If you’ve never read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, “The Last
American Man”, I suggest you pick it up this Fourth for a bit of
quirky, patriotic fun. It chronicles the true story of a modern day
hero who lives in a teepee in the Appalachian Mountains, eating only
what he himself picks, raises or kills. The guy is an egomaniac and a
genius, and the writing, especially when detailing how he forages in
the woods, is funny and sensitive and page-turningly good.
The only problem with that book is the title. He’s not the last American man. My mother is.
She spends every summer, and most of every fall, wading through rivers
with a fly-fishing rod, and hiking giant, shale-covered mountains to
sleep under the stars. She’s had staring contests with bears and
cougars, weathered lightning storms under scraggly trees, and once
hiked three miles back to her truck with a broken tailbone.
Naively, I asked for larks. The grocery clerk seemed perplexed.
“Named for the mythical winged horse that carried thunderbolts for the Greek God Zeus, Pegasus Café has a classic pristine feeling.”
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It's autumn and that means....