A few days ago we hiked the Mingus Creek Trail in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The parking lot for the hike is just off 441 and also provides access to the Mingus Mill which is an old Grist Mill. It was originally built in 1886 and has been refurbished a couple of times. It is a functioning mill and you can buy cornmeal in the little store there. The cornmeal is ground by the water-powered turbine that is powered by the water diverse from the creek. It is interesting to see how things functioned in an era long since passed. Items we use daily, without thinking about them, were once difficult to obtain, requiring a lot of time and effort.

But, we were not there to see the mill; we were there to hike the trail or at least, part of it. The trail has a length of 5.8 miles but we only hiked 1.25 miles up it. This distance took us to the spot where the trail splits off to the right. This split follows an old roadbed that proceeds for .8 of a mile to a footpath. The path goes uphill for about one hundred yards to an old family cemetery. I am learning just how common family cemeteries are to this area.

The spot is a clearing of maybe two hundred by two hundred feet. There are old post surrounding the clearing, indicating that it was fenced in at one time. In addition, from the path up the hill and approaching the clearing, there is a post with a couple of hinges indicating the presence of a gate at one time. Around the clearing, the bushes and trees form a natural wall.

The day was sunny and clear. The spot was quiet and Saskia and I may have been the only people for a mile or two around. A gentle breeze blew and the place was peaceful and serene. It is hard to say when the site was last maintained but it was clear of growth, and I walked around lost in thought.

I thought, and I know this may sound strange, about how this had a homemade, handcrafted look to it. There was not the geometrical design of plots laid out to a fill a financial and zoning blueprint, but a pattern bending to the ebb and flow of life and death. Unlike the monuments of carved and polished stone with their perfect designs and beautiful layed out letters seen in modern cemeteries, these markers were literally stones. Each stone was set upright to mark a burial spot. I looked at a number of them and found only one with markings. The name and date scratched in by hand, nothing machined or done by template. I began to understand the homemade, handcrafted look because both were true, and it was perfect and right.

I thought about how personal the burial of a family member or friend must have been during those days in places remote and rural. And, I imagine it is still that way in parts of the world and probably even in places in this country.

I thought this was an old Enloe Slave Cemetery, one of the two close to this trail. Based on the name and date on the stone Saskia said she thought it was a different family space. Later that night I researched online to find she was correct. We had pasted by the Enloe Slave Cemetery which is a short path, located at the beginning of the trail. I went back the next day to see it.

After a short climb I reached the cemetery. It was again a beautiful day, sunny with a pleasant temperature. This space was a little smaller than the one I had seen the previous day. I noticed no names on the stones. Each spot had been filled to make a mound which indicated there was maintenance occurring on some bases. This place was also quiet, serene and beautiful. I took some pictures and then sat for a while on a stump allowing the peace of the spot to enter my being. I did well for a while and was then startled by a loud croaking noise. Still learning the area, I recognize there is much I do not know and the nature and habits of bears fill a large portion of the empty space.

I jumped off the stump and started to move downhill but realized my chances of out running a bear were not good. I stopped and looked up the hill in the direction of the noise, which I had heard again. I finally determined that the loud croaking noise came from two trees rubbing against each other as the wind blew. I felt a little silly but relieved. I stayed for a short while and then took the path back to the parking lot. The serenity of the mountain cemeteries and the reflections I had over the past couple of days were settling and opening my awareness to my cycle of time as determined in this birth.

A couple of days later I received a call from a friend in Miami letting me know that a good friend of ours had had a massive stroke and the prognosis did not look good. I was shaken as this was one of the finest people I have ever known. He was gentle and quiet but reflective and respectful of himself and others. I cried with my friend as we reminisced over the phone and I must admit I cried a couple more times by myself. I wished I could be there to support his family and friends but that was not practical. The next evening, he passed. I realized I needed a way to personalize this friends passing.

Over the Christmas holiday we had bought an evergreen to decorate. We bought one with the roots so we could plant it later. After the holiday, I put the container with it on the deck to wait for the right time to put it in the ground. When I received the call about Bernard I knew the time had come to plant the tree and I did.

R.I.P my friend.