Chapter 111: Secondhand Smoke

The following night, I found the Kay Wood Lean-to practically as crowded as the Upper Goose Pond Cabin had been. Fredo was there again, of course. Despite the inexorable lethargy that had dogged me nearly the entire day, snapping at my heels and threatening to overtake me in the afternoon heat like a Doberman chasing a six-year-old on a tricycle, I'd somehow managed to keep pace with him. And to his eternal credit, Fredo greeted my arrival with a spectacular display of raging ambivalence.

Smokestack was there too, with his friend Boston. Or at least that's what I think his name was. There were several thru-hikers named "Boston" on the trail that year, all of whom—in a seemingly spontaneous act of rather questionable serendipity—proudly wore faded Red Sox caps to distinguish themselves, which was neither particularly imaginative nor especially helpful.

Fredo stuck to Smokestack and company, and I can't blame him. Not with our personal history and them being so much cooler than me. Smokestack in particular was a figure of towering charisma and frightening... Well, he was just kind of scary. He smoked continuously, swore nearly as often, hiked impossibly fast, and when he wasn't evincing an air of brazen badassery that would—and did—make lesser men cower in poison ivy bushes weeping for their lost masculinity, he was bragging about how awesome it was to be him; and in a committed, monogamous relationship with a totally gorgeous wife, like he was. At least when she wasn't annoying.

A cloud of aggressive manliness hung around Smokestack and his crew like all the secondhand smoke from their cigarettes. I knew better than to get caught up in such petty games of macho posturing, however. Honestly, I couldn't imagine maintaining that façade for the entire trail. The very idea was too exhausting. Plus, again, the secondhand smoke. Awful.

With the shelter itself occupied by a group of fawning, hormonal teenagers, I eagerly jumped at the opportunity to tent in seclusion. Unfortunately, there wasn't a whole lot of available land, forcing me to camp in between the shelter and where Smokestack and company had already strung up their hammocks. C'est la vie.

After waking up for the second or third time that night, I wrote the following in my journal:

July, um, 10th (I think)

I just peed on my hand. Have yet to perfect the urination-through-the-bug-netting thing, which also needs a snappier name.

Yesterday, during one of my frequent rests, and old acquaintence caught up with me, Fredo. He persuaded me to do 20 miles instead of 15, so we could stay at this cabin on a lake that had a canoe and a beach with swimming and all this other shit I didn't get to see. I don't know why I did it (wait, I do: loneliness), but it ended up being well worth the trip.

The caretakers—who thru-hiked in 2003 and now work for... I dunno? The AMC maybe? I think it's only a volunteer position, but anyway—made everyone coffee and pancakes in the morning. Normally, I am not a coffee drinker. Er, well, was not. The secret to coffee, as I've found out, is that you have to add sugar! Sugarcoffeesugar!!! I wish I had some right now.

Days pass, yet I think about the same things and sing the same songs, albeit in different ways. (Fast, slow, soft, loud, with the right lyrics, with the wrong lyrics, etc.) I see the same brown trail in front of me, the same green(ish) foliage on either side, feel the same bugs flying around my head and landing on my skin, sometimes biting me, sometimes drowning in my sweat. Sometimes the views charge, like when you emerge from the forest onto a barren mountaintop. And sometimes more of the same can be good, like when you find blueberries. The pain in my feet remains unchanged. My company changes, slowly. The incessant birdsong stays the same. So do the hunger and thirsts in my heart, and my stomach...

Now, sleep. Tomorrow: chocolate milk. Exciting!

Chapter 109: Rough Draft

Friends Forever

I never got the impression that Fredo liked me much. Maybe it was because—due to the unfortunate subject matter of our first real conversation—I thought that he was an inveterate druggy, and so unfairly treated him in a somewhat standoffish, perhaps even cruel manner. Or maybe it was because Fredo accurately had me pegged as a sniveling, insecure, narcissistic ass.

The last time I had seen him was while attempting the Watauga Dam Challenge, and neither of us had emerged from the encounter thinking better of the other. However, let it never be said that life isn't about second (and third, and possibly fourth) chances. When he caught up to me on this day, I was overwhelmingly relieved to see him.

Truthfully, though, I would have been as happy to see any other familiar face. No matter what, I cannot escape my nature. I am an insensitive jerk at heart, despite my best efforts to reform my ways and reconcile with the many, many people I've hurt and disappointed.

What Am I Going To Call This Chapter?

So Brünnhilde and Blackbird were taking a zero. Blackbird was having awful blisters due to her boots being half a size too small. I lectured them smartly about the best ways to deal with such things, and then hiked out. Once again, on my own. Alone. I would never see them again.

CRY FOR ME!

Ugh.

Due to a confluence of unforeseen circumstances, I wasn't able to write in my journal on July 9th. However, I picked things up where I had left off the following day, after I settled in for the night outside the Kay Wood Lean-to:

July, um, 10th (I think)

I just peed on my hand. Have yet to perfect the urination-through-the-bug-netting thing, which also needs a snappier name.

Yesterday, during one of my frequent rests, and old acquaintence caught up with me, Fredo. He persuaded me to do 20 miles instead of 15, so we could stay at this cabin on a lake that had a canoe and a beach with swimming and all this other shit I didn't get to see. I don't know why I did it (wait, I do: loneliness), but it ended up being well worth the trip.

The caretakers—who thru-hiked in 2003 and now work for... I dunno? The AMC maybe? I think it's only a volunteer position, but anyway—made everyone coffee and pancakes in the morning. Normally, I am not a coffee drinker. Er, well, was not. The secret to coffee, as I've found out, is that you have to add sugar! Sugarcoffeesugar!!! I wish I had some right now.

Days pass, yet I think about the same things and sing the same songs, albeit in different ways. (Fast, slow, soft, loud, with the right lyrics, with the wrong lyrics, etc.) I see the same brown trail in front of me, the same green(ish) foliage on either side, feel the same bugs flying around my head and landing on my skin, sometimes biting me, sometimes drowning in my sweat.

Sometimes the views charge, like when you emerge from the forest onto a barren mountaintop. And sometimes more of the same can be good, like when you find blueberries. The pain in my feet remains unchanged. My company changes, slowly. The incessant birdsong stays the same. So do the hunger and thirsts in my heart, and my stomach...

Now, sleep. Tomorrow: chocolate milk. Exciting!