Second Rodeo

December 7, 2020

Paris Mountain State Park encompasses more than 1,500 acres on the fringe of Greenville County, S.C. It’s a pretty place, where the gentle hills of the city become less gentle closer to the steeper, rockier Blue Ridge foothills a little further north. Beyond Table Rock and Jones Gap State Parks you’re in real mountains, then suddenly in North Carolina, a little west of Asheville. Even here in the city, from the busy street where we live, we can see the misty, pale-blue, rounded peaks. Farther off and fainter still are the Great Smokies along the Tennessee-North Carolina line, which tower above South Carolina’s modest heights.

I bought the all-state parks pass to stay on the even keel provided by the Virginia trails for the past 12 or so years. Next to the Shenandoahs and Massanuttens in Virginia, Paris Mountain is the junior entry. Like state parks anywhere, it offers picnic tables, campsites, cabins, and a small lake for fishing and swimming. Unlike the steep mountain trails of Virginia that can break the bones and spirits of the toughest runners, the woodsy paths here are mostly soft and sloping, manicured for casual hikers, families, scout groups, and so on. The evil rocks of the Shenandoahs have petered out. By Alabama trails are carpeted with pine needles.

Still—Paris Mountain is good enough. These trails offer respite, solace, the spiritual sustenance found in the beauty of nature, of God’s handiwork. Now, in early December as the leaves carpet the trails, the silence of early weekday morning renews and refreshes the soul. It’s what we seek. The state parks extend from around here west to the long, steep climbs and grades in Georgia, then southeast to the swampy Low Country along South Carolina’s gold coast.

It’s been over a year since I started falling behind the neighborhood running group on our Saturday runs, wheezing and coughing, forming a one-man back of the pack. The guys generally were still at Starbucks when I got there 20 minutes after they arrived. That was OK because I always finished the course. That’s the value in these things, finishing the course. So within a week of landing in Greenville I started my slow-motion sprint on trails that wind through forest over mostly rolling terrain for a couple, three, four, six miles. I jogged through the creeks, across the rough bridges, up the carefully plowed switchbacks.   

Being early at Paris Mountain avoids the tourists. So, having got through my MRI Wednesday I made a point of getting out there first thing Thursday morning. It was chilly for these parts, under 30F, but I’ve done 30F and below many times. I parked and trotted along a short spur to the Mountain Creek trail, which leads in about two miles to the Sulphur Springs trail. Sulphur Springs winds up toward the park’s high point for another two miles, then to an intersection leading to the Brissy Mountain, Kanuga, Pipsissewa, and North Lake trails.

The North Lake trail takes you past the lake, set against the highest point in the county, especially beautiful. You can take any of those routes to get back or stick with Sulphur Springs, which means easing down a slippery, rocky slope to a rushing stream.

I stuck with Sulphur Springs, not that it mattered much. I tried to stay at a running pace, but more and more often it was a hike.  My mind was on the MRI and Friday’s meeting with the surgical oncologist.

The doc met us in a treatment room at his office and advised I’m going to the OR in two weeks. He said he couldn’t tell from the MRI whether the tumor (first time any of the medical folks here used the term) was laying flat against the ribs or not. If it is, he could “peel” it away; if it’s extending between them, that’s a different story. He said he’d scoop out what he could. Then I’ll be back to radiation or chemo or both.

As the Verne Gosdin tune goes, “This ain’t my first rodeo.” The first was December 4, 2018, two years ago to the day.  For that one the doc, at Virginia Hospital Center, was a cardiovascular surgeon, not a surgical oncologist. He jumped on the problem, took out part of it, and advised I’d need further treatment. That’s where we went.

So—one of those things. Modern medicine does amazing things, although the costs also are amazing. But in the long run—we’re all in for the long run—it’s a holding action. I like the line in “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,” the Steve Martin-John Candy comedy: “Go with the flow, like a twig on the shoulder of a mighty stream.” After the doc meeting we left a copy of our health-care power of attorney and Advanced Medical Directive. Just in case.

We drove downtown and walked up Main Street, packed with shoppers. We gawked at the decorations and picked up a few things. The temperature eased up a bit, back to South Carolina normal. I took a picture of Sandy next to the giant tree in front of M. Judson Booksellers, a classic old-fashioned bookstore. We hitched up our masks and went inside. It was quiet, a few non-online shoppers wandered among the shelves. I got a cup of coffee and sprawled in a big chair and watched the browsers and listened to the taped Christmas tunes.

Last year, pre-covid, we walked the same streets and listened to the carolers and the local string assembly fill downtown with joyful holiday sounds. We smile now, hearing the grandkids wonder about Santa’s arrival. Millions still are suffering, but Christmas is lifting spirits. Ours, too. We strung lights along the apartment deck railing and, for the first time in three years, put up a tree. The apartment complex is awarding prizes ($50 off next month’s rent!) for the best-decorated front door. I’ll start on our door tomorrow.