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.
Showing posts with label Little Brown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little Brown. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Chapter 91: The Carousel
I feel isolated, disconnected, like the lonely little kid at the amusement park who was too late to get on the merry-go-round: I can only watch and imagine the happiness, the comfort, and the sense of purpose those riding it must feel. Knowing they have a place. Surrounded by friends, flashing lights, and music. Once a revolution, I might catch a face in the crowd, but then the ride goes on, and I am gone. And alone.
However, I know that—at some point—the song will end, and the carousel will slow to a halt, and all those contented little kids will have to shuffle off, disappointed. Some will selfishly cling to their seats to take another spin, but they will see their friends replaced by strangers, and then the tune will change, and the world they have grown to love will seem foreign and terrifying. The few self-aware souls amongst them will look back and see the endless line of eager children waiting to displace them. But not me. Never me. I will have given up and wandered off, without a hope of ever getting on.
Caveman was gone. Merf was hiking with her friend Dietrich—whom I had dubbed Blitz earlier that morning, due to his unflagging speed and seemingly limitless energy—leaving me to continue on my own, alone with my thoughts. Which was fine by me; I found no comfort in company.
Nor, unfortunately, solace in solitude. The twist and creak of branches bending in the wind, the quiet rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, and the incessant cheerful chirping of nearby birds thus became just the ironic soundtrack to my melancholy. My floating reverie.
I passed the Traveling Circus at a road crossing. They were in a typically cheerful mood, waiting for one of their compatriots to pick them up for the short ride back into civilization. I numbly mumbled a half-hearted goodbye, and then shuffled off, dispirited, towards the Eckville Shelter.
Little more than a glorified garage, the Eckville Shelter was just a couple hundred yards up the road, behind the first house on the right. The caretaker's house. A figure of much speculation and foreboding, the caretaker appeared at first only in fleeting glances, peering out suspiciously from behind a drawn window curtain. He would later emerge suddenly to growl at us filthy, marauding hikers to "clean up" and to "get [our crap] off [his] lawn." I didn't know whether to fear, respect, or pity the old man.
That said, I had heard from a (presumably unreliable) south-bounder that the caretaker took kindly to hikers who helped out around the shelter, and that I might even get a popsicle or something if I swept. Naturally, I had hardly dropped my pack inside before asking someone for the broom. Five minutes later, the caretaker came out to reward me with an ice-cold Pepsi. Five minutes after that, he returned with half a watermelon for the rest of us to share. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all.
I ended up sleeping in a chair, leaving the last two available bunks for Merf and Blitz. The other bunks were already occupied, by an assortment of older, more sensitive and physically fragile hikers. Like the Syke Brothers, who were hiking to raise money for charity. For some reason, they reminded me strongly of Redwing and Lil Dipper. Except for that they were very much older, lewd, comically profane, almost completely unintelligible, male, and considerably less attractive. Maybe it was because they were British.
The next morning I hiked off alone once again.
I took frequent breaks in the day that followed, the better to allow Merf and Blitz time and opportunity to catch up with me. It was Blitz's last day on the trail. His girlfriend was coming to pick him up, and was bringing a picnic lunch with her to celebrate the occasion. That was something I didn't want to miss. Did I deserve it? Hadn't I been a good friend, helping Merf and Blitz get through some very difficult and demanding terrain? Or was I just being a mooch? I'm not sure. I don't really care.
Still, Blit'z girlfriend was very nice, as was the assortment of surprisingly (and perhaps disappointingly) healthy snacks she brought with her. None of which did anything to lessen the depressive funk I could feel myself slipping into. Perhaps I envied Blitz? His journey was over; he was going home, retreating into the warmth and comfort of his loved one's arms. Whereas, I was still out in the woods, with nearly a thousand miles still left to go. I definitely envied Blitz.
It hardly seems possible that Merf and I made it into Palmerton, Pennsylvania that day. Somehow, despite stopping for our trail magic snack and to say goodbye to Blitz, we made it twenty five miles, then hitched into town before sunset. I never would have made it without Merf. Unfortunately, I doubt she can say the same of me.
We managed to hitch a ride into town within five minutes. I say we, but Merf really had everything to do with that. A solitary male hitchhiker can be imposing, even scary. As a couple? People probably just assumed we were married, and therefore found us unthreatening. Whatever. I didn't question it.
We were staying the night in the Palmerton Jail. A former jail that was now just a hiker hostel and sometime hang-out for the local Boy Scout troops. Checking in did involve undergoing a background check at the local police station, though. I wouldn't recommend staying there if you have any outstanding warrants. Or maybe even unpaid parking tickets.
Everyone showed up. Little Brown. The entire Traveling Circus, drunk. A mysterious and tragically misguided southbound section hiker. I showered, soaked my feet in Epsom salts, ate my dinner in relative silence, and tried not to let my aggravations get the better of me. People gradually left to go to a nearby hotel bar, or turned in for the night, and things quieted down.
We were two days from the Delaware Water Gap, and the New Jersey border. All that remained between us and that goal was the absolute worst section of trail anywhere. I slept like a baby. Which is to say, fitfully, often waking with the urge to cry and/or urinate myself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
However, I know that—at some point—the song will end, and the carousel will slow to a halt, and all those contented little kids will have to shuffle off, disappointed. Some will selfishly cling to their seats to take another spin, but they will see their friends replaced by strangers, and then the tune will change, and the world they have grown to love will seem foreign and terrifying. The few self-aware souls amongst them will look back and see the endless line of eager children waiting to displace them. But not me. Never me. I will have given up and wandered off, without a hope of ever getting on.
----
Caveman was gone. Merf was hiking with her friend Dietrich—whom I had dubbed Blitz earlier that morning, due to his unflagging speed and seemingly limitless energy—leaving me to continue on my own, alone with my thoughts. Which was fine by me; I found no comfort in company.
Nor, unfortunately, solace in solitude. The twist and creak of branches bending in the wind, the quiet rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, and the incessant cheerful chirping of nearby birds thus became just the ironic soundtrack to my melancholy. My floating reverie.
I passed the Traveling Circus at a road crossing. They were in a typically cheerful mood, waiting for one of their compatriots to pick them up for the short ride back into civilization. I numbly mumbled a half-hearted goodbye, and then shuffled off, dispirited, towards the Eckville Shelter.
Little more than a glorified garage, the Eckville Shelter was just a couple hundred yards up the road, behind the first house on the right. The caretaker's house. A figure of much speculation and foreboding, the caretaker appeared at first only in fleeting glances, peering out suspiciously from behind a drawn window curtain. He would later emerge suddenly to growl at us filthy, marauding hikers to "clean up" and to "get [our crap] off [his] lawn." I didn't know whether to fear, respect, or pity the old man.
That said, I had heard from a (presumably unreliable) south-bounder that the caretaker took kindly to hikers who helped out around the shelter, and that I might even get a popsicle or something if I swept. Naturally, I had hardly dropped my pack inside before asking someone for the broom. Five minutes later, the caretaker came out to reward me with an ice-cold Pepsi. Five minutes after that, he returned with half a watermelon for the rest of us to share. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all.
I ended up sleeping in a chair, leaving the last two available bunks for Merf and Blitz. The other bunks were already occupied, by an assortment of older, more sensitive and physically fragile hikers. Like the Syke Brothers, who were hiking to raise money for charity. For some reason, they reminded me strongly of Redwing and Lil Dipper. Except for that they were very much older, lewd, comically profane, almost completely unintelligible, male, and considerably less attractive. Maybe it was because they were British.
The next morning I hiked off alone once again.
I took frequent breaks in the day that followed, the better to allow Merf and Blitz time and opportunity to catch up with me. It was Blitz's last day on the trail. His girlfriend was coming to pick him up, and was bringing a picnic lunch with her to celebrate the occasion. That was something I didn't want to miss. Did I deserve it? Hadn't I been a good friend, helping Merf and Blitz get through some very difficult and demanding terrain? Or was I just being a mooch? I'm not sure. I don't really care.
Still, Blit'z girlfriend was very nice, as was the assortment of surprisingly (and perhaps disappointingly) healthy snacks she brought with her. None of which did anything to lessen the depressive funk I could feel myself slipping into. Perhaps I envied Blitz? His journey was over; he was going home, retreating into the warmth and comfort of his loved one's arms. Whereas, I was still out in the woods, with nearly a thousand miles still left to go. I definitely envied Blitz.
It hardly seems possible that Merf and I made it into Palmerton, Pennsylvania that day. Somehow, despite stopping for our trail magic snack and to say goodbye to Blitz, we made it twenty five miles, then hitched into town before sunset. I never would have made it without Merf. Unfortunately, I doubt she can say the same of me.
We managed to hitch a ride into town within five minutes. I say we, but Merf really had everything to do with that. A solitary male hitchhiker can be imposing, even scary. As a couple? People probably just assumed we were married, and therefore found us unthreatening. Whatever. I didn't question it.
We were staying the night in the Palmerton Jail. A former jail that was now just a hiker hostel and sometime hang-out for the local Boy Scout troops. Checking in did involve undergoing a background check at the local police station, though. I wouldn't recommend staying there if you have any outstanding warrants. Or maybe even unpaid parking tickets.
Everyone showed up. Little Brown. The entire Traveling Circus, drunk. A mysterious and tragically misguided southbound section hiker. I showered, soaked my feet in Epsom salts, ate my dinner in relative silence, and tried not to let my aggravations get the better of me. People gradually left to go to a nearby hotel bar, or turned in for the night, and things quieted down.
We were two days from the Delaware Water Gap, and the New Jersey border. All that remained between us and that goal was the absolute worst section of trail anywhere. I slept like a baby. Which is to say, fitfully, often waking with the urge to cry and/or urinate myself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Chapter 89: To Caveman
I'm in Pennsylvania. I've gone twelve-hundred and two miles. It's the second week of June.
I am utterly miserable.
I sit down, dejected, in the tick-infested weeds beside the dirt road that marks this particular pipeline right-of-way. Or whatever it is. If I check my Handbook, it will tell me that this is a "Game lands road." I think of a more accurate, profane description while retrieving a soda from my pack.
That's right, we found trail magic earlier. Someone had left sodas in a creek, just off the trail. I took five: a Coke, a Mountain Dew, and a Birch Beer that I drank right away, plus a Dr. Pepper and another Birch Beer that I saved for later. Eat your heart out, Caveman.
My "friend" Caveman, always denying me what's rightfully mine. Urging me to be "conscientious" and "considerate," to leave some for the others. For the faceless crowd we've left behind. What nonsense.
I had to take them. I deserved them. I needed them. Because I was depressed.
Because you broke up with me.
As I sip my Dr. Pepper, luxuriating in every one of its sumptuous twenty-three flavors, I reminisce about walking home from school with Amber on that fateful Monday afternoon, and of watching Libby drive away in the rain, barely resisting the urge to run after her. I quickly come to the conclusion that this is worse. Or at least more recent.
I knew you had been feeling antsy, and that you weren't entirely content just slumming it with me anymore, doing relatively relaxed 17- and 24-mile days. I knew this because you basically told me as much, if in not so many words. I remember the conversation vividly, as though it had only happened a few hours earlier. Maybe it had.
"I'm just feelin' a little antsy," you had said, grimacing. "It's not that I don't enjoy slummin' it with Merf an' that other dude an' you—I love you, man. You know I do—it's just I like everybody else more. P-Nut an' Hobbes..."
"And the British girls?"
"Yeah," you had sighed. "Sure, them too."
"And Bandito?"
"Well, not so much him. No."
And we both had laughed. Me bitterly. Because I knew it was probably the last, after we had shared so many.
And I'm back in the dust by the road, amidst the buzzing insects, feeling the weight on my back, the sun on my face, and the pain in my ass. Stupid pebbles. I should've picked a better place to sit.
What direction will my life take now? How will I define myself without you? If I'm not walking to be with you, what am I walking for? Why am I even out here? If not for love or friendship, then what?
The forest in front of me shimmers in the heat. And then they emerge. A man and a woman walk towards me out of the haze. The man is tall and muscular; his rakish beard and casually disheveled hair exude the careless confidence of a man who has never once had cause to doubt his devilish good looks. Or his good fortune. The woman is striking, similarly tall and startlingly voluptuous. Clear skinned, vaguely Nordic in stature, she carries herself like some avenging Valkyrie, with a serene look of steely detachment in her eyes but her gait and body language full of an inexplicable violence that sends a cool shiver down my spine. Both are clean and seem in good spirits. They look down on me with a vaguely mirthful curiosity, as if I am so comically insignificant as to be utterly unworthy of their attention, let alone their scorn.
And then they're gone.
"Who the hell was that?" I ask, half to myself.
"Slackpackers," says Caveman.
I practically jump out of my skin. I'd forgotten he was there. I nod absentmindedly.
"I met them yesterday," continues Caveman. "They were hitching a ride by the road on the way up to the 501 Shelter. I think her name is Lightning."
Sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.
"Slackpackers," I spit, shaking my head. "How I hate them."
"Did you find yourself, like, sexually threatened by him?"
"What? No! Why?"
"It sounded like you were. From your narration," explains Caveman.
"Shut up," I scold. "You're not allowed any meta commentary. Not today."
"Why? 'Cause I'm leaving you?"
"Yes. I'm still hurt."
Caveman sighs. "You shouldn't be threatened by him, M.C. Or anybody, for that matter. You are one handsome devil."
"Don't tease me."
"Come on," Caveman urges. "Let's just try to enjoy these next few hours. It's all we've got left."
"This is wrong," I say. "You were never this prescient in real life."
"But that's the beauty of fiction," says Caveman. "You can fix every wrong."
I begrudgingly concede his point, until I remember. "Hey! What did I say about the fourth wall!"
"The fourth what? What're you talkin' about?" asks Caveman, amused. "I don't even know what that means."
"That's better," I say, cautiously.
"Come on, M.C." urges Caveman again. "We'll go into Port Clinton, stay at the pavilion there. It's free. Maybe we'll order pizza from Pizza Hut, for old time's sake. I'll pay with my credit card over the phone, and you can promise to pay me back when you get some cash, but then again I'm never going to see you after this, so that'll be an empty promise!"
"Yes, it will," I agree.
"And then we can laugh at everybody who didn't get trail magic back there at the sign, and you can write something mean in a shelter log."
"There won't be a shelter log, Caveman. It's a gazebo."
"Okay, well you can think of something really mean to write the next time."
"Maybe. What if nothing pisses me off?"
Caveman laughs. And says nothing. Like I was joking.
"Well?" he asks, after a moment. "What do you say? Is it a plan? The perfect afternoon ever? Or what?"
"It sounds like every other day on the trail," I grumble.
"So? I wouldn't want it any other way."
I want to stay mad at him, but I can't. He offers me his hand. Which I don't take, choosing instead to stumble to my feet the manly way. Because Caveman and I are two burly dudes, who don't ever touch each other for any reason.
"Oh stop," Caveman chides. "Gay panic? Really? That's beneath you."
I let this one slide.
And we head off into town, where we get Pizza Hut, and drink our last remaining sodas. Where we formally meet Lightning and the rest of her group, the Travelling Circus. Where I bond pleasantly with a stray kitten, until someone erroneously warns me the cat has fleas. After which I foolishly ignore it. Eventually Merf and Deitrich and Little Brown arrive, and I let them eat the crust of my large stuffed crust pizza. Because I'm too full to eat anymore. I mean, in the spirit of togetherness.
And then it is the end of our perfect afternoon, our last day together. Caveman and I say goodnight, and goodbye, one final time. Our jubilant reunion cut short. My last tie to my friends gone. He will leave the next morning before dawn. I will remain to face the unknown future alone.
I am utterly miserable.
I sit down, dejected, in the tick-infested weeds beside the dirt road that marks this particular pipeline right-of-way. Or whatever it is. If I check my Handbook, it will tell me that this is a "Game lands road." I think of a more accurate, profane description while retrieving a soda from my pack.
That's right, we found trail magic earlier. Someone had left sodas in a creek, just off the trail. I took five: a Coke, a Mountain Dew, and a Birch Beer that I drank right away, plus a Dr. Pepper and another Birch Beer that I saved for later. Eat your heart out, Caveman.
My "friend" Caveman, always denying me what's rightfully mine. Urging me to be "conscientious" and "considerate," to leave some for the others. For the faceless crowd we've left behind. What nonsense.
I had to take them. I deserved them. I needed them. Because I was depressed.
Because you broke up with me.
As I sip my Dr. Pepper, luxuriating in every one of its sumptuous twenty-three flavors, I reminisce about walking home from school with Amber on that fateful Monday afternoon, and of watching Libby drive away in the rain, barely resisting the urge to run after her. I quickly come to the conclusion that this is worse. Or at least more recent.
I knew you had been feeling antsy, and that you weren't entirely content just slumming it with me anymore, doing relatively relaxed 17- and 24-mile days. I knew this because you basically told me as much, if in not so many words. I remember the conversation vividly, as though it had only happened a few hours earlier. Maybe it had.
"I'm just feelin' a little antsy," you had said, grimacing. "It's not that I don't enjoy slummin' it with Merf an' that other dude an' you—I love you, man. You know I do—it's just I like everybody else more. P-Nut an' Hobbes..."
"And the British girls?"
"Yeah," you had sighed. "Sure, them too."
"And Bandito?"
"Well, not so much him. No."
And we both had laughed. Me bitterly. Because I knew it was probably the last, after we had shared so many.
And I'm back in the dust by the road, amidst the buzzing insects, feeling the weight on my back, the sun on my face, and the pain in my ass. Stupid pebbles. I should've picked a better place to sit.
What direction will my life take now? How will I define myself without you? If I'm not walking to be with you, what am I walking for? Why am I even out here? If not for love or friendship, then what?
The forest in front of me shimmers in the heat. And then they emerge. A man and a woman walk towards me out of the haze. The man is tall and muscular; his rakish beard and casually disheveled hair exude the careless confidence of a man who has never once had cause to doubt his devilish good looks. Or his good fortune. The woman is striking, similarly tall and startlingly voluptuous. Clear skinned, vaguely Nordic in stature, she carries herself like some avenging Valkyrie, with a serene look of steely detachment in her eyes but her gait and body language full of an inexplicable violence that sends a cool shiver down my spine. Both are clean and seem in good spirits. They look down on me with a vaguely mirthful curiosity, as if I am so comically insignificant as to be utterly unworthy of their attention, let alone their scorn.
And then they're gone.
"Who the hell was that?" I ask, half to myself.
"Slackpackers," says Caveman.
I practically jump out of my skin. I'd forgotten he was there. I nod absentmindedly.
"I met them yesterday," continues Caveman. "They were hitching a ride by the road on the way up to the 501 Shelter. I think her name is Lightning."
Sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.
"Slackpackers," I spit, shaking my head. "How I hate them."
"Did you find yourself, like, sexually threatened by him?"
"What? No! Why?"
"It sounded like you were. From your narration," explains Caveman.
"Shut up," I scold. "You're not allowed any meta commentary. Not today."
"Why? 'Cause I'm leaving you?"
"Yes. I'm still hurt."
Caveman sighs. "You shouldn't be threatened by him, M.C. Or anybody, for that matter. You are one handsome devil."
"Don't tease me."
"Come on," Caveman urges. "Let's just try to enjoy these next few hours. It's all we've got left."
"This is wrong," I say. "You were never this prescient in real life."
"But that's the beauty of fiction," says Caveman. "You can fix every wrong."
I begrudgingly concede his point, until I remember. "Hey! What did I say about the fourth wall!"
"The fourth what? What're you talkin' about?" asks Caveman, amused. "I don't even know what that means."
"That's better," I say, cautiously.
"Come on, M.C." urges Caveman again. "We'll go into Port Clinton, stay at the pavilion there. It's free. Maybe we'll order pizza from Pizza Hut, for old time's sake. I'll pay with my credit card over the phone, and you can promise to pay me back when you get some cash, but then again I'm never going to see you after this, so that'll be an empty promise!"
"Yes, it will," I agree.
"And then we can laugh at everybody who didn't get trail magic back there at the sign, and you can write something mean in a shelter log."
"There won't be a shelter log, Caveman. It's a gazebo."
"Okay, well you can think of something really mean to write the next time."
"Maybe. What if nothing pisses me off?"
Caveman laughs. And says nothing. Like I was joking.
"Well?" he asks, after a moment. "What do you say? Is it a plan? The perfect afternoon ever? Or what?"
"It sounds like every other day on the trail," I grumble.
"So? I wouldn't want it any other way."
I want to stay mad at him, but I can't. He offers me his hand. Which I don't take, choosing instead to stumble to my feet the manly way. Because Caveman and I are two burly dudes, who don't ever touch each other for any reason.
"Oh stop," Caveman chides. "Gay panic? Really? That's beneath you."
I let this one slide.
And we head off into town, where we get Pizza Hut, and drink our last remaining sodas. Where we formally meet Lightning and the rest of her group, the Travelling Circus. Where I bond pleasantly with a stray kitten, until someone erroneously warns me the cat has fleas. After which I foolishly ignore it. Eventually Merf and Deitrich and Little Brown arrive, and I let them eat the crust of my large stuffed crust pizza. Because I'm too full to eat anymore. I mean, in the spirit of togetherness.
And then it is the end of our perfect afternoon, our last day together. Caveman and I say goodnight, and goodbye, one final time. Our jubilant reunion cut short. My last tie to my friends gone. He will leave the next morning before dawn. I will remain to face the unknown future alone.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Chapter 88: Beef
I never would have made it to the Rausch Gap Shelter without Caveman. Or, more specifically, without his handy supply of Excedrin. Right around Yellow Springs Village, the empty ruins of an abandoned mining town, I really started dragging, and badly needed a pick-me-up. I mean, I was in terrible pain! My head, back, and every muscle in my body hurt. Yeah.
Although an inconvenient 0.3 miles off the trail, the Rausch Gap Shelter was actually pretty nice. A boxed-in spring burbled up from the ground right out front, and there was a nice circular picnic table there, too. Being in good company didn't hurt the experience either. Dreamcatcher was there. Merf and Dietrich were there. Dietrich was somehow still alive after being run ragged over 25 miles of brutal terrain, and this on his first day out. He'd never even been backpacking before! And Little Brown was there! The smug, condescending bastard, casually remarking about how he'd never thought he'd catch up to any of us light-footed youngsters. It was good to see him.
I froze during the night. I'd ditched my sleeping bag in Maryland, leaving it with Megan to hold onto until I needed it again. Which apparently was now. Unfortunately for me, I wouldn't manage to get my sleeping bag back until New Hampshire. In the meantime, I made do with my snazzy liner. And by wearing my thermals and fleece to bed. And my rain gear. And by wrapping myself in my tarptent, to cut the wind. And by setting the shelter on fire. Actually, my tent proved to be a surprisingly good insulator.
Anyway, I somehow managed not to die during the night. Actually, I may have been most afraid of one of the others—probably Merf, whom I suspect always harbored a hidden violent streak—beating me to death as I slept, for all of the unintentional but annoying crinkling noises I must have made every time I rolled over. Or breathed.
So I woke up alive. No, wait, I woke up dead. My sudden and inexplicable death adds so much poignancy to this narrative, doesn't it?
"No," said Merf. "It doesn't even really make sense. It just makes you seem like a lunatic. Why is this in the past tense?"
"Sorry!"
"No, don't be sorry," continued Merf. "This is getting too meta. I'm not Bandito, you know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look, just because I don't swear, I'm polite, and I'm a teetotaler—"
"Hey, you're right! I never noticed that before. You two really are quite simi—"
"Shut up!" interrupted Merf. "Stay focussed! What's wrong with you? Were you in a weird mood when you woke up?"
"No."
"Then why are we doing this?"
"I don't know? Why are you attacking me?!"
"You're the narrator," pointed out Caveman.
"You stay out of this!" I screamed. "Maybe it's because—aside from that other creepy abandoned mining town we went through—I don't remember anything until we found that trail magic by the road!"
It's true. I don't.
"You're an idiot," said Caveman.
So Caveman and I were hiking with Merf and Dietrich for a change. Dreamcatcher was too full of youthful brio to be held back by us, and Little Brown was too full of cantankerous old-man crustiness to be tolerated. Actually, that's not true at all. He had just gotten out of camp earlier than we had, and was way ahead of us by then. So the four of us were approaching PA443 when we came upon a cooler full of juice boxes and crackers. Which—as any thru-hiker or six-year-old knows—is like mana from heaven. And then we maybe found another cooler, by another road, that had popsicles and sodas. Or maybe that was a different day. Doesn't matter. For once, Caveman didn't stop me from taking my deserved share. We gorged ourselves.
It soon started to rain, heavily. In an extraordinary hurry, I pulled off the rare "walk and pee," which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Actually an extraordinarily difficult move, the tricky part of the "walk and pee," alternately known as the "walking pee," is to not splash urine on yourself, your pants, or your shoes while you do it. Since it was raining, and since I was wearing waterproof clothing, my normal worries were somewhat assuaged. But I pulled it off successfully. Not a single errant drop of urine fell anywhere on my person! You might think this is weird, but it's not.
"It kind of is," said Caveman, shaking his head.
"Shut up!"
We headed towards the William Penn Shelter to escape the rain. A magnificent structure that sleeps sixteen, the shelter was otherwise empty. Well, except for a sodden, bedraggled Dreamcatcher.
"I'm staying here for the night," he announced wearily, dragging his equipment into the loft.
It was a tempting idea, except for that we had only gone fourteen miles so far that day. Kind of an anemic output for us stalwart veterans of the trail. Besides, the 501 Shelter, which had a caretaker and pizza delivery, was only four miles away.
Caveman left before the rest of us. Maybe he was worried about securing a spot in the shelter. I wasn't. It had been raining all day. We were the only northbound thru-hikers for miles. Except for Little Brown, who could be ahead of us? Nobody I knew.
Apparently a lot of people. All the bunks were full when we arrived. Merf, Dietrich and I would have to sleep on the floor. Mostly everybody else looked like they had moved in there permanently, with their stuff strewn about, and their wet clothes draped everywhere. How I hated them all. Even—or perhaps especially—this one girl, Veggie, who lorded over a small group of friends with a self-satisfied smile. Everything about her rubbed me the wrong way. Particularly the fact that she was dry.
I soon learned that everybody else there was northbound, like us, but that they had taken zeros that day because of the rain. Which only infuriated me more. I took solace in acting like a huge jerk, scowling at everyone, and basically by being a whirling dervish of passive-aggressive whining and angst. At least Caveman and Little Brown were there to comfort me.
Wait, what am I saying? They were annoying too. Or at least Little Brown was. He wrote something surprisingly well-written, funny, and stingingly accurate about me in the shelter log. That I can't remember. It may have been a criticism of my poetry skills. Unforgivable.
Merf, Caveman, Dietrich and I ordered pizza. Which was nice, but did little to calm me down or elevate my mood. Then Merf and I wrote a poem in the register, since that was becoming sort of our thing. And I had my revenge. I don't remember how the poem began, but I sure know how it ended:
Although an inconvenient 0.3 miles off the trail, the Rausch Gap Shelter was actually pretty nice. A boxed-in spring burbled up from the ground right out front, and there was a nice circular picnic table there, too. Being in good company didn't hurt the experience either. Dreamcatcher was there. Merf and Dietrich were there. Dietrich was somehow still alive after being run ragged over 25 miles of brutal terrain, and this on his first day out. He'd never even been backpacking before! And Little Brown was there! The smug, condescending bastard, casually remarking about how he'd never thought he'd catch up to any of us light-footed youngsters. It was good to see him.
I froze during the night. I'd ditched my sleeping bag in Maryland, leaving it with Megan to hold onto until I needed it again. Which apparently was now. Unfortunately for me, I wouldn't manage to get my sleeping bag back until New Hampshire. In the meantime, I made do with my snazzy liner. And by wearing my thermals and fleece to bed. And my rain gear. And by wrapping myself in my tarptent, to cut the wind. And by setting the shelter on fire. Actually, my tent proved to be a surprisingly good insulator.
Anyway, I somehow managed not to die during the night. Actually, I may have been most afraid of one of the others—probably Merf, whom I suspect always harbored a hidden violent streak—beating me to death as I slept, for all of the unintentional but annoying crinkling noises I must have made every time I rolled over. Or breathed.
So I woke up alive. No, wait, I woke up dead. My sudden and inexplicable death adds so much poignancy to this narrative, doesn't it?
"No," said Merf. "It doesn't even really make sense. It just makes you seem like a lunatic. Why is this in the past tense?"
"Sorry!"
"No, don't be sorry," continued Merf. "This is getting too meta. I'm not Bandito, you know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look, just because I don't swear, I'm polite, and I'm a teetotaler—"
"Hey, you're right! I never noticed that before. You two really are quite simi—"
"Shut up!" interrupted Merf. "Stay focussed! What's wrong with you? Were you in a weird mood when you woke up?"
"No."
"Then why are we doing this?"
"I don't know? Why are you attacking me?!"
"You're the narrator," pointed out Caveman.
"You stay out of this!" I screamed. "Maybe it's because—aside from that other creepy abandoned mining town we went through—I don't remember anything until we found that trail magic by the road!"
It's true. I don't.
"You're an idiot," said Caveman.
So Caveman and I were hiking with Merf and Dietrich for a change. Dreamcatcher was too full of youthful brio to be held back by us, and Little Brown was too full of cantankerous old-man crustiness to be tolerated. Actually, that's not true at all. He had just gotten out of camp earlier than we had, and was way ahead of us by then. So the four of us were approaching PA443 when we came upon a cooler full of juice boxes and crackers. Which—as any thru-hiker or six-year-old knows—is like mana from heaven. And then we maybe found another cooler, by another road, that had popsicles and sodas. Or maybe that was a different day. Doesn't matter. For once, Caveman didn't stop me from taking my deserved share. We gorged ourselves.
It soon started to rain, heavily. In an extraordinary hurry, I pulled off the rare "walk and pee," which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Actually an extraordinarily difficult move, the tricky part of the "walk and pee," alternately known as the "walking pee," is to not splash urine on yourself, your pants, or your shoes while you do it. Since it was raining, and since I was wearing waterproof clothing, my normal worries were somewhat assuaged. But I pulled it off successfully. Not a single errant drop of urine fell anywhere on my person! You might think this is weird, but it's not.
"It kind of is," said Caveman, shaking his head.
"Shut up!"
We headed towards the William Penn Shelter to escape the rain. A magnificent structure that sleeps sixteen, the shelter was otherwise empty. Well, except for a sodden, bedraggled Dreamcatcher.
"I'm staying here for the night," he announced wearily, dragging his equipment into the loft.
It was a tempting idea, except for that we had only gone fourteen miles so far that day. Kind of an anemic output for us stalwart veterans of the trail. Besides, the 501 Shelter, which had a caretaker and pizza delivery, was only four miles away.
Caveman left before the rest of us. Maybe he was worried about securing a spot in the shelter. I wasn't. It had been raining all day. We were the only northbound thru-hikers for miles. Except for Little Brown, who could be ahead of us? Nobody I knew.
Apparently a lot of people. All the bunks were full when we arrived. Merf, Dietrich and I would have to sleep on the floor. Mostly everybody else looked like they had moved in there permanently, with their stuff strewn about, and their wet clothes draped everywhere. How I hated them all. Even—or perhaps especially—this one girl, Veggie, who lorded over a small group of friends with a self-satisfied smile. Everything about her rubbed me the wrong way. Particularly the fact that she was dry.
I soon learned that everybody else there was northbound, like us, but that they had taken zeros that day because of the rain. Which only infuriated me more. I took solace in acting like a huge jerk, scowling at everyone, and basically by being a whirling dervish of passive-aggressive whining and angst. At least Caveman and Little Brown were there to comfort me.
Wait, what am I saying? They were annoying too. Or at least Little Brown was. He wrote something surprisingly well-written, funny, and stingingly accurate about me in the shelter log. That I can't remember. It may have been a criticism of my poetry skills. Unforgivable.
Merf, Caveman, Dietrich and I ordered pizza. Which was nice, but did little to calm me down or elevate my mood. Then Merf and I wrote a poem in the register, since that was becoming sort of our thing. And I had my revenge. I don't remember how the poem began, but I sure know how it ended:
something something something, and all was well
Except for Little Brown, who can still go to hell
-Merf
-Major Chafage
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Chapter 61: A Fresh Take
P-Nut stood beside me in the Thunder Hill Shelter, limply watching the torrential downpour outside. Lightning crackled overhead. The instantaneous boom of the thunder almost knocked us flat, leaving only a faint ringing in our ears to be heard over the overwhelming rush of the downpour pounding the roof of the shelter.
Blithely ignore the deluge outside, I stripped half-naked and dried off with my trusty pack towel. Originally intended for backpacking in Europe, Megan had ordered the pack towel for me. In an attempt to save weight, I had asked for the medium, not knowing that it would be the approximate size and have all the utility of a soggy burrito wrapper. Still, I did my best, and quickly changed into dry clothes before crawling into my sleeping bag.
I figured our best option was to wait there until morning and hope for better weather. My plan had the added benefit of leaving our friends more time to catch up with us. Ever impatient, however, P-Nut had only begrudgingly agreed to stay. We had both just settled in for the long haul when it abruptly stopped raining.
And the sun came out, and the air was filled with birdsong and the laughter of approaching thru-hikers, some of whom we just happened to know. Caveman was there, along with Redwing and Lil Dipper. Even Hobbes was there! I think. And Bandito was there, too.
Bandito had missed me most of all. I was his best friend and moral compass, after all, and without me, he had been lost in a deeply embarrassing sea of misunderstanding and untowardness. He was thus only lucky that he caught up with me, so that I could keep him on the straight and narrow.
Moonpie and Little Brown might also have been there, but I didn't begrudge their presence. Despite all our differences – mainly their good humor and general gregariousness and my egregious lack of grace of humility – we shared a common goal, and for that reason alone it was easy and perhaps inevitable for us to get along and pull for each other. Plus Moonpie mentioned the possibility his girlfriend bringing us trail magic the next day, and that was an excellent way for him to get into my good graces. I was, and remain, an extraordinarily shallow person.
The next morning, Redwing and Lil Dipper mentioned going into Glasgow or Big Island to resupply. Personally, I wasn't too keen on the idea. It was a notoriously difficult hitch, and I had more than enough food to tide me over. I selfishly tried to convince them to wait a day to resupply at Buena Vista – inexplicably pronounced Byoo-nah Vista by locals – but they weren't so sure.
"Well, I just thought maybe you wanted that Five Dollar Foot-Long I owe you," I shrugged.
"They have a Subway there?" gasped Lil Dipper, her eyes lighting up.
I nodded coyly.
"Blimey!" she exclaimed. "But that's literally my favourite sandwich shoppe! I would walk like a thousand kilometers just to eat there!"
"Subway," added Redwing, winking. "Eat Fresh!"
And so, as a group, we decided to skip Glasgow and Big Island, and to hike on to the Punchbowl Shelter. Or something.
We saw Moonpie and Little Brown at the Matts Creek Shelter, just before the James River. Moonpie reminded us in his characteristically humble fashion that his insanely hot girlfriend was picking him up at US501, just across the bridge. And that he was subsequently going home with her for a week to gluttonously revel in all that mature adults in modern civilization are so privileged to enjoy. Like hot showers and cable television. Oh, and he also told us that she was bringing trail magic.
And she was.
His girlfriend – whose name I've callously forgotten – was gracious, charming, and generally way too young, attractive and intelligent for someone so unabashedly rough-around-the-edges as Moonpie. I was at a complete loss to understand their relationship. Still, she had brought with her a glorious cornucopia of junk food, for which I am forever grateful. Nobody deigned to mention to her that people providing trail magic don't generally buy out a Walmart in order to do it. Usually just sodas and candy bars would suffice. But she had so much that we almost considered skipping Buena Vista.
"Yeah, I'm sorry Lil Dipper," I shrugged. "I may not need to go into town after all. Your Subway sandwich will have to wait."
"What?" snapped Lil Dipper, eerily reminding me of Caveman. "But how much did you take?"
"But they bake their own bread, daily! And their sandwiches are so hearty and delicious!" moaned Redwing. "And the way they don't tessellate their cheese? I was so looking forward to that."
"Oh well," I shrugged, annoyed. "Maybe there's a Blimpie in Waynesboro."
Now, at this point, I had written something about how Lil Dipper and Redwing suddenly transformed into vengeful, Valkyrie-like goddess warriors, beat me to within an inch of my life and nearly drowned me in the river. I had also written an extremely clever bit where Hobbes came along just at that moment and made fun of me for being beaten up by a couple of girls, and for also apparently soiling my pants. On this last point he would have been wrong, however, as I then would then have explained in a carefully crafted joke involving a conspicuous smudge caused by some melted Snickers bars. Which had only melted because of a lightning bolt cast by one of the angry British girls. But it all would have been very silly and stupid, and none of it really happened. So I'm not including it.
Because everything else I've written has been the unequivocal, unvarnished truth, without regard for my or anyone else's feelings, public image, or future political ambitions. And I want to keep that going. Also, because I have artistic integrity, and would never write anything that wasn't at least emotionally honest, not for shock value, not for laughs, and certainly not for any extremely generous gift card to the first and most delicious and healthy sandwich-based chain restaurant that springs to mind.
Blithely ignore the deluge outside, I stripped half-naked and dried off with my trusty pack towel. Originally intended for backpacking in Europe, Megan had ordered the pack towel for me. In an attempt to save weight, I had asked for the medium, not knowing that it would be the approximate size and have all the utility of a soggy burrito wrapper. Still, I did my best, and quickly changed into dry clothes before crawling into my sleeping bag.
I figured our best option was to wait there until morning and hope for better weather. My plan had the added benefit of leaving our friends more time to catch up with us. Ever impatient, however, P-Nut had only begrudgingly agreed to stay. We had both just settled in for the long haul when it abruptly stopped raining.
And the sun came out, and the air was filled with birdsong and the laughter of approaching thru-hikers, some of whom we just happened to know. Caveman was there, along with Redwing and Lil Dipper. Even Hobbes was there! I think. And Bandito was there, too.
Bandito had missed me most of all. I was his best friend and moral compass, after all, and without me, he had been lost in a deeply embarrassing sea of misunderstanding and untowardness. He was thus only lucky that he caught up with me, so that I could keep him on the straight and narrow.
Moonpie and Little Brown might also have been there, but I didn't begrudge their presence. Despite all our differences – mainly their good humor and general gregariousness and my egregious lack of grace of humility – we shared a common goal, and for that reason alone it was easy and perhaps inevitable for us to get along and pull for each other. Plus Moonpie mentioned the possibility his girlfriend bringing us trail magic the next day, and that was an excellent way for him to get into my good graces. I was, and remain, an extraordinarily shallow person.
The next morning, Redwing and Lil Dipper mentioned going into Glasgow or Big Island to resupply. Personally, I wasn't too keen on the idea. It was a notoriously difficult hitch, and I had more than enough food to tide me over. I selfishly tried to convince them to wait a day to resupply at Buena Vista – inexplicably pronounced Byoo-nah Vista by locals – but they weren't so sure.
"Well, I just thought maybe you wanted that Five Dollar Foot-Long I owe you," I shrugged.
"They have a Subway there?" gasped Lil Dipper, her eyes lighting up.
I nodded coyly.
"Blimey!" she exclaimed. "But that's literally my favourite sandwich shoppe! I would walk like a thousand kilometers just to eat there!"
"Subway," added Redwing, winking. "Eat Fresh!"
And so, as a group, we decided to skip Glasgow and Big Island, and to hike on to the Punchbowl Shelter. Or something.
We saw Moonpie and Little Brown at the Matts Creek Shelter, just before the James River. Moonpie reminded us in his characteristically humble fashion that his insanely hot girlfriend was picking him up at US501, just across the bridge. And that he was subsequently going home with her for a week to gluttonously revel in all that mature adults in modern civilization are so privileged to enjoy. Like hot showers and cable television. Oh, and he also told us that she was bringing trail magic.
And she was.
His girlfriend – whose name I've callously forgotten – was gracious, charming, and generally way too young, attractive and intelligent for someone so unabashedly rough-around-the-edges as Moonpie. I was at a complete loss to understand their relationship. Still, she had brought with her a glorious cornucopia of junk food, for which I am forever grateful. Nobody deigned to mention to her that people providing trail magic don't generally buy out a Walmart in order to do it. Usually just sodas and candy bars would suffice. But she had so much that we almost considered skipping Buena Vista.
"Yeah, I'm sorry Lil Dipper," I shrugged. "I may not need to go into town after all. Your Subway sandwich will have to wait."
"What?" snapped Lil Dipper, eerily reminding me of Caveman. "But how much did you take?"
"But they bake their own bread, daily! And their sandwiches are so hearty and delicious!" moaned Redwing. "And the way they don't tessellate their cheese? I was so looking forward to that."
"Oh well," I shrugged, annoyed. "Maybe there's a Blimpie in Waynesboro."
Now, at this point, I had written something about how Lil Dipper and Redwing suddenly transformed into vengeful, Valkyrie-like goddess warriors, beat me to within an inch of my life and nearly drowned me in the river. I had also written an extremely clever bit where Hobbes came along just at that moment and made fun of me for being beaten up by a couple of girls, and for also apparently soiling my pants. On this last point he would have been wrong, however, as I then would then have explained in a carefully crafted joke involving a conspicuous smudge caused by some melted Snickers bars. Which had only melted because of a lightning bolt cast by one of the angry British girls. But it all would have been very silly and stupid, and none of it really happened. So I'm not including it.
Because everything else I've written has been the unequivocal, unvarnished truth, without regard for my or anyone else's feelings, public image, or future political ambitions. And I want to keep that going. Also, because I have artistic integrity, and would never write anything that wasn't at least emotionally honest, not for shock value, not for laughs, and certainly not for any extremely generous gift card to the first and most delicious and healthy sandwich-based chain restaurant that springs to mind.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Chapter 59: The Present Tense, Again
To absolutely no one's surprise, P-Nut isn't at the Fullhardt Knob Shelter. However, Bandito, Caveman and myself are hardly alone. There's an older man there named Little Brown, whom I assume works in publishing but will find out later actually works for UPS. Then there's his friend Moonpie, who I find obnoxious and instantly dislike because he quite justifiably mocks me for being a pretentious blowhard. He's also an unabashed pervert.
"Kinda looks like a tit, don'tcha think?" he says, gazing lustily at someone's tent, which admittedly does look like a breast. If breasts were blue, and four feet tall.
If there is anything I didn't need, it's a couple of elderly sidekicks who will only cramp my style by being funny all the time and by ridiculing me and deflating my ego. I already have Caveman for that. And Redwing. And literally everyone else I'm hiking with. I secretly hope that Little Brown and Moonpie drop dead. Naturally, we'll end up marking time with each other for the next 560 miles.
I tell Caveman and Bandito my intentions of running down P-Nut that day.
"Someone's gotta catch up with him and slow him down," I say, "Or we're likely never to see him again."
Bandito and Caveman exchange glances, as though they wouldn't be too sorry to let him go. I think of Alphabet, and her unheralded departure. I don't want to lose another friend. I find their indifference disgusting and unacceptable.
"No!" I cry, "This is unacceptable. I'm not going to lose another one!"
"What are you talking about?" asks Bandito, bewildered by my sudden outburst.
"M.C. always has to make things overly dramatic," says Caveman.
"Why?"
"Because he's afraid that if he lets things seem mundane, as they really are, people will realize how uninteresting he really is," explains Caveman.
"How dare you," I mutter, "Accurately describe the situation."
"That's the benefit of being the third-person omniscient narrator," says Caveman.
"Shut up! You're not the narrator!" I scream. "I am!"
"M.C.," laments Bandito, "You're letting things get too meta again. Have you had enough coffee? Or maybe too much?"
"Et tu, Bandito?" I growl, "I see how it is! Everyone's against me! I'll just go on alone!"
"Well, yeah. That's what you said you were gonna do," says Caveman. "To catch P-Nut."
"Right!" I sputter. "Fine! I'm going!"
And I leave.
I see Hobbes a little later. He's still in camp. It looks as though he slept directly on the trail, or perhaps right next to it. I feel like I haven't seen him in a couple days. Weird.
"Hey," says Hobbes, pulling his pants on. "What's all the screaming about?"
"Oh, you heard me shouting back there?"
"Everyone in Virginia heard that."
"I'm sorry," I shrug, annoyed. "Did I wake you?"
Hobbes scoffs. "No, I've been up since four, communing with nature. I was just having the most fascinating conversation with a squirrel."
I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. I've never been able to get a good read on him. I decide it's best not to find out. I nod stupidly and hike on.
Spring arrives slowly at elevation. I vividly remember the last time it snowed, just a couple weeks earlier. Now leaves are growing on the trees again, and the forest floor is a vast sea of budding flowers, mottled by lightly sashaying pools of amber sunlight. The air is alive with birdsong and the buzz of insects.
Or maybe it's overcast. I walk through a heavy mist which stills and dulls every sound and movement. I hear only faint echoes, as though in a mausoleum. A soft carpet of last year's leaves muffles my footfalls. I drift onward as if in a dream, practically swimming through the cloud around me.
I think about catching up with P-Nut. I think about Bandito, Caveman, Redwing and Lil Dipper catching up with me. I think about Hobbes catching up with me. I try not to think about Hobbes. I try not to think about Alphabet, Jason, Freeman, Merf, or Shorts either. I think about Megan. Every step I take carries me further away from the gloom of loss and separation towards a brighter future, the infinite possibility of the unknown stretching before me like the horizon.
I abruptly walk out of the woods onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, which I'll be crossing approximately twelve dozen times over the next hundred miles. Two lanes of cool, perfectly maintained asphalt, disappearing into the mist in both directions. Silent. Useless. Anachronistic. Out of time and place. What is it doing here? I hate it.
I think about all the things people have told me about the trail in Virginia. How everyone says it's "flat and easy," just like the profile in my handbook makes it seem. How wrong they are. I compose a cruel joke in my head, and vow to write it in the next shelter registry. It will amuse me to no end, but probably no one else. I have no conscience.
I think about stopping at the Bobblets Gap Shelter. I feel like taking a break, and having a snack. Besides, what if P-Nut is waiting there? Or what if he left a note? But then I remember, this is P-Nut. Bobblets Gap Shelter is two tenths of a mile off the trail. He would never waste that much time. I also don't want Caveman or Bandito or especially Hobbes to catch up with me yet. I made such a big deal about leaving before them, it would be a mark of shame and failure if they were to catch up with me so quickly. I can't let that happen. I continue on.
I sing to pass the time. Today it's the Beatles. My voice is mellifluous, clarion, and always in tune. I may not have perfect pitch, like some other people I know, but I know when I'm in tune or not. And I'm in tune. Besides, there's nobody around to disuade me of this notion. No, wait. I mean, it's too bad I don't have an audience. Because my singing is awesome.
I'm vamping on "Yesterday" in a sweet falsetto when I approach the Cove Mountain Shelter. It's four o'clock, and I've done nearly twenty miles. There's another shelter in seven miles. I could probably make it there by nightfall. But no, there's P-Nut! And he's already in his sleeping bag. We're going nowhere.
I throw my stuff into the shelter beside him.
"Hey man, how come you didn't wait for us at that first shelter out of town?" I ask.
"I got there at like four o'clock! I felt lazy! I had to keep going."
"It's four o'clock now. How come you're already in your sleeping bag?"
"It's raining," shrugs P-Nut uneasily. It's only misting, but I don't disagree with him. "And I don't like hiking in the rain."
I can't blame him. Plus I'm glad he's there. I pull out my sleeping bag to settle in for the night.
I keep expecting Bandito, Caveman, Redwing and Lil Dipper to show up. Or at least Hobbes. What happened to Hobbes? P-Nut and I keep a close watch on the trail, which is some two hundred feet to our left. We worry that our friends will pass us by without stopping.
"They'd at least check to see if we'd written a note here, right?" asks P-Nut.
I nod, then remember that I didn't check for a note at the last shelter. But Bandito isn't as lazy as I am. He would stop. I'm sure of it.
A couple families show up with screaming babies and rambunctious dogs. We ask them if they've seen anyone. They haven't. We ask them if they have soda. They don't. We hope their screaming babies don't attract predators or keep us half the night. We are half right. The dogs will scare off any predators, and the babies will sleep in relative silence. It's the parents' snoring that will keep us awake.
Shelter log entry, Cover Mountain Shelter:
"Kinda looks like a tit, don'tcha think?" he says, gazing lustily at someone's tent, which admittedly does look like a breast. If breasts were blue, and four feet tall.
If there is anything I didn't need, it's a couple of elderly sidekicks who will only cramp my style by being funny all the time and by ridiculing me and deflating my ego. I already have Caveman for that. And Redwing. And literally everyone else I'm hiking with. I secretly hope that Little Brown and Moonpie drop dead. Naturally, we'll end up marking time with each other for the next 560 miles.
----
I tell Caveman and Bandito my intentions of running down P-Nut that day.
"Someone's gotta catch up with him and slow him down," I say, "Or we're likely never to see him again."
Bandito and Caveman exchange glances, as though they wouldn't be too sorry to let him go. I think of Alphabet, and her unheralded departure. I don't want to lose another friend. I find their indifference disgusting and unacceptable.
"No!" I cry, "This is unacceptable. I'm not going to lose another one!"
"What are you talking about?" asks Bandito, bewildered by my sudden outburst.
"M.C. always has to make things overly dramatic," says Caveman.
"Why?"
"Because he's afraid that if he lets things seem mundane, as they really are, people will realize how uninteresting he really is," explains Caveman.
"How dare you," I mutter, "Accurately describe the situation."
"That's the benefit of being the third-person omniscient narrator," says Caveman.
"Shut up! You're not the narrator!" I scream. "I am!"
"M.C.," laments Bandito, "You're letting things get too meta again. Have you had enough coffee? Or maybe too much?"
"Et tu, Bandito?" I growl, "I see how it is! Everyone's against me! I'll just go on alone!"
"Well, yeah. That's what you said you were gonna do," says Caveman. "To catch P-Nut."
"Right!" I sputter. "Fine! I'm going!"
And I leave.
----
I see Hobbes a little later. He's still in camp. It looks as though he slept directly on the trail, or perhaps right next to it. I feel like I haven't seen him in a couple days. Weird.
"Hey," says Hobbes, pulling his pants on. "What's all the screaming about?"
"Oh, you heard me shouting back there?"
"Everyone in Virginia heard that."
"I'm sorry," I shrug, annoyed. "Did I wake you?"
Hobbes scoffs. "No, I've been up since four, communing with nature. I was just having the most fascinating conversation with a squirrel."
I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. I've never been able to get a good read on him. I decide it's best not to find out. I nod stupidly and hike on.
----
Spring arrives slowly at elevation. I vividly remember the last time it snowed, just a couple weeks earlier. Now leaves are growing on the trees again, and the forest floor is a vast sea of budding flowers, mottled by lightly sashaying pools of amber sunlight. The air is alive with birdsong and the buzz of insects.
Or maybe it's overcast. I walk through a heavy mist which stills and dulls every sound and movement. I hear only faint echoes, as though in a mausoleum. A soft carpet of last year's leaves muffles my footfalls. I drift onward as if in a dream, practically swimming through the cloud around me.
I think about catching up with P-Nut. I think about Bandito, Caveman, Redwing and Lil Dipper catching up with me. I think about Hobbes catching up with me. I try not to think about Hobbes. I try not to think about Alphabet, Jason, Freeman, Merf, or Shorts either. I think about Megan. Every step I take carries me further away from the gloom of loss and separation towards a brighter future, the infinite possibility of the unknown stretching before me like the horizon.
I abruptly walk out of the woods onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, which I'll be crossing approximately twelve dozen times over the next hundred miles. Two lanes of cool, perfectly maintained asphalt, disappearing into the mist in both directions. Silent. Useless. Anachronistic. Out of time and place. What is it doing here? I hate it.
I think about all the things people have told me about the trail in Virginia. How everyone says it's "flat and easy," just like the profile in my handbook makes it seem. How wrong they are. I compose a cruel joke in my head, and vow to write it in the next shelter registry. It will amuse me to no end, but probably no one else. I have no conscience.
I think about stopping at the Bobblets Gap Shelter. I feel like taking a break, and having a snack. Besides, what if P-Nut is waiting there? Or what if he left a note? But then I remember, this is P-Nut. Bobblets Gap Shelter is two tenths of a mile off the trail. He would never waste that much time. I also don't want Caveman or Bandito or especially Hobbes to catch up with me yet. I made such a big deal about leaving before them, it would be a mark of shame and failure if they were to catch up with me so quickly. I can't let that happen. I continue on.
I sing to pass the time. Today it's the Beatles. My voice is mellifluous, clarion, and always in tune. I may not have perfect pitch, like some other people I know, but I know when I'm in tune or not. And I'm in tune. Besides, there's nobody around to disuade me of this notion. No, wait. I mean, it's too bad I don't have an audience. Because my singing is awesome.
I'm vamping on "Yesterday" in a sweet falsetto when I approach the Cove Mountain Shelter. It's four o'clock, and I've done nearly twenty miles. There's another shelter in seven miles. I could probably make it there by nightfall. But no, there's P-Nut! And he's already in his sleeping bag. We're going nowhere.
I throw my stuff into the shelter beside him.
"Hey man, how come you didn't wait for us at that first shelter out of town?" I ask.
"I got there at like four o'clock! I felt lazy! I had to keep going."
"It's four o'clock now. How come you're already in your sleeping bag?"
"It's raining," shrugs P-Nut uneasily. It's only misting, but I don't disagree with him. "And I don't like hiking in the rain."
I can't blame him. Plus I'm glad he's there. I pull out my sleeping bag to settle in for the night.
I keep expecting Bandito, Caveman, Redwing and Lil Dipper to show up. Or at least Hobbes. What happened to Hobbes? P-Nut and I keep a close watch on the trail, which is some two hundred feet to our left. We worry that our friends will pass us by without stopping.
"They'd at least check to see if we'd written a note here, right?" asks P-Nut.
I nod, then remember that I didn't check for a note at the last shelter. But Bandito isn't as lazy as I am. He would stop. I'm sure of it.
A couple families show up with screaming babies and rambunctious dogs. We ask them if they've seen anyone. They haven't. We ask them if they have soda. They don't. We hope their screaming babies don't attract predators or keep us half the night. We are half right. The dogs will scare off any predators, and the babies will sleep in relative silence. It's the parents' snoring that will keep us awake.
----
Shelter log entry, Cover Mountain Shelter:
Virginia is flat an easy, like my ex-girlfriend!Badum-ching!I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Virginia isn't flat.Badum-ching!-Major Chafage
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