gocamino first posting, a poem, and a request for info

[camino2003acovad.net]

While I was perusing an interesting poem contained in the archives of the first
year of
gocamino, Ana Young made the first official posting on gocaminoaoakapple.net.
And away we go!    I hope the other folks on pete.uri.edu will follow the
instructions sent
previously for subscribing to the list at oakapple.net.   Just a reminder here:
send an email
with the one word "subscribe" (with no quotes) in the body of the message, to
gocaminoaoakapple.net

That poem I was reading is worth reposting, so I will do so below, and I would
like to post
it on the Pacific Crest Trail mailing list, pct-l, since it's about 99%
applicable.    No 
botafumeiro at the end of the PCT though.

The problem is the archived email address of the author, Austin Repath, 
is no longer valid.    Anybody 
know how I might contact him to obtain permission to repost his poem on pct-l?

=====

The Camino posted by Austin Repath

  Let's begin by being completely honest.
  It was a hard trip.
  Heat, blisters, colds, muscle fatigue.
  worries about having enough time to complete the journey
  and the nagging feeling of being plagued by forces
  beyond our control.

  Our every attempt to achieve a little continuity
  - even three days of continuous walking -
  to develop a little momentum
  sabotaged by yet another ailment.
  Only a mutual stubborn refusal to be taken down by some unknown
  Gollum that stalked us day and night, and a determination to fight back,
  kept us going, and out of this grew a fierce adamantine strength of will,
  unspoken between us, that we would go the distance.

  Also let it be said that there were happy moments:
  drinking wine in the late afternoon sun,
  unexpectedly coming upon enchanting villages,
  looking around us at breathtaking vistas
  of mountains and seeing below us deep valleys.
  Knowing pridefully that we had scaled heights
  far beyond anything we had ever imagined.
  Such times were intoxicating, awesome, delightful,
  joyful as any we could recall from childhood.

  And there was the honest work of a day's walking
  with a pack on one's back, and in front of us
  a seemingly endless uphill path as far as the eye could see.
  Not to mention the felling heat of midday, the chilling rains of fall,
  the why-am-I-doing-this angst of a midnight waking.
  Have I left anything out?

  That final never-thought-it-would-arrive moment of entering Santiago
  44 days after starting out, with that unexpected feeling of sadness
  that it was coming to an end.
  The pilgrims' mass in the cathedral, our names being read out,
  the unexpected swinging of the incenser, the exalting chords
  from the full-throated, wide-open pipes of the organ,
  tears of joy as we embraced one another, full in the knowledge
  that we had overcome.
  We had won through to the journey's end.

  Returning home washed in remembrance of a pilgrimage
  beyond time and place, as unspeakable and private
  and special as a night of passion between lovers who would
  if they could, but unable to find words or means to convey
  the painful ecstasy of their tryst, simply smile knowingly
  at each other and tell them we'd had a good time.