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?

Chapter 115: The Long Trail

I escaped from town without making much more of a fool of myself than I already had. And hiking while riding a caffeine high? Amazing!

I was thrilled to cross the border into Vermont, and to begin the Long Trail. I ended up at the Congdon Shelter, some fourteen miles from where I began the day. It had started to rain just a few hundred yards before the shelter, so I didn't feel particularly bad about my apparently lax accomplishment.

I sat in my tent for a while, just listening to the rain. And endlessly contemplating my plan to do only easy 15 mile days in order to meet my parents in Hanover on the 23rd. Eventually growing bored with such ruminations, I pulled out my trusty journal, which was quickly filling with rambling diatribes against various petty personal injustices:

It feels weird getting into camp at 4 P.M. No, wait, I meant it feels awesome! Duh.

Another 14.1 done. It's raining now, but I'm in my tent. Bathroom this morning hit the spot. Wait, I'm--

I'm thinking about changing my plan, and doing twenties for the next couple days, so as to get to, er, Hanover by the twenty first. Why? So I can go to Ben and Jerry's on the twenty second and get the Vermonster. I figure that could hold me over the entire day. Why am I writing this way? maybe to practice, or maybe it's just because I'm lazy and I don't want to pick the penn off the page. But now I'm even tiring of that. There are a lot of people at the shelter just hiking the Long Trail. Lazy fucks. Why am I so lethargic? Its It's like six thirty. And I only did 14 miles. I think I ate too much food. Maybe that's why.

Haven't seen Mimi, Fred or Lou all day. On the other hand, Saint is here. Together we make up the rear, rear, rear guard, okay, last deserters of the Nature Train.

Section hiker out there is talking about wine and Bailey's in her resupply. She needs to shut the fuck up. She has. Good. I need some fucking Bailey's. I'll get some at the Long Trail Inn, maybe.

Blah Blah blah. Fuck. Only semi-emotional moment to day was when I realized how close to being done I really am. Fuck. Fuck.

Hiking was good the last couple days, probably because I had company. A tree is going to fall on my tent, and I'm gonna die. Should I go outside and be social? Feel wierd. Weird even. Thoughts scattered, unfocussed. Hiking angry this morning, probably because I accidentally started pouring liquid sugar into my water bottle, thinking it was water, at a coffe place in Williamstown. Fuuuuck. I remember meaning to remember to write that down, but I almost forgot. Fuck it. I'm going to bed. It's 7 P.M.