Chapter 89: To Caveman

I'm in Pennsylvania. I've gone twelve-hundred and two miles. It's the second week of June.

I am utterly miserable.

I sit down, dejected, in the tick-infested weeds beside the dirt road that marks this particular pipeline right-of-way. Or whatever it is. If I check my Handbook, it will tell me that this is a "Game lands road." I think of a more accurate, profane description while retrieving a soda from my pack.

That's right, we found trail magic earlier. Someone had left sodas in a creek, just off the trail. I took five: a Coke, a Mountain Dew, and a Birch Beer that I drank right away, plus a Dr. Pepper and another Birch Beer that I saved for later. Eat your heart out, Caveman.

My "friend" Caveman, always denying me what's rightfully mine. Urging me to be "conscientious" and "considerate," to leave some for the others. For the faceless crowd we've left behind. What nonsense.

I had to take them. I deserved them. I needed them. Because I was depressed.

Because you broke up with me.

As I sip my Dr. Pepper, luxuriating in every one of its sumptuous twenty-three flavors, I reminisce about walking home from school with Amber on that fateful Monday afternoon, and of watching Libby drive away in the rain, barely resisting the urge to run after her. I quickly come to the conclusion that this is worse. Or at least more recent.

I knew you had been feeling antsy, and that you weren't entirely content just slumming it with me anymore, doing relatively relaxed 17- and 24-mile days. I knew this because you basically told me as much, if in not so many words. I remember the conversation vividly, as though it had only happened a few hours earlier. Maybe it had.

"I'm just feelin' a little antsy," you had said, grimacing. "It's not that I don't enjoy slummin' it with Merf an' that other dude an' you—I love you, man. You know I do—it's just I like everybody else more. P-Nut an' Hobbes..."

"And the British girls?"

"Yeah," you had sighed. "Sure, them too."

"And Bandito?"

"Well, not so much him. No."

And we both had laughed. Me bitterly. Because I knew it was probably the last, after we had shared so many.

And I'm back in the dust by the road, amidst the buzzing insects, feeling the weight on my back, the sun on my face, and the pain in my ass. Stupid pebbles. I should've picked a better place to sit.

What direction will my life take now? How will I define myself without you? If I'm not walking to be with you, what am I walking for? Why am I even out here? If not for love or friendship, then what?

The forest in front of me shimmers in the heat. And then they emerge. A man and a woman walk towards me out of the haze. The man is tall and muscular; his rakish beard and casually disheveled hair exude the careless confidence of a man who has never once had cause to doubt his devilish good looks. Or his good fortune. The woman is striking, similarly tall and startlingly voluptuous. Clear skinned, vaguely Nordic in stature, she carries herself like some avenging Valkyrie, with a serene look of steely detachment in her eyes but her gait and body language full of an inexplicable violence that sends a cool shiver down my spine. Both are clean and seem in good spirits. They look down on me with a vaguely mirthful curiosity, as if I am so comically insignificant as to be utterly unworthy of their attention, let alone their scorn.

And then they're gone.

"Who the hell was that?" I ask, half to myself.

"Slackpackers," says Caveman.

I practically jump out of my skin. I'd forgotten he was there. I nod absentmindedly.

"I met them yesterday," continues Caveman. "They were hitching a ride by the road on the way up to the 501 Shelter. I think her name is Lightning."

Sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"Slackpackers," I spit, shaking my head. "How I hate them."

"Did you find yourself, like, sexually threatened by him?"

"What? No! Why?"

"It sounded like you were. From your narration," explains Caveman.

"Shut up," I scold. "You're not allowed any meta commentary. Not today."

"Why? 'Cause I'm leaving you?"

"Yes. I'm still hurt."

Caveman sighs. "You shouldn't be threatened by him, M.C. Or anybody, for that matter. You are one handsome devil."

"Don't tease me."

"Come on," Caveman urges. "Let's just try to enjoy these next few hours. It's all we've got left."

"This is wrong," I say. "You were never this prescient in real life."

"But that's the beauty of fiction," says Caveman. "You can fix every wrong."

I begrudgingly concede his point, until I remember. "Hey! What did I say about the fourth wall!"

"The fourth what? What're you talkin' about?" asks Caveman, amused. "I don't even know what that means."

"That's better," I say, cautiously.

"Come on, M.C." urges Caveman again. "We'll go into Port Clinton, stay at the pavilion there. It's free. Maybe we'll order pizza from Pizza Hut, for old time's sake. I'll pay with my credit card over the phone, and you can promise to pay me back when you get some cash, but then again I'm never going to see you after this, so that'll be an empty promise!"

"Yes, it will," I agree.

"And then we can laugh at everybody who didn't get trail magic back there at the sign, and you can write something mean in a shelter log."

"There won't be a shelter log, Caveman. It's a gazebo."

"Okay, well you can think of something really mean to write the next time."

"Maybe. What if nothing pisses me off?"

Caveman laughs. And says nothing. Like I was joking.

"Well?" he asks, after a moment. "What do you say? Is it a plan? The perfect afternoon ever? Or what?"

"It sounds like every other day on the trail," I grumble.

"So? I wouldn't want it any other way."

I want to stay mad at him, but I can't. He offers me his hand. Which I don't take, choosing instead to stumble to my feet the manly way. Because Caveman and I are two burly dudes, who don't ever touch each other for any reason.

"Oh stop," Caveman chides. "Gay panic? Really? That's beneath you."

I let this one slide.

And we head off into town, where we get Pizza Hut, and drink our last remaining sodas. Where we formally meet Lightning and the rest of her group, the Travelling Circus. Where I bond pleasantly with a stray kitten, until someone erroneously warns me the cat has fleas. After which I foolishly ignore it. Eventually Merf and Deitrich and Little Brown arrive, and I let them eat the crust of my large stuffed crust pizza. Because I'm too full to eat anymore. I mean, in the spirit of togetherness.

And then it is the end of our perfect afternoon, our last day together. Caveman and I say goodnight, and goodbye, one final time. Our jubilant reunion cut short. My last tie to my friends gone. He will leave the next morning before dawn. I will remain to face the unknown future alone.

Chapter 88: Beef

I never would have made it to the Rausch Gap Shelter without Caveman. Or, more specifically, without his handy supply of Excedrin. Right around Yellow Springs Village, the empty ruins of an abandoned mining town, I really started dragging, and badly needed a pick-me-up. I mean, I was in terrible pain! My head, back, and every muscle in my body hurt. Yeah.

Although an inconvenient 0.3 miles off the trail, the Rausch Gap Shelter was actually pretty nice. A boxed-in spring burbled up from the ground right out front, and there was a nice circular picnic table there, too. Being in good company didn't hurt the experience either. Dreamcatcher was there. Merf and Dietrich were there. Dietrich was somehow still alive after being run ragged over 25 miles of brutal terrain, and this on his first day out. He'd never even been backpacking before! And Little Brown was there! The smug, condescending bastard, casually remarking about how he'd never thought he'd catch up to any of us light-footed youngsters. It was good to see him.

I froze during the night. I'd ditched my sleeping bag in Maryland, leaving it with Megan to hold onto until I needed it again. Which apparently was now. Unfortunately for me, I wouldn't manage to get my sleeping bag back until New Hampshire. In the meantime, I made do with my snazzy liner. And by wearing my thermals and fleece to bed. And my rain gear. And by wrapping myself in my tarptent, to cut the wind. And by setting the shelter on fire. Actually, my tent proved to be a surprisingly good insulator.

Anyway, I somehow managed not to die during the night. Actually, I may have been most afraid of one of the others—probably Merf, whom I suspect always harbored a hidden violent streak—beating me to death as I slept, for all of the unintentional but annoying crinkling noises I must have made every time I rolled over. Or breathed.

So I woke up alive. No, wait, I woke up dead. My sudden and inexplicable death adds so much poignancy to this narrative, doesn't it?

"No," said Merf. "It doesn't even really make sense. It just makes you seem like a lunatic. Why is this in the past tense?"

"Sorry!"

"No, don't be sorry," continued Merf. "This is getting too meta. I'm not Bandito, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, just because I don't swear, I'm polite, and I'm a teetotaler—"

"Hey, you're right! I never noticed that before. You two really are quite simi—"

"Shut up!" interrupted Merf. "Stay focussed! What's wrong with you? Were you in a weird mood when you woke up?"

"No."

"Then why are we doing this?"

"I don't know? Why are you attacking me?!"

"You're the narrator," pointed out Caveman.

"You stay out of this!" I screamed. "Maybe it's because—aside from that other creepy abandoned mining town we went through—I don't remember anything until we found that trail magic by the road!"

It's true. I don't.

"You're an idiot," said Caveman.

So Caveman and I were hiking with Merf and Dietrich for a change. Dreamcatcher was too full of youthful brio to be held back by us, and Little Brown was too full of cantankerous old-man crustiness to be tolerated. Actually, that's not true at all. He had just gotten out of camp earlier than we had, and was way ahead of us by then. So the four of us were approaching PA443 when we came upon a cooler full of juice boxes and crackers. Which—as any thru-hiker or six-year-old knows—is like mana from heaven. And then we maybe found another cooler, by another road, that had popsicles and sodas. Or maybe that was a different day. Doesn't matter. For once, Caveman didn't stop me from taking my deserved share. We gorged ourselves.

It soon started to rain, heavily. In an extraordinary hurry, I pulled off the rare "walk and pee," which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Actually an extraordinarily difficult move, the tricky part of the "walk and pee," alternately known as the "walking pee," is to not splash urine on yourself, your pants, or your shoes while you do it. Since it was raining, and since I was wearing waterproof clothing, my normal worries were somewhat assuaged. But I pulled it off successfully. Not a single errant drop of urine fell anywhere on my person! You might think this is weird, but it's not.

"It kind of is," said Caveman, shaking his head.

"Shut up!"

We headed towards the William Penn Shelter to escape the rain. A magnificent structure that sleeps sixteen, the shelter was otherwise empty. Well, except for a sodden, bedraggled Dreamcatcher.

"I'm staying here for the night," he announced wearily, dragging his equipment into the loft.

It was a tempting idea, except for that we had only gone fourteen miles so far that day. Kind of an anemic output for us stalwart veterans of the trail. Besides, the 501 Shelter, which had a caretaker and pizza delivery, was only four miles away.

Caveman left before the rest of us. Maybe he was worried about securing a spot in the shelter. I wasn't. It had been raining all day. We were the only northbound thru-hikers for miles. Except for Little Brown, who could be ahead of us? Nobody I knew.

Apparently a lot of people. All the bunks were full when we arrived. Merf, Dietrich and I would have to sleep on the floor. Mostly everybody else looked like they had moved in there permanently, with their stuff strewn about, and their wet clothes draped everywhere. How I hated them all. Even—or perhaps especially—this one girl, Veggie, who lorded over a small group of friends with a self-satisfied smile. Everything about her rubbed me the wrong way. Particularly the fact that she was dry.

I soon learned that everybody else there was northbound, like us, but that they had taken zeros that day because of the rain. Which only infuriated me more. I took solace in acting like a huge jerk, scowling at everyone, and basically by being a whirling dervish of passive-aggressive whining and angst. At least Caveman and Little Brown were there to comfort me.

Wait, what am I saying? They were annoying too. Or at least Little Brown was. He wrote something surprisingly well-written, funny, and stingingly accurate about me in the shelter log. That I can't remember. It may have been a criticism of my poetry skills. Unforgivable.

Merf, Caveman, Dietrich and I ordered pizza. Which was nice, but did little to calm me down or elevate my mood. Then Merf and I wrote a poem in the register, since that was becoming sort of our thing. And I had my revenge. I don't remember how the poem began, but I sure know how it ended:

something something something, and all was well
Except for Little Brown, who can still go to hell
-Merf
-Major Chafage