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.

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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

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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 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 83: The Half Gallon Challenge, Part 1

How does one go about eating a half-gallon of ice cream? A better question might be why one would even try, but in this context—1092.8 miles through a 2179.1 mile hike—why becomes irrelevant. Why not?

Actually, I'll tell you why.

The average thru-hiker burns about 4,000 calories a day, and needs to consume just about as many if not more in order to not suffer from famen stomachus, a horrible syndrome in which the body—already stripped of excess body fat—begins to break down muscle mass and leach urea, causing the victim to smell overwhelmingly of urine. Symptoms include grogginess, exhaustion, muscle cramps, disorientation, and nausea. If untreated, it can lead to myriad complications, including kidney failure and even death.¹

Meanwhile, a half-gallon of ice cream contains 3102 calories, 439 grams of carbohydrates, 129 grams of fat—76 of which are of the delicious and highly-desirable saturated variety—and 69 grams of protein. In addition to all that tasty nutritional goodness, the half-gallon contains over 30% of your RDA of iron and Vitamins C and D, over 100% of your Vitamins A and B12, 176% of your phosphorus, and over 200% of your RDA of riboflavin and bone-strengthening calcium! Plus it's ice cream. What's not to love?

Basically, we were in the position where if we didn't eat the half-gallon, we were gonna die. And I really didn't want to die. Not then, not ever. I had come too far already. I was going to do it.

My strategy was simple: skip breakfast, hike the ten miles to Pine Grove Furnace at a brisk pace to build up my appetite, then eat the ice cream as fast as I could, so my stomach wouldn't have time to tell my brain it was full. Piece of cake, right? No, not really.

My first mistake came some 6.2 miles in, when I stopped briefly at the Toms Run Shelters. Why did I stop? Was it to leave my signature obnoxious, inflamatory note in the hiker register? Was I expecting to find a note from Caboose and Spark, whom I knew to be only a day or two ahead of me? Was I looking for news of Bandito and Caveman, Redwing and Lil Dipper, all of whom had been so nicely remembering me² in their entries since I'd left? Or did I stop because there was a crowd of about thirty day hikers there, eating breakfast, who had too much food?

Unsurprisingly, the group—which was on its way to the opening of the Appalachian Trail Museum, same as me—was naturally curious about their disheveled, smelly newcomer. There they were, coming out to honor hikers, to honor the trail and its history, and here I was, the one person in their midst who was actually doing it. It was like they were on a safari, and I was the only lion for miles. And of course they were having a problem with their food. They had too much of it. And they knew that hikers were always hungry, and the risks of famen stomachus. So they offered me their leftovers.

And it wasn't inconsiderable. And, conditioned as I was to never turn down trail magic—nor pass up anything free, ever—I was forced to accept. And I couldn't just hoard it all, either. They expected me to be hungry, and watched and waited with eager eyes until I pried open a granola bar and devoured it. My plan for the half-gallon challenge was evaporating.

That little one taste of food was enough to stir my raging metabolism. Suddenly all I could think about was food, specifically all the food that had just been plied on me. I barely made it another mile before I broke down and ate every last single thing they'd given me. My hunger sated, I continued on with a heavy heart, knowing that my best laid plans had already gone horribly awry.

I wouldn't describe the atmosphere inside Pine Grove Furnace State Park as bedlam, if only because it's entirely unclear the residents of southern Pennsylvania have ever experienced something something so worthwhile to get excited about. There were certainly enough people there, however, although none of them came bearing extravagant gifts to give to us wayward hikers. I was actually sort of disappointed with the festivities, uninterested as I was with the actual museum itself. Most of the vendors and exhibits only had a tenuous relationship with the trail, if they had any at all.

But I didn't really care. I was there for the ice cream. The only question remaining was what flavor? Chocolate, my favorite? Or would that get boring? Certainly not vanilla. Or strawberry, which I think usually tastes too artificial to be truly palatable. But what of Neapolitan? Chocolate, strawberry and vanilla all in one! That way, I'd at least be unlikely to get bored. And so what if I didn't actually like strawberry or vanilla ice cream on their own?

The Neapolitan ice cream purchased, I sat down for my attempt. I could only watch in wonder and envy as Cornpatch demolished his own half-gallon seemingly before I had even started. Trying to glean some wisdom from his victory, I settled on a new strategy. I would eat the vanilla portion first, then the strawberry, saving my favorite, the chocolate, for last.

Ice cream—or anything, really—tends to lose its charm if not all its flavor after the third or fourth serving. After my sixth or seventh "serving," I started wondering if I was going to finish at all. After my tenth, I was no longer worried about whether I'd finish, or even really whether my digestive track would revolt against me; I was more worried about what form that uprising would take. I made quick work of the vanilla, slogged through the strawberry with some discomfort, and then hit a wall. I'd already eaten more than two pints of ice cream. Six cups worth. Two to go. I didn't feel nauseous, but I anticipated it.

Was it worth it? I was going to make myself violently ill, possibly in a deeply embarrassing way. And for what? A sense of pride and a commemorative wooden spoon that I would probably lose shortly after anyway? I didn't want to get sick. I was terrified of getting sick. So I quit.

I gave the rest of my ice cream to a section hiker, told Merf and Ridley and Panther I would see them later, and left, hanging my head in shame.

Of course, a vendor would recognize me as a thru-hiker on my way out, and would insist on giving me a box of glazed donuts before I left. Somehow—and this truly boggles my mind—I managed to eat three or four of them before I reached the trail head. Disgusted by the donuts—they were stale and well past their Sell By date, which is probably how the vendor had come by them in the first place—but more with myself, I left the rest beside the trail, hoping that someone else would find and enjoy them, or at least throw out the box.

I at least consider myself lucky that I didn't throw up or soil my pants in a sudden and debilitating bout of diarrhea. Like some other people I know.

But that's another story.

1. Schweiger, L., Scully, D., Young, A., Erving, J., & House, G. (2009) The continuing epidemic of starvation in the U.S. JAMA, 286, 1195-1200.

2. And unintentionally taunting me with their tales of receiving trail magic. Like when Nature's friend Bronco brought them sodas at the Ensign Cowall Shelter. See? I never forget. Those bastards.

Chapter 28: Max Patch

With 1,938.4 miles left to go on my 2,179.1 mile journey, I found my thoughts inexorably turning towards what I would do with my life after I finished the trail. And I suppose that was only natural. It had been over three weeks since I had seen Megan last, and perhaps two or three days since I'd spoken to her on the phone. It had been on the drive back to Newfound Gap, as we were escaping Gatlinburg, that I had called her. My cell reception had been spotty, however, so beyond communicating the essential message "I'm not dead, I am just in Tennessee," our conversation had been tragically brief.

In truth I missed her greatly, and the only thing I could see in my future was her. I wasn't thinking about finding a job, or moving out of my parents' basement. Those were just a means to an end. The end was getting back to her. Of course, there was first the more physical challenge of actually getting back to her that I had to overcome. I was still 1,938.4 miles away, after all. But an overwhelming desire to see her burned in my chest, and a crazy, romantic idea began percolating in my mind. Both would drive me that day, and on to Katahdin.

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I was surprised, and somewhat appalled, by how quickly Nature caught up to us that morning, and then left us in her dust. I didn't know then that she had thru-hiked in 2009, and that she was in phenomenal shape for someone her, my, or any age. Come to think of it, I didn't actually know how old she was. Then again, I couldn't be entirely sure she was completely human either. In retrospect, she was probably some sort of druid, or maybe the physical manifestation of Gaia, but I prefer to think she was a mutant alien-human hybrid with supernatural stamina and double jointed knees. It would have explained a lot.

In any case, she caught up to us fast, and asked us if we were planning to cowboy camp on Max Patch.

"Max Patch?" I asked stupidly. "Who's that?"

"It's a mountain, dummy," said Bandito. Then, turning to Nature with a trembling lip, "Right?"

Nature laughed loudly, startling me. It was rather unnerving.

She motioned for us to lean closer, so she could whisper confidentially, "I didn't want to tell the others, but cowboy camping on the summit is totally lame."

We followed her gaze to where the clearly hungover and lethargic Party Group were taking a break, savoring their mid-morning Tylenol.

"There's actually a great campsite just past the summit," she continued, hushed, "and I'm headed there, if you guys want to join me?"

Heck, yes. We nodded.

"Okay, see you guys up the trail," said Nature, flashing a mischievous smile. Then she disappeared. And I don't mean that she walked off quickly, it was more like she evaporated.

Bandito and I were stunned, bewildered. It took a few seconds for us to recover. I shook it off.

"Hey, does that guy look vaguely familiar to you?" said a voice over my shoulder.

"Bandito, come on," I urged, snapping him out of it. "Let's go."

I shot a look back towards the Party Group. They were all watching me with stupid looks on their faces, like a pack of hyenas with collective amnesia.

Bandito and I made good time to get away from them, such good time that I entertained the thought that we might catch up with Braids. She had broken camp that morning while we were barely out of bed, but had mentioned maybe waiting for us somewhere along the trail, suggesting maybe we could all eat lunch together. But we weren't planning another twenty mile day, so if we didn't catch up with her soon it would become increasingly unlikely we'd ever see her again.

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Max Patch isn't actually a muscular bald guy with a wicked goatee as the name would suggest, but rather a 4,629' grassy bald, with a 360° panorama of the surrounding mountains and countryside. Although camping on top of the mountain is not strictly forbidden, it is generally discouraged, but everybody does it anyway. Cowboy camping at the summit allowed for spectacular views of the sunset and sunrise. You wouldn't even have to leave your sleeping bag.

The summit was crawling with day hikers, picnickers, and other touristy types when we arrived. Apparently there had been trail magic there that morning. Someone had been giving out pizza and beer. I was deeply sorry to have missed it, and tried to push it from my mind. We saw Nature relaxing in the sun, near where a man and his son were trying to get a kite off the ground.

She looked up as we approached, waved hello. "Do you know someone named Braids?" she asked.

Why, yes. We did.

"She was asking about a Bandito and a Major Chafage, I guessed that was you. She said she waited as long as she could, but she left like five minutes ago." Nature shrugged.

It was sad, especially to have missed her by so little, but hardly anything could dampen our spirits at that moment. It was really quite beautiful there, on top of the world. I didn't even mind the tourists so much, or resent them for belittling our achievement by only climbing the two hundred or so yards from the parking lot below. Bandito and I sat down nearby to enjoy the sun and the view, and I told Nature all about how Braids was crazy for hiking twenty miles a day. Nature seemed to agree with my assessment.

The Party Group soon made it up, and somehow they all had beer. One of them, a pudgy bald guy whose name was Fat Stick, had hiked up a couple tall boys, one for him and one for his friend.

"Hey, Dude Nozzle," said Fat Stick, shouting across to his equally insufferable friend. "I brought you a Budweiser!"

"Budweiser?" said Dude Nozzle, disgusted. "I'm not drinking that!" And he cursed, loudly.

Bandito was horribly offended by Dude Nozzle's potty mouth, but I was more sympathetic. Screaming profanity in front of children is a favorite pastime of mine.

I magnanimously and only half-jokingly offered to drink the extra Bud, if only to save Fat Stick from having to hike out the can.

"Hey, Fat Stick," I said. "I'll drink the Bud, if he doesn't want it."

Fat Stick looked at me like I'd just taken a dump on his face. Without an ounce of humor, he screamed "No!" and basically told me to go jump off a cliff, only not in so polite language.

Silently hoping he'd drop dead from an exploded urethra, I walked away, trying to be the better man.

Bandito and I set up our tents near Nature's on a stretch of flat ground underneath some trees just beyond the summit. We made a camp fire and ate dinner our before returning to watch the sunset. By nightfall, the crowd on top had thinned out considerably. Only the Party Group and a couple of section hikers remained. The mountain was big enough for all of us, however. I avoided my nemeses with ease.

Before returning to my tent, I realized I'd stupidly forgotten my MagLite in my bag. Serendipitously, I happened to have my cell phone on me, and I turned it on to use it as a light, such as I could. To my surprise I discovered I had service. I took advantage of the opportunity and called two of my most trusted friends, Giovanni and Liana, to tell them about my secret plan. That suddenly wasn't so secret anymore. Because I was telling them. For some reason, they both asked me if I was drunk. I wasn't.

And then I went to sleep, my secret plan and other machinations dancing in my head.