Leaving My Marc
After a visit with Marc, my brother from different mothers, I take off for a visit to my parents, including my real mother. I’m leaving my Marc.
Leaving My Mark
My parents would sometimes enjoy their summers on the side of Okemo Mountain in Vermont. Popular ski resort carved into the lush forests above the town of Ludlow.
A few times when I visited them, I would hightail it east across the state line to the White Mountains. Time to get in some hiking. This time I choose the Wildcat Ridge Trail out of the Glen Ellis Scenic Area on White Mountain Road.
In the parking lot, while getting my gear ready for the trek, I notice a pickup truck parked at the edge of the lot. Among the nearby trees is a guy paying close attention to one tree in particular. I stay by my car, just to see what’s up. Maybe he is a park ranger and I could go over to him and learn something.
But heck, he sure isn’t dressed like a ranger, in his blue jeans, flannel shirt and John Deere hat.
I realize, he is carving his name into the tree! This offends me. Trees are made for hugging. They are not to be defaced.
I amble over. “Hey, whatcha up to?” I ask.
“Marking this tree. I want people to know I was here.”
I thought about challenging him. I’m not a fighter and most importantly, he isn’t carving his name with his fingernails. I mean, he’s wielding a knife.
I turn around, put on my pack and step on to the trail. I vow to plant two trees.
“Marc, Mark.” Sounds like a dog with a hairlip.