Karamazov Walk

“From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one’s first home. And that is almost always so if there is any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious.”

–Father Zosima, The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

On a walk I recently undertook when visiting my parents, I experienced the thematic confluence of several life-threads. The fibers, theretofore independent, merged to form a cohesive cloth. It was a rare syzygy, offering a glimpse of harmony and connection beyond my inner universe. These overlaps always seem notable, even if the constituent threads are uncomfortable, the confluence is fleeting, or the “meaning” I derive from them is ethereal.

During runs and walks in the early portions of 2025, I’ve taken to listening to a recording of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. In high school and university, I read Crime and Punishment and Notes from Underground, both of which I enjoyed. Tackling Dostoyevsky’s final novel always appealed to me, but its length relegated it to a huge pile of essential reading that I would get to someday. I prefer eye-reading to ear-reading, but the long stretches on my feet seemed a great opportunity to multitask. I know many people who espouse hitting pavement and trail without the distraction of headphones, favoring to harmonize with the planet. I wholeheartedly understand this viewpoint and I practice it fairly often. I never go to the mountains with an earpiece, for example, but, these days, time is perhaps the most precious commodity. With two toddlers and a life full of stress, maximizing things I want to accomplish often involves magical hacks. If I can listen to one of the world’s most renowned works while putting one foot in front of the other, sign me up.

I’ve seen Dostoyevsky described more as a philosopher than a novelist. This opinion is not without merit, as his books are filled with character study and the workflows of ethical or moral thoughts and practices. Though I’ve reached only the halfway point of this tome, its operational mode is clear. The book is a spectrum of humanity, from the most virtuous to the most scurrilous. The novel’s events cause the best to question their faith and worldview while prompting (at least some) of the basest to consider their nihilism or selfishness.

As I departed on my stroll, Zosima, a starets and moral guide to the novel’s protagonist, Alexei Karamozov, lay on his deathbed, imparting important biographical information. His quote about “precious memories” cited above struck my ears at the most opportune time, as I just happened to walk away from my childhood home. Yet, the statement did not prompt me to regard recollections inside my first house; instead, the hills surrounding the place suddenly occupied a sense of importance I had not previously considered.

Ohio’s general topographical reputation is closer to that of Nebraska than Colorado or Alaska. Translation: people think it’s flat as a pancake. For large swaths of the state, this stature is correct. The last two glacial advances produced a terrain that lacks relief over the western portions. Listening to Dostoyevsky, however, I stood at the high ice mark of the glacial assault. In Licking County, 30 miles east of Columbus, end moraines of the Illinoian and Wisconsinan glaciers litter the landscape. The great ice march split the county in half. In the west, once inundated with glaciers, the land is flat; in the east, the topography never felt the weight of the glaciers. This region, coincidentally, happens to be near the edge of the Allegheny Plateau, a section of the Appalachian Plateau. These regions serve as the farthest foothills of the mighty Appalachian chain. Approximately one-third of Ohio is part of the Allegheny Plateau, which is dotted with rugged gorges, steep valleys, and sharp outcroppings. Before the ice age, all of Licking County appeared as it does east of the county seat, Newark, where resistant sandstone often juts hundreds of feet above surrounding leas.

As a child, I never received education regarding the specifics of glaciation in our home county. We learned that much of the state was covered in ice, but I never understood the specific proximity. How fascinating might it have been to young minds to take them into the field to show them the very spots the great ice fields had terminated? With a gargantuan classroom lab, teachers could show the topographic evidence in person!

Before glaciation, the region had been home to part of the powerful Teays River system. The ancient Newark River, which flowed westward, became dammed by the glaciers. This produced two incredible feats. A massive body formed, called Glacial Lake Licking, and the river reversed course! Now moving eastward, the modern Licking River came into being. Some studies indicate that overflows from Glacial Lake Licking might have created Blackhand Gorge, a stunning sandstone formation with soaring cliffs, in geologically recent times, instead of the typical downcutting by rivers over eons.

Though I never understood in my youth, looking at a topographical map of the region, one can find the geological fingerprints of a decidedly non-flat region. The Newark River/Licking River Valley stands out, as does the influence of the glaciers.

In the second image, I’ve outlined the Licking River Valley in blue. This depression is much wider than the current river, indicating a system that’s been at work for a long time. In the past, the valley might have been extremely steep, as the river cut through the native rock. Today, walking and driving through this area, one might not even realize one is in a valley. We can thank the glaciers for this ignorance! Growing up, I assumed that glacial flatness occurred largely because the ice came through like a bulldozer, plowing all the features into an even sheet. However, the flatness largely arises from a glacier’s retreat. As ice melts, the rocks the glaciers brought with them become deposited in the land. This phenomenon tends to happen rather uniformly, producing a muted layer. The Licking River Valley became filled with outwash and sediment as the glaciers retreated. So did the areas to the west. You can see this reality in action on the topographical map. In the east, brown lines point to localized areas with rugged relief. The land goes up and down. To the west, the red arrow points to a zone whose colors are consistent. This evenness in altitude is a result of the glaciers!

As I looked at the hills surrounding my childhood home, thinking about precious memories, I was struck by two things. I realized I had not grown up thinking I resided in a “flat” place. Sure, they weren’t mountains, but these hills certainly weren’t the middle of Kansas. The ups and downs of the Unglaciated Allegheny Plateau likely imprinted a love for relief. Then, I considered the history of this location. Compared to the history of the Earth, the last two ice ages are mere babies, yet they are so long ago compared to humanity that we have a hard time fathoming them. I attempted to recreate the formation of this land. I tried to place myself in some form of context within that history. It felt like a privilege, somehow, to stand in a spot of geological continuum. To the west, ice; to the east, hills and gorges.

I certainly couldn’t contextualize it all. Our brains don’t seem to be wired to do that. But, Zosima and Glaciers had certainly put me into an introspective mood.

My trek took me through a local cemetery. There, this introspective thread gained a few other twines.

Zosima opined about his oncoming death: “The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting, its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life…”

He spoke of the setting Sun as I walked through fields lined with stones that serve as literal reminders of death. My mind turned to those I have lost, both dead and alive, whose rays have dipped below the horizon. Memories of several people flooded my mind. Though gone, these people indeed gifted me gentle memories and dear images, but I was filled more with a sense of loss than Zosima. Perhaps the prospect of not soon meeting death, of continuing to live with only memories of my cherished people, is more melancholy than the old man rushing to meet his paradise. Either way, a foreboding filled my countenance.

As I continued to walk and listen, the topography of the area once again entered my brain. The Appalachians. I wasn’t staring at the mountains-proper, but I could see the run-up in the distance. Why did this chain suddenly reappear in my mind?

It took me a few moments, but, eventually, the metaphor my subconscious wanted me to see was too blatant for my dopey conscious to miss. I recalled a fascinating point about the Appalachians. Once upon a time, they were as tall as the Himalayas. They are so old that erosion has whittled their altitude to the shorter side of major chains. They are also so old that they used to be part of a different continent. At one point, the Appalachians were a constituent of the Central Pangean Mountains. When Pangea broke apart, the Appalachians ended up in North America, but the Central Pangean Mountains also included other chains. Incredibly, one can look at a global map and see the puzzle pieces of the ancient grouping. The Appalachians were, at one point, married to Africa’s Atlas Mountains, the Scottish Highlands, the Scandinavian Mountains, and the crags of Greenland!

One could argue that hiking in Maine, for example, is hiking a chain in Africa or Scotland.

As I stared into the rising foothills, thinking of those I’d lost, the people suddenly became other pieces of a Central Pangean Range. My Central Pangean Range. I can’t see them anymore, but they’re out there on the globe. Once, we were united; now, we’re separated by some sort of ocean. On one hand, it felt incredibly isolating and overwhelming, but I also started to sense a bit of the Zosima optimism. Perhaps one day the supercontinent will reunite. And, in the meantime, I can conjure memories and photographs of the person who stands on my Atlas Mountains. For some reason, this meaningless metaphor made sense and brought me a sense of calmness.

As I headed home, turning toward the Glaciated Allegheny Plateau, thunder filled the air. Moderately dark, squat clouds ambled across the sky. It was late February but I had not imagined the thunder. For the first time in the year, I caught a whiff of petrichor. Rain was coming. Recent warm temperatures had erased all the snowfall, but the ground was still saturated with a season’s worth of water. Sunset, these days, was arriving markedly later. Winter was ceding to spring.

Once again, Dostoyevsky appeared with a coincidence. Zosima spoke about his brother, who died when he was young. In recounting his final weeks, his brother took to asking for forgiveness from everyone he knew. Zosmia added, “The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly begging their forgiveness too: ‘Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for I have sinned against you too.’ None of us could understand that at the time, but he shed tears of joy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there was such a glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory.'”

I took the timing of this passage to mean I should regale the neighborhood’s birds, trees, meadows, and skies. I’m certainly guilty of not noticing a lot of beauty and glory all around me.

As raindrops began to fall, my head was nearly spinning from this stew of geological time, confluences, personal loss, interconnectedness, and transition. I felt inconsequential in the grand scheme of eons but I also felt connected to a personal mountain chain that I was blessed to have experienced, even if it’s now broken. What did it all mean?

Everything and nothing, I suppose.

When I got back to my childhood house, my mother asked, “How was your walk?” I stopped to think about how I could come up with a coherent answer. I imagined sounding like someone on psychedelics, with my mother retorting, “I’m sorry, did you say Glacial Lake Licking? Central Pangean Mountains?”

So, instead, I said what I normally say as an introvert: “It was nice.”