As my sister and I started up the hill, the wedding party joined us, running and laughing through the trees, playing their role as they went.

Up, up, up we walked. Up, up, up. Old as dirt, and, yes, a tad this side of flexible, we stopped now and again, huffed and puffed, and drank in the beauty of the thick forested woods. With each step I left a little more of the angst of the week behind. Crunching through the leaves, my soul-mate sister cheerfully chatting at my side (think spewing months of pent up stories waiting to share), autumn wind stirring and renaissance peeps running around. Half hour into the walk we reached the summit. What a difference a day makes.

The Sawnee Mountain is named after a local Cherokee Native American. A patch of earth, thick with trees, rocks, fields and a view of Georgia’s mountain range that stops your heart. Woods, hills, peaks, valleys and fresh air. Gorgeous outdoor heaven. At the very top, and I mean touching the clouds high, is a huge bolder with three identical depressions in the stone, appropriately named “the Indian Seats.” The “seats” sit out among a clearing looking out and over the Blue Ridge Mountain Range. Legend has it they served ceremonial purposes for our Native American brothers. I slithered out and onto one of the seats, and immediately was filled with shock, awe, and sheer terror. Sitting in the seats, your legs dangle over a cliff that slips down into a valley of rutted, sharp, death inducing rocks. It was miraculous. Somehow, as I stared out into the incredible Georgia mountain valley, I felt our native ancestors, right there, next to me, raw and stirring.

After a short time, we began our descent. I was in my happy place. We came to the preverbal fork in the road. Which way? The short (wimpy) walk, or, the road less traveled? I puffed out my familiar grandiose, ostentatious chest and pointed. (My ego, to my detriment, has always been larger than life). The long way proved to be … well … long. You see, it’s a hiking path, but a mountain first. Later, I humbly discovered, it was a mere 3.5 miles long. But vertical up and down, I remind you. Ha! The floor of this forest was no comrade of the sun; the woods were dark and deep (promises to keep). Hike on hike on my brother (or sister as it may be). Together, my sister and I collected acorns and feebly attempted to rescue a tree who was prey of its bully neighbor whom had fallen against her. The wind rubbed the trees together and she emanated a creepy sad cry for help. Despite our best efforts we couldn’t free her, but we tried. We didn’t see another person on that side of our hike. It was amazing.

By the time we limped back to the car, the sun was falling fast and the parking lot was empty, the hippy bride and groom long gone. We cracked a bottle of Rosé and wondered down into the amphitheater. We sat there, my sister and I, accompanied by brilliant Mother Earth, and the spirits of the Native American warriors. The world was right.  

(Mary S. Schulz is one of 10 people in the Savage community who write for Community Voices. This column features a different writer each week and is one of several opinion and commentary pieces appearing regularly in this newspaper.)