Chapter 19: Mental Instability and other Maladies

Several things were insane that day: our twenty-mile ambitions, the steep initial climb out of the Nantahala Outdoor Center, and eventually my brain.

Bandito and I encountered Freeman almost as soon as we'd left the N.O.C. He told us that he had stealth camped with Merf the night before, and was now headed back to the road to get breakfast. Seemed sensible enough, although I thought backtracking under any circumstances was a tad excessive. We wished him luck and parted ways, not knowing if we'd ever see him again.

We eventually found Merf and her two companions still in camp, a little ways up the hill. We remarked approvingly at the skillful inconspicuousness of their tent sites, which were practically straddling the trail, and casually mentioned our plans for the day. Merf was duly impressed, subtly inquired as to whether she would be remembered in my will, and then asked for my preferences regarding flowers or charitable organizations. No, peonies, and Oxfam International were my answers, in case you were wondering.

The trail rises over three thousand feet in just a few miles after crossing the Nantahala River, and I was woefully unprepared for how difficult it suddenly became. I was soon exhausted and stumbling over every protruding root and pebble, and it wasn't even noon yet. And so began our epic battle of wills.

"You call yourself a mountain?" I growled. "You're nothing but an overgrown ant hill to me!"

I could hear Bandito huffing and puffing behind me as he struggled to keep up. Or maybe he was giggling. It was hard to tell.

"I've seen your brothers and sisters," I noted sagely, "and you're not so tough."

"You think you can kill me with your thirty degree inclines and lack of switchbacks, but I'm still going. You'll never defeat me!"

The mountain begged to differ. We continued going straight up.

"You think you're special, just because you're so big and hard?"

"That's what your ex-girlfriend said to me last night," said the mountain.

"Shut up!" I screamed, appalled at the mountain's startling lack of taste. "I-- I'm going to walk all over you by the time I'm done!"

I had the mountain there. It remained silent.

"You think you're tough," squealed Bandito, trying to get in on the act. "Well, have you heard of the CDT? It's tougher than you and I am so much better than you that I could go out there and hike it with ease!"

Poor Bandito. He was clearly losing it. I stopped to calm him down. "Don't," I cautioned, shaking my head. "Never taunt the mountain. And leave the psychotic rambling to me."

Bandito protested, and then explained, somewhat tangentially, that it was nearly impossible for him to hike when I was being ridiculous. Apparently I was making him laugh so hard he was having trouble breathing. I frowned, finding the insinuation mildly offensive. What was so funny, after all, about a man having an earnest if slightly abusive and one-sided discussion with a prominent geographical feature? But I forgave him, and promised to shut up for a little while. I think he was disappointed.

After what seemed like the longest four hours of my life, we finally reached the top of Cheoah Bald. That morning, I had considered camping at the summit, for it was said to offer magnificent views and would've only required an eight mile day. It was a good thing that we were moving on, then, because the place was so swamped with other hikers that there might not have been enough room for us had we wanted to stay.

Disgusted, we took a break. I sat down to contemplate death while Bandito was sociable and went around introducing himself to the others. The most memorable character there was an asian dude with dreadlocks, whose name was either Asian Dude or Asian Dreadlocks, or A.D. for short. I rolled my eyes. Anybody who used initials for their trail name was clearly an idiot.

"Hey, M.C., ready to go?" asked Bandito, wrenching me from my reverie. I was, and we left.

Five miles later we were at Stecoah Gap, sitting on a picnic table, taking another break. It had been a long day, and was already starting to get dark, but we still had a considerable ways to go. I did my best to appear as lost, forlorn and hungry as possible for the benefit of any benevolent passersby, then watched in increasing frustration as cars whizzed past on the road. Not a single person stopped to ask us if we were okay, if we wanted a sandwich, or to offer us sodas.

"Jerks!" I spat, glaring at their rapidly receding brake lights.

Another car sped by.

"Jerks."

An elderly couple in a Buick slowed as they approached us, and then stopped. I watched them warily, waiting for them to get out of their car. They didn't, and after peering at us curiously for a few moments, hastily accelerated away.

"Jerks," I whispered, shaking my head, my rage bubbling.

Bandito laughed. He was forever amused by my foul moods. We left soon thereafter, as much as to get into camp as to lessen the possibility of me flipping out and killing someone.

We ended up night hiking for the first time. We passed a nice young couple camped below the Brown Fork Gap Shelter and told them we were headed on to Cable Gap. Sure, it was already dark, and the batteries in my old-school Mini MagLite were dying, but we'd already come this far. Why not keep going? The couple eyed us skeptically, like we were crazy people stalking the woods, stopping to talk to anyone that crossed our paths. I realized later that we probably looked like crazy people, and that we were stopping to talk to everyone that crossed our paths. I didn't find the thought particularly reassuring.

I could hardly see my feet in front of me by the time we made it into Cable Gap Shelter. My flashlight cast a feeble yellow glow that barely reached the ground, and it's pathetic appearance poking out of the dark was greeted by derisive snickers from the other campers. I let them laugh, then told them that we'd made it there from the N.O.C. in a single day. That shut them up.

I hardly remember erecting my tent on a tumble of leaf-covered roots on a rather precipitous slope overlooking a stream, but apparently I did. I do remember crawling into my sleeping bag that night and vowing to never do another twenty mile day. And vowing to never listen to Bandito again, about anything. Because all his ideas were stupid ideas that ended up with me hiking really far, which made me sad and angry and crazy.

And then I fell asleep, because the next thing I remember was wondering why that unicorn was staring at me.

Chapter 18: Walking with Freedom

Jason and I were almost as excited to meet Bandito's family as we were to take showers, do our laundry, and go out for All-You-Can-Eat pizza.

Bandito had explained the plan to us that morning: his parents were coming to meet him at the N.O.C. to take him out for dinner, and we were invited to come along. Bandito assured us that we'd be able to stay overnight at a friend of the family's. We readily accepted.

Bandito's father was reserved and respectful, while his mother was more outgoing and inquisitive; both were polite and generous to a fault. It was impossible to see how Bandito was related to such charming people. They even displayed acceptable levels of personal hygiene. I was stunned, and immediately wondered whether Bandito was adopted.

Given the thru-hiker's natural inclination towards gluttony, almost any kind of AYCE dining can prove disastrous, yet I remained ever eager for punishment. One might have reasonably expected me to take it easy this time, given my recent record of over-indulgence. Sadly, I was and remain a deeply stubborn and sometimes foolish person. As I filled yet another plate with buttery breadsticks, I realized I was doomed to repeat this tragic cycle of overconsumption and indigestion over and over again. Or at least until I left the provence of Pizza Plus and entered the domain of Pizza Hut. Then I would be totally fine, and would never overeat with drastic consequences ever again.

Surprisingly, the other diners in the pizzeria didn't seem vehemently opposed to our presence. Perhaps our exquisite stench had not yet evolved to its grotesque, ultimate potency, or maybe the people of rural Georgia just smell really bad themselves. Either way, we didn't remain in the restaurant for long, and were quickly being shuttled to Jen and Zack's house, Jen and Zack being the friends of Bandito's family who had agreed to put us up for the night.

Ever the gracious hosts, Jen and Zack provided us with spare clothes into which we could change after showering, which they insisted we do immediately. Washing away seemingly weeks worth of grime felt wonderful, as did being able to walk into a room of other people and not singeing their nose hairs. Jen was a bee keeper, Zack an amateur astronomer, and after we cleaned up they were more than happy to entertain us with their hobbies. Jen's hive was still relatively dormant from the winter, but we had spectacular views of the stars through Zack's telescope, blessedly uncorrupted by light pollution from nearby civilization.

Before going to bed, we watched a documentary about the trail called "Walking with Freedom," staring a perpetually out of shape thru-hiker named Lion King. I didn't particularly care for the film as it dealt mainly with the boring parts of the trail: the terrain, the sights, the history, nature, the actual hiking experience, etc. It completely ignored the social aspect of the trail, which for me was the most compelling and important facet of the experience. I vowed to look into the matter later, and to mention this idea to my numerous contacts in the film industry.

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Bandito was so enthused by the way Jason and I had acquitted ourselves that he asked both of us to spend Easter with his family. Jason, an avowed Pastafarian, was understandably a little leery of the idea. Besides, he wasn't the type to spend that much time off the trail. He wanted to keep making miles. And that was fine with Bandito. He understood. As soon as we made it back to the N.O.C., however, Jason was invited by Olive Oil to spend the day white water rafting.

"I think I'm gonna stay," he said, dropping back suddenly. "I mean, we're out here to have fun, right? Not just make miles. See you guys later!"

And he would, although not for a few days.

There was a nice older couple giving out trail magic in the parking lot, Homeless and Unemployed. Bandito and I chatted with them for a while, and happily gorged ourselves on their orange slices before starting our hike. Bandito had the fanciful idea to make it to Fontana Dam by the following day, so as to be able to take a full day off for Easter. Fontana Dam was 28.7 miles away, over the toughest, steepest section of the trail we would ever traverse.

It seemed we had no choice but to do our first twenty mile day, over Cheoah Bald to Cable Gap Shelter. We would be pushing ourselves harder than ever before, risking our lives and definitely our sanity.

Chapter 17: We're Not Dead, We Just Smell That Way

We all chase dreams in life.

Some people dream of settling down and starting a family; others of finding a niche, no matter how small, where they can make a separate peace with the world and live without compromising their principles. An unscrupulous, unimaginative few dream of nothing but acquiring fame and fortune, caring naught for whom they might hurt in the process. Yet others dream only of good health, security, and comfort. Some people dream that their engineering degrees will make them millionaires and highly desirable sex objects, and that their fancy cars and material possessions will make up for all the years they endured being rejected in high school. Others yet still dream of the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. My dream involved a girl, a pizza, and a mountain.

I dreamt that Megan would meet me at the end, that she'd be there waiting for me atop Katahdin with open arms, a pizza and a bottle of birch beer. Now, I honestly do not know when this dream first came to me, whether it was that night in a fitful slumber, or later on in the sun-baked delirium of exhaustion and hunger. I do know that it recurred frequently over the following weeks, and that it would come to dominate my waking hours, permeating my every thought and action. Everything I did from then on would be in service of making this dream a reality. It was literally all I could think about, besides where to put my feet while I walked, when I would get my next meal, what my friends back home were doing without me, how the weather was, what TV shows I was missing, and all that other stuff.

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There is a long tradition of April Fools Day mischief on the trail, only a small percentage of which has resulted in murder. People have pulled every type of prank imaginable, from hiding each other's packs to weighing down each other's packs with rocks to marking each other's packs with urine. With a great and abiding mutual respect and a healthy fear of violent consequences, Jason, Freeman and I decided to simply give each other goofy nicknames. Freeman thus became Kunta Kinte for some reason. I became Rock 'N' Roll, because I was always ready to rock 'n' roll, and Jason became Rainbow Butterscotch, because, well, really. Merf and Bandito were too mature for our silly little game, and so stayed out of it.

Ironically, we would have few opportunities to use each other's nicknames that day. Bandito, Jason and I were headed towards the Nantahala Outdoor Center, where we eagerly anticipated refreshments, some rest, and a ride back into civilization. I was particularly keen to check out the outfitter there for a replacement trekking pole, since my last walking stick, Dino III, had been so recently and unceremoniously cremated. The ingenious thought occurred to me that, since it was a weekend, there might even be trail magic waiting for us at the road. Alas, that was not to be, since it was actually only Thursday.

Fueled by adrenaline, Bandito, Jason and I raced ahead of the others. The terrain was terrifically frustrating, with a seemingly endless series of false descents. Ever time we thought we were finally on our way down, the trail would invariably climb again to mystifying new heights. This would be amongst the hardest sections of trail we would ever do.

It was about this time that I started belting out John Legend and Justin Timberlake songs, as much to ease the tedium of walking alone as to ward off bears and other hikers. "Stay With You" was a particular favorite of mine, as its poignant lyrics could easily be as much about the trail as they were a lover. Jason, hiking several miles behind me, heard my dulcet baritone ring true through the forest, and was so awestruck he may or may not have cried. When he caught up with me, he kindly told me to shut the hell up, apparently worried that my heavenly singing voice might inflame a jealous hatred in any passing angels. Being an eternally humble man, I acquiesced to his wisdom.

The N.O.C. is a sprawling hyrda of motel, outfitter, restaurant, bar and convenience store. The outfitter was geared mainly towards rafting and kayaks. Dino III would not be replaced there. Really, the only part of the complex that interested us was the convenience store. Bandito immediately bought two pints of Ben & Jerry's, Jason a PowerAde. Eternally health conscious, I passed on the ice cream and bought a carton of orange juice instead. And a four-pack of some ridiculous 12.5% alcohol, locally made India Pale Ale.

"It's not even legal for us to sell that here," said the cashier. "It's too alcoholic."

Must be good, I thought. It was.

Much to Bandito's dismay and considerable disapproval, Jason and I proceeded to get drunk down by the river. We met some other hikers there, including a dark brunette named Olive Oil who took an immediate liking to Jason. Jason, for his part, took an immediate liking to her ukulele, which she was only too happy to let him borrow. And so it came to pass that Jason and I spent a drunken afternoon singing the smelly hiker blues while watching a bunch of other smelly hikers go skinny dipping in the Nantahala River. Jason strummed and hummed along as I horribly improvised lyrics like "We're not dead, we just smell that way," "We might smell dead, but we're not dead," and "So don't bury us, okay?"

Eventually the scene mellowed, and I retreated to drunk dial my friends back home. I tend to forget whom exactly I called, but I know that the conversations were completely respectful, and that I definitely didn't say anything salacious, humiliating, mean, or that I'd later regret.

Needless to say, Jason and I had sobered up completely by the time Bandito's parents arrived.