“There's a jiu-jitsu concept that was introduced to me this summer called the misogi. It comes from the idea that as we get older we take fewer risks, think more inside the box, get more careful, make more decisions based on fear. To combat this, once a year you do something that you're not sure you can do. That's the misogi. I'm not talking a marathon — lots of people do that. It's more like, climb to the top of the farthest mountain you can see. That's where I'm gonna go." –Kyle Korver (Charles Bethea on Kyle Korver's Misogi)
Our journey begins with our goal, Rocky Top, ten steep miles away. Further than the farthest mountain we could see. In a small way, this is our misogi. Four of my friends and myself depart from Cades Cove at 9 a.m. with the intent to hike to Rocky Top and spend the night at a campsite.
We are amateurs at this. The most experienced individual in our group, Tyler, has gone on five or six overnight trips, Dale and I are on our second such adventure, and two others, Houston and John, are rookies to overnight hiking. Tyler's long blonde hair, pulled back with a bandana and tied into a bun, looks natural in the woods. On the other hand, John and Houston's tennis shoes reflect their experience, or more specifically, their lack of experience. Dale and I fit somewhere in between. We begin along the graded and gravel covered path towards our destination. The gravel gradually gives way to trampled dirt from previous travelers. At this point, with no cellphone service to connect us to the outside world, the extent of humanity seems to consist of five 19 and 20 year old boys.
While hiking ten miles and spending a night in the woods sounds challenging, I'd wager most could do it if they needed to and were adequately prepared. My misogi is not to simply make it from point A to point B. I view that as possible, so it does not qualify as a misogi. My misogi is to make it without being miserable. In other words, I want the views, the camaraderie, and the experience to be what I remember this trip by, rather than how miserable it is to drag-ass up a mountain.
After we leave the gravel section of the path, the challenge begins. Immediately, the incline increases, and the trail becomes more treacherous. At many places, the path sinks into the ground as if it were a gully. Walls of black dirt and trees seclude the sun. The path consists of rounded river rocks. Rain-driven erosion cleared the dirt away and unburied the rocks now lying on the path. Only the rocks heavy enough to resist the tide remain, and they all seem intent on breaking our ankles the way they move under every step. Around each corner, the path seems to get steeper. At every bend, grunts ripple down our line as each person sees how steep the next hill is. Eventually, we reach our campsite where Dale and John leave their backpacks before we continue on to Rocky Top.
The frequency of our breaks increases with the difficulty of the hike. Sweat, rather than seeping, pours out of pores. The burning in my legs would heat a home if given the chance. Here, at this critical juncture, the challenge begins. Mental doubt creeps in. My popping ears are evidence that we had climbed hundreds of feet, and the thought of doing hundreds more is dreadful. Tyler moves to the back of the line with cramping calves, and Houston, though soldiering on with no complaints, looks absolutely beat. It seems like we had chosen a fate quite similar to Sisyphus, who in ancient Greek legend was required to push a boulder up a hill but never be able to reach the top. We seem to be stuck going upwards for eternity.
Eventually, we reach the ridge line. Tree cover becomes less dense, and tall grasses fill in the ground. The trail flattens out, and ankle-breaking rocks cease to impede our progress. At the top of the mountain, we stop in a meadow to look out across the mountains, valleys, and rivers.
Finding myself at the front of the line, we begin the final (upward) segment of our hike. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my body shifts into something equivalent to a runner's high. Adrenaline pushes the pain of my burning legs into the back of my mind. My lungs become bellows driving me further upwards. Finally, I'm overcome with a feeling of peace with the struggle we are on. The lingering doubt that we may never reach the end fades, and I enter a state of semi-nirvana. At this point, little else matters except conquering the remaining trail. While the trail had spent the first eight miles knocking me down, I spend the rest of the hike punching back. With my physical exhaustion no longer registering, I pick up the pace and reach Rocky Top with the hiking equivalent of a final sprint to the finish line.
Finally, we clear the vegetation and reach the crest. Three hundred and sixty degrees of unblocked sight-seeing are waiting for us. There's not a distance nor a direction in which our view of the surroundings is blocked. Rivers, winding through the valleys, resemble snakes with their banks curling tightly around the bases of the surrounding mountains. Mountains are lush green waves frozen upon the horizon. At these distances, it really is hard to decipher any details besides “large" and “green," but there is beauty in emerald forests stretching across these earthly monuments. Yet, the plethora of bugs at Rocky Top lead us to leave back towards the meadow, brows furrowed at the harassing insects.
While the steep paths proved cumbersome on our upward journey, they push us forward as we moved down to the meadow. Upon arrival, we set up our Enos and lay down for a well-deserved rest. I sink as far as I can into my Eno so that I can avoid the bugs and afternoon sun. I can only see yellow leaves above me. They gaily flutter in the breeze. The same winds create a cooling sensation along my back. My senses of touch, sight, hearing, and smell simultaneously intake the fresh air, clear sky, and rustling leaves. At the moment, this is the best medicine the world could have offered my tired body.
Given a few minutes to think, my mind drifts back towards my roughly formed misogi, to not only make the hike, but enjoy it. Hanging peacefully along the trees, it becomes quite clear that I've accomplished my misogi. At one point in my life, this would not have appealed to me. Not from any distaste for the outdoors nor aversion to work, but because the reward never seemed to be worth the effort. Yes, mountains are beautiful, but I never gleamed much happiness from staring across the vast expanses nor from the other aspects of hiking, but now, in this hammock, I do. Why this change has happened, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, the point of a misogi is to enlarge your view of what is possible and what exists. Through this hike, I have discovered that satisfaction is possible in nature and that freedom exists most truly, perhaps, when you cannot be contacted. Both realizations likely wouldn't have occurred if it were not for all the effort we put in. I'm quite certain that if John, Tyler, Dale, and Houston did not come to the same realizations as I did, they each learned something for themselves. Why else would we have kept our legs moving if we knew what was on the other side?
