The aroma of frying bacon welcomed us into the fellowship hall at First Baptist Church of Franklin. We surely did appreciate the church’s mission of feeding us poor, hungry, homeless wanderers. Friendly banter between hikers and pancake flippers started the day on a pleasant note.

We met our daily calorie requirement with just one meal and were driven back to our motel, where the short yellow bus waited for more passengers. Ron was in peak storytelling form, and our ride back to Winding Stair Gap passed too quickly. At the parking lot, a repeat of yesterday’s reunion—with different faces—brought us up-to-date on all the trail gossip.

Ahead of us that day were Siler Bald and Wayah Bald. Normally, “bald” brings to mind a hairless head, but in this case it meant a treeless mountain summit. A stone tower topped Wayah’s 5,340-foot summit; we climbed the tower for an astounding view. Mountain ranges marched in every direction. Wondering which of those we would be crossing in the days to come, we identified the highest mountain in the distance and suspected that was probably our destiny.

A lake sparkled in the distance. The Little Tennessee River flowed freely until 1942, when some great thinker believed the river should be harnessed to produce electricity. A giant concrete plug, 480 feet high and 2,365 feet wide, had turned the innocent little river into a 10,000-plus-acre pond for the pleasure of humanity.

Many times these dams are foisted on us as flood control devices. Perhaps we shouldn’t be building or living in areas that flood so quickly? Maybe I’m too cynical, but I believe to accurately understand the motivation behind the building of these dams, you’ll need to follow trails that are marked with dollars, trails that lead to some politician’s doorstep.

But this sad state is only temporary. The plug is, after all, man-made; everything man builds eventually deteriorates. I am no kin to Nostradamus, but my prediction is that someday all the great and small rivers of the world will flow freely as God intended. Nor am I an anarchist or a wacko environmentalist, but only a voice in the wilderness speaking for rivers wishing to flow freely.

It was Wednesday. Our goal was to reach Fontana Village by noon Saturday. Sailor had a mail drop at the post office there, and I had a bounce box waiting for me. Before leaving Springer Mountain, I had mailed a box with extra food and supplies to this location. I would resupply from the box, and then mail (or “bounce”) it to a location approximately a week ahead of us. We wanted to arrive at the post office before closing on Saturday, so we pushed for extra miles, running on energy from our huge breakfast.

We put nineteen miles behind us, our biggest day thus far. But the sun was setting, and we had not found a suitable camping spot. Finally, at Tellico Gap, we had no choice but to stealth camp, setting up in an area not meant for camping. On uneven ground, beside a series of power lines running through the gap, we settled in for the night.

———

The following morning, we stopped at the Nantahala Outdoor Center, which houses an outfitter, a small grocery, a whitewater rafting center, and a cozy restaurant hanging over the river’s waters. Hamburgers at River’s End Restaurant are legendary, and with our burgers we downed several energy drinks, fortifying ourselves for the climb we knew was ahead.

Cheoah Bald was eight miles away, a long, tough uphill climb. We stopped one mile short of the bald. Too tired to set up our tents, we braved the Sassafras Gap Shelter that night. Friendly people, a covered porch with a skylight, and only minor concerns about resident mice made my second shelter stay considerably better than the first.

The next morning, Friday, it turned cold and windy. Six miles brought us to a small clearing at Stecoah Gap, where several men had set up a grill and offered hikers hot dogs, candy bars, chips, and beverages. The Good Samaritan this time was a former thru-hiker. Those additional calories helped us knock off the next twelve miles quickly, and we knew we’d meet our deadline. We were less than five miles from the Fontana post office and the comforts of the Fontana Lodge when we stopped for the night just past Walker Gap.

I pitched Big Agnes in a clearing only three feet from a small stream. The little creek was so close I could almost filter water without leaving my tent. I settled in for the night, relaxing into the murmuring of the brook, the sound a balm for my tired body and spirit.

I thought I could hear the soft voice of God in the music of the brook. Apostle, did you see Me today?

“Yes, God, and thank You for springtime!” The valleys and mountains were bursting with new life. At higher elevations, buds were starting to appear. In the gaps, flowers waved as I walked by. The earthy smell of spring was everywhere.

How about the butterfly? Did you see the butterfly?

“Dear God, that was awesome! It stopped me in my tracks.”

That morning, a beautiful butterfly had floated above my head, sailed ahead on the path, then circled back and fluttered around me. As I walked, it drifted along beside me for a while. I had watched it with amazement. “Yes, God, and today I remembered that other butterfly You sent my way.”

Mary had loved butterflies, especially Monarchs. The Monarch is sometimes called the milkweed butterfly, because most of its life cycle takes place on milkweed plants. Every year, my wife drove out into the country, located a stand of milkweed, and searched for a caterpillar marked with bright yellow and black stripes. The chosen caterpillar would be housed in a mason jar topped with screen, furnished with twigs and plenty of milkweed leaves. Then the waiting and watching began.

For about two weeks, the caterpillar did nothing but eat and eliminate. But then the excitement started. Mary never missed it, and she made certain we didn’t either. Her excited call would round up the family, and we’d watch that caterpillar start to spin. Hanging upside down from a twig or the bottom surface of the screen, the caterpillar spins until the exterior skeleton slips off and the chrysalis forms a jade green shell.

For the next several weeks, the chrysalis hung immobile. If we went on vacation during that time, the jar of hope traveled in the front seat with us. As the butterfly developed inside, the green sheath slowly changed color and became thin and almost transparent. When the chrysalis finally started to move gently, Mary again gathered our family to watch the drama unfold. Soon a wrinkled, deformed butterfly emerged. For several hours, this sad-looking creature would hang on to its former home, slowly moving its wings up and down in an effort to dry and strengthen them.

Then came the ceremony of release. To the front porch we all went, and with Mary’s encouraging words, “Fly, little butterfly,” the now-beautiful creature was set free.

In the week before Mary left us, she spent both days and nights in her chair in the living room, enduring considerable pain, not wanting to move between the chair and bed. Finally, we convinced her to move to her bedroom. As I lifted her from the chair to a wheelchair, someone exclaimed, “Look out there!”

Outside our glass door, a tree branch curved over the balcony, and a caterpillar inched along that branch, ten feet from the ground. In seventeen years of living in that house, we had never seen a caterpillar on that tree. None have been there since that day. This little messenger crept along the branch, then onto a smaller twig, inching closer to the sliding door. I wheeled Mary over so she could get a better view.

I had no doubt God was showing us that Mary was going through her own metamorphosis. She would be set free to fly away, just like all the butterflies she had released into the sunshine.

I settled Mary in her bed, then went back to find the caterpillar. But it had disappeared. Later, I related this little story to our pastor. He did not seem surprised; he said he had often seen God reveal Himself, especially at difficult times.

———

Following Mary’s funeral, I gave some of the flower arrangements to the local nursing home and several friends. I still had a living room full of flowers, so I decided those would go to my sisters and Mary’s friends who had been so helpful during her illness.

The day after the funeral, a friend of Mary’s brought me a twig with a chrysalis bound to it. I stuck the twig into a flower arrangement. One of my sisters had told me she had never seen a butterfly emerge, so I would give her this one to enjoy.

That evening, I fell asleep in my chair in the living room. At two in the morning, an unfamiliar sound woke me. A mysterious fluttering whisper was coming from the assortment of plants and collectibles on the shelf above the kitchen cabinets. I stood dumbfounded as a Monarch butterfly emerged from the plants and danced around me in the living room. It had abandoned its chrysalis before I could deliver it to my sister. I watched in wonderment, not quite believing what I was seeing.

Now it was my turn to grant freedom. The Monarch did not seem eager to leave, but was attracted to the light in the living room. I turned off that light, and turned on the kitchen light. Follow the light, little butterfly. It came to the kitchen. I shut off the kitchen light and flipped on the light in the foyer. The butterfly followed. I opened the front door and snapped off the foyer light while turning on the porch light. Go, little butterfly, fly away. You are free. The butterfly winged through the front door and disappeared.

In my tent beside the brook, I remembered the unexpected caterpillar and the night visit of the Monarch butterfly. And before I realized it, I was talking aloud, talking with that voice of God in the brook. Correction, I was talking to the voice, because once I got started, I was on a roll and didn’t give much chance for reply.

“Yes, God, I understood the symbolism that night. You set Mary free. So You were there all along? I often questioned whether You cared about what was happening to us. If You care, why did she suffer so, and die?”

I didn’t want glib, churchy lines. I wanted answers.

“Is there a reason for all this sickness and death? If You are in control of everything, why is the world in such a mess?”

Was He listening? Was He there?

“I need to know if You are firmly in command. I could make a case that You do not control events and everything happens at random. But if I can convince myself that You do have a plan, then maybe I could believe Mary died for a good reason.”

If God cared but let us suffer anyway, then I was angry and would be a bit brash with Him.

“How can You know how much pain we went through? Do You know what it’s like to lose a wife or a mom? Oh, yes, You lost a son once. But You were only apart for three days. Even I could bear just three days of separation.”

An answer came back, cutting through my pent-up questions and frustration.

You are missing the point, my dear Apostle.

A storm warned me of its rapid approach. Lightning crackled around the campsite and thunder rumbled and echoed through the mountains. The sound of raindrops drowned out my conversation with the brook. Another thunder clap seemed to shake the very ground under our campsite. God had apparently moved from the gentle brook to the powerful storm.

“Wow, God! You can talk loudly!” I said at last—when I could speak again.

You’re a funny one, aren’t you, Apostle?

“Created in Your own image, I believe. Perhaps I am missing the point, but that’s why I’m out here. Sure wish I’d always hear You this clearly. Oh, and thanks for the butterfly today. I’ll look for You tomorrow on the trail.”