Survey Says...

There are few phone calls more annoying than a survey. They always promise to be brief but in reality never are. Half this time is spent having the response choices explained, "Rate the following from 1-5 with one being your lowest approval and 5 being your highest approval" or "Would you say you're more likely or less likely to..." Running the risk of not having my voice heard I often just throw out a quick "No thanks" and hang up. I only wish my fellow South Carolinians would have done the same this past week.

According to a survey of 741 South Carolina residents, as conducted by Public Policy Polling, we are a state struggling to move out of the past and into the present. Of course, the rest of the nation already knew this. Here's what the poll revealed:

* 16% of those polled said that interracial marriage should be illegal. Another 14% were not sure. While some states move closer and closer to same-sex marriages three out of every ten of our statesmen aren't even prepared to allow a mix of races. Call me crazy but the fact that our only defense is to point out that both Georgia and Mississippi have even higher percentages isn't really all that comforting.

* 46% of those surveyed were "glad the North won the Civil War." Is it just me or shouldn't that six have had a nine in front of it? 24% wished the South had won while another 29% haven't had enough time yet (150 years) to decide. Only 60% of state Democrats and independents, where you will find many of our state's African-American population, were in favor of a Union victory. Who are those other 40%?

I could easily make a combination of jokes and snide remarks but, sadly, these numbers speak for themselves.

Roadside Museums

A few years ago I came up with a theory that when pulling off the interstate to fuel up you can generally tell a lot about the area you are in by the stuff they sell inside the gas station. These gas stations serve as small cultural museums of their local communities while making a few bucks on the side pedaling fuel, tobacco, and booze. This did not come to me randomly but, rather, while making a pit stop in the middle of nowhere. Also known as Tennessee.

Entering the station, I grabbed a Snicker bar and  made my way to the back to find a small bottle of milk. However, the milk was nearly impossible to find. All but one of the coolers were being used to house what equated to a small warehouse of beer. But not just any brand of beer. While there may have been a few spare six-packs of Corona or Ice House there were cases upon cases upon cases of Busch, Budweiser, and Old Milwaukee.

On my way back to the front I stopped by the magazine rack. Now some gas stations, feeling these publications are ethically or morally wrong,  refuse to sell pornographic magazines. Others place them behind the counter to protect the innocence of young children. This one, however,  put them all - and there were many - right next to the multiple car and truck magazines and just above the single copy of Newsweek. I want to believe that Newsweek was such a hot item that they had trouble keeping them in stock. I want to believe it, but I don't.

After making my way past the assortment of fishing hats - my favorite sporting two large Styrofoam breasts protruding from the front - I finally reached the counter. Standing in line, I noticed that just beside me, one shelf above the Little Debbie snack cakes, was a box of beer bongs. On my other side was a large washtub full of iced down cans of beer. I can't say for certain that the two were meant to be impulse buys or even to be bought in tandem but, in all honesty, what's the use of one without the other?

I choose to stop just short of saying that the people of small town Tennessee are ignorant, macho alcoholics who, while in a drunken stupor, beat their wives. I choose to believe that all these tell tale signs could be wrong. In fact, they have to be wrong because just the other day I decided to take a closer to look at our own gas station. The one we always use to fill up our cars. The one with the faded sign out front that reads:

POPS
  POPS
    POPS

On the entry door was a handwritten sign, barely legible, that read "We WILL prosecute anyone caught stealing ANYTHING from this station!" It wasn't written as though they were hoping people wouldn't start stealing from them but rather as though people regularly did. I suddenly felt a need to keep my hands out of my pockets.

The three people in front of me in line were all buying scratch off lottery tickets and cigarettes. Nothing else. Just lottery tickets and cigarettes. For what may have been the first time in my four years as a customer of this station I turned around, against my better judgment, to look around the store and see what they sold.

And that's when it hit me.

Either my theory is all wrong or my neighbors are a bunch of lazy black-lunged convicts puffing themselves toward certain deaths but on too much of a sugar high from their Moon Pie addictions to even notice. Being that I hate being wrong I'm left with just one option. I'm now taking the longer route to everywhere. The one with the yuppie Circle K that sells designer coffees and has faux-wood floors.

I feel like a better person already.

Virginia is for Drunken Murderers

A few years ago Tricia and I spent an afternoon in Hot Springs, North Carolina. We enjoyed a light lunch, picked up some trail snacks, and headed out to hike a mile or two on the Appalachian Trail. It was our first trip on the trail and we really didn't know anything about it other than that it was pretty long. All of our previous hiking had been on a variety of tame trails in heavily visited state parks.

As we approached the trail we stopped to check the map and message board. There at the center - in very large letters - was a warning: BEWARE: BEARS HAVE BEEN REPORTED IN THIS AREA. The sign went on to suggest that anyone hiking carry "bear mace" and plan to slowly retreat from any evidence of bear activity on the trail. This startled us a bit.

"Are we going to die?" Tricia half-joked.

"I hope not," I answered.

The first stretch of trail was nicely graded. There were many switchbacks but because of all the thick foliage it was impossible to see what was awaiting us around each corner. All we could think about was bears. We were certain we were only moments away from a certain mauling. I tried to make as much noise as I could to announce our presence.

After only about twenty minutes or so we decided to stop and head back down. The trail was still climbing steadily with no indication that we were anywhere near the top. We weren't necessarily in the best climbing shape, hadn't brought any water with us, and felt the time was ripe to call it quits with all of our limbs still intact.We walked back to the car, safe and sound.

In the following weeks I developed quite a fascination for the Appalachian Trail. I read a book or two and started reading the on-line journals of hikers walking the entire 2,100 path in a single season. I quickly learned that many hikers walk on the trail for weeks, or even months, at a time and never see a single bear. Not only do they not see any bears but they actually feel disappointed by it. The ones that do encounter bears do not run or cry or even drop and play dead. Instead, they stand in awe watching them gathering berries, scratching at a tree, or rumbling through the forest. Sometimes, if they feel unsafe, hikers will bang their trekking poles together to scare the bears off or they'll slowly retreat back down the trail and wait a few minutes before returning.

So it seems our perceived danger was a bit exaggerated. Our deaths were not imminent. We were just ignorant to the reality of the wildlife and environment around us. This isn't so uncommon. It happens all the time.

In fact, it happened just this past weekend. Tricia and I were back on the Appalachian Trail, this time in Virginia. We drove up to Damascus on Saturday morning, hoisted our backpacks onto our backs, and headed north on the trail for a short two-day trip to see the fall colors. After a full afternoon of hiking, and with the temperatures quickly dropping, we searched for any campsite we could find. We passed on a few larger sites because they were located too close to road crossings. There's nothing that kills the feeling of being away from it all like the constant hum of cars and trucks motoring a few hundred yards from your tent.

So we turned back up the mountain in search of a site we had remembered seeing a half-hour earlier. When we finally found it the sun was just beginning to drop below the trees to the west. We pulled out the tent and found that the only level spot to pitch it, where we wouldn't be sleeping on large tree roots or rocks, was just a few feet off the trail. Even worse, there was another trail intersecting the AT another few feet away. But with darkness falling over the mountain and the cold temperatures setting in we knew we didn't have time to seek out a new spot. We couldn't even remember having seen any other spots for miles anyway.

So as we began to unpack our things and set everything up I heard a voice come out of nowhere.

"Hey."

Startled, I looked around but saw no one. However, I knew someone was there. Somewhere.

"Hey," I responded. Trying to mask my surprise and sound both casual and friendly. Just as I got the words out I saw movement just through the trees to my right. It was a hunter, dressed in full camo, toting a rifle over his left shoulder. Tricia looked at me, concerned.

"Are we going to be alright here?" she whispered.

I looked down the trail to see if he had passed.

"Yeah, we're fine," I assured her. "It's just a hunter making his way back down to his car."

She didn't look too convinced. It wasn't so much the hunter, I imagined, as it was the gun that made her uneasy. After hanging our food bag over a distant tree limb and getting our sleeping gear set up we climbed into the tent. I pulled out a deck of cards and we played a game of Rummy, working hard to keep our cards from constantly sliding down our sleeping pads and resting under our bags.

About fifteen minutes later we heard more footsteps approaching. This time, however, they sounded very heavy and unsteady, as though someone were in a semi-controlled fall coming down the mountain. A loud belch soon followed and the footsteps stopped. Just outside our tent. Tricia's eyes grew enormous. I looked out the small window on our rainfly and saw two more hunters standing outside the tent, about twenty feet away. I couldn't see one of them too well because he was hidden behind some bushes but the other was standing in a small clearing and staring at our tent. He began to talk to the other one in a drunken slur. The fact that he was clearly intoxicated and carrying a rifle did not make me feel too comfortable.

"Yehau thinkst thees is thu waaaay orrr du yehau thinkst weee otta go ovr thur?" he asked.

His partner gave some type of reply but I couldn't make it out.

I looked back at Tricia who was sitting very still. "It's just more hunters," I said casually.

"I don't like this," she whispered. "I've seen Deliverance."

After a few long seconds the two hunters continued on their way down the mountain, presumably on their way back to their car.

"I read an article about two girls who were raped on the trail twenty years ago," Tricia told me, as soon as the two hunters were clearly gone.

"Where did you read that," I asked.

"In one of those Trail magazines they had at the cabin last summer."

"That was twenty years ago," I said. "A lot of women hike the trail alone and are fine."

"Are you sure we're okay here?" she asked again.

"Yeah, we're fine," I answered. "They're gone. Besides, this is Virginia. Virginia is for lovers. I know because all the signs say so!"

"Hmm," she said, sounding unconvinced. "But what if they come back?"

"It's going to be completely dark really soon. Who wants to climb all the way back up a pitch black mountain in the cold of night?" I asked, seeming to believe that it would be the hunters' laziness that would be our saving grace.

We went back to our game and tried not to think about the hunters. As it turned out, those were the last we would see. We woke up in the morning alive - which sure beats waking up dead.

We were never in danger at all. We just let our imaginations get away from us a bit. I have this really great poster at school that lists ways to build global community. One of the lines reads: Don't confuse your comfort for your safety. How often do we do this? There have been many times in my life when I've found myself in an uncomfortable environment and, wrongly, felt felt that my safety was in jeopardy. Much of this is learned. Friends, family, books, newspapers, magazines, discussion boards, television, and movies share sensationalized stories that, if even accurate, are far from indicative of the norm. People do fall and die in the shower. Others are mugged or even killed by strangers knocking at their door. But these are not common occurrences. We should still feel safe. We should live life.

We have a friend that is fearful of the unknown. He hasn't seen all that much of America but watches a lot of television. Evidently much of his programming is about gangs and random murders. Any trip Tricia and I have ever planned has prompted dire warnings from him.

"Why on Earth would you go to Memphis?" he asks. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is there? All I can say is you better not talk to strangers!"

"Miami's terrible," he warns. "Do NOT roll down your windows - especially if someone walks up to your car door!"

"Don't even bother going to Detroit," he suggests. "It has the highest murder rate in the country. You'll die."

It's become a joke between us but, still, it's all rooted in truth. Not truth concerning the lack of safety in these places but the true fear Tim has of places unknown. I once took a trip with him and another friend when we were in college. One night we decided to sleep in the car at a rest stop. Tim insisted on sleeping with his head all covered up despite the fact that it was eighty degrees outside.

"Why do you have your head covered up," I asked.

"So if someone breaks into the car and kills the two of you I won't see him do it," he explained. "If I don't see him kill you two then there's no reason for him to kill me."

You really can't argue with logic like that. Thankfully no one killed us that night. Yet again, I survived.

As Tricia and I hiked back into Damascus on Sunday the thought of the hunters had gone from scary to kind of funny.

"Hey Tricia," I said. "I've got the title for my blog this week."

"What?" she asked.

"Instead of 'Virginia is for Lovers'" I told her, "I'll call it 'Virginia is for Drunken Murders.'"

"Funny," she chuckled. Perhaps she was just humoring me but I'm okay with that. I'll take laughs anywhere I can get them. I should laugh every chance I get.

I'm lucky to be alive.