Vietnam and the Appalachian Trail (Part II) ...Continued from last issue The Zion Death March in June 1985 almost killed me. Twice in two days. First, I fell into a deep, narrow canyon. Fortunately, I landed on brush, including large trees, that had accumulated in that tight space. I was able to scramble to a ledge where my friends could lower a rope for me. The next day I nearly drowned jumping and swimming past a waterfall. For the rest of that day, my three companions and I waded and swam through chest deep cold water in a canyon that received almost no sunlight. We ate ravenously to ward off hypothermia. At one point we roped over a 20 foot waterfall and about 75 yards of boiling white water in a sheer canyon. The following day we walked, waded and swam the final eight miles of river in high water with no food. Zion didn't kill me but it did scare me. I came back feeling like a ghost. The experience was spooky, a lot like Nam. A close friend guessed that my guilt at returning from Nam uninjured led me to risk death in similar activity. The theory has more than a little truth. Maybe I'm still proving myself, this time in a more acceptable activity. But Zion forcefully reminded me of my own mortality in a way that Nam did not. Death in Vietnam would have occurred in a highly unusual activity, something I was not likely to pursue on my own. Death in Zion came close because I chose to hike there. The experience taught me that I needed to choose more wisely. It also reminded me about the limited time in life to pursue important life goals. In the years since that day on Humpback Rocks and my months in Vietnam's mountains and jungles, I had come to understand that being in the mountains and forests-experiencing and feeling the land-is important to me. It speaks to my soul and connects me to the earth of which I am a small part. Despite the shock from Zion, I continued to hike. Ten weeks after Zion I hiked 55 miles of the AT through the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was a challenging trip that taught me how rugged a small, eastern state could be. At our last night's camp we met three hikers from New Jersey who had just finished hiking the AT through Mahoosuc Notch in Maine. One of our group had also hiked there, describing the route through the notch as a scramble over, under and around boulders as big as houses. I wondered if I could ever get that far. All this time I hiked with the memory of Vietnam. Not to the point I felt that I was back in-country. Walking in the woods reminded me that I had been there, that the experience still influenced my life. The awareness is not constant but there always comes a time on every hike when I think about being in Nam. Not so much the explicit memories of what I did. Rather, I dwell on how I ended up participating in a war I opposed. I remember my willingness to kill and be killed for a cause that I found wrong. Yeah, I was serving my country but my country was prostituting my patriotism to the extreme detriment of the Vietnamese people. If only the U.S. had supported Ho Chi Minh when he quoted our Declaration of Independence and asked for our help in 1946. But the Cold War got in the way and I was on a track for Vietnam from the minute I was born in the following year. Vietnam was my first great (as in stunning, overwhelming, challenging) overseas adventure. It set the stage for others that followed. Ten years later I was on a month-long trip to Hong Kong in 1981. The trip was exotic, varied and highly interesting. But I was uneasy surrounded by so many Asians. Towering over the street crowds, I felt exposed. No harm ever came to me so my fears were unfounded. But somewhere in the back of my brain is the formula: "Asian = threat". It's a hard one to lose, even after ten years. But like all my other Vietnam baggage, unease did not prevent me from having the time of my life in Hong Kong. My third great adventure came in 1991. Gary Winter (one of the Zion survivors and by this time a regular hiking partner) heard about the 270 mile Long Trail in Vermont. Within a few years we had set a date to hike the Long Trail in August 1991. We flew to Boston, drove to Montpelier, where we met a pre-arranged shuttle to the Canadian border. And then we were alone with 270 miles of trail stretching before us. Completely on our own. The memory of standing at the empty landing strip at Firebase Mace came to mind. But off we went, lugging packs that rivaled my infantry pack in weight. We climbed an endless series of knobs. After three grueling days, Gary and I decided that hiking the entire trail in the time we had available would simply be no fun. We slowed our pace and had a glorious time. Not quite a festival of laziness but certainly mellow. We ended our hike at Sherburne Pass where the AT meets the Long Trail for the final 100 miles south through Vermont. We had hiked 170 miles in 23 days. The Long Trail set the stage for the Appalachian Trail. The idea of an AT thru-hike had appealed to me for many years, ever since I first learned the meaning of those white blazes running so close to my home. Despite the appeal, I wasn't sure I could do it. What would people think of me if I started but didn't finish? Until I hiked in Vermont, I did not fully admit that a long distance hike was one of my life goals. When I came off the Long Trail, I knew that I would thru-hike the AT. Now came the question of when. Gary made it simple. He said he wanted to hike the AT when he retired from the fire department in 2002. The date was off my ten year cycle but I agreed to go with him then. We discussed the trip during many subsequent hikes in Arizona, New Mexico and Utah. And we said that we were going out to hike for as long as it was fun, just like in Vermont, so we may or may not cover the entire distance. In October 2001 I quit my job. After a six month transition to storage, my partner, Maggie, and I drove to Georgia to meet Gary and his wife, Red. Red was not in on our original plan but, as a welcome addition to Gary's life, she signed on to the scheme. On April 3, 2002 Gary, Red, Maggie and I climbed the approach trail up Springer Mountain, Georgia. That night we slept in the shelter at the summit. The Appalachian Trail stretched more than 2,100 miles north to Mount Katahdin in Maine. A helicopter flew close during the night. It was a Huey, the workhorse of the U.S. Army in Vietnam, the one I road into combat. I recognized the distinctive "slap" of its big rotors. It came over very low. At one point I thought it might hit the shelter in the dark and fog. The encounter was the first of many Vietnam moments on my hike. As the trees leafed out and the forest canopy closed overhead, Vietnam was often on my mind. The daily grind of walking, the isolation from non-hikers, the comradery among hikers, even trail names, were all reminiscent of Vietnam. I was on the adventure of a lifetime that reminded me of going to war? My brain roiled over this contradiction. Vietnam filled a good portion of the ample time for thought and reflection afforded by days and days on the trail. My mind wandered often when full concentration was not required to remain upright and stable on the trail. I thought about the how and why of my participation in that war. What combination of events and beliefs led me to risk my life for nothing I believed in? Wrestling with my memories as I made my way from Georgia to Maine, I came to accept that I made the choices as best I could back then. The choices available to a draft age male without a deferment or high draft lottery number were not good. Many factors collided with my antiwar sentiments. My late father served in WWII. Could I do less? My girlfriend's father, a retired colonel, also looked askance at my anti-war views. My choice to join the Army surprised and impressed him. I think it may have surprised her, too, but that's not why I did it. I did it because I thought I could finesse the moral choices that Vietnam posed. I could snag a clerical job based on my volunteer status and college degree. I figured that I would have more credibility speaking out against war as a veteran. In the end, my decision to serve was easier than saying "no" to a war I opposed. I was young, confused, scared, angry and in love all at once. My life was being threatened even before I had a chance to live it. I tried to make the best of a bad situation. And I lost the bet. My infantry assignment was the kiss of death. But a funny thing happened on the way to my death. I never made it. Instead, I survived. I lived through a trial by fire and returned. In its perverse way, Vietnam was like an extreme Outward Bound experience with guns and I passed. Few accomplishments in my life have been as satisfying or intense. Or as regrettable. I survived the ordeal but have questioned my courage ever since. Yeah, I had the courage to face combat but not to stand up for my beliefs. Maybe if I had been more certain of those beliefs or had linked up effectively with others who shared them could have found the courage and means to act on those beliefs. As it was, I gave myself to a misguided war. At the time, I was uncertain about the morality of the war. I was not a conscientious objector since I believed that war was justified in some circumstances. Any nation has the right to defend and protect itself. But Vietnam was no threat to America. The "threat" was a figment of Cold War thinking by politicians who were prisoners of their ideology. In 1970 my analysis of the war and its origins told me that U.S. intervention in Vietnam was an incorrect, wasteful, but not necessarily immoral, policy. But that did not constitute a valid reason to refuse service. Probably the most disturbing legacy of Vietnam was learning that I was fully capable of killing another human being even when I do not believe in what I am fighting for. I may have thought the war ill-advised, but once in combat, I had no hesitation about firing my weapon or taking any action to protect myself and my fellow soldiers. I am still capable of killing, even now, if necessary to defend myself and loved ones. These are chilling thoughts, revealing an aspect of my being that frightens me. But it also gives me power: the power to know that I can take care of myself. These days, I often believe that I would make a far better infantryman than I did 30 years ago. Thoughts of and about Vietnam followed me up the trail. I wrestled with them and debated them as I watched nature's beauty pass before me. I remembered patrolling in the jungle, a frightened young soldier, just hoping to survive. Now, 30 years later, I was back in that jungle, so to speak. This time fighting my own personal war over choices I made long ago. I resented the intrusion. My AT thru-hike was supposed to be an adventure, a release. Yet here I was reliving my past. But the time spent in that dance helped me to put my past in context. My youth, confusion about what was right and wrong, my father's military service made my choices agonizingly difficult. I realized on the trail that, while I now see my choices as inconsistent with my beliefs, those beliefs have clarified during the intervening years. They were far less clear in 1970. And whatever the wisdom of my choices then, I have used my status as a veteran to challenge the logic of all war. Hiking the AT grew out of my Vietnam experience and tempered my guilt about that experience. Had I not spent that year in Vietnam, I may never have known I could backpack and may never have found the Appalachian Trail to be an appealing goal. Hiking the AT helped me realize that I am proud of my Vietnam service, despite my reservations. I showed myself willing to serve my country. I also showed myself able to meet the most threatening challenge of my life. And in the years since, I have been an active and outspoken opponent of war. My AT thru-hike gave me the opportunity to reflect on that most difficult time. I will always have some regret about my decisions back then but I realized during my hike that I did okay. I have nothing to be ashamed of. That realization has exorcized the ghosts of Vietnam. Vietnam will always be an important part of my life but it's power has diminished as a result of the thought I devoted to it on the trail. The Appalachian Trail helped me understand myself and my actions during that turbulent, dangerous time. Mark Fleming

 

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