I was born in New York state and reared-up in the Ozark Highlands of
Missouri. My father was the “Norman Rockwell” country doctor, my
mother, a devoted housewife and mom. When I was five my loving
sister, Salle Anne, came into our lives. We lived in the neat little
farm-to-market village of Russellville, population: 336. I have fond
memories of our modest home. We were the quintessential “Ozzie and
Harriet” family, typical of that place and time. I remember the
seemingly endless barefoot summers…and of that era, the swimming
hole, the old steam engines chugging through, hand-crank phones,
party lines, and a cornucopia of fresh vegetables and produce from
the gardens and farms about. For entertainment, who could forget the
Green Hornet, Sky King, Bobby Benson of the B bar B Riders, and the
Shadow Knows on the old Philco radio? And on the come-and-go,
snowstorm black and white TV, we tried watching Hallmark Hall of
Fame, Groucho and the Ed Sullivan Show.
There were five of us in my confirmation class at the Trinity
Evangelical Lutheran Church. I sang in the choir just to have a
front-row seat, there to marvel each Sunday as the rays of the
morning sun shone through the stained glass windows, splashing a
heavenly rainbow of light across the altar.
There were only sixteen in my high school class. I lettered in
basketball and track, also in baseball as a southpaw pitcher. The
tenor sax was almost bigger than me when I began playing in the
school band. Wheels were already the thing back then, and fast
wheels were really the thing. I recall refitting my ‘53 Ford ragtop
with a ‘55 Merc drivetrain. It was the hottest car around, nothing
short of pure terror on wheels, with chopped top, dual Laker
straight pipes, custom body, the works. Going fast on two wheels was
also fun. After a number of summers, I managed to make and save
enough money working local odd jobs to buy my first motorcycle, a
worn out ‘47 Harley Davidson. It was great fun when I could get it
to run. During those days, you’d find me decked out in Roebucks, a
black leather jacket, the famous old Harley “conductor” hat…and for
sport: sideburns, mustache and a D.A. Doo. Bet you don’t know what
that is!
I’m an armed forces veteran, and with much help and encouragement
from wife, Sharon, I managed a doctor’s degree. We were blessed with
two wonderful sons that would do any father proud: Jay, age 39,
wife, Theresa, a darling granddaughter, Jillian Amber; and son, Jon,
age 33, wife, Terri. I retired a few years ago, the senior
practitioner in a busy three-doctor optometric practice down in the
sleepy East Coast Florida village of Titusville.
Reflecting on all of this brings to mind the old saying, “You can
take the boy out of the country, but…” well, you know the rest of
it. In a nutshell, that’s me. After retirement, I moved down on
Nimblewill Creek, near the base of Springer Mountain (a six hour
bushwhack), a picturesque rural community much like the Ozark
Highlands of Missouri, near the little mountain town of Dahlonega
Georgia. There, I started making up for lost time…after being
cooped-up in examination rooms with no windows for nearly thirty
years. I love nature and wide-open spaces, pure and simple. Put me
in the great outdoors, preferably the mountains, and you’ve got a
happy camper. I think my philosophy fits: “There are no bad days in
the mountains, some just a little better than others.”
I started hiking and
backpacking in the early eighties. During that time I
managed to hike a good bit of the Florida Trail and
about half of the Appalachian Trail, from Springer
Mountain Georgia to Duncannon Pennsylvania, all in jerks
and starts over a period of fifteen or so years. In
January 1998, I set out on my first uninterrupted long
distance hike. That trek began on the Florida Trail,
thence continued to the Cliffs of Forillon, Cap Gaspé
Quebec, a distance of over 4,000 miles. During that
time I took on the trail name: Nimblewill Nomad.
The years 2000 and 2001 brought about nearly that same
hike in reverse, the first known trek o’er the entire
Appalachian Mountain Range, at least as we know the
majestic Appalachians to exist on the North American
continent. That journey lasted 347 days, covered a
distance of over 5,000 miles, and included a hike
through the Long Range Mountains of Newfoundland. 2002
brought a cross-continental trek, an adventure-filled
journey that lasted 147 days, over 3,000 miles, from the
old lighthouse at Cape Hatteras North Carolina, to
another old lighthouse at Point Loma in San Diego
California. In 2003, in preparation for a trek up the
Lewis and Clark Trail that runs from St. Louis Missouri
to Fort Clatsop on the Pacific, a journey, God willing
that I’ll attempt at age 66, I loosened my legs by
hiking the Natchez Trace Trail, from Nashville Tennessee
to Natchez Mississippi.
Quite interestingly,
these respective odysseys generated much insight, much
joy, and much profound inspiration. As a result, in the
winter of 1999-2000, I published my first book,
Ten Million Steps. Shortly after came a
book of poetry entitled,
Ditties, and in 2004, my
third book,
Where Less the Path is Worn was
published.
Despite the fact that (over twenty-five years ago) heart
specialists at Shands Teaching Hospital in Florida
insisted on plugging me and a heart pacemaker together,
a device I’ve very well managed to do without, thank
you…and to this day, do I remain blessed with remarkably
good health and stamina. In short, this old
puddle-jumper carries the classic make, model and VIN
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