Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Chapter 116: Chafe Harder

Registry entry, Congdon Shelter:
Looks like I picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue, er, I mean, try to do 20's again. Goddamn rain, making everything all cool and tolerable again...
Popeye—who wasn't the creepy man I saw in the woods at all, but a spirited middle-aged man who was, unsurprisingly, a retired sailor with a pronounced fondness for spinach—and Saint conspired together to convince me to hike to Manchester Center in two days rather than three. Unfortunately, this required me to do 20 miles a day once again, something I had previously sworn off doing forever. But, and as I've repeated ad nauseum, Major Chafage's rule number one of thru-hiking is "Never leave a man or woman behind." So, if I had to hike a little faster in order to stay with friends, so be it.

Okay, or maybe I was tired of being lonely.

I ran into Fredo when I stopped at the Melville Nauheim Shelter for a break. Saint and I gauged his interest in making it into Manchester Center around the same time as we did. He was more enthusiastic than ambivalent, and I asked both of my companions if they wanted me to make reservations for them at the Green Mountain House, a hostel of legendary repute. Stupidly, they both declined. Their loss. I called and made a reservation, and would be glad I did. But more on that later.

Oh, but one more thing about stupidity. Fredo accidentally left his Crocs™ behind at the shelter. And none of us noticed. Oops.

And then it rained. The waterproof lining of my rain pants—the manufacturer of which my lawyers have strongly advised me not to mention, Outdoor Research—had by now nearly completely disintegrated, making travel a wet, messy, uncomfortable affair. When I finally arrived at the Story Spring Shelter later that evening, I was a sodden, bitter, profane, vociferously angry wreck, and in excruciating pain.

Somehow, I had the courage and wherewithal to sign the shelter log:
The Legend Continues... My ass is killing me! Also, my balls.
-Major Chafage
Later, as I lay in my tent thinking over recent developments, I made the mistake of rereading the previous entry in my journal. It wasn't excruciatingly painful, but it also wasn't exactly art, either, that's for sure. I felt the need to atone, so I hurriedly scribbled:
Hating yesterday's entry. Rambling incoherent nonsense. At least it gives an unintentionally accurate picture of my mental state.

Pulling another long day tomorrow. Why? Stupidity. Also, getting in town to spend mad duckets. Does that have two t's or one?

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