Chapter 94: The Turnaround, Part II

On the morning of May 26th, 2010, I was a smelly, desperate, unclean, unshaven, uncivilized, disreputable mountain man, terrifying to behold, even scarier to contemplate. My future was bleak. I was only halfway done with my thru-hike, meaning I still had two or three months to go before I finished. Another eleven hundred sun-baked miles before I could relax and recuperate; reunite with my friends and family; finally shower thoroughly and frequently enough to rid myself of the rancid stench of so many weeks of accumulated sweat and burning muscle; drink unlimited amounts of juice; and never eat, look at, or think about overly-processed crap like Ramen, Knorr® Pasta Sides, and Instant Oatmeal ever again.

Meanwhile, all I had to look forward to was an endless series of long, exhausting days, spent entirely outside, amidst the sweeping majesty and forgotten natural beauty of America; the sporadic but blissful occasions when I might rapaciously devour other people's table scraps, or gleefully re-appropriate their serendipitously discovered garbage; setting my own agenda; getting up when I wanted; eating when I wanted; going to sleep when and wherever I wanted; and basically having unlimited personal freedom, albeit in the narrow confines of the trail. All with no bed but my sleeping bag, no roof but the tent in my pack, and no possessions but what I carried on my back. But with no cable TV to lull me to sleep. Or authority figure to harangue me, order me around, and constantly remind me just how little my time—and my life—was really worth. It was awful. And I felt awful. As if my life was meaningless, and that I was of no use to society, or to anything or anybody.

And then, not ten hours later, I was showered, presentable, relatively clean-smelling, and sitting in the upper deck at Camden Yards, enjoying a pizza, a Coke Zero, and—to a much lesser extent—a Baltimore Orioles game.

On June 15th, 2010, I experienced a similar if no-less life changing reversal.

That morning, I wandered around the Hiker Hostel at the Church of the Mountain in Delaware Water Gap, Pennsylvannia, saying goodbye to some old friends while waiting anxiously for others to arrive. I wore a pair of skimpy board shorts and a tie-dye tanktop I'd pilfered from a hiker box. The tanktop was a woman's, and a small. It fit me surprisingly well. I would find out later that P-Nut actually wore the very same shirt when the Nature Train rolled through town. In some small way, it would feel like I was maintaining his legacy, and I would feel honored by the connection. Still, I must have looked like hell.

My facial scruff resided somewhere in the uncomfortable no-man's-land between "suave French musketeer" and "convicted child rapist." My feet ached, and my Achilles tendons were wound tighter than a [insert gross, mind-blowing metaphor here]; I could barely walk without a severely pronounced limp. I wanted little more than to soak in a bathtub of Epsom salts, for about a week. While reading a book. And eating copious, possibly unending amounts of baked ziti, and possibly lasagna.

Some scant forty-eight hours later, I was in New York City, enjoying a riotous New Kids on the Block concert at Radio City Music Hall with Megan, Liana, and Rebecca. A day after that, I might have been lying in bed, watching movies from Blockbuster, while Megan—very tentatively and probably unwillingly—massaged my feet. Twenty four hours after that, I was eating Chinese food with Megan's parents and her sister Elizabeth; and stuffing my face with joyful, reckless abandon.

Somehow, a week passed, and the time came to head back to the trail. Megan, Elizabeth, and their childhood friend Steven accompanied me to the Delaware Water Gap, where we went tubing for the afternoon. Just the four of us, a twelve-pack of Bud Light Lime, and the river, with a beautiful cloudless sky above; the occasional hawk soaring overhead, past the sun; and only a handful of unbelievably pungent, mysteriously dead fish floating along beside us.

Our goodbyes later that afternoon were bittersweet, tinged with a melancholy longing. I knew I wouldn't see Megan again until I was done, one way or the other. It was hard to stomach, letting her go once again, but also exciting in a way. At the very least, we had made some happy memories that would help carry me through the trying days to come.

Chapter 93: To Merf

Merf and I spent the night at the Leroy A. Smith Shelter with Little Brown. It had been one of those long, frustrating slogs to reach the place; it had rained the whole time, one of us—and I won't name names—was being unduly surly and impatient with the other, and then the both of us kept misreading landmarks and thinking we were closer than we really were. It was a tremendous relief when we finally arrived.

And when we did, I naturally blamed everything on Merf and selfishly bullied her into filtering my water for me. Which Little Brown righteously objected to, all but calling me a chauvinist pig. To my eternal credit, however, I did sort of feel bad about it. And I should have. It would be the last night Merf and I would spend on the trail together.

Well, besides the following night, but that was in a hostel, so it hardly counts.

Anyway, the next morning, racked by guilt, the three of us started off towards the Delaware Water Gap. Except for Little Brown, who left either before or after Merf and me. I'm not quite sure. And what a day it would be.

And...

And we stopped at the Gateway Motel at Wind Gap that morning, to fill up on water. The proprietors were friendly and accommodating. We may have seen Little Brown there, along with some enterprising southbounders, one of whom had an adorable, terrifying Doberman puppy who growled at everybody and ran around off his leash. For some reason, I can't find it in my heart to make fun of them, or to say anything scathingly sarcastic.

We practically ran to the Kirkridge Shelter on a continuous high from finding so many (now presumably non-toxic) raspberries. So, actually, we made terrible time. We met a trail runner there at the shelter, though, who had hiked up several gallons of water from town, because the nearby spigot had run dry. We told him about where an ATV had apparently chewed up the trail pretty bad at a nearby road crossing, refilled our water, and hiked on.

The next landmark in my Handbook was a "Grassy Area," which made Merf laugh. You know the terrain must be generally awful if it's actually noteworthy the when time it's good. And lo, we arrived at the "Grassy Area," and it was. Merf even took some pictures, just to prove the place was real.

Then we were scrambling across the "Lunch Rocks," where we did not eat lunch. After that came "Lookout Rock," where we did pause momentarily to enjoy the view: the Delaware River snaking below us, and, across from us, New Jersey. For the first time since Harper's Ferry, I felt like I was on familiar ground. And nearing home.

And...

And then it was "Council Rock," because God forbid the last mile into town was even slightly tolerable. We met a couple of southbound section hikers who told us we were right around the corner from the road. Which was nice to hear, if slightly unhelpful. Almost immediately afterwards, however, we ran into a porcupine sitting in the middle of the trail.

Merf said "Ooh!" excitedly, and I stopped short, alarmed, thinking she might have seen a bear. But no, just a cute little porcupine, in all it's quilly glory. Spooked by our sudden arrival, the porcupine ran—okay, waddled—off the trail and up a tree. It wasn't quick or agile like the bear cubs I'd seen, but slow and graceful, keeping its quills pointed in our direction. Which was smart, I suppose, even if we weren't exactly about to climb up the tree after it.

And then we emerged out into the world, and found the Hiker Hostel at the Church of the Mountain. We took showers, and scoured the hiker box for goodies. I found a superb tie-dye tank top to wear around town. Little Brown arrived some time later, and got ready to meet Moonpie for a pilgrimage to Gettysburg. Then this kid Snack Attack showed up. I thought he was stoned at first, but then figured out he was just really, really tired. He had started the trail in April, and had been doing 30 mile days with frightening regularity. Eventually the Reverend Karen came in to talk to us, and she was really nice. And everything was fantastic.

And then the Traveling Circus showed up.

And Merf and I ended up going out for pizza with them. I remembered to thank Monkey for the emergency blanket he had given me back in Port Clinton. Merf and I shared a large pie and a bottle of root beer. And that was that. The next morning she would continue on, while I would stay behind to wait for Megan to pick me up and take me hence, back into civilization.

We didn't do anything particularly special to commemorate the occasion. Perhaps we didn't have to, or perhaps we weren't self-aware enough to realize that we should. People are constantly coming and going on the trail, as in life. And it is rare for those involved to recognize this ebb and flow as it happens. When the time came, our goodbye would be nothing more than a "Good luck!" and a wave. Could there have been more to say? Perhaps. But maybe that was just the way it was meant to be.

Hiking with Merf was a pleasure, and a privilege. She was unfailingly polite, upbeat, but never pious or judgmental. A leader by example; an inspiration; a good friend; and a wonderful, willing audience, always ready and eager to laugh, at her own foibles or at mine. I would miss her.

And perhaps I still do.