Chapter 117: On to the Green Mountain House

By 9:30 in the morning, I had made it to the summit of Stratton Mountain. At 3,936 feet, Stratton was the tallest peak I'd climbed in nearly two months, since Three Ridges in central Virgina. Not that I could remember such minutia in the moment. If I felt or thought anything at the time, it was gratitude for having come so far so quickly, with most of the day still ahead of me.

I had big plans, after all. Plans that involved somehow getting into Manchester Center, buying copious amounts of lemonade and chocolate milk, eating a lavish dinner at the Manchester Pizza House—once acclaimed by Skiing magazine as the "best pizza in town," which really isn't saying much considering their glaring lack of competition—heading over to the Green Mountain House Hiker Hostel, showering, and then maybe checking my e-mail, just to make sure that my loved ones were still alive and that civilization hadn't collapsed in my absence. And then dropping dead from exhaustion.

I reached the road at around three in the afternoon. Since coming down off of Stratton Mountain, I hadn't really found any part of the day particularly challenging. Unfortunately, that was before I tried to hitchhike into town.

After unintentionally terrifying some young women in a Subaru—who may or may not have sprayed me with Lysol or bear repellent and then called the cops—I decided it might be prudent to walk up the road a bit. I caught a ride soon enough. With someone who was on their way back from visiting a fellow thru-hiker in Maine, no less. It's always people connected to the trail.

Arriving at the hostel after dinner, I found myself in the seemingly unenviable position of having to share the barn with Popeye. Which is normally where people with dogs would have slept, but there was no more room in the main house. No matter, we still had bunks and Popeye wasn't a prolific snorer. We actually might've had a better deal than everybody else.

After a short amount of relatively painless deliberation the next morning, I decided to zero there for the day. I'd heard such good things about the Green Mountain House, and I wanted to take advantage of its vast movie collection and rumored supply of free Ben & Jerry's. I would not be disappointed.

I went into town that morning to resupply, and ran into Fredo and Saint at the Easter Mountain Sports outfitter. Neither of them had intended to stay at the Green Mountain House until I mentioned how awesome it was. Unfortunately, Saint was waiting for a ride to take him off trail for a couple weeks, to go to a wedding back home. So he, at least, would not be coming. Fredo, on the other hand, actually seemed enthusiastic about joining me there, but was then was sorely disappointed to find out there wasn't any room. I lobbied the owner on Fredo's behalf, arguing that he could easily sleep on a couch or tent on the lawn, but there was nothing for it. The proprietor was understandably leery about making an exception, and might have even mumbled something about "neighbors," "fire codes," and "illegal." Whatever. Disappointed, we soon parted ways. I would never see Saint again. It was the last hurrah of the Nature Train. Except not really.

Of course, I would be remiss in my narration if I failed to mention the melange of characters also staying at the House that evening. Pixie was there, a welcome surprise. I never thought I'd see her again, and actually wouldn't after the following day. Oh well. Veggie was there. I didn't recognize her at first, although I should have given the contentious nature of our first encounter in Pennsylvania. Then there was Buckeye, whom I found delightfully profane and generally agreeable, although he looked disarmingly like an Amish farmer someone had mistakenly attacked with a can of red spray paint. Or like a prominent Hamas leader, at least according to Twizzler, an Israeli section hiker who was also staying at the hostel. Last but not least, there was Sativa James, an inveterate womanizer who was shamelessly pretending to be a thru-hiker and always seemed to be either drunk or stoned. All together, a great group from whose company I would never escape.

No matter how hard I tried.

God, I couldn't wait to get out of there.

Chapter 118: Is it Fjord or Ford?

The climb out of Manchester Center was absolutely brilliant.

It helped that it was a stunning, cloudless day. From the observation platform atop Bromley Mountain, I felt like I could look around and see all of Creation in front of me. Like I was on top of the world. Even if—at 3,260 feet—I was barely a quarter mile above the valley floor. Hardly a significant accomplishment. Still, with the I had hiked out some Mtn Dew in my water bottle, and thought now was as good a time as any to break it out in celebration.

Here's a physics lesson, for all of you. The air pressure at altitude tends to be much lower than it is at sea-level. Why? Magic, duh. Because the higher you go, the less physical matter—like trees and houses and whatnot—there is around the air, hemming it in, and so it naturally has more room to spread out. Simple, right?

However, that's not the point.

The point is this: the pressure inside my water bottle—which contained a highly carbonated beverage, don't forget—was disproportionately greater than the air pressure outside. Thus, opening it was a little like pulling the pin on a highly comical grenade. If I hadn't been holding onto the lid, it might have taken my eye out. As it was, it merely caused me to punch myself in the chin, hard, while an explosive geyser of Mtn Dew drenched me from head to foot.

Ignoring the raucous, derisive laughter of the throngs of hysterical onlookers—oh, wait. That's right. There was nobody there. Alone with my humiliation, I took the opportunity to write in my journal:

No entry while I was in town. Manchester Pizza, despite its glowing recommendation in my guidebook, sucked. The Green Mountain House was, however, awesome. Two (free) pints of Ben & Jerry's, 3+ meals culled from random hiker box supplies, plus the opportunity to watch "The Fifth Element," "Hellboy II," "Avatar," "Spider Man 2," and "Rumble in the Bronx?" Nice.

Always mixed emotions when getting back on the trail. Excitement, yes. Sadness too for leaving behind that which is comfortable and familiar. A certain amount of dread for the unknown one is about to face, and more sadness still that one's journey is one day closer to completion. Yet more dread at the unknown that awaits us back in "real life," as though living out here isn't real...

An "easy" (presumed, by me) 13 or so more miles awaits me today. Rellishing the opportunity to take it easy, and relax when I want to. Somehow, I'm both worried about eating too much and worried about carrying out too much food. Also worried about rain. Preoccupied with thoughts of Megan, family, home, and food (of course). But mostly Megan. And then of seeing mom and dad in Hanover. But still, mostly Megan.

Had a weird anxiety dream last night about being in an airport, being constantly late, and then rushing for a plane with Tricia and a lot of other hikers. Then the plane, a 747, came in for a landing on the wrong runway, while we all crowded on a narrow, unpaved runway, between rows of low, overhanging trees, all swaying violently in a dangerous, gusty wind. Huh?

Moving on.

Later that afternoon, I was faced with a rather irksome dilemma. I could take a 5.3 mile reroute around where a bridge had apparently been taken out by a flood, or I could risk boulder hopping across the river, which several southbound Long Trailers suggested would lead to my immediate death. Well, I hadn't walked sixteen hundred miles through heartbreak and hardship just to foolishly risk my life doing something incredibly stupid. On the other hand, 5.3 miles is an awful long way, and I am not—nor have I ever been—a coward. Or particularly smart.

So I soldiered on. And—luckily—the raging torrents I was warned about amounted to little more than a pleasing tickle. I may not have even gotten my boots wet.

Who said fording was difficult?

Chapter 116: Chafe Harder

Registry entry, Congdon Shelter:

Looks like I picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue, er, I mean, try to do 20's again. Goddamn rain, making everything all cool and tolerable again...

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

Okay, or maybe I was tired of being lonely.

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

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

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

Somehow, I had the courage and wherewithal to sign the shelter log:

The Legend Continues... My ass is killing me! Also, my balls.
-Major Chafage

Later, as I lay in my tent thinking over recent developments, I made the mistake of rereading the previous entry in my journal. It wasn't excruciatingly painful, but it also wasn't exactly art, either, that's for sure. I felt the need to atone, so I hurriedly scribbled:

Hating yesterday's entry. Rambling incoherent nonsense. At least it gives an unintentionally accurate picture of my mental state.

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

Chapter 68: Welcome to Shenandoah

Nestled in an forgotten, shadowy corner of the Shenandoah Valley, Waynesboro, Virginia is a lovely little town primarily known for being the site of a deeply humiliating Confederate defeat during the waning months of the Civil War. Its humble and good-hearted inhabitants have ever since been searching for an alternate identity, anything to set them above or apart, through which to transcend their history. Knowing Waynesboro will never be an acclaimed or noteworthy center of culture or commerce, the locals' consensus strategy seems to have been to make their home the best trail town south of the Mason-Dixon line, and quite possibly anywhere. And they may very well have accomplished that goal.

With apologies to the Green Mountain House in Manchester Center, Vermont, the ridiculously accommodating hiker hostel at the Waynesboro Grace Evangelical Lutheran Church might just be the best such facility on the entire trail. The local YMCA – conveniently located right around the corner from the hostel and across the street from the public library – offers hikers complimentary showers and a gratuitous gift bag full of swag: toothbrushes, toothpaste, and some perfunctory proselytizing pamphlets that make for rather poor privy reading but prove surprisingly useful as fire starters. The Ming Garden is the most lavish, diverse, and reasonably priced AYCE buffet in the state. That said, the town's greatest strength probably lies in its well-organized network of "trail angels" willing to drop everything at a moment's notice to schlep innumerable smelly, insufferable, ungrateful hikers about town on errands or to wherever they might wish to go.

It was with one such trail angel that Caveman, P-Nut, Redwing, Lil Dipper and I got a ride back to the trail. Bandito had decided to stay behind, mainly to finish reading Harry Potter, but also to check out a martial arts dojo he'd stumbled across on a jaunt to the laundromat the day before. I made him promise to catch up post-haste, however. We were only nine days from Harpers Ferry, and although I didn't want to acknowledge it then, our time together was fast running out.

With its omnipresent burble of traffic from Skyline Drive; the ready availability of refreshments at any number of concession stands, waysides, campgrounds and lodges; and the sheer mass and volume of clueless sightseers, the experience of hiking in the Shenandoahs is nearly indistinguishable from a rather average day in Central Park. Well, except for the conspicuous, shameful lack of any minorities. Maybe that's to do with the park's geographic inaccessibility. But no, it's only about 90 miles outside of Washington D.C. Maybe it has more to do with the latent racism of rural Virginia. Either way, it's sad, and not particularly encouraging.

For most rational Americans, hiking in Shenandoah National Park is probably considerably less appealing than driving it on Skyline Drive. However, with the price of gas skyrocketing, most rational Americans probably have better things to do than take an aimless three hour car trip. Like racking up thousands of dollars in credit card debt buying porn subscriptions and alcohol, updating their blogs, collecting belly button lint, and writing their Senators to protest the insidious influence of politicians on our political process. 

On my bucket list – the one I just made up for the sole purpose of the following joke – "hike the Shenandoahs" was preceded only by "go over Niagara Falls in a barrel," "attend Oktoberfest in Munich," and "seduce Daniel Radcliffe." So far I'm two for four. And sorely disappointed. 

Somehow I let Caveman and P-Nut convince me into hiking the whole way with the group instead of hitching to McCormack Gap, where I had gotten off the trail the day before. I thus found myself in the unenviable position of not only redoing 3.7 rather unenjoyable miles, but reliving my anguished experiences for the vicarious enjoyment of my companions. This is where I screamed for 13.786 seconds straight, freaking out Bandito. This is where I punched a tree and hurt my hand. This is where I threw my trekking pole over my shoulder and drop-kicked my guidebook. 

Even P-Nut had the gall to laugh at me. 

Two hours later we crossed a fire road at Jarman Gap and entered Shenandoah National Park proper. We were all slightly confused, since we thought we'd already been in the park for three hours. It took us a while to get over this. Imagine running a race, only the stewards keep moving the starting line back. It was like that, only more annoying and drizzly.

P-Nut eventually blazed ahead in some impertinent fit of impatience. I found myself hiking with Caveman, just behind Redwing and Lil Dipper. And then it happened. The air in front of me filled with the mysterious and unpleasant odor of methane and hydrogen sulfide.

Unfortunately – since we were going up a steep incline – my face happened to be right at the level of Redwing's ass. However, I knew it couldn't have been her; Redwing was far too dignified and stuffily British to have committed so egregious an offence.  There was only one inescapable conclusion.

I would later write the following in the registry at Blackrock Hut:

stealth fart | stel θ - färt | informal
verb [trans.]
when leading a party of three or more uphill, to fart in a way so as to make the last person in line blame the person in front of them
: Lil Dipper is a stealth farter.

By late afternoon, we had hiked 19.7 miles and crossed Skyline Drive no less than eight times. My guidebook informed me that Blackrock Hut was 0.2 miles off the trail to the right. What it didn't say was that it was also down a couple hundred feet in elevation. It was a ridiculous slog just to get there, and –when we arrived – we found the shelter packed.

Of course P-Nut was there and had already claimed the last empty spot. He was chumming it up with the interloping section hikers when we arrived, and pointedly ignored our entrance. I wasn't particularly hurt by his betrayal, however. With a few notable exceptions, section hikers are the worst sort of people – after southbounders, day hikers, day hikers who don't offer you trail magic, and Nazis – and are invariably rude, inconsiderate, and horrible snorers. I wouldn't have been able to sleep in the shelter.

But, as it turned out, I wouldn't be able to sleep in my tent, either.