It was our third to last day on the trail.
For eight hours, Buckeye, Fredo and I tried in vain to pull away from the sycophantic, parasitic Peaches. The perky pair of cousins had somehow persisted, display a disturbing, preternatural sense of perseverance, a—
“Hey, M.C.?”
It was Buckeye. His boyish grin, bushy red beard, and blazing blue eyes emerged out of the darkness, bobbing beneath the warm glow of his headlamp.
“What?”
“First of all, my eyes are brown. But never mind that. What are you doing? Do you really think anyone cares about the Peaches, or your cleverness as a writer, this insufferable ‘perverse predilection’ you have for consonance and alliteration?”
Competitive and long-distance runners often talk about hitting the wall. I’d hit the wall before. This wasn’t that. This was more like hitting the fourth wall.
“What are you trying to say, Buckeye?” I asked, my head swimming. I felt like I was losing it.
“You’re not losing it,” Buckeye snorted. “Well, not yet. I mean, you might be. But you definitely will, once you get back to the real world.”
The real world. That gaping maw of doubt and uncertainty waiting to swallow me whole, less than a week away. But I had so much to look forward to.
“Stop!” Buckeye winced.
Getting back to my family…
“No.”
My friends… Megan…
“No!”
And then there was my secret plan, which, admittedly, wasn’t very secret, since I had already told everyone—
Buckeye slapped me in the face, then cursed in pain and shook his hand. “Look, are you quite finished? M.C., you’ve been out here living your dream, having a jolly old time, but you’ve had your head up your ass the entire time!”
“Is that a commentary about my scatological preoccupations?” I asked warily, rubbing my jaw.
“You mean how you’re obsessed with poop?” Buckeye couldn’t keep a straight face. “No, but that is funny. I love poop.
“No, actually, I meant it to be a commentary on how, while you’re physically out here—“ Buckeye gestured around at the enveloping wilderness, at Fredo, who waved, “—your mind is a million miles away, already off dreaming and planning your next hair-brained adventure.
“Meanwhile, Megan is out there living her life. Alone. Did you ever stop to consider what she wants? What her dreams are?”
“I—“
I didn’t know. Have I?
Was I selfish? Am I that selfish?
I always thought we shared the same dreams, just as we shared the same obsessive tastes in food, beer, literature, politics… That our existence was a folie à deux.
You’re telling me that’s not true?
I thought I was being romantic.
“No.”
I thought…
“No,” Buckeye sighed. “Life’s not a game, M.C. You can’t hit the reset button or upend the board when things don’t go your way—“
“Nice metaphor,” I rolled my eyes.
“Actually, it was pretty corny, but— Hey, don’t change the subject! Where was I?”
“Life’s not a game.”
“Right. Or a novel. Or a blog. Or a movie, or any of the stupid things you write. And you’ve got to stop thinking of it as one. You want everything to be perfect, to conform to this arbitrary narrative that only you’ve decided upon, for everybody you meet to play some role you’ve already assigned them in your head.
“Some horribly clichéd, probably misogynistic role, I might add.”
“Hey!”
“You’re a jerk,” Buckeye shrugged.
“I admit, I’ve been an idiot—”
“I’ve? I have? You’re using the past tense?”
“All right, I am an idiot,” I corrected. “And will probably continue to be one.”
“Yes. But you’re also a man. A flawed—deeply flawed—sexy, disgusting, hilarious, shit-obsessed, thoughtful, hateful… wonderful human being. Of a man.”
“With his head up his own ass,” added Fredo momentarily.
We all laughed.
Buckeye. Fredo. My friends. My brothers…
“Don’t get sentimental on me now,” warned Buckeye. “I’m not finished.”
Oh no?
“Let me tell you how this is going to play out.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to walk out of this godforsaken Wilderness, and cross Abol Bridge. We’re going to celebrate, like a bunch of six year olds, by drinking soda and eating candy bars. Then we’re going to hike on to the Katahdin Stream Campground.
“And you’re going to pretend to fall into the stream as a joke, only then you’re really going to fall in, so, really, joke’s on you—“
“Sounds pretty realistic so far.”
“Don’t interrupt. We’re going to hitch a ride outta the park at that point, probably with some crazy old coot with a hook for a hand and half his teeth, whom you’re going to later—and rather unfairly—characterize as an escaped ax murderer.
“And then when we get into town to meet your friends?”
Becca and Megan were coming up. My heart swelled at the thought.
“They’re not going to be there.”
What?
“Because that person you trusted, that you thought had your back through thick and thin? Turns out she’s just as duplicitous, self-absorbed, and inconsiderate as you are.
“That she can’t be trusted. Or counted on.
“And this will irrevocably alter your friendship. If not end it.”
“It also means we won’t have a ride back to the park the next morning,” added Fredo helpfully.
“Yes, Fredo, thank you, I was getting to that.
“Anyway, you’re going to be heartbroken and sullen, and your shitty mood is going to nearly ruin everything for the rest of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I half mumbled, half choked.
“As well you should be. But—I don’t want to be ungracious, apology accepted.
“So we’ll get a room at the Trail’s End Hiker Hostel or whatever it’s called, and, naturally, the first thing you’ll do is complain about the contents of the hiker box, before stealing a pair of camo pants. Oh, and the owner will yell at us for nearly burning the entire building to the ground after we try to make our dinner indoors. And, thus banished from actually cooking anything, like men, with fire, we’ll be forced to eat microwaved eggs for breakfast.”
“How do you microwave eggs?”
“I don't know. You don't. Not really. It's gross.”
“We’ll also challenge each other to drink a gallon of milk in less than an hour,” offers Fredo. “Buckeye and I will drink strawberry milk. Only Buckeye will shit himself.”
“Why don’t you just let me narrate this part?” snapped Buckeye. “I mean, yes, weird stuff starts happening to my intestines, but there are bathrooms at the hostel. Bathrooms that will be totally unoccupied at the time I need them, and for an hour and a half afterwards. Got that?”
Got that?
“Meanwhile, the Peaches will be picked up, randomly, by a passing millionaire,” Buckeye growled, “And will spend the night in coddled luxury at his mansion, sleeping in four-post beds and being waited on hand and foot. Because of course they will.”
Fredo and I both cursed the Peaches under our breath.
I should never have given them my leftover oatmeal.
“Are you ever going to tell me about Katahdin itself?” I asked, growing increasingly uneasy. “About the confusion we’ll feel upon reaching a seemingly impassable boulder, how we’ll spend five minutes trying to figure out a way around before realizing that it has metal rebar poking out of it for a reason, and that, after two thousand, one hundred and seventy odd miles, they actually intend for us to scale a cliff, with naught but an inch of rusting iron between us and certain death, or worse?”
“No.”
“Were you going to tell me about the exhilaration we’ll feel reaching the tableland, of finally seeing the sign marking the end of the trail peeking out through the fog?”
“No, actually, I wasn’t,” said Buckeye. “Haven’t you ever heard of an air of mystery? Can’t we leave anything to the imagination?”
Can we?
“If I told you exactly how it was, how it will be, down to the last stubbed toe and overturned pebble, then what’s the point of actually going? Might as well just pack up and head home now, right?
“Besides, everyone already knows what happens at the end. It goes without saying. Like ‘The Odyssey.’”
“You mean ‘The Illiad.’”
“Shut up.”
“I would have used a more current example,” offered Fredo. “Like the movie ‘Titanic.’”
“Fredo?” Buckeye glared at him, implicitly threatening him with some vague bodily harm.
“So no,” Buckeye continued. “I won’t tell you how this ends… But I will tell you what happens after.
“Fredo’s going to shave his beard.”
Well, duh.
“Hey, it might be hard to tell, now, but underneath all that hair and the two inches of dirt, Fredo is actually an astonishingly good-looking man.”
Fredo blushed. Or at least I assume he did. It was hard to tell, what with all the hair and the two inches of dirt.
“Don’t do that,” interrupted Buckeye. He was talking to me. “You’re ruining it.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“Anyway, in a couple of years, Fredo won’t even be Fredo anymore. He’ll be Miguel Alejandro, eminently respectable and upstanding member of society, college grad, working professional, loving husband to a beautiful wife, family man, and part-time underwear model.
“In short, he’ll be everything you aspire to be, only much, much, much better looking. And I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Aww, thanks man,” grinned Fredo.
“Dude,” Buckeye shook his head, impressed. “You’re awesome.”
He and Buckeye hugged. For a long time. It was the manliest of hugs. Then it went on, and became something more. Awkward?
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Buckeye. And they stopped.
“This never happened,” I blurted, uneasy, after coming to the sudden realization that it hadn’t.
“What do you mean?” asked Fredo, untangling himself from Buckeye. “You mean this? How we never really got to say goodbye?”
I wasn’t ready for that.
“What about you, Buckeye?” I asked, trying to delay the inevitable. “Tell me what happens to you.”
“Me? Buckeye? Itinerant ne’er-do-well, bohemian, world-traveler? I bounce around a lot, going from odd-job to odd-job in between the random adventure, always popping up where you’d least expect me, both geographically and on social media.
“If I cared about fame and fortune, like certain other unnamed egomaniacs with raging inferiority complexes,” Buckeye said while looking straight at me for some indiscernible reason, “Or had the desire to do it, or any talent, uh, for it, I would write my autobiography, ‘Shitting Around the World’ by Jimmy Lambert.
“Basically I’m like you, your Id run rampant, unbound by any sense of familial obligation, social propriety, or ethical… Whatever it is ethics has.”
“I can’t believe you haven’t figured this out already,” interjected Fredo. “We’re foils, Buckeye and I. We’re real people, yes, but we also represent the dual or dueling nature of man, and of yourself.”
“Stop!” Buckeye cried. “Didn’t I just finish telling him that life isn’t a story? That he can’t make people assume these pre-assigned roles?”
I drifted away from their argument, and started to wonder how things would turn out for myself. What would I become? What would I learn from all this, if anything? Would I emerge a changed man? Would this truly be the transformative experience I had been promised? Who promised me that anyway? Or had this entire ‘ordeal’ just been a five-month long vacation? Was I setting myself up for a lifetime of success and happiness, like Fredo? Or was I merely deluding myself into thinking that any of it—that anything—had a higher meaning, as Buckeye attested? My thoughts turned to my parents, growing increasingly frail, fragile in their old age. Who would take care of them? I’d have to get a job. My God, how would I get a job?!
I missed my friends. I missed my kitty. Attila. Tortoise-shell calico. Conquerer. Destroyer of worlds. Annoying. Adorable.
I especially missed Megan. Superhero. Philosopher. Alien robot sent to Earth to learn about human emotion. She saw beauty—maybe—and goodness in me when I thought none existed. She told me, once, a long time ago, that she thought I was wonderful. Wonderful. She lifted me up, woke my conscience, opened my eyes to the nearly infinite possibilities, and shortcomings, of the world. All I wanted was to make her happy, to make her proud. But unlike in my dreams, she would not be there the next day, or the day after. Reality was… Reality was cold, and crushing, full of sadness and disappointment.
These past few months had been some of the happiest of my life. And I could always come back to the trail. But there are some places to which you can never return…
“M.C., are you okay?”
It was Fredo, kneeling in front of me, his hand on my shoulder.
“I didn’t want… I don’t want things to end this way,” I croaked.
“It doesn’t have to,” said Fredo, glowering at Buckeye, like it was his fault or something.
“Like this is my fault,” complained Buckeye.
“He’s right, though,” Fredo whispered, ignoring Buckeye once more. “Life is not a game, or a story, or any of those other things, and one day you will have to face a reckoning, and account for all you’ve done, all the mistakes you’ve made.
“But this also isn’t exactly life. I mean, it’s more or less true to life, minus all the—“
“Shitting in public,” I quickly finished for him. Because none of that really happened. “Or all the crying, the nervous breakdowns.”
“Right. And all those times you stole trail magic, and that one time you left that guy a note pretending to be a buddy of his, telling him that his entire family had died, causing him to quit the trail and fly back to Portland—“
“Woah! Fredo, that wasn’t me,” I assured him. I mean, it sounded like something I might have done.
“No, I know, I just made that up,” said Fredo blankly. “Because—and this brings me back to the point I was trying to make—this is also a story.
“And if you don’t want us to leave, we don’t have to.
“If you want the Peaches to be spontaneously carried off by rampaging Pterodactyls…”
A pair of shadows swept past the moon just then, while an eerie screech born on the wind sent shivers down my spine.
“No,” I said quickly. “That’s okay, they can stay.”
The Peaches smiled at me from their log besides the fire.
“You have really pretty eyes,” one of them cooed.
“Don’t make me change my mind,” I warned.
“And if you want to see your friends again,” continued Fredo unabated, “You can.”
“Hey!” shouted Caveman—Caveman!?—“I’ve no idea why I’m here—where’s here?—but I brought Funyuns!”
Caveman dropped his pack by the fire and ran to hug me.
“Look what else I brought, M.C.!”
And Caveman motioned behind him.
Bandito, P-Nut, Redwing, Lil Dipper, Merf, Veggie, Freeman, and Nature were all sitting around the fire. Even Hobbes was there. They all shouted in surprise.
And for a few happy moments it was bedlam. Everyone hugged and chatted, catching up, enjoying eachother’s company once again. Caveman whipped out cans of Steel Reserve, then started surreptitiously slipping a bottle of Southern Comfort back and forth with Fredo. Buckeye sat down to roast marshmallows with the Peaches, his anger quickly fading in the warmth of their renewed attentions.
“M.C.!” squealed Bandito, shaking a vaguely blue and orange box in front of me. “I brought Boggle!”
“What the f— is Boggle?”
And—why not?—my parents were there too, with Hot Sauce, inexplicably drinking tea and beer in a quiet corner by the shelter, probably doing a crossword puzzle.
“I wanted to get that band we both secretly love,” Redwing was saying, “But I didn’t want to risk any potentially dated pop culture references.”
“Plus they do the same thing in that movie,” added P-Nut helpfully.
Finally, Megan arrived, and she had brought Attila—“She likes being outside!”—whom she promptly set free to roam and chase fireflies in the moonlight, and for whatever reason this seemed totally safe, reasonable, and morally acceptable, and not-at-all heinously irresponsible or dangerous, and didn’t freak me or her out in any way.
And then the rest of my friends showed up, bringing pizza and birch beer, fresh rolls of toilet paper, and biodegradable, contractor-sized garbage bags to ensure this great, fictional party strictly adhered to the rules of Leave No Trace.
And I stood by the fire, warmed by the glow of their collective love. Or maybe that was the fire.
“I’m going to wake up soon,” I said to Fredo, my voice quavering. “I need to wake up.”
“It’s okay, M.C.,” said Fredo, wiping an errant drop of SoCo from his chin. “You know where to find us. Still… It's nice here, isn't it? Can't you stay a while longer?
“Why not stay a while?”
Stay a while. Why not?
Showing posts with label Fredo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fredo. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
Chapter 147: Final Draft
As long as he could remember, Peter had hated hikers. Smelly, dirty, and hopelessly uncivilized, they descended every summer like locusts—or ravenous, rampaging hyenas—threatening to eat him out of house and home, endangering his family and livelihood, clogging his toilets, and leaving naught but the stench of death, destruction, and decay in their wake. Peter silently seethed at their stupid smiling faces; the way, like the piteous oinking pigs Peter used to mercifully slaughter as a child, they seemed to revel in their own slop; the preening, pretentious way they attempted to mask the naked pointlessness of their pathetic little lives with this foolish sense of "camaraderie." They called it "fun." They called it "participating in a spiritual communion with whatever." Peter called it a crime against nature. Or humanity, rather. Nature could go to hell.
Peter had inherited White House Landing from his father, Richard. Once upon a time it had been the family's summer home, conveniently located, as Peter had oft lamented, in the middle of nowhere. Peter's father had always been quick to lavish effusive praise on the property, pointedly mentioning its close proximity to the picturesque shores of Lake Pemadumbcock-or-something to anyone with two ears and a brain. And to many without one. But then again, Peter's father had always been an embarrassment, an insufferable know-it-all even as he was slowly and willfully wasting the family's waning but hard-won "fortune." If one could call it that. Lake Pemadumbcock-or-something might not have been the right name for it, either, come to think of it; to this day Peter pretended not to know. There were so many lakes in Maine, after all. It was easy to forget which one was which.
Unlike his father—and, to his continuing dismay, his dear old mother, and his ever pestiferous sisters—Peter found rural life impossibly boring, sorely lacking the culture and worldliness that he had come to love and expect of the big city. Bangor. With its diverse population of nearly forty thousand; its voluminous public library, with over half a million titles in its collection; its many and varied museums, one of which with actual art; its four accredited universities; and that one truck-stop by the highway that sold devilishly delicious, and thus deservedly famous, blueberry pies. How Peter longed to go back there.
But no, his father had loved the lake house so much, he quit his eminently respectable and relatively high-paying job at the paper mill and spurred the family to move out there year-round. Richard had been content to spend his remaining days—and Peter's rapidly dwindling inheritance—dawdling on the porch swing, smoking pipe tobacco, fishing with his grandchildren, playing cards, and occasionally taking in the random lost soul, making sure they were well fed and rested before inevitably, invariably, setting them back on the right course. Peter loathed every minute of it, and dreamt only of escape.
After Richard had passed, Peter wasted no time monetizing the family's few remaining assets. If he couldn't go back to the city, Peter thought, he would bring the city to him. He mortgaged everything and converted the house into a Bed & Breakfast, hoping to lure those polite city folk to spend a few nights away from the hustle and bustle with a quick flight up on his Cessna 185 floatplane.
And for a while, business boomed. Fat suburban families, their wallets and bellies swollen from the successes of American industry, would pay Peter hundreds of dollars for a week-long trip. Which, naturally, included room and board, free access to the lakefront beach and complimentary use of the on-site game room. Flying scenic tours of the surrounding countryside, however, cost quite a bit extra, but overeager parents could often be enticed by the promised educational value for their children. Which was, if truth be told, actually quite dubious; Peter honestly didn't know or care which lake or mountain was which, or what Pemadumbcock meant in the native tongue of the local Penobscot Indians, but he was more than happy to make it up as he went along for two hundred dollars an hour. Guided fishing trips were similarly expensive. Canoe and kayak rentals, on the other hand, were a more modest forty dollars a day. Peter considered charging adults an additional ten dollars for life vests until his wife unhelpfully pointed out this tactic's dubious legality. Properly dissuaded but undaunted, Peter settled upon an equally audacious alternative: a non-negotiable hundred dollar fee for anyone that required him to use his powerboat to save them from capsizing.
There were still a few proverbial deer ticks in his aloe vera salve, however. For one, as the years went on, the emergence of Bangor International Airport as a hub for connecting flights to Europe and elsewhere around the country—not to mention the invention of the personal computer, the internet, and Netflix, amongst other distractions—meant increased competition for an already dwindling customer base. Why spend a thousand dollars to see your own backyard, no matter how gorgeous, after all, when you could jet off to exotic locales like Sofia, Bulgaria, or Cleveland, Ohio for a comparable rate? And then, of course, there were the hikers. The veritable onslaught of voracious, stumbling hikers, sallow cheeked, mouths agape, eyes vacant, like an army of soulless zombie hippies, never seemed to stop.
As with seemingly all other peoples of Northern European descent, Peter lived in a constant, irrational fear of starvation. While Peter had never known the struggles of war or impoverishment—and thus had never been forced to improvise a meal out of the recycled grist of the scraps of the leftovers ordinarily given to horses, or terminally ill stray dogs—Peter's first instinct was still to covet and protect his own food above all else, disregarding all notions of charity, propriety, or common table manners. Growing up, he had never known a mealtime when he hadn't felt compelled to choke down his food in as short a time as possible, all whilst keeping hawkish watch on his presumably equally voracious and duplicitous sisters. When the hikers arrived every summer, unbidden, stomachs growling, palms pointing skyward, it was thus all Peter could do not to run at them with a loaded shotgun. Peter earnestly entertained the thought of killing one, just to set an example, "to scare the others off," he rationalized, until his wife—again—pointed out this tactic's rather dubious legality. Peter sighed wistfully, remembering it. If it only weren't for pesky things like "morality." And "laws." And "marriage."
So Peter tried a different strategy. Instead of leaving a path open for hikers to approach the house directly, Peter had them hike an extra mile and a half out of their way, to a dock on the opposite side of the lake. There, they would be forced to blast an air horn to get his attention, and thereupon wait for him to pick them up in his boat. At his convenience. And if they got impatient, and blew that air horn more than once? Peter might not deign to collect them at all, but would let them linger there, on the fog-enshrouded dock, unknowing whether salvation lay ahead, or whether they were doomed to die of exhaustion, and starvation, while still awaiting the approaching purr of his outboard motor. Peter even added some aggressively passive-aggressive signage alerting hikers of such a policy, hoping that the cumulative effect of all these arbitrary, seemingly draconian punishments would dissuade at least some of them from trying to engage his services at all. Yet still they came.
Richard had once sold hikers supplies for a pittance, just slightly more than what he was paying for them wholesale. Peter initially charged them two fifty for a box of PopTarts. Then, over the seasons, the price slowly went up, till they were paying the same price for just a single pastry. And yet still they came! Peter promised them half-pound burgers, undercooked and dripping with salmonella, for six, then eight, then ten dollars a pop. All the beef and imminent diarrhea a grown man could handle. And still they came!
Peter had inherited White House Landing from his father, Richard. Once upon a time it had been the family's summer home, conveniently located, as Peter had oft lamented, in the middle of nowhere. Peter's father had always been quick to lavish effusive praise on the property, pointedly mentioning its close proximity to the picturesque shores of Lake Pemadumbcock-or-something to anyone with two ears and a brain. And to many without one. But then again, Peter's father had always been an embarrassment, an insufferable know-it-all even as he was slowly and willfully wasting the family's waning but hard-won "fortune." If one could call it that. Lake Pemadumbcock-or-something might not have been the right name for it, either, come to think of it; to this day Peter pretended not to know. There were so many lakes in Maine, after all. It was easy to forget which one was which.
Unlike his father—and, to his continuing dismay, his dear old mother, and his ever pestiferous sisters—Peter found rural life impossibly boring, sorely lacking the culture and worldliness that he had come to love and expect of the big city. Bangor. With its diverse population of nearly forty thousand; its voluminous public library, with over half a million titles in its collection; its many and varied museums, one of which with actual art; its four accredited universities; and that one truck-stop by the highway that sold devilishly delicious, and thus deservedly famous, blueberry pies. How Peter longed to go back there.
But no, his father had loved the lake house so much, he quit his eminently respectable and relatively high-paying job at the paper mill and spurred the family to move out there year-round. Richard had been content to spend his remaining days—and Peter's rapidly dwindling inheritance—dawdling on the porch swing, smoking pipe tobacco, fishing with his grandchildren, playing cards, and occasionally taking in the random lost soul, making sure they were well fed and rested before inevitably, invariably, setting them back on the right course. Peter loathed every minute of it, and dreamt only of escape.
After Richard had passed, Peter wasted no time monetizing the family's few remaining assets. If he couldn't go back to the city, Peter thought, he would bring the city to him. He mortgaged everything and converted the house into a Bed & Breakfast, hoping to lure those polite city folk to spend a few nights away from the hustle and bustle with a quick flight up on his Cessna 185 floatplane.
And for a while, business boomed. Fat suburban families, their wallets and bellies swollen from the successes of American industry, would pay Peter hundreds of dollars for a week-long trip. Which, naturally, included room and board, free access to the lakefront beach and complimentary use of the on-site game room. Flying scenic tours of the surrounding countryside, however, cost quite a bit extra, but overeager parents could often be enticed by the promised educational value for their children. Which was, if truth be told, actually quite dubious; Peter honestly didn't know or care which lake or mountain was which, or what Pemadumbcock meant in the native tongue of the local Penobscot Indians, but he was more than happy to make it up as he went along for two hundred dollars an hour. Guided fishing trips were similarly expensive. Canoe and kayak rentals, on the other hand, were a more modest forty dollars a day. Peter considered charging adults an additional ten dollars for life vests until his wife unhelpfully pointed out this tactic's dubious legality. Properly dissuaded but undaunted, Peter settled upon an equally audacious alternative: a non-negotiable hundred dollar fee for anyone that required him to use his powerboat to save them from capsizing.
There were still a few proverbial deer ticks in his aloe vera salve, however. For one, as the years went on, the emergence of Bangor International Airport as a hub for connecting flights to Europe and elsewhere around the country—not to mention the invention of the personal computer, the internet, and Netflix, amongst other distractions—meant increased competition for an already dwindling customer base. Why spend a thousand dollars to see your own backyard, no matter how gorgeous, after all, when you could jet off to exotic locales like Sofia, Bulgaria, or Cleveland, Ohio for a comparable rate? And then, of course, there were the hikers. The veritable onslaught of voracious, stumbling hikers, sallow cheeked, mouths agape, eyes vacant, like an army of soulless zombie hippies, never seemed to stop.
As with seemingly all other peoples of Northern European descent, Peter lived in a constant, irrational fear of starvation. While Peter had never known the struggles of war or impoverishment—and thus had never been forced to improvise a meal out of the recycled grist of the scraps of the leftovers ordinarily given to horses, or terminally ill stray dogs—Peter's first instinct was still to covet and protect his own food above all else, disregarding all notions of charity, propriety, or common table manners. Growing up, he had never known a mealtime when he hadn't felt compelled to choke down his food in as short a time as possible, all whilst keeping hawkish watch on his presumably equally voracious and duplicitous sisters. When the hikers arrived every summer, unbidden, stomachs growling, palms pointing skyward, it was thus all Peter could do not to run at them with a loaded shotgun. Peter earnestly entertained the thought of killing one, just to set an example, "to scare the others off," he rationalized, until his wife—again—pointed out this tactic's rather dubious legality. Peter sighed wistfully, remembering it. If it only weren't for pesky things like "morality." And "laws." And "marriage."
So Peter tried a different strategy. Instead of leaving a path open for hikers to approach the house directly, Peter had them hike an extra mile and a half out of their way, to a dock on the opposite side of the lake. There, they would be forced to blast an air horn to get his attention, and thereupon wait for him to pick them up in his boat. At his convenience. And if they got impatient, and blew that air horn more than once? Peter might not deign to collect them at all, but would let them linger there, on the fog-enshrouded dock, unknowing whether salvation lay ahead, or whether they were doomed to die of exhaustion, and starvation, while still awaiting the approaching purr of his outboard motor. Peter even added some aggressively passive-aggressive signage alerting hikers of such a policy, hoping that the cumulative effect of all these arbitrary, seemingly draconian punishments would dissuade at least some of them from trying to engage his services at all. Yet still they came.
Richard had once sold hikers supplies for a pittance, just slightly more than what he was paying for them wholesale. Peter initially charged them two fifty for a box of PopTarts. Then, over the seasons, the price slowly went up, till they were paying the same price for just a single pastry. And yet still they came! Peter promised them half-pound burgers, undercooked and dripping with salmonella, for six, then eight, then ten dollars a pop. All the beef and imminent diarrhea a grown man could handle. And still they came!
Ironically, through all his attempts to gouge them, to squeeze from them their last penny, their last ounce of dignity, Peter failed to see that they had slowly become his lifeblood, how their continued patronage of his services did more to feed Peter's family—and refill its coffers—than the plump urbanites he had long coveted. They came because he was, quite literally, the only game in town. They came because of the strong, if fading, legacy of his father. But how far could they be pushed, before all bonds of loyalty and compassion were broken?
What is a man's breaking point?
Just then the airhorn blew. Though the trees, across the misty waves, atop the decaying boards of the derelict dock, M.C., Fredo, Buckeye, and Hot Sauce waited.
Good. Let them wait, Peter thought, looking up from the breakfast table. They sure picked the wrong time to blow that airhorn. In fact, maybe I'll tell them that when I pick them up later.
The airhorn blew again.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Chapter 146: The Final Present Tense
The days have long ago begun to bleed together.
The landmarks mentioned in my Handbook no longer bear any significance; they are merely items to be checked off a list, the last obstacles to be overcome on our long trek to Katahdin.
I read "East Branch of Pleasant River (1210') ford" and instead of thinking, "Ooh, water! Gosh, I want juice" before sobbing uncontrollably for twenty minutes, all I can see is that I have 67.5 miles left, and that I might have to get my feet wet.
"Little Boardman Mountain (1980') left 100 yards to summit" says to me that I've got 64.3 miles to go, and that I definitely won't be getting to see any rewarding views, nor gleaning any real sense of accomplishment, because there's no way, at this point, that I am going to hike that extra tenth.
"Crawford Pond (1270') sand beach." My stalwart companions. My friends. My backup singers. My partners in crime. The angels, and devils, on my shoulders. Storytellers. Jokesters. Only 62 miles to go, then we part ways forever.
"Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to (880') sleeps 6 (1956) swimming." I thought about staying there, once, before my sister's plans changed. She has to get to White House Landing early tomorrow to get a shuttle to Millinocket, where my parents are picking her up. Duty—or, more accurately, gainful employment—beckons. So we press on. 59.7 miles.
"Jo-Mary Road (655') Cooper Brook" isn't even a road, more a disheveled dirt path. Meanwhile, who's Jo-Mary? Why does she have a road named after her? And what kind of name is Jo-Mary anyway? People from Maine are weird. 56 miles.
"Antlers Campsite (500') right 300 feet, vistas." Another possibility, passed up like so much day-old garbage. In this case, I'm at least tempted to take a look, if only for the opportunity drop my pack for a while, its stays creaking with my every step, straining beneath the weight of so much dried sweat, humiliation, and uncooked oatmeal. Plus, is that a picnic table? But no, we have to press on to the Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to, leaving us with only a short, less than three mile hike into White House Landing in the morning. 51.8 miles.
"Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to (710') sleeps 8 (1995)" sounds groovy. And new! I wonder if that means it'll have running water and air conditioning. Or at least more than three walls and a fire pit. Nope. 48.3 miles to go.
"Wadleigh Stream Lean-to (685') sleeps 6," at 38.2 miles out, is where we'll stay tomorrow, after Tricia catches her ride at White House Landing, and we fill up on half-pound burgers or whatever. Beyond that, we've got the Hurd Brook Lean-to (18.6 miles), then either "The Birches" Campsite (5.2 miles) or Millinocket, and then Katahdin itself (0 miles)... And then what? Food? Sleep? Finally listening to that "Alejandro" song Fredo keeps raving about?
Tonight, I will dream of drinking a cold glass of lemonade, of an endless series of rocks and roots and trees and bugs buzzing around annoyingly, of the Peaches being trampled to death during the night by a herd of rampaging moose, and of Katahdin.
Even after all this time, the dream is still as vivid: I take the final step onto the tableland, and the summit unfolds before me. There's the sign marking the northern terminus of the Trail, and the end of my journey, and there she is beside it, waiting for me. Waiting for me with a box of pizza, a bottle of birch beer, and a smile. Ready to welcome me home.
Back in reality, I linger by the fire, staring at my Handbook, my journal, and clutching my secret treasure: a few ounces of precious metal, crystalized carbon, and aluminum oxide. A family heirloom, brought to me by my sister. How will the dream end? In fireworks? A hero's homecoming? Wrapping her in my arms. Crying, probably. And eating that damn pizza...
The landmarks mentioned in my Handbook no longer bear any significance; they are merely items to be checked off a list, the last obstacles to be overcome on our long trek to Katahdin.
I read "East Branch of Pleasant River (1210') ford" and instead of thinking, "Ooh, water! Gosh, I want juice" before sobbing uncontrollably for twenty minutes, all I can see is that I have 67.5 miles left, and that I might have to get my feet wet.
"Little Boardman Mountain (1980') left 100 yards to summit" says to me that I've got 64.3 miles to go, and that I definitely won't be getting to see any rewarding views, nor gleaning any real sense of accomplishment, because there's no way, at this point, that I am going to hike that extra tenth.
"Crawford Pond (1270') sand beach." My stalwart companions. My friends. My backup singers. My partners in crime. The angels, and devils, on my shoulders. Storytellers. Jokesters. Only 62 miles to go, then we part ways forever.
"Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to (880') sleeps 6 (1956) swimming." I thought about staying there, once, before my sister's plans changed. She has to get to White House Landing early tomorrow to get a shuttle to Millinocket, where my parents are picking her up. Duty—or, more accurately, gainful employment—beckons. So we press on. 59.7 miles.
"Jo-Mary Road (655') Cooper Brook" isn't even a road, more a disheveled dirt path. Meanwhile, who's Jo-Mary? Why does she have a road named after her? And what kind of name is Jo-Mary anyway? People from Maine are weird. 56 miles.
"Antlers Campsite (500') right 300 feet, vistas." Another possibility, passed up like so much day-old garbage. In this case, I'm at least tempted to take a look, if only for the opportunity drop my pack for a while, its stays creaking with my every step, straining beneath the weight of so much dried sweat, humiliation, and uncooked oatmeal. Plus, is that a picnic table? But no, we have to press on to the Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to, leaving us with only a short, less than three mile hike into White House Landing in the morning. 51.8 miles.
"Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to (710') sleeps 8 (1995)" sounds groovy. And new! I wonder if that means it'll have running water and air conditioning. Or at least more than three walls and a fire pit. Nope. 48.3 miles to go.
"Wadleigh Stream Lean-to (685') sleeps 6," at 38.2 miles out, is where we'll stay tomorrow, after Tricia catches her ride at White House Landing, and we fill up on half-pound burgers or whatever. Beyond that, we've got the Hurd Brook Lean-to (18.6 miles), then either "The Birches" Campsite (5.2 miles) or Millinocket, and then Katahdin itself (0 miles)... And then what? Food? Sleep? Finally listening to that "Alejandro" song Fredo keeps raving about?
Tonight, I will dream of drinking a cold glass of lemonade, of an endless series of rocks and roots and trees and bugs buzzing around annoyingly, of the Peaches being trampled to death during the night by a herd of rampaging moose, and of Katahdin.
Even after all this time, the dream is still as vivid: I take the final step onto the tableland, and the summit unfolds before me. There's the sign marking the northern terminus of the Trail, and the end of my journey, and there she is beside it, waiting for me. Waiting for me with a box of pizza, a bottle of birch beer, and a smile. Ready to welcome me home.
Back in reality, I linger by the fire, staring at my Handbook, my journal, and clutching my secret treasure: a few ounces of precious metal, crystalized carbon, and aluminum oxide. A family heirloom, brought to me by my sister. How will the dream end? In fireworks? A hero's homecoming? Wrapping her in my arms. Crying, probably. And eating that damn pizza...
Friday, February 8, 2013
Chapter 145: Murder by Marshmallows
We sat atop White Cap Mountain, eating lunch and wondering just where in the heck was that supposed view of Katahdin that was promised us in the guidebook. Buckeye and Fredo had rejoined the party, and we all sat several yards away from an astonishingly large group of day hikers, so as to not disturb them with our by-now heinous standards of personal hygiene. We also tried to keep our voices to a minimum, so our normal mid-day conversation regarding our respective bowel movements wouldn't ruin their meal.
Unfortunately, our attempts to keep our true natures hidden proved futile, as a father and son duo learned to their ultimate detriment, as they overheard Buckeye brazenly offering to perform depraved sex acts on Fredo in exchange for something ridiculously inconsequential, like a spare Pop Tart.
We soon found ourselves alone atop the mountain, which wasn't bad at all. Buckeye politely reminded us that he had hiked out several pounds of S'more fixings for us, and cautioned that if we didn't help him eat them that night he was going to murder us all in our sleep. Yes, we were to feast that night on sumptuous chocolate, crispy graham crackers and toasted marshmallows, but on one condition: the Georgia Peaches would not be getting any.
Fredo was the most vociferous in his objections to the hypothetical inclusion of the Peaches. He seemed to be taking their continued existence in the world as a personal affront, as a challenge to his emotional and psychological well-being. I understood, and we all agreed to move on posthaste lest the lecherous blood-suckers catch up. Before we began our descent, we serendipitously happened upon the side trail to the viewpoint of Katahdin, clearly marked as it was with a freshly painted sign. We checked it out. Katahdin looked like a cloud. It was cloudy. We moved on.
The hike down to the East Branch Lean-to was so exhausting and fraught with danger that I must have blacked out from the stress. I remember nothing about it. Perhaps there were rocks, and maybe some trees. Anyway, it was nearly dark by the time we arrived, and there were already several older women there, a bunch of alumni thru-hikers enjoying a reunion tour of sorts. A pleasant bunch, they were of course overjoyed to see us and cheerfully cleared room for us in the shelter.
Considering a single marshmallow weighs approximately 5.66990463 grams, two pounds of marshmallows is a lot. Even for a through hiker on a 5,000 calorie diet, eating more than eight s'mores is probably pushing it. Needless to say, after stuffing ourselves sick, we found ourselves in the unenviable position of having extra. Extra marshmallows, extra chocolate, extra everything. It was all just too much. We offered s'mores to our newfound companions, but found few takers. We had already eaten too much, and were growing increasingly fearful that any left overs would undoubtedly end up in the gaping maws of our sworn enemies. Those girls were still out there, somewhere, lurking.
"Oh my God! Hey guys!" came a voice over my shoulder.
"I am so hungry!" said Sodium Chloride or Calypso, sitting down next to the fire. "I would literally do anything for some food right now."
"She's not kidding," contributed the other, disrobing. "When she says anything, she means anything! And by anything I mean sexual favors."
"And by sexual favors, she means--"
Buckeye had heard enough. "Would you like some s'mores?" he asked, cutting them off, barely able to contain his anticipatory glee.
At that point, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I decided to turn in, anything to avoid the gross spectacle that followed. Buckeye eventually worked out a deal with the girls in which he would provide them with food in exchange for absolutely nothing.
And it would be days yet, still, until we were rid of them.
Unfortunately, our attempts to keep our true natures hidden proved futile, as a father and son duo learned to their ultimate detriment, as they overheard Buckeye brazenly offering to perform depraved sex acts on Fredo in exchange for something ridiculously inconsequential, like a spare Pop Tart.
We soon found ourselves alone atop the mountain, which wasn't bad at all. Buckeye politely reminded us that he had hiked out several pounds of S'more fixings for us, and cautioned that if we didn't help him eat them that night he was going to murder us all in our sleep. Yes, we were to feast that night on sumptuous chocolate, crispy graham crackers and toasted marshmallows, but on one condition: the Georgia Peaches would not be getting any.
Fredo was the most vociferous in his objections to the hypothetical inclusion of the Peaches. He seemed to be taking their continued existence in the world as a personal affront, as a challenge to his emotional and psychological well-being. I understood, and we all agreed to move on posthaste lest the lecherous blood-suckers catch up. Before we began our descent, we serendipitously happened upon the side trail to the viewpoint of Katahdin, clearly marked as it was with a freshly painted sign. We checked it out. Katahdin looked like a cloud. It was cloudy. We moved on.
The hike down to the East Branch Lean-to was so exhausting and fraught with danger that I must have blacked out from the stress. I remember nothing about it. Perhaps there were rocks, and maybe some trees. Anyway, it was nearly dark by the time we arrived, and there were already several older women there, a bunch of alumni thru-hikers enjoying a reunion tour of sorts. A pleasant bunch, they were of course overjoyed to see us and cheerfully cleared room for us in the shelter.
Considering a single marshmallow weighs approximately 5.66990463 grams, two pounds of marshmallows is a lot. Even for a through hiker on a 5,000 calorie diet, eating more than eight s'mores is probably pushing it. Needless to say, after stuffing ourselves sick, we found ourselves in the unenviable position of having extra. Extra marshmallows, extra chocolate, extra everything. It was all just too much. We offered s'mores to our newfound companions, but found few takers. We had already eaten too much, and were growing increasingly fearful that any left overs would undoubtedly end up in the gaping maws of our sworn enemies. Those girls were still out there, somewhere, lurking.
"Oh my God! Hey guys!" came a voice over my shoulder.
"I am so hungry!" said Sodium Chloride or Calypso, sitting down next to the fire. "I would literally do anything for some food right now."
"She's not kidding," contributed the other, disrobing. "When she says anything, she means anything! And by anything I mean sexual favors."
"And by sexual favors, she means--"
Buckeye had heard enough. "Would you like some s'mores?" he asked, cutting them off, barely able to contain his anticipatory glee.
At that point, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I decided to turn in, anything to avoid the gross spectacle that followed. Buckeye eventually worked out a deal with the girls in which he would provide them with food in exchange for absolutely nothing.
And it would be days yet, still, until we were rid of them.
Chapter 144: Only The Names Have Been Changed (To Protect The Guilty)
The sun rose, the birds came out, and I awoke to the not-so-distant sounds of the river. And the rather pressing need to urinate. Emerging groggily from my tent, I noted with some relief that both Fredo and my sister were, blessedly, still alive, their heads not caved in by some crazed man's tragically emptied cook-pot. Although Matterhorn had evidently managed to slake his insatiable European bloodlust, at least for the moment, I remained convinced he would seek vengeance for his destroyed dinner at some point, and made a mental note not to be caught alone with him in the future.
Buckeye caught up to us later that morning, before we had yet broken camp. He might have missed us had we not called him over, such was the awesomeness and subtlety of our stealth site. Evidently relieved to see us, Buckeye greeted us with his usual brand of profanity-laced exuberance. It had been almost a week since we had left him in Stratton, and he'd been chasing us ever since. It seemed that, for some reason, he had expected us to do leisurely twelve to fifteen mile days. Probably because we had told him as much, before parting ways. Unfortunately, in his absence we had decided to push harder, and had increased our pace some fifty percent. Buckeye had thus been forced to do multiple thirty-mile days just to catch up, a seemingly superhuman effort at this point of our journey. Of course, he had also been hiking so quickly so as to avoid our collective slack-packing nemesis, the notorious tour hiker Loud Mouth.
Fredo seized the opportunity to fill Buckeye in on our own week's misadventures, which had apparently involved me "stealing" several pounds of candy and trail mix from a group of unsuspecting trail maintainers, brazenly ruining another thru-hiker's dinner, and then definitively making up for all of that—and my myriad other crimes—by writing an all-encompasing mea culpa in the Bald Mountain Lean-to log, the contents of which I won't repeat here. Fredo also warned Buckeye about the Georgia Peaches. We assumed we had left them behind the day before, but Buckeye claimed not to have met them, and it was better not to take a chance...
Swift-flowing but seemingly shallow, the Pleasant River beckoned to us. Departing early with my sister, I made the seemingly prudent, time-saving decision to ford the river without first removing my boots. Ten seconds later, as I made a mad dash splashing through shin-high water, I realized I had probably made a mistake. Two minutes later, my soggy boots strapped uselessly on the outside of my pack, my feet ensconced uncomfortably in wet socks and my nearly-destroyed Tevas, we set off again into the entrancingly titled "Hermitage Preserve."
"The Hermitage" is an area of astonishing tranquility and unparalleled natural beauty that's also pretty much indistinguishable from everywhere else on the trail. However, unlike the rest of the trail, "The Hermitage" has one inviolable rule: absolutely no camping is permitted, anywhere, under any circumstances, by anyone, ever. Naturally, we almost immediately stumbled upon the Georgia Peaches, who had evidently camped right in the middle of the trail.
Damn them and their sinuous, seductive charms! How I hated them. Who could be so stupid as to attempt the Wilderness with only six packets of ramen and a handful of candy? With no tent, no cook pot, and no warm clothing. I honestly could not understand how they hadn't starved or frozen to death, or been hit by a meteorite, or mauled by rabid beavers, or otherwise struck down by a merciful God. How had they even made it this far? Neither I nor anyone else, to my knowledge, had ever even seen them actually walking; they were usually seen taking rest breaks, snacking, or while sun bathing, half-naked, on a boulder. A quick laugh, an intoxicating smile, an ingratiating politeness, feigned innocence, and an unconscionable, unforgivable amount of natural beauty, intelligence, and charisma appeared to have taken them a long way. But they weren't getting to me. Yet.
My sister, on the other hand, was far more easily deterred, and made the seemingly fatal mistake of stopping to talk with them. I stood there, impatient, wanting badly to move on for what seemed like half an hour. Probably because it was. We had left early with the sole purpose of getting a good head start, yet here we were, bogged down with Sodium Chloride and Calypso, or whatever their names were. They proceeded to ask my sister a series of at first innocent but then increasingly invasive questions.
"You're hiking with your brother? That's so sweet!" said Sodium Chloride, or the other one.
"I know," said my sister, Hot Sauce. "I'm awesome."
I hate everybody, I thought, glaring at them in what I hoped was an unsubtle way.
"Unfortunately, we've had to hike faster than either of us would like, because I have to get off-trail on the twenty third to go down to North Carolina to start work," explained my sister, unnecessarily. "Because I'm an outdoor educator."
"No kidding! I'm an outdoor educator too," exclaimed Calypso, maybe half-believably. "Where do you work?"
"At a company called Adventure Trek. It's a totally awesome company, sort of like Google only way better, and the compensation is highly lucrative. I'd strongly recommend working for them, or, failing that, being me." said my sister, helpfully.
"I was thinking that exact same thing!" cried Calypso. "Can I have your e-mail? Maybe we can meet up later, when we're both back in the South. Because you know we're from Georgia."
"Yes. We know," I said, trying to hurry things up. "Because you call yourself the Georgia Peaches."
The three girls shot me a hurt look, as if to say butt out, but in a really polite, passive-aggressive way.
"So, what's the name of your supervisor at Adventure Treks? Because I'd love to have a name or a reference I can call," Calypso asked, hastily combing her bangs to approximate my sister's appearance. "Also, what's your social security number? And do you have any relevant personal history I should be aware of?"
I want to die, I thought, over and over again. Then I remembered my purpose... That glorious sign—signaling the northern terminus of the Trail, that existed as yet only in my imagination—and maybe some other things, that could be waiting for me on top of Katahdin... It steeled my resolve, and I tore my sister out of there before the evil cousins had a chance to memorize her vocal inflections.
We were seventy two miles away. Just five more days. I had to make it.
Buckeye caught up to us later that morning, before we had yet broken camp. He might have missed us had we not called him over, such was the awesomeness and subtlety of our stealth site. Evidently relieved to see us, Buckeye greeted us with his usual brand of profanity-laced exuberance. It had been almost a week since we had left him in Stratton, and he'd been chasing us ever since. It seemed that, for some reason, he had expected us to do leisurely twelve to fifteen mile days. Probably because we had told him as much, before parting ways. Unfortunately, in his absence we had decided to push harder, and had increased our pace some fifty percent. Buckeye had thus been forced to do multiple thirty-mile days just to catch up, a seemingly superhuman effort at this point of our journey. Of course, he had also been hiking so quickly so as to avoid our collective slack-packing nemesis, the notorious tour hiker Loud Mouth.
Fredo seized the opportunity to fill Buckeye in on our own week's misadventures, which had apparently involved me "stealing" several pounds of candy and trail mix from a group of unsuspecting trail maintainers, brazenly ruining another thru-hiker's dinner, and then definitively making up for all of that—and my myriad other crimes—by writing an all-encompasing mea culpa in the Bald Mountain Lean-to log, the contents of which I won't repeat here. Fredo also warned Buckeye about the Georgia Peaches. We assumed we had left them behind the day before, but Buckeye claimed not to have met them, and it was better not to take a chance...
Swift-flowing but seemingly shallow, the Pleasant River beckoned to us. Departing early with my sister, I made the seemingly prudent, time-saving decision to ford the river without first removing my boots. Ten seconds later, as I made a mad dash splashing through shin-high water, I realized I had probably made a mistake. Two minutes later, my soggy boots strapped uselessly on the outside of my pack, my feet ensconced uncomfortably in wet socks and my nearly-destroyed Tevas, we set off again into the entrancingly titled "Hermitage Preserve."
"The Hermitage" is an area of astonishing tranquility and unparalleled natural beauty that's also pretty much indistinguishable from everywhere else on the trail. However, unlike the rest of the trail, "The Hermitage" has one inviolable rule: absolutely no camping is permitted, anywhere, under any circumstances, by anyone, ever. Naturally, we almost immediately stumbled upon the Georgia Peaches, who had evidently camped right in the middle of the trail.
Damn them and their sinuous, seductive charms! How I hated them. Who could be so stupid as to attempt the Wilderness with only six packets of ramen and a handful of candy? With no tent, no cook pot, and no warm clothing. I honestly could not understand how they hadn't starved or frozen to death, or been hit by a meteorite, or mauled by rabid beavers, or otherwise struck down by a merciful God. How had they even made it this far? Neither I nor anyone else, to my knowledge, had ever even seen them actually walking; they were usually seen taking rest breaks, snacking, or while sun bathing, half-naked, on a boulder. A quick laugh, an intoxicating smile, an ingratiating politeness, feigned innocence, and an unconscionable, unforgivable amount of natural beauty, intelligence, and charisma appeared to have taken them a long way. But they weren't getting to me. Yet.
My sister, on the other hand, was far more easily deterred, and made the seemingly fatal mistake of stopping to talk with them. I stood there, impatient, wanting badly to move on for what seemed like half an hour. Probably because it was. We had left early with the sole purpose of getting a good head start, yet here we were, bogged down with Sodium Chloride and Calypso, or whatever their names were. They proceeded to ask my sister a series of at first innocent but then increasingly invasive questions.
"You're hiking with your brother? That's so sweet!" said Sodium Chloride, or the other one.
"I know," said my sister, Hot Sauce. "I'm awesome."
I hate everybody, I thought, glaring at them in what I hoped was an unsubtle way.
"Unfortunately, we've had to hike faster than either of us would like, because I have to get off-trail on the twenty third to go down to North Carolina to start work," explained my sister, unnecessarily. "Because I'm an outdoor educator."
"No kidding! I'm an outdoor educator too," exclaimed Calypso, maybe half-believably. "Where do you work?"
"At a company called Adventure Trek. It's a totally awesome company, sort of like Google only way better, and the compensation is highly lucrative. I'd strongly recommend working for them, or, failing that, being me." said my sister, helpfully.
"I was thinking that exact same thing!" cried Calypso. "Can I have your e-mail? Maybe we can meet up later, when we're both back in the South. Because you know we're from Georgia."
"Yes. We know," I said, trying to hurry things up. "Because you call yourself the Georgia Peaches."
The three girls shot me a hurt look, as if to say butt out, but in a really polite, passive-aggressive way.
"So, what's the name of your supervisor at Adventure Treks? Because I'd love to have a name or a reference I can call," Calypso asked, hastily combing her bangs to approximate my sister's appearance. "Also, what's your social security number? And do you have any relevant personal history I should be aware of?"
I want to die, I thought, over and over again. Then I remembered my purpose... That glorious sign—signaling the northern terminus of the Trail, that existed as yet only in my imagination—and maybe some other things, that could be waiting for me on top of Katahdin... It steeled my resolve, and I tore my sister out of there before the evil cousins had a chance to memorize her vocal inflections.
We were seventy two miles away. Just five more days. I had to make it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Chapter 143: The 100-Mile Wilderness (Take 2)
On a fateful day that presumably fell sometime during the week, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I finally set out into the infamous hundred mile wilderness. Spirits were low, despite the exhilaration we all felt from being so close to the end of our adventure. Though it took considerable effort, I heroically did my part to motivate and encourage my friends by walking slower than them, falling down and hurting myself a lot, and ceaslessly complaining about everything and everybody.
We soon happened upon a sign, weathered and stoic, belatedly advising all comers that attempting the “wilderness” with anything less than ten days of supplies was egregiously foolhardy and would surely result in our inevitable, gruesome deaths. We were already at leastfive minutes fifty yards feet from the road. We had come too far to turn back.
For a brief moment, I warmly remembered all the haters, mostly in the South, who had so often predicted our premature demise. There had been those who repeatedly warned us that if we didn't buy their $200 rain gear, for example, we were gonna die. Or that if we attempted to hike the Smokies with thermals that were even 20% cotton, we were gonna die. And that if we continued to hike naked, even for just one more day, under that blistering sun, we were definitely gonna get eaten by dragons and die. Rest assured, dear reader, we were well inured to these idle threats by now, and we were not about let this latest proclamation deter us. Besides, we had at least two and a half days of food. How bad could it be?
Very bad, as it turned out, though not on the first day, the proceedings of which, besides the spotting of the aforementioned sign, were not particularly memorable. Yes, it was on our second day out that the trouble really started, our lives irrevocably changed, and our hike forever ruined.
It was on the second day that we met them. The Georgia Peaches. I had fallen behind that morning, as I frequently did, taking long breaks to sob quietly into the underbrush. Cresting yet another of the innumerable boulder-strewn, granite slabbed ridges that merrily dot the New Hampshire and Maine sections of the trail, I spotted them. Their long, languid bodies lying lackadaisically across the trail, luxuriating in the sun and the attentions of a delirious, weak-minded fool. Fredo.
I knew immediately that he was in trouble, his three-mile-an-hour pace shot, the contents of his pack strewn about the ground, his food bag open. Curiously, the Peaches seemed not to be carrying any food or equipment themselves, and were so clean and cheerful in appearance and demeanor that I began to suspect that they hadn't hiked there at all, but had simply appeared at that very spot, emerging from the deepest depths of Hell that very morning.
They were sirens or succubi, I was sure of it, and were clearly intent on devouring my friend alive, leeching his life's spirit, or at the very least mooching his food. And they were good at what they did. But my attentions were elsewhere, my mind preoccupied with dreams of Katahdin, with long-nurtured secret plans of fantastic design and foolish ambition. I alone appeared immune to their "charms." Clearly, it was up to me to rescue my friend. But I didn't. I promptly left in disgust, and then mercilessly made fun of him for it later.
That night the three of us found a sweet stealth site by the west branch of the Pleasant River. We camped there with the frequently-naked Austrian, Matterhorn. Or was he Swiss? No matter. Any way, yes, Materhorn, the same man whose dinner I had accidentally destroyed not two nights earlier. I feared for my safety that night, and was plagued by nightmares in which I was repeatedly and viciously attacked by a very angry, very nude European wielding a terrifying pot of cold macaroni.
The next morning I awoke, unfortunately still alive, for little did I know what new terrors this day would bring...
We soon happened upon a sign, weathered and stoic, belatedly advising all comers that attempting the “wilderness” with anything less than ten days of supplies was egregiously foolhardy and would surely result in our inevitable, gruesome deaths. We were already at least
For a brief moment, I warmly remembered all the haters, mostly in the South, who had so often predicted our premature demise. There had been those who repeatedly warned us that if we didn't buy their $200 rain gear, for example, we were gonna die. Or that if we attempted to hike the Smokies with thermals that were even 20% cotton, we were gonna die. And that if we continued to hike naked, even for just one more day, under that blistering sun, we were definitely gonna get eaten by dragons and die. Rest assured, dear reader, we were well inured to these idle threats by now, and we were not about let this latest proclamation deter us. Besides, we had at least two and a half days of food. How bad could it be?
Very bad, as it turned out, though not on the first day, the proceedings of which, besides the spotting of the aforementioned sign, were not particularly memorable. Yes, it was on our second day out that the trouble really started, our lives irrevocably changed, and our hike forever ruined.
It was on the second day that we met them. The Georgia Peaches. I had fallen behind that morning, as I frequently did, taking long breaks to sob quietly into the underbrush. Cresting yet another of the innumerable boulder-strewn, granite slabbed ridges that merrily dot the New Hampshire and Maine sections of the trail, I spotted them. Their long, languid bodies lying lackadaisically across the trail, luxuriating in the sun and the attentions of a delirious, weak-minded fool. Fredo.
I knew immediately that he was in trouble, his three-mile-an-hour pace shot, the contents of his pack strewn about the ground, his food bag open. Curiously, the Peaches seemed not to be carrying any food or equipment themselves, and were so clean and cheerful in appearance and demeanor that I began to suspect that they hadn't hiked there at all, but had simply appeared at that very spot, emerging from the deepest depths of Hell that very morning.
They were sirens or succubi, I was sure of it, and were clearly intent on devouring my friend alive, leeching his life's spirit, or at the very least mooching his food. And they were good at what they did. But my attentions were elsewhere, my mind preoccupied with dreams of Katahdin, with long-nurtured secret plans of fantastic design and foolish ambition. I alone appeared immune to their "charms." Clearly, it was up to me to rescue my friend. But I didn't. I promptly left in disgust, and then mercilessly made fun of him for it later.
That night the three of us found a sweet stealth site by the west branch of the Pleasant River. We camped there with the frequently-naked Austrian, Matterhorn. Or was he Swiss? No matter. Any way, yes, Materhorn, the same man whose dinner I had accidentally destroyed not two nights earlier. I feared for my safety that night, and was plagued by nightmares in which I was repeatedly and viciously attacked by a very angry, very nude European wielding a terrifying pot of cold macaroni.
The next morning I awoke, unfortunately still alive, for little did I know what new terrors this day would bring...
Monday, September 10, 2012
Chapter 143: Oroboros
And so we come down to it. On the morning of the 18th, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I started off on the last 22 mile stretch towards Monson, Maine, and the start of the 100 Mile Wilderness. Which, of course, is where this story all began, all those many days (or years) ago.
When I first proposed hiking together, I had told my sister, "Yeah, come out to the trail. It'll be a blast. We'll do 12.5 miles a day... Relax..." Since she had joined me, however, we had gone 8.4, then 15.3, 17.3, and finally 18.8 miles each day. She wasn't exactly thrilled by our pace, but she wasn't overwhelmed by it, either.
Still, after hiking over two thousand miles myself, I wasn't entirely jazzed by the idea of such a long haul into town. So I admit it: I fully planned on taking a blue blazed trail—the one to Lake Hebron, and then on to Pleasant Road—that would cut 1.3 miles out of our trip. Sue me.
The best part was, once Hot Sauce and I hit the road, we quickly found a hitch into town in the back of someone's pickup truck.
Blue blazing, yellow blazing, what's the difference?
Shaw's Lodging in Monson—a legendary hiker's hostel, if there are any on the Trail—exceeded all of our expectations. Which wasn't terribly difficult; our expectations were exceedingly low, as set by the establishment's rather iffy depiction in the laughably awful "Southbounders."1 The movie makes Shaw's seem like some sort of cultish hippy commune, where nobody's allowed to wear even their homemade hemp sandals inside, and there are no locked doors anywhere, ever.
Far from that hellish nightmare, what we found was simply a collection of large, well-maintained, adequately furnished bunk rooms; some blessedly warm showers; a cavernous dining room; a TV lounge replete with sunken-in couch, pre-stained coffee table, and a hearty selection of dusty board games; and a veritable cornucopia of a hiker's box.2 Amongst the items left behind? A ziplock bag of chipotle-flavored pepper flakes that my sister snatched up immediately, thus earning her trail name: Hot Sauce.
The three of us attempted a resupply at the Monson General Store, but were quickly discouraged. If we'd wanted to rent a VHS tape—or stock up on car batteries or replacement parts for our snow mobile—we might have had more success. Luckily, we still had a bit of food leftover from Straton, or else we might have needed to hitch two miles north to Wal-Mart. Sated, we visited an ATM at a nearby gas station—where I found my checking balance to be a startling $0.00—bought a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm, and then retreated to the hostel for a good night's rest.
Because we know what awaited us on the morrow: the 100 Mile Wilderness.
1. "Southbounders" tells the story of Olivia, a spoiled rich girl who sets off to hike the trail the wrong way, and largely fails: she falls down a lot, is pestered by an annoying fat man, and awkwardly romances a scraggly guitar-playing hipster with douchey facial hair. Taken as pure cinema, the film is sadly mediocre, neither entertaining nor emotionally or thematically uplifting. As an anthropological study, on the other hand, the film serves as an astonishingly accurate portrait of the atrocious, abominable southbounder. The trailer can be seen here.
2. About that hiker's box: apparently, most southbounders abruptly quit after finishing the 100 Mile Wilderness, and Shaw's is where they go to rest, wash up, and suffer their inevitable nervous breakdowns. That they leave behind most of their uneaten food—and sometimes their non-consumable possessions as well, like stoves, trekking poles, and sleeping pads, amongst other swag—is only icing on the cake. So, thanks, Shaw's, for your hospitality. And thanks also, southbounders, for being awful and quitting.
When I first proposed hiking together, I had told my sister, "Yeah, come out to the trail. It'll be a blast. We'll do 12.5 miles a day... Relax..." Since she had joined me, however, we had gone 8.4, then 15.3, 17.3, and finally 18.8 miles each day. She wasn't exactly thrilled by our pace, but she wasn't overwhelmed by it, either.
Still, after hiking over two thousand miles myself, I wasn't entirely jazzed by the idea of such a long haul into town. So I admit it: I fully planned on taking a blue blazed trail—the one to Lake Hebron, and then on to Pleasant Road—that would cut 1.3 miles out of our trip. Sue me.
The best part was, once Hot Sauce and I hit the road, we quickly found a hitch into town in the back of someone's pickup truck.
Blue blazing, yellow blazing, what's the difference?
Shaw's Lodging in Monson—a legendary hiker's hostel, if there are any on the Trail—exceeded all of our expectations. Which wasn't terribly difficult; our expectations were exceedingly low, as set by the establishment's rather iffy depiction in the laughably awful "Southbounders."1 The movie makes Shaw's seem like some sort of cultish hippy commune, where nobody's allowed to wear even their homemade hemp sandals inside, and there are no locked doors anywhere, ever.
Far from that hellish nightmare, what we found was simply a collection of large, well-maintained, adequately furnished bunk rooms; some blessedly warm showers; a cavernous dining room; a TV lounge replete with sunken-in couch, pre-stained coffee table, and a hearty selection of dusty board games; and a veritable cornucopia of a hiker's box.2 Amongst the items left behind? A ziplock bag of chipotle-flavored pepper flakes that my sister snatched up immediately, thus earning her trail name: Hot Sauce.
The three of us attempted a resupply at the Monson General Store, but were quickly discouraged. If we'd wanted to rent a VHS tape—or stock up on car batteries or replacement parts for our snow mobile—we might have had more success. Luckily, we still had a bit of food leftover from Straton, or else we might have needed to hitch two miles north to Wal-Mart. Sated, we visited an ATM at a nearby gas station—where I found my checking balance to be a startling $0.00—bought a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm, and then retreated to the hostel for a good night's rest.
Because we know what awaited us on the morrow: the 100 Mile Wilderness.
1. "Southbounders" tells the story of Olivia, a spoiled rich girl who sets off to hike the trail the wrong way, and largely fails: she falls down a lot, is pestered by an annoying fat man, and awkwardly romances a scraggly guitar-playing hipster with douchey facial hair. Taken as pure cinema, the film is sadly mediocre, neither entertaining nor emotionally or thematically uplifting. As an anthropological study, on the other hand, the film serves as an astonishingly accurate portrait of the atrocious, abominable southbounder. The trailer can be seen here.
2. About that hiker's box: apparently, most southbounders abruptly quit after finishing the 100 Mile Wilderness, and Shaw's is where they go to rest, wash up, and suffer their inevitable nervous breakdowns. That they leave behind most of their uneaten food—and sometimes their non-consumable possessions as well, like stoves, trekking poles, and sleeping pads, amongst other swag—is only icing on the cake. So, thanks, Shaw's, for your hospitality. And thanks also, southbounders, for being awful and quitting.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Chapter 142: Atonement
As we reach the end of our journeys, and thus our narratives, it is only natural for us to reflect. On all we've seen, and on all we've done. The pain we've felt. The exhilaration. The friendships made, and broken. The iron bonds of fellowship forged in toil, tragedy, and triumph, that no amount of time or space could ever tear asunder. The people we've hurt along the way. The good times we've had. The bad. The times it rained. The days when when we just wanted to stay cocooned inside our sleeping bags forever, listening to the raindrops fall, and the world pass us by. Those few joyous occasions when we could celebrate a reunion with long-lost friends, then congregate around a camp fire swapping stories, watching the sun set, and uniting in shared admiration of a giant bag of M&Ms...
Speaking of pain, I now consider myself extraordinarily lucky that—in the entire course of my travels—I never suffered a serious injury. Don't get me wrong, shin splints are plenty painful, as are burst blisters, and that weird problem I was having with my right (or was it left?) Achilles tendon that, well... But that's besides the point. I was lucky. Period. Nothing ever happened to seriously threaten my hike. Miller Time fell and broke his leg coming down off of The Priest in Virginia. Cotton brazenly wore blue jeans in the Smoky Mountains and froze to death. Robo-Vader and Runny Bottoms caught giardia, twice. Alphabet got homesick. Veggie got an infected spider bite. That southbounder in Gorham had an infected spider bite. Heck, sometime after leaving Stratton, a spider had bitten me. It never got infected, though.
Anyway, and with all of that in mind—and I do mean all—here is my registry entry from the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to:
Speaking of pain, I now consider myself extraordinarily lucky that—in the entire course of my travels—I never suffered a serious injury. Don't get me wrong, shin splints are plenty painful, as are burst blisters, and that weird problem I was having with my right (or was it left?) Achilles tendon that, well... But that's besides the point. I was lucky. Period. Nothing ever happened to seriously threaten my hike. Miller Time fell and broke his leg coming down off of The Priest in Virginia. Cotton brazenly wore blue jeans in the Smoky Mountains and froze to death. Robo-Vader and Runny Bottoms caught giardia, twice. Alphabet got homesick. Veggie got an infected spider bite. That southbounder in Gorham had an infected spider bite. Heck, sometime after leaving Stratton, a spider had bitten me. It never got infected, though.
Anyway, and with all of that in mind—and I do mean all—here is my registry entry from the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to:
August 18,
Everything is fun and games until you "accidentally" steal some day hiker's/trail maintainer's food, fall on your ass, and then knock over someone's dinner.
I have a lot of things to be sorry for, and no better time than now to atone.
I'm sorry to that day hiker in the Shenandoah's whose food I stole. Rest assured your Camelback® Electrolyte™ Drink Mix© and Carnation Instant Breakfast did not go to waste.
I'm sorry to whomever I stole those candy bars from yesterday. I hopethe 0.4 mile walk back to the parking lot wasn't tooyour day wasn't ruined.
I'm sorry to my sister, for making her hike around 18 miles a day through Maine.
I'm sorry to all the people I've written mean things about in registers. I'm sorry to Fredo, for not loving him the way he wants to be loved. I'm sorry to Freeman and Strider, for leaving you behind. I'm sorry to all my other trail friends who have already finished, that I couldn't be there for your summit days. I'm sorry to my friends, my family, and especially Megan for disappearing for 5 months to go on this crazy adventure.
I'm especially sorry to that spider, for taking a shit so near you that you felt compelled to bite me in the ass. It hurts, and I have yet to develop super powers.
Chapter 141: Pancakes
On the morning of August 17th, 2010, I awoke to a strange, unearthly grumble. Sitting up, I eyed my sister suspiciously, but—somehow—it wasn't her surprisingly sonorous snoring. Emerging from my Tarptent into a thick, soupy fog, I quickly deduced that it wasn't Fredo, either, as his hammock was strung up a conscientious and considerate twenty yards away. Nor was it the spectacularly reverberating apneas of all those snotty, southbound section hikers who had so courteously occupied all the space in the nearby Pierce Pond Lean-to the night before. The family of loons bobbing along serenely through the mist on the adjacent lake were similarly guiltless.
Who—or what—was causing this ungodly noise?
...
Okay, so I could continue on in that vein, explaining in my typically florid way that the "strange, unearthly grumble" was just my stomach growling. (Ha ha, what a funny joke!) And how Hot Sauce, Fredo and I eventually enjoyed a "lumberjack breakfast" at the Harrison Camps that morning, to satiate my growing hunger. But I won't. Because who—except possibly food fetishists and hipsters with internet cooking shows—really cares about that sort of thing, or wants to hear about it in such exhaustive detail? (FYI, the lumberjack breakfast was a stack of twelve gigantic pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped butter, smothered in maple syrup, with a side of fried eggs and more coffee than any of us could ever drink. Not that we didn't try.)
I could also tell you about our momentous crossing of the Kennebec River, which involved getting a canoe ride from an obese mountain man in tattered sweat pants who seemed to have an entire family of birds nesting in his beard, and may have been a serial killer. Or at least a not-so-distant relative of one. But I won't do that either.
I could tell you about the trail magic we encountered later, just south of US201. Actually, I will: we found a cooler beside the trail containing an assortment of candy bars and soda and even a couple cans of Keystone Light®. For whatever reason—but probably because he's a selfish bastard—Fredo took all the beers, then giggled sadistically when we ran into a couple of SOBOs later on who were looking forward to getting some. Naturally, we didn't tell them there weren't any left, but cruelly sent them on towards their inevitable disappointment.
I could tell you how I may or may not have accidentally stolen some trail maintainer's gorp at the Pleasant Pond Lean-to. (I mean, who leaves a giant stuff-sack full of delicious, delicious trail mix unattended and expects it not to get stolen?) But I certainly won't do that. (Too unbelievable. Like I would ever do such a thing.)
I could even tell you how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I first met Matterhorn—an annoyingly spry and well-equipped section hiker from Switzerland—and stayed with him at the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to after hiking up in the dark singing John Legend songs.
But my heart just isn't in it.
Instead, I'll leave you with excerpt from Rutledge Sandybottom's excessively, er, florid, probably pretty bad Repressed Desire:
Tomorrow, a special treat, and back to the business at hand...
Who—or what—was causing this ungodly noise?
...
Okay, so I could continue on in that vein, explaining in my typically florid way that the "strange, unearthly grumble" was just my stomach growling. (Ha ha, what a funny joke!) And how Hot Sauce, Fredo and I eventually enjoyed a "lumberjack breakfast" at the Harrison Camps that morning, to satiate my growing hunger. But I won't. Because who—except possibly food fetishists and hipsters with internet cooking shows—really cares about that sort of thing, or wants to hear about it in such exhaustive detail? (FYI, the lumberjack breakfast was a stack of twelve gigantic pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped butter, smothered in maple syrup, with a side of fried eggs and more coffee than any of us could ever drink. Not that we didn't try.)
I could also tell you about our momentous crossing of the Kennebec River, which involved getting a canoe ride from an obese mountain man in tattered sweat pants who seemed to have an entire family of birds nesting in his beard, and may have been a serial killer. Or at least a not-so-distant relative of one. But I won't do that either.
I could tell you about the trail magic we encountered later, just south of US201. Actually, I will: we found a cooler beside the trail containing an assortment of candy bars and soda and even a couple cans of Keystone Light®. For whatever reason—but probably because he's a selfish bastard—Fredo took all the beers, then giggled sadistically when we ran into a couple of SOBOs later on who were looking forward to getting some. Naturally, we didn't tell them there weren't any left, but cruelly sent them on towards their inevitable disappointment.
I could tell you how I may or may not have accidentally stolen some trail maintainer's gorp at the Pleasant Pond Lean-to. (I mean, who leaves a giant stuff-sack full of delicious, delicious trail mix unattended and expects it not to get stolen?) But I certainly won't do that. (Too unbelievable. Like I would ever do such a thing.)
I could even tell you how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I first met Matterhorn—an annoyingly spry and well-equipped section hiker from Switzerland—and stayed with him at the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to after hiking up in the dark singing John Legend songs.
But my heart just isn't in it.
Instead, I'll leave you with excerpt from Rutledge Sandybottom's excessively, er, florid, probably pretty bad Repressed Desire:
It's late, and we're on a long drive to nowhere in the dark. Your headlights sweep past eerily familiar street signs, long rows of seemingly empty houses, bereft of any signs of life. The silence between us fills with bittersweet reminiscence, regret, and longing—both for past glory, and for a future that might never be.Ew. Best leave that there.
I catch you glancing at me from across the car. You look away quickly, abashed. But I'm the one who should be ashamed. I'm the one who's staring.
Before, I might have felt the warmth of your breath on my cheek, your hand tugging on my shirt, and the brush of your lips against mine, as I leaned into you, pushing you back into the door of your car.
But no, I lacked the courage. To touch you. Instead, I just stood back and watched as you searched through your purse for your keys. Admiring your figure in the soft glow of the streetlamp overhead. Alone together in the parking lot, intoxicated by your closeness, by the way the your dress clung to your body from the sweat.
The sweat of the dance, the drinks, the laughter... The furtive looks, shared in secret, across the table, through the crowd.
And my memory of all else fades, crushing into a swirling vortex of you. The twinkle in your eyes, the crooked curve of your smile. And suddenly I'm back in the car, short of breath, pulse pounding in my neck.
Meeting your eyes, seeing your breasts heave with every breath, I wonder if you've felt the same.
Tomorrow, a special treat, and back to the business at hand...
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Chapter 140: Major Chafage Returns
Which will aim to be just like "The Dark Knight Rises"—or whatever's the hot sequel du jour as you're reading this—only way more epic, awesome, and ultimately tragic.
One last note: my 2012 northbound brethren have made the seemingly spontaneous decision—en masse—to call southbounders "Shortbeard[s]," which is both fantastically clever and somewhat annoying. In that I didn't think of it myself.
Also, whilst relaxing atop Bear Mountain, enjoying the view and some well-earned spoils, Megan and I overheard a SOBO telling a day hiker that "[I]t usually takes people four to six months to hike the entire trail. Old people do it in six months. Younger, actually fit people—who aren't old, decrepit cripples who should probably be sent straight to the ovens—do it in four."
See what I mean? Evil to the core. SOBOs ruin everything.
Oh, and one last, final note4: There are those of you who may wonder why I have not continued with the adventures of 2010, relating in exhausting detail how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I trekked from the Little Biggelow Lean-to all the way to the Pierce Pond Lean-to some 17.3 miles away. Where we were driven out of the shelter by some dastardly section-hiking snorers and forced to put up tents by the water's edge in an ethereal mist as loons sang hauntingly to us from across the water, blah blah blah.
There's a simple, probably pretty feeble reason for that: as my narrative reaches its inevitable conclusion, so, in a sense, does my journey. I really feel that as long as I'm not done with my story, I'm not done with the trail. As long as there's more to write, I have an excuse to travel back in my mind, to revisit those blissful days...
Or at least that's how I felt yesterday morning. Now I'm not so sure. One of the SOBOs we met—okay, he may have been a flip-flopper, given his conspicuous knowledge of trail conditions further south—was in terrible shape. His shirt and shorts were plastered to his body from sweat; he winced noticeably with every other step; and he carried a pair of soiled, grime-encrusted socks in a bungee cord on the outside of his pack, a very (horribly) familiar sight. And he was wearing the very same (horrible) Vasque boots that I started the trail with. Except for that he was evidently a southbounder—who are, lest we forget, the very worst type of person in the world, even worse than Nazis, religious fundamentalists, terrorists, bankers, and oil executives, if they can even be considered human beings—my heart ached for him. And I had no more trail magic to give, all the plums I had brought already given out to the NOBOs we had met earlier. Of course, I hated him, too. How could I not? But did I hate him merely because he was a SOBO? Or did I hate him because he so reminded me of myself?
Later that night, as Megan and I rolled into camp, bickering like an old married couple, drenched in sweat, surrounded by a cloud of hungry mosquitos, each smelling worse than a dead orangutan's ass hole, I had an epiphany: Who in their right mind would go through all this voluntarily? Again. And why? Were the fleeting moments of solitude, of physical and spiritual release, of emotional uplift, of communion with nature—and one's fellow traveler—really worth all the associated aches and pains, the itches, the bitter dissension, the petty jealousies, the panicked sprints into the undergrowth—trekking pole in one hand, toilet paper in the other—while trying to push from one's mind the overriding fear of shitting one's pants?
It was, once. But now?
I don't know.
1. Either as preparation for or in anticipation of a backpacking or maybe kayaking trip later this summer, Megan agreed to accompany me on a one-night camping trip to Bear Mountain, CT. We aimed to retrace my steps from Salisbury, CT to the Race Brook Falls campsite in Massachusetts, a seemingly unambitious 12 mile day. We got a late start, however, and for a variety of other reasons, which I will never speak of, only made it 4.2 miles to the Sages Ravine Brook Campsite, just across the state line.
2. Oh, that's right, I didn't ask.
3. This should not come as a surprise for those of you familiar with our earlier adventures in Europe. See my as-yet unpublished memoirs, "Memoirs of an Adventure," for further details.5
4. Really, this time. I promise.
5. Oh wait, you can't. (Yet.)
August 4th, 2012
Well, I'm back on the A.T. again. Admittedly, it's only a single night engagement1, so maybe it doesn't deserve all the above pomp and circumstance...
And it's not gone well.
Megan and I have met three NOBOs—Sling Blade, Tantrum, and, erm, Other Guy—three SOBOs—I didn't catch their names, for some reason2—about a thousand mosquitos—all of whom loved to make our acquaintance—and more than our fair share of wayward, clueless day hikers.
Also, I believe Megan is plotting my imminent death.3 More on this in a moment.
Rest assured, loyal readers, it is very likely that I will not survive the night.
Let me count the dangers:
1) I have an inexplicable, pounding headache. Am I having an aneurism? Is it a tumor? Blood clots? Or has Megan poisoned me, sneaking arsenic into the peanut butter and Nutella bagel she (rather suspiciously) offered to make me for dinner? Or is it...
2) Those fucking bugs, beetles, birds or whatever the fuck they are making that incessant CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP noise just outside my trusty Tarptent?
3) Or maybe it's dehydration.
4) Megan insisted on eating a candy bar inside the tent, and is now in the process of sprinkling my side with crumbs. Is she laying bait, trying to lure a black bear to eat me? She remains mute on the subject, but I have my suspicions.
5) I have to pee.
...
UPDATE: 06:41, August 5th, 2012
Megan has "accidentally" elbowed me in the face about 50,000 times during the night. She blames the cramped quarters of my (come on, it's practically cavernous!) Tarptent. I blame her sinister, probably homicidal machinations.
My nose may be broken, but my spirit remains undaunted.
2nd UPDATE: 10:26, August 5th
About 200 yards from the parking lot, I tripped over a pebble and fell straight on my face, breaking my right foot, my left knee, both my elbows, and nearly every other bone in my body. However, instead of running to the car or to get help, Megan insisted on photographing the incident for posterity. I think she may have pushed me.
One last note: my 2012 northbound brethren have made the seemingly spontaneous decision—en masse—to call southbounders "Shortbeard[s]," which is both fantastically clever and somewhat annoying. In that I didn't think of it myself.
Also, whilst relaxing atop Bear Mountain, enjoying the view and some well-earned spoils, Megan and I overheard a SOBO telling a day hiker that "[I]t usually takes people four to six months to hike the entire trail. Old people do it in six months. Younger, actually fit people—who aren't old, decrepit cripples who should probably be sent straight to the ovens—do it in four."
See what I mean? Evil to the core. SOBOs ruin everything.
Oh, and one last, final note4: There are those of you who may wonder why I have not continued with the adventures of 2010, relating in exhausting detail how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I trekked from the Little Biggelow Lean-to all the way to the Pierce Pond Lean-to some 17.3 miles away. Where we were driven out of the shelter by some dastardly section-hiking snorers and forced to put up tents by the water's edge in an ethereal mist as loons sang hauntingly to us from across the water, blah blah blah.
There's a simple, probably pretty feeble reason for that: as my narrative reaches its inevitable conclusion, so, in a sense, does my journey. I really feel that as long as I'm not done with my story, I'm not done with the trail. As long as there's more to write, I have an excuse to travel back in my mind, to revisit those blissful days...
Or at least that's how I felt yesterday morning. Now I'm not so sure. One of the SOBOs we met—okay, he may have been a flip-flopper, given his conspicuous knowledge of trail conditions further south—was in terrible shape. His shirt and shorts were plastered to his body from sweat; he winced noticeably with every other step; and he carried a pair of soiled, grime-encrusted socks in a bungee cord on the outside of his pack, a very (horribly) familiar sight. And he was wearing the very same (horrible) Vasque boots that I started the trail with. Except for that he was evidently a southbounder—who are, lest we forget, the very worst type of person in the world, even worse than Nazis, religious fundamentalists, terrorists, bankers, and oil executives, if they can even be considered human beings—my heart ached for him. And I had no more trail magic to give, all the plums I had brought already given out to the NOBOs we had met earlier. Of course, I hated him, too. How could I not? But did I hate him merely because he was a SOBO? Or did I hate him because he so reminded me of myself?
Later that night, as Megan and I rolled into camp, bickering like an old married couple, drenched in sweat, surrounded by a cloud of hungry mosquitos, each smelling worse than a dead orangutan's ass hole, I had an epiphany: Who in their right mind would go through all this voluntarily? Again. And why? Were the fleeting moments of solitude, of physical and spiritual release, of emotional uplift, of communion with nature—and one's fellow traveler—really worth all the associated aches and pains, the itches, the bitter dissension, the petty jealousies, the panicked sprints into the undergrowth—trekking pole in one hand, toilet paper in the other—while trying to push from one's mind the overriding fear of shitting one's pants?
It was, once. But now?
I don't know.
1. Either as preparation for or in anticipation of a backpacking or maybe kayaking trip later this summer, Megan agreed to accompany me on a one-night camping trip to Bear Mountain, CT. We aimed to retrace my steps from Salisbury, CT to the Race Brook Falls campsite in Massachusetts, a seemingly unambitious 12 mile day. We got a late start, however, and for a variety of other reasons, which I will never speak of, only made it 4.2 miles to the Sages Ravine Brook Campsite, just across the state line.
2. Oh, that's right, I didn't ask.
3. This should not come as a surprise for those of you familiar with our earlier adventures in Europe. See my as-yet unpublished memoirs, "Memoirs of an Adventure," for further details.5
4. Really, this time. I promise.
5. Oh wait, you can't. (Yet.)
Monday, May 14, 2012
Chapter 139: Losing the Thread
One of the great things about hiking the Appalachian Trail is that, each day, one is working towards a concrete goal, e.g., the next 15.3 miles to the shelter, the next town to resupply, Katahdin. Every day has its purpose. Each step one takes is one fewer towards one's final destination. Which, when it comes, is both a horrible and wonderful realization all at once.
No wandering is aimless, no meal less than a feast, no vista anything less than dazzling, unforgettable, or utterly unique. While certain aspects of one's daily routine—the packing and unpacking, the making of meals; the sobbing quietly in the bushes, etc.—could devolve into monotony, one can always be cheered by the thought that, one day soon, this would all end.
Years later, I'm sitting in my (comfortable) apartment above the city, gazing at the grey clouds outside, feeling a cool breeze roll in through an open window, and wondering where I'd be if I were anywhere but here. Virginia, rollicking alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway? New Hampshire, looking South across snow-capped peaks? Colorado, waking up each day to the spectacular unknown? Somewhere in California or Montana, where, um... Nah, probably not those latter two.
I hear your angry groaning from the other room, yanking me from my reverie. I could ask you what's wrong, offer you comfort, or support. But you would push me away, claiming I don't understand. But I do. It's like that time I had shin splints. Or, as Bandito and I used to joke on the trail, whatever's ailing you, there's a simple solution: stop.
"Hungry? Stop hiking. Starving to death? Stop hiking. Shin bones sticking up out of where your kneecaps used to be, blood spurting everywhere? Stop hiking. And, uh, maybe call an ambulance."
That sort of thing.
But I know you would dismiss my hard-won wisdom as hokey, or overly simplistic. The frustrations and pitfalls of the real world cannot be so simply ignored, or avoided. And there is no end in sight, no ultimate goal as clearly identifiable as a plaque on top of a faraway mountain. And so my mind, if not my spirit, drifts away from these dreary thoughts, dons my (by-now tattered) Dragon Scale parka, and floats out the window into the rain. Across the rooftops, over the trees, beyond the endless strips of car-strapped blacktop. Towards the mountains. Towards peace. Towards home.
Oh, and, by the way, on August 15th, 2010, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I left Buckeye in Stratton—he was waiting for Veggie, and his beloved Ohio State bandana—and hiked 15.3 miles to the Little Bigelow Lean-to, a.k.a. "The Tubs," where we got some trail magic from some overnight hikers. Thanks, overnighters.
No wandering is aimless, no meal less than a feast, no vista anything less than dazzling, unforgettable, or utterly unique. While certain aspects of one's daily routine—the packing and unpacking, the making of meals; the sobbing quietly in the bushes, etc.—could devolve into monotony, one can always be cheered by the thought that, one day soon, this would all end.
----
Years later, I'm sitting in my (comfortable) apartment above the city, gazing at the grey clouds outside, feeling a cool breeze roll in through an open window, and wondering where I'd be if I were anywhere but here. Virginia, rollicking alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway? New Hampshire, looking South across snow-capped peaks? Colorado, waking up each day to the spectacular unknown? Somewhere in California or Montana, where, um... Nah, probably not those latter two.
I hear your angry groaning from the other room, yanking me from my reverie. I could ask you what's wrong, offer you comfort, or support. But you would push me away, claiming I don't understand. But I do. It's like that time I had shin splints. Or, as Bandito and I used to joke on the trail, whatever's ailing you, there's a simple solution: stop.
"Hungry? Stop hiking. Starving to death? Stop hiking. Shin bones sticking up out of where your kneecaps used to be, blood spurting everywhere? Stop hiking. And, uh, maybe call an ambulance."
That sort of thing.
But I know you would dismiss my hard-won wisdom as hokey, or overly simplistic. The frustrations and pitfalls of the real world cannot be so simply ignored, or avoided. And there is no end in sight, no ultimate goal as clearly identifiable as a plaque on top of a faraway mountain. And so my mind, if not my spirit, drifts away from these dreary thoughts, dons my (by-now tattered) Dragon Scale parka, and floats out the window into the rain. Across the rooftops, over the trees, beyond the endless strips of car-strapped blacktop. Towards the mountains. Towards peace. Towards home.
----
Oh, and, by the way, on August 15th, 2010, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I left Buckeye in Stratton—he was waiting for Veggie, and his beloved Ohio State bandana—and hiked 15.3 miles to the Little Bigelow Lean-to, a.k.a. "The Tubs," where we got some trail magic from some overnight hikers. Thanks, overnighters.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Chapter 138: The Half-Gallon Challenge, Part II
In these trying times it's important to remember that for every low, for every time you feel lost in the wilderness, alone, bereft and hungry, sobbing quietly over your last package of Frosted Rainbow Cookie Sandwich PopTarts™, there will be a corresponding high, when you'll emerge from the trees, the fog will lift, and the sun will rise before you like the unseen face of God.
Like the Trail, life is full of ups and downs, MUDS and PUDS1, triumphs and tragedy.2
At some point during my childhood, I learned how to tie my own shoes. Triumph.
It probably took me longer than most other kids, though. Just one of the original contributing factors in my life-long bout with low self-esteem. Tragedy.
In the sixth grade, I played the drum set during our school band's performance of "Gonna Fly Now," the theme song from Rocky. Triumph.
On the first day of school in seventh grade, I came down with appendicitis, barfed all over myself in front of the entire cafeteria, and almost died.3 Tragedy.
However, during my recovery, my aunt introduced me to a life-changing invention: the VCR. Oh, and also the comedic stylings of Mel Brooks. My life would never be the same. From that moment forward, I dreamt of becoming a writer. Triumph.4
In the eight grade, I asked out Amber Castle, and she said "sure." Triumph.
Three days later, she dumped me. Tragedy.
But then we went to Homecoming our sophomore year, made up, and made out. Nice! My first kiss. Triumph.
Except for not, because I may have accidentally chewed on her face and given her a fat lip, and why did I bring this up? Also, I'm a jerk. Tragedy.
Senior year, I started dating this girl who turned out to be kind of a whore. Tragedy. Wait, what am I saying? Triumph!
Terrorist attacks. War. Natural disasters. Tragedy.
I used the line "We should do this again sometime" on a girl without wanting to kill myself. Triumph.
A few years later, I found out that, unlike Frank Sinatra, I couldn't make it there. Goodbye, New York. Tragedy.
And on August 14, 2010, I successfully ate a half-gallon of ice cream in less than an hour. Triumph.
Yeah, I bet you were wondering how I would bring it around to that!5
Anyway.
That morning, Fredo, Buckeye, Lutricia and I broke camp, hiked over North and South Crocker Mountain,6 and then hitched a ride into Stratton to stay at a motel.
The motel, a fantastic establishment that should be frequented by everybody—or at least those who don't suffer from acute arachnophobia, but that's another story—was, by happy coincidence, located right across the street from a supermarket. Convenient. Realizing that this might be our last opportunity, Buckeye and I spontaneously decided to re-attempt the half-gallon challenge. Or in Buckeye's case, attempt for the first time. Our flavor of choice? Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip. Fredo got a strange Grape Nuts® flavored ice cream. But then again, Fredo wasn't so keen on the whole challenge. Naturally, he wound up losing.
The rest of that afternoon/evening was a blur of cooking—the four of us collaborated to make an elaborate burrito dinner—drinking, and watching "Star Wars, Episode I: The Phantom Menace" on VHS.
Although it was the first day I'd spent on the trail with my sister, it was, ironically, almost be the last we would spend as a foursome. Buckeye had arranged to stay behind the next morning to wait for Veggie—long lost Veggie!—who was bringing him his beloved Ohio State bandana. (He'd left it behind in a shelter a couple days before.) So, perhaps it was only appropriate that we shared this last supper, toasting each other with bottles of Bud Light Lime.
While contented, it was with a certain amount of melancholy resignation that we all turned in that (fateful) night. For some reason—there either weren't enough beds, or maybe there was just one too many snorers—I ended up sleeping downstairs, sharing the couch with my regrets, my secret ambitions... And a giant, angry spider.
Cliffhanger!
1. According to the Thru-Hiker's Guide to Whatever, MUDS is a handy acronym for "Mindless Ups and DownS." In the same vein, PUDS stands for "Plintless Ups and DownS." Did this warrant its own footnote? Probably not.
2. The trick is being able to differentiate one from the other. That's called "wisdom." I looked it up.
3. Of embarrassment.
4. Or is that a tragedy? Jury might still be out on that one.
5. Weren't you?
6. Actually quite a steep climb, as both peaks are certified 4000 footers. Although the summit of North Crocker Mountain—at 4,228 feet—isn't even above tree-line. For comparison's sake, the South Branch of the Carabassett River, where we'd camped the night before, was only at 2,100 feet.
Bonus triumphs, as per Liana's request:
It was a cold winter night. I lay on my back, watching the snow fall through the halo of a nearby street lamp. Everything was peaceful. Still. And quiet. And then she appeared above me, her face blocking out the light. "What are you doing?" she asked, her face inscrutable. Was she amused? Confused? Maybe a combination of both? ... Later, we made a snowman together, and threw snowballs at the stop sign on the corner. Not wanting the night to end, I invited her to go for a walk, but she declined, demurely. It was getting late. Uncertainty. Excitement. I watched her go. Then my dad came outside, and the two of us trudged down to the reservoir and back in the dark... I wonder if I'm the only one who remembers this. Triumph? ... Triumph.
Also, the first "Harry Potter" and "Lord of the Rings" movies came out within a month of my 18th birthday. Nerd triumph.
----
Like the Trail, life is full of ups and downs, MUDS and PUDS1, triumphs and tragedy.2
At some point during my childhood, I learned how to tie my own shoes. Triumph.
It probably took me longer than most other kids, though. Just one of the original contributing factors in my life-long bout with low self-esteem. Tragedy.
In the sixth grade, I played the drum set during our school band's performance of "Gonna Fly Now," the theme song from Rocky. Triumph.
On the first day of school in seventh grade, I came down with appendicitis, barfed all over myself in front of the entire cafeteria, and almost died.3 Tragedy.
However, during my recovery, my aunt introduced me to a life-changing invention: the VCR. Oh, and also the comedic stylings of Mel Brooks. My life would never be the same. From that moment forward, I dreamt of becoming a writer. Triumph.4
In the eight grade, I asked out Amber Castle, and she said "sure." Triumph.
Three days later, she dumped me. Tragedy.
But then we went to Homecoming our sophomore year, made up, and made out. Nice! My first kiss. Triumph.
Except for not, because I may have accidentally chewed on her face and given her a fat lip, and why did I bring this up? Also, I'm a jerk. Tragedy.
Senior year, I started dating this girl who turned out to be kind of a whore. Tragedy. Wait, what am I saying? Triumph!
Terrorist attacks. War. Natural disasters. Tragedy.
I used the line "We should do this again sometime" on a girl without wanting to kill myself. Triumph.
A few years later, I found out that, unlike Frank Sinatra, I couldn't make it there. Goodbye, New York. Tragedy.
And on August 14, 2010, I successfully ate a half-gallon of ice cream in less than an hour. Triumph.
Yeah, I bet you were wondering how I would bring it around to that!5
----
Anyway.
That morning, Fredo, Buckeye, Lutricia and I broke camp, hiked over North and South Crocker Mountain,6 and then hitched a ride into Stratton to stay at a motel.
The motel, a fantastic establishment that should be frequented by everybody—or at least those who don't suffer from acute arachnophobia, but that's another story—was, by happy coincidence, located right across the street from a supermarket. Convenient. Realizing that this might be our last opportunity, Buckeye and I spontaneously decided to re-attempt the half-gallon challenge. Or in Buckeye's case, attempt for the first time. Our flavor of choice? Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip. Fredo got a strange Grape Nuts® flavored ice cream. But then again, Fredo wasn't so keen on the whole challenge. Naturally, he wound up losing.
The rest of that afternoon/evening was a blur of cooking—the four of us collaborated to make an elaborate burrito dinner—drinking, and watching "Star Wars, Episode I: The Phantom Menace" on VHS.
Although it was the first day I'd spent on the trail with my sister, it was, ironically, almost be the last we would spend as a foursome. Buckeye had arranged to stay behind the next morning to wait for Veggie—long lost Veggie!—who was bringing him his beloved Ohio State bandana. (He'd left it behind in a shelter a couple days before.) So, perhaps it was only appropriate that we shared this last supper, toasting each other with bottles of Bud Light Lime.
While contented, it was with a certain amount of melancholy resignation that we all turned in that (fateful) night. For some reason—there either weren't enough beds, or maybe there was just one too many snorers—I ended up sleeping downstairs, sharing the couch with my regrets, my secret ambitions... And a giant, angry spider.
Cliffhanger!
1. According to the Thru-Hiker's Guide to Whatever, MUDS is a handy acronym for "Mindless Ups and DownS." In the same vein, PUDS stands for "Plintless Ups and DownS." Did this warrant its own footnote? Probably not.
2. The trick is being able to differentiate one from the other. That's called "wisdom." I looked it up.
3. Of embarrassment.
4. Or is that a tragedy? Jury might still be out on that one.
5. Weren't you?
6. Actually quite a steep climb, as both peaks are certified 4000 footers. Although the summit of North Crocker Mountain—at 4,228 feet—isn't even above tree-line. For comparison's sake, the South Branch of the Carabassett River, where we'd camped the night before, was only at 2,100 feet.
Bonus triumphs, as per Liana's request:
It was a cold winter night. I lay on my back, watching the snow fall through the halo of a nearby street lamp. Everything was peaceful. Still. And quiet. And then she appeared above me, her face blocking out the light. "What are you doing?" she asked, her face inscrutable. Was she amused? Confused? Maybe a combination of both? ... Later, we made a snowman together, and threw snowballs at the stop sign on the corner. Not wanting the night to end, I invited her to go for a walk, but she declined, demurely. It was getting late. Uncertainty. Excitement. I watched her go. Then my dad came outside, and the two of us trudged down to the reservoir and back in the dark... I wonder if I'm the only one who remembers this. Triumph? ... Triumph.
Also, the first "Harry Potter" and "Lord of the Rings" movies came out within a month of my 18th birthday. Nerd triumph.
Chapter 137: Hot Sauce/If Memory Serves
The summit of Spaulding Mountain is quietly ensconced in a dense thicket of alpine evergreens. Nearly constant foot traffic has eroded the trail, leaving it as little more than a narrow, shin-deep trench, winding its way through the trees. The shrubbery on either side isn't exactly oppressive, but the year-round canopy of pine nevertheless does its best to stifle the wind, silence all sounds, and blot out the sun. Or maybe it's just overcast.
I walk, or rather swim, through a soupy mist, unable to see more than ten feet in front of me. And it is quiet. A carpet of needles lines the trail, muffling my footsteps. If someone were to approach me, from either direction, I probably won't see or hear them until they're nearly on top of me.
All of which is just an ale borate way of saying, the summit of Spaulding Mountain was an extraordinarily poor place to have to dig a cathode.
If you're from New England, and you thru-hike the Appalachian Trail, there's a fairly good chance your trail name will be Boston. If you're remotely from the Boston area, even more so. If you happen to speak with a Boston accent, your trail name will definitely be Boston. If you wear, or even just carry, any piece of Red Sox paraphernalia, your trail name invariably will be Boston. On the other hand, a Celtics cap or jersey will probably earn you a different, more colorful nickname. Like Celtic.1
Needless to say, you can expect there to be at least four or five thru-hikers named Boston on any given year. You can also expect all of them to be nearly indistinguishable. But that will be pure coincidence, as none will claim to know the others—or even acknowledge their existence—let alone admit to coordinating outfits.
I have met several Bostons on this trip. On our way towards the Carabassett River, Buckeye, Fredo and I catch up with one in particular. Which one? I don't know. The fourth one? I'd last seen him in New Jersey or Pennsylvania or Virginia or wherever. Or maybe Massachusetts? Anyway, our reunion goes something like this:
"Boston!"
"Oh, hey. It's you."
"..."
Fording the Carabassett is a harrowing adventure in and of itself, requiring deft leaps of literally several inches, as we... Okay, so it's not so hard. The water is cool, but we barely get our feet wet, as there are enough rocks and boulders strewn about the riverbed for us to safely make our way across.
Boston decides to camp a little ways away, downstream. Fredo, Buckeye and I make a fire. I scout out the Caribou Valley Road, a tenth a of a mile away, thinking that my sister, Lutricia, might get dropped off there by our parents. But no, the "road" is an almost impassable mess that would be hard to drive with a trail-rated Jeep, let alone a Honda Civic hybrid. I make some rather primitive signs pointing towards where we'll be, then return to our campsite and hope for the best.
The three of us stay awake long past sundown, congregating around the fire, as is our wont. As the minutes turn into hours, I grow increasingly worried and impatient, but there's little I can do but wait. Eventually, the snapping of twigs and appearance of a lone headlamp peering out of the darkness signals my sister's arrival.
It's too late for celebrations, and my sister too tired to do more than introduce herself to Fredo and Buckeye before turning in. The rest of us soon follow suit.
One of my ever-considerate companions—probably Buckeye—decides to see if one can extinguish a camp fire with urine. Turns out you can, but it smells terrible.
I don't dwell on it. I lay awake for some time, but not because I'm too excited or relieved by Tricia's arrival, or feeling some indescribable mixture of conflicting emotions, tinged with melancholy. No, I lay awake mostly because my tent, although generously described as "1+" in its literature, is decidedly too small for two people to fit in, unless they're both lying on their sides, and my sister is sleeping on her back, snoring like a Freightliner downshifting on the interstate.
196.2 miles to go.
1. The same rule holds true for any other professional or collegiate sports team. If you wear an Indians hat, your trail name will be Cleveland. Or Chief Wahoo. If you wear a Mets cap, your name will be New York, if only because Laughingstock has too many syllables. Alternately, if your Ohio State bandana is your one piece of indispensable clothing, your name will be Buckeye.
I walk, or rather swim, through a soupy mist, unable to see more than ten feet in front of me. And it is quiet. A carpet of needles lines the trail, muffling my footsteps. If someone were to approach me, from either direction, I probably won't see or hear them until they're nearly on top of me.
All of which is just an ale borate way of saying, the summit of Spaulding Mountain was an extraordinarily poor place to have to dig a cathode.
----
If you're from New England, and you thru-hike the Appalachian Trail, there's a fairly good chance your trail name will be Boston. If you're remotely from the Boston area, even more so. If you happen to speak with a Boston accent, your trail name will definitely be Boston. If you wear, or even just carry, any piece of Red Sox paraphernalia, your trail name invariably will be Boston. On the other hand, a Celtics cap or jersey will probably earn you a different, more colorful nickname. Like Celtic.1
Needless to say, you can expect there to be at least four or five thru-hikers named Boston on any given year. You can also expect all of them to be nearly indistinguishable. But that will be pure coincidence, as none will claim to know the others—or even acknowledge their existence—let alone admit to coordinating outfits.
I have met several Bostons on this trip. On our way towards the Carabassett River, Buckeye, Fredo and I catch up with one in particular. Which one? I don't know. The fourth one? I'd last seen him in New Jersey or Pennsylvania or Virginia or wherever. Or maybe Massachusetts? Anyway, our reunion goes something like this:
"Boston!"
"Oh, hey. It's you."
"..."
----
Fording the Carabassett is a harrowing adventure in and of itself, requiring deft leaps of literally several inches, as we... Okay, so it's not so hard. The water is cool, but we barely get our feet wet, as there are enough rocks and boulders strewn about the riverbed for us to safely make our way across.
Boston decides to camp a little ways away, downstream. Fredo, Buckeye and I make a fire. I scout out the Caribou Valley Road, a tenth a of a mile away, thinking that my sister, Lutricia, might get dropped off there by our parents. But no, the "road" is an almost impassable mess that would be hard to drive with a trail-rated Jeep, let alone a Honda Civic hybrid. I make some rather primitive signs pointing towards where we'll be, then return to our campsite and hope for the best.
The three of us stay awake long past sundown, congregating around the fire, as is our wont. As the minutes turn into hours, I grow increasingly worried and impatient, but there's little I can do but wait. Eventually, the snapping of twigs and appearance of a lone headlamp peering out of the darkness signals my sister's arrival.
It's too late for celebrations, and my sister too tired to do more than introduce herself to Fredo and Buckeye before turning in. The rest of us soon follow suit.
One of my ever-considerate companions—probably Buckeye—decides to see if one can extinguish a camp fire with urine. Turns out you can, but it smells terrible.
I don't dwell on it. I lay awake for some time, but not because I'm too excited or relieved by Tricia's arrival, or feeling some indescribable mixture of conflicting emotions, tinged with melancholy. No, I lay awake mostly because my tent, although generously described as "1+" in its literature, is decidedly too small for two people to fit in, unless they're both lying on their sides, and my sister is sleeping on her back, snoring like a Freightliner downshifting on the interstate.
196.2 miles to go.
1. The same rule holds true for any other professional or collegiate sports team. If you wear an Indians hat, your trail name will be Cleveland. Or Chief Wahoo. If you wear a Mets cap, your name will be New York, if only because Laughingstock has too many syllables. Alternately, if your Ohio State bandana is your one piece of indispensable clothing, your name will be Buckeye.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Chapter 136: Waiting For Hot Sauce
All right, I'll be the first to admit, not every day on the Appalachian Trail is interesting, humorous, or filled with incident. Sometimes climbing a 4,000 foot mountain can seem routine. Sometimes playing endless games of "Marry, Boff, Kill" is all one can do to pass the time between breakfast, snack breaks, and making camp.
Also, sometimes you're just not proud of that shelter log entry you left in which you called out "tour hiker" Loud Mouth for being an arrogant, insufferable ass while cheerfully inviting everyone on the trail to punch him in the face. Yes, the less said about that the better.
With that in mind, here's an excerpt from my upcoming memoirs, Memoirs of an Adventure II: Memoirs Harder:
So.
When I first started this grand adventure, one of my intentions was always to hike a little ways with my big sister. She herself had once harbored the desire to thru-hike, so it only made sense for me to try to involve her as much as possible. Initially, we had planned to hike together for at least a couple of months. She was leaving one job, and had, ostensibly, about three months free before starting another. The idea was that she would come down and meet me, wherever I was, whenever that was, and that would be that.
Plans change, however, and a couple months turned into a couple weeks, which then turned into just about ten days at the end of the summer. Down also became up; I had come so far so quickly that she would now need a ride out to meet me. I was further away from home than she was.
That said, finally knowing that she was meeting me at this road at such-and-such a time had a terrible effect on my ambitions. I knew I only had to do 8 or 9 miles a day in order to make our prearranged rendezvous. Which, on the outside, really doesn't seem like that much of a problem. Except Buckeye, Fredo and I had been hiking fifteen to twenty miles a day, easy. Doing just eight or nine was so... boring.
And with that in mind, here's another interlude, this time an excerpt from Wolfgang Amadeus Derkadur's A Taste of Sadness:
Also, sometimes you're just not proud of that shelter log entry you left in which you called out "tour hiker" Loud Mouth for being an arrogant, insufferable ass while cheerfully inviting everyone on the trail to punch him in the face. Yes, the less said about that the better.
With that in mind, here's an excerpt from my upcoming memoirs, Memoirs of an Adventure II: Memoirs Harder:
Chapter 30: I Am Become Death, The Destroyer Of Carry-On LuggageWow. Exciting/depressing stuff! Anyway, now that I've successfully distracted you from my unfortunate history of raging misanthropy, let's get back to the narrative at hand.
Imagine a post-Apocalyptic landscape. Or the streets of New Orleans after Mardis Gras. Pretty similar concepts.
No people. Just the burnt-out hulks of old strip malls and fast-food joints, trash strewn about, beads collecting in the gutter.
Now imagine floating along amongst the clouds—either as some disembodied spirit, or perhaps as a passenger on Delta Flight 2006 to LaGuardia—alone with your thoughts, your melancholy remembrances of a life gone past too quickly.
Fleeting memories flicker before your eyes in an endless, inexorable stream, like so much bilious vomit forcibly expurgated into a curbside garbage bin, leaving behind naught but the bitter aftertaste of regret and Bud Light Lime.
Imagine all the faces of all the friends you've made and lost, all the opportunities you've seized and forsaken, the sum total of all your choices in life. Do you like what you see?
Or are you apathetic, exhausted, like you're about to slip into a debilitating coma of indifference that you would otherwise have found excruciatingly inconvenient if you weren't already dead...
So.
When I first started this grand adventure, one of my intentions was always to hike a little ways with my big sister. She herself had once harbored the desire to thru-hike, so it only made sense for me to try to involve her as much as possible. Initially, we had planned to hike together for at least a couple of months. She was leaving one job, and had, ostensibly, about three months free before starting another. The idea was that she would come down and meet me, wherever I was, whenever that was, and that would be that.
Plans change, however, and a couple months turned into a couple weeks, which then turned into just about ten days at the end of the summer. Down also became up; I had come so far so quickly that she would now need a ride out to meet me. I was further away from home than she was.
That said, finally knowing that she was meeting me at this road at such-and-such a time had a terrible effect on my ambitions. I knew I only had to do 8 or 9 miles a day in order to make our prearranged rendezvous. Which, on the outside, really doesn't seem like that much of a problem. Except Buckeye, Fredo and I had been hiking fifteen to twenty miles a day, easy. Doing just eight or nine was so... boring.
And with that in mind, here's another interlude, this time an excerpt from Wolfgang Amadeus Derkadur's A Taste of Sadness:
A backyard party. It’s getting late. Mellow music plays. Most of the revelers have dispersed for the night, splintering into smaller groups or going their separate ways. Yet some stalwart friends remain, sitting around a roaring fire spitting sizzling amber embers into the onyx sky.After a scant 8.9 miles, Fredo, Buckeye and myself settled in at the Poplar Ridge Lean-to for the night. Tomorrow, we had an ambitious 13.1 miles planned, to the South Branch of the Carabassett River, where my sister would be waiting.
A happy drunk, she lays languidly across his lap, cradling a half-forgotten beer. She throws her head back in a giant, joyful laugh, her hair tickling his nose. He dares not move, nor join her conversation, lest he disturb their repose.
She rests her head on his shoulder. He is furniture.
Still, he thrills—secretly, silently—at every sensation: her quiet breaths, her warmth, the perfume of her shampoo, the quiver of her body as she laughs…
As if sensing his gaze, she glances up at him, some implacable yearning in her eyes. A tacit question lingers between them, hanging heavy like the smell of woodsmoke and the encroaching darkness. They both know the answer, can feel it in the sudden thudding of their hearts, but can’t seem to put into words...
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Chapter 135: Serendipity
Journal entry, as I lay in my tent at the Little Swift River Pond Campsite, listening to the rain:
The next morning, Buckeye and I raced off towards ME4, to hitch into Rangeley. We'd heard ominous things about the terrain betwixt the lake and the road, but didn't find anything worse than a couple of waist-deep mud bogs.
Whatever.
Reaching the road, we encountered our first stroke of luck. A familiar looking woman emerged from the woods in front of us, headed towards her car. She asked if we needed a ride. Yes?
"I was thru-hiking with my husband, but I had to get off the trail because of an injury," she explained as we drove towards town, her voice pained. "He's a backcountry guide, plus he's crazy, so he kept going. I've just been doing a couple of sections here and there to keep him company."
"You look awfully familiar," I said. "You wouldn't happen to be Elaine from Maine, would you?"
That shocked her into slence.
"I'm Major Chafage!" I explained. We had met way back when. "The last time I saw you was in Hot Springs, North Carolina. With Nature!"
"Of course! Major Chafage!" Elaine nodded, remembering me now.
"I told you I was legendary," I added to Buckeye.
He rolled his eyes.
Elaine and I chatted amiably, catching up. We reminisced about the time Jason, Bandito and I serenaded (tortured?) her with an off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline." And that time her husband, Jim, had so magnanimously treated my blisters. By then we were arriving in Rangeley, and she was dropping us off by the public library. I thanked her again, and we said our goodbyes for the final time. The lesson, as always: being friendly pays off.
We had Thai food for lunch. We ate at a restaurant apparently made famous by its chef, who had somehow assisted with freeing hostages during the Iranian Revolution. Sounds like a (bad) movie, right? Except it actually happened. There were pictures of the man shaking hands with a bemused President Reagan and Vice President George H.W. Bush all over the walls. Very surreal. Very funny. (The suits! The glasses! The unabashed ugliness! Eh, it was the 80's. Maybe you had to be there…) Anyway, we did our best to ignore the decor. I introduced Buckeye to the wonders of the Thai Iced Tea. His first sip, his eyes lit up. A convert for life.
And then came our second stroke of luck. While we were eating, I spied Fredo walking past the restaurant window! I quickly excused myself from Buckeye and raced outside to chase him down. He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. But he was pleased. He explained to me how he had gotten violently ill the previous morning, and had puked all over the shelter.
"I got really ill yesterday morning," Fredo explained tentatively, considerate of the fact that I was still eating lunch. "As soon as you guys left, I puked all over the shelter. It was bad."
It sounded bad.
"So I hitched out from the next road," he continued, "Spent last night at the hostel."
"And now you're going to yellow blaze to keep pace with us, right?" I asked, crossing my fingers.
"Oh," Fredo hesitated. "I mean, when you put it like that--"
"Great!" I didn't let him finish. I could have hugged him.
After lunch, we spent a few hours at the library, checking our e-mail and otherwise finding out what was going on with the world. At some point I received a call from Bandito, who had, in fact, just summited Katahdin. He told me all about it, of course, and filled me in on all the shenanigans I had missed with P-Nut and Caveman and whomever. But then he had to go, because he was already on the road, headed home. And I had to go, too, because I still had 220 miles to go before the end. I envied him. But I think he may have envied me, too…
Buckeye and I agreed to meet up with Fredo before we left, and then went out for dinner. (You may have noticed that our lives in town revolved around food. There's a reason for that.) We had pizza, and then decided it would be a good idea to share a pitcher of beer. Big mistake. By the time Fredo arrived, we were both extremely drunk. Or at least slightly tipsy.
And then our third stroke of luck! We managed to hitch a ride out with Malt Lickher and Ruthless—don't ask, it's that trail name thing again—a lovely couple from Hamden, Connecticut out on vacation. My hometown! We cheerfully reminisced about Modern Apizza and BAR. (If you're ever in the area, go there and try the mashed potato pizza. Trust me.) Anyway, good times.
Before dropping us at the trailhead, Malt Lickher and Ruthless shuttled us to a nearby grocery. We emerged with a substantially better haul than Andover had yielded. Fredo even bought a Joose, which is to the formerly unadulterated Four Loko what primordial sludge is to humanity: one led to the other, it's just not imminently clear how. Or why.
What compelled Fredo to try the Joose? Good question. Especially since he'd spent the previous day vomiting all over himself. And everything else. But I digress. He had a few sips, and it made his stomach hurt. I had a few sips, and my stomach hurt. Then again, I was already, uh, slightly tipsy.
Aug 9,Fredo never arrived that night. Troublesome. Moreover, we failed to see any moose. Plus it rained, so we were unable to take any of the free canoes out on the lake. Worst campsite ever? Not quite. The privy was nice.
Veggie got off the trail yesterday because of an infected bug bite. This morning, Fredo was having stomach cramps and feeling nauseous. My health remains decent, despite what I fear may be bone spurs developing on my heels. It used to be my feet that hurt, but now it's mostly my knees. And my feet.
I see in "lean-to" registries that my old crew was here around three weeks ago. They made it from Hanover to here in two days less time than it took me. I worry, however, seeing them sign a day apart. I hope they stay together. They're all most likely done by now, if they're not summating today. Merf was only two days behind them last I saw, meaning she's still well on track to finish on time. I'm happy for them, and somewhat proud, too. But I also feel a twinge of melancholy, sad that I couldn't be there with them, to congratulate them. To share in the sadness and joy they must feel, now that they're done.
In many ways, this trip feels like school. At first it's intimidating and scary, but always structured around routines and deadlines; then it's so much fun that everything goes by too quickly, and is over before you want it. And right now, I'm suffering from the equivalent of senioritis, just wanting to be finished without doing any more work. Hopefully (maybe) Tricia can light a fire under my ass, get me motivated to do those 13 mile days we have to do to finish on time. I'm not really worried, though.
Lemonade. Chocolate milk. Birch Beer. Bananas. Yogurt. Ice cream. Pizza. An end to the drudgery.
The next morning, Buckeye and I raced off towards ME4, to hitch into Rangeley. We'd heard ominous things about the terrain betwixt the lake and the road, but didn't find anything worse than a couple of waist-deep mud bogs.
Whatever.
Reaching the road, we encountered our first stroke of luck. A familiar looking woman emerged from the woods in front of us, headed towards her car. She asked if we needed a ride. Yes?
"I was thru-hiking with my husband, but I had to get off the trail because of an injury," she explained as we drove towards town, her voice pained. "He's a backcountry guide, plus he's crazy, so he kept going. I've just been doing a couple of sections here and there to keep him company."
"You look awfully familiar," I said. "You wouldn't happen to be Elaine from Maine, would you?"
That shocked her into slence.
"I'm Major Chafage!" I explained. We had met way back when. "The last time I saw you was in Hot Springs, North Carolina. With Nature!"
"Of course! Major Chafage!" Elaine nodded, remembering me now.
"I told you I was legendary," I added to Buckeye.
He rolled his eyes.
Elaine and I chatted amiably, catching up. We reminisced about the time Jason, Bandito and I serenaded (tortured?) her with an off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline." And that time her husband, Jim, had so magnanimously treated my blisters. By then we were arriving in Rangeley, and she was dropping us off by the public library. I thanked her again, and we said our goodbyes for the final time. The lesson, as always: being friendly pays off.
We had Thai food for lunch. We ate at a restaurant apparently made famous by its chef, who had somehow assisted with freeing hostages during the Iranian Revolution. Sounds like a (bad) movie, right? Except it actually happened. There were pictures of the man shaking hands with a bemused President Reagan and Vice President George H.W. Bush all over the walls. Very surreal. Very funny. (The suits! The glasses! The unabashed ugliness! Eh, it was the 80's. Maybe you had to be there…) Anyway, we did our best to ignore the decor. I introduced Buckeye to the wonders of the Thai Iced Tea. His first sip, his eyes lit up. A convert for life.
And then came our second stroke of luck. While we were eating, I spied Fredo walking past the restaurant window! I quickly excused myself from Buckeye and raced outside to chase him down. He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. But he was pleased. He explained to me how he had gotten violently ill the previous morning, and had puked all over the shelter.
"I got really ill yesterday morning," Fredo explained tentatively, considerate of the fact that I was still eating lunch. "As soon as you guys left, I puked all over the shelter. It was bad."
It sounded bad.
"So I hitched out from the next road," he continued, "Spent last night at the hostel."
"And now you're going to yellow blaze to keep pace with us, right?" I asked, crossing my fingers.
"Oh," Fredo hesitated. "I mean, when you put it like that--"
"Great!" I didn't let him finish. I could have hugged him.
After lunch, we spent a few hours at the library, checking our e-mail and otherwise finding out what was going on with the world. At some point I received a call from Bandito, who had, in fact, just summited Katahdin. He told me all about it, of course, and filled me in on all the shenanigans I had missed with P-Nut and Caveman and whomever. But then he had to go, because he was already on the road, headed home. And I had to go, too, because I still had 220 miles to go before the end. I envied him. But I think he may have envied me, too…
Buckeye and I agreed to meet up with Fredo before we left, and then went out for dinner. (You may have noticed that our lives in town revolved around food. There's a reason for that.) We had pizza, and then decided it would be a good idea to share a pitcher of beer. Big mistake. By the time Fredo arrived, we were both extremely drunk. Or at least slightly tipsy.
And then our third stroke of luck! We managed to hitch a ride out with Malt Lickher and Ruthless—don't ask, it's that trail name thing again—a lovely couple from Hamden, Connecticut out on vacation. My hometown! We cheerfully reminisced about Modern Apizza and BAR. (If you're ever in the area, go there and try the mashed potato pizza. Trust me.) Anyway, good times.
Before dropping us at the trailhead, Malt Lickher and Ruthless shuttled us to a nearby grocery. We emerged with a substantially better haul than Andover had yielded. Fredo even bought a Joose, which is to the formerly unadulterated Four Loko what primordial sludge is to humanity: one led to the other, it's just not imminently clear how. Or why.
What compelled Fredo to try the Joose? Good question. Especially since he'd spent the previous day vomiting all over himself. And everything else. But I digress. He had a few sips, and it made his stomach hurt. I had a few sips, and my stomach hurt. Then again, I was already, uh, slightly tipsy.
Chapter 134: Left Behind
Aug 8,Apparently, it was. Although I didn't know it at the time, my last trail family was dying. A side-trip into Andover, Maine would be our last hurrah.
Haven't written in here in a few. Familiar theme.
I have the feeling that Veggie likes and wants to continue to hike with me and Fredo, but she's not sold on Buckeye. Fredo, for his part, seems reticent to grow too attached to any of us, and continually threatens to ditch us before the end. I'm comfortable with all three, and just wish Buckeye could be a little less crude (yes, I am saying that) if only for Veggie's sake. Once again, as in high school and with the Nature train, I find I am solely responsible for pulling everyone together. (No, I'm not full of myself at all.) I feel bad for Buckeye, though, because he's had so little time to make friends out here, and the ones he's made have either left the trail or fallen behind. I'm just saying, I want everyone to get along and to stay together as long as possible.
Is that too much to ask?
The town itself was actually kind of depressing. Consisting of little more than a general store, a diner, and a cemetery, Andover had a decidedly backwoods atmosphere. The locals talked funny, glared suspiciously at us interloping outsiders, and proudly wore mullets and greasy overalls. They even had specially marked parking spaces just for ATVs. Except for the conspicuous lack of audible gunfire, we might as well have been back in Georgia.
All right, that's not entirely fair. The town also lacked any perceptible undercurrent of barely suppressed, virulent racism. Probably because there weren't any minorities around for the locals to hate on or oppress. (Besides us hikers, but we're not exactly a race.) Also, no secessionists.
Fredo, Veggie, Buckeye and myself resupplied at the general store as best we could. Which was difficult. Or, for Veggie, damn near impossible. Although they did have lots of generic macaroni and cheese… Let's just say their selection left something to be desired.
Afterwards, we sat outside drinking soda and eating pizza for lunch. And not because we wanted to, either. None of us had showered in three days. I doubt they would have allowed us to sit inside. Anyway, the food was terrible.
Truly, it was the worst resupply on the trail. Just a miserable, miserable place.
But at least the proprietors of the local hiker hostel were friendly. And happy enough to drive us back and forth from the trail. We hiked out mid-afternoon, and made it another six miles to the Hall Mountain Lean-to before dark.
The next day, Veggie would succumb to a spider bite. On the small of her back, the bite made it excruciatingly, prohibitively painful for her to carry her pack. In retrospect, we should have offered to divy up her stuff between us, to maybe help her keep going. But maybe we would never have been so selfless, especially when our burdens were already so great. After enduring a sleepless night—spent tossing and turning in pain, unable to ever get comfortable—Veggie gave in, and called the Pine Ellis Lodge to arrange a shuttle back into town.
I don't know why, but I guess I thought she would catch up with us. It never occurred to me that we might never see her again. Our plans weren't too ambitious. We weren't supposed to go any ridiculous distances. I truly thought she'd catch up. But she never did.
Now, you might think that we wouldn't be so self-aware as to realize the significance of her parting at that time. Or that—so close to our final destination—we wouldn't so much care. That the melancholy we felt, I felt, was more to do with what came after, with facing the unknown. But it was more than just the trail that we were leaving behind.
----
The morning after Veggie left, Fredo awoke feeling nauseous. At first, I thought it was just indigestion from the awful generic macaroni he'd bought in Andover, but that it would shortly pass. Then I thought he might've just been making light of the appalling south-bounders then monopolizing the shelter. But he vehemently assured me he wasn't joking, and begged Buckeye and myself to continue on without him.
Buckeye and I stopped at Long Pond later, hoping Fredo would catch up. There was a picnic table and fire pit set up on the beach. Seemed like as good a place as any. Buckeye quickly availed himself of the opportunity to go swimming, taking along a giant inflatable duck he'd brought expressly for that purpose. As he splashed around like an overgrown six-year old, I was quietly thankful that I had awful eyesight—and that I'd already eaten—or else I might've been put off my lunch. Then he put his clothes back on, thank God, and came ashore.
And we waited. A terrible thought occurred to me. Was Fredo's nausea just a ruse to get away from us? Could he have lived up to his name and betrayed us? With Veggie gone, what else was to keep him with the group?
Filled with dread and nagging doubts, we grudgingly packed up and headed off towards the Little Swift River Pond Campsite. People had told us we'd definitely see moose there. How about that I wasn't about to hold my breath.
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