Chapter 102: Blink

I was playing leap frog with a newly resurfaced, resurgent Hobbit. I'm not entirely sure how he caught up with me, or so quickly, but I didn't begrudge him his apparent speed. Especially not with my short-term plans taking me off-trail for much of the coming week.

Still, it was a mildly amusing ballet we orchestrated: every couple of miles one of us would come upon the other sitting beside the trail—taking an unearned break or eating a snack—and we'd nod to each other and exchange grim, knowing smirks. (This tacit, subtle acknowledgement long being the most accepted and universally recognized form of greeting between haggard thru-hikers.) And so, for a few mostly pleasant hours, we more or less marked time with each other.

After slipping ahead for the final time, however, I emerged from the woods out onto a road at the edge of a vast, glassy lake. Stuck by its quiet beauty, or maybe just tired and overcome by the heat of the day, I doffed my pack and sat down on the curb. Where I noticed a note, written on a familiar tie-dyed stationary, taped to the guardrail.

Though days of rain had smudged the ink, her handwriting was unmistakable. It was a letter to Bandito and Caveman, from Redwing, telling them that she, P-Nut, and Lil Dipper were going down to the lake to swim. If the heat radiating off the blacktop wasn't already threatening to melt the soles of my boots, I might've said reading her note—and knowing that, somewhere, my friends were still together—felt like a ray of sunshine. All the same, it made me glad. Although, the fact that neither Caveman nor Bandito had removed said note made me question whether they had seen it in the first place.

As I ripped the note down and stuffed it in my pack, Hobbit emerged from the woods behind me. I pulled my things aside to let him pass, but he waved me off. No sooner had he explained that he was spending the night at a friend's house than someone pulled up in a minivan to pick him up. I saluted him briefly, and that was that. I never saw him again.

----

I knew my mom would be picking me up almost as soon as I crossed the Connecticut border in the morning. I proposed trying to make it as far as Kent, and coming home in the afternoon, but she suggested picking me up at Route 55 in the morning. Why spend the whole day hiking when you could spend it relaxing and drinking lemonade instead? It was hard to argue with her logic.

Still, knowing her plans did someone diminish my sense of ambition. I knew there was no point to pushing myself harder than I thought necessary. The end result of which was me saying goodbye to Sonic that day, as well. Unlike me, he had a schedule to keep, and needed to keep on making miles. It had always been a struggle to keep up with him, but I was filled with mixed emotions to see him go. Another friend gone, in so little time.

I pulled into the inexplicably named Telephone Pioneers Shelter for the night. It was lonely there for the longest time, until Pixie arrived with some of her coterie, none of whom I had seen since at least Tennessee, or maybe Virginia. It wasn't a jovial reunion. We really hadn't spent that much time together. But it was nice to have company, all the same.

Until I hung my food, and crawled up the hill behind the shelter to where I'd put up my tent. There wasn't a lot of flat ground available nearby, so my position was hardly ideal. Still, I was able to settle in and get comfortable enough, lying awake listening to the creak of the trees and the quiet burble of conversation from the group of friends below.

Tomorrow, I'd be going home. Seeing my friends. Going to bars. Drinking beer. Celebrating the Fourth of July. It was bound to be bittersweet. Yet I felt an undeniable surge of accomplishment. In January, I'd taken a train down to Georgia. And I'd walked home. It was crazy! I wondered if anyone would actually believe me. Probably. Still, I'd come 1456 miles.

Only 733 to go.

Chapter 101: Breaking New Ground

The primary, indisputable appeal of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail is that it gives you the opportunity to do things you wouldn't otherwise be able to do; to do the things you've always dreamt of doing; and to do all the things you otherwise wouldn't have ever considered, contemplated, or wanted.¹ Pooping in the woods, for instance. Or stripping naked in front of other men. Or meeting and befriending people from all over the world, and then gleefully antagonizing them without care or conscience. On this particular day, my thru-hiking experience provided me with the opportunity to watch a World Cup semifinal game between Germany and England with an honest-to-goodness German. And how often does that happen?²

Germany and England have one of the most well-chronicled rivalries in the annals of international soccer. The animosity between the two teams is perhaps unsurpassed in athletic and world history, even eclipsing the fevered levels of antagonism that existed between the two countries in the first half of the 20th Century.³ However, while the games are hotly contested, and their fan-bases equally passionate, the overall competition between Germany and England has been drastically one-sided.⁴ Almost exactly like World War II, actually, only the complete opposite.

Anyway, my host Chelsea's husband was German, so I ultimately seized the opportunity to stay for the moment to watch with them. Of course, the fact that they were also having other friends over to watch—friends who were said to be bringing chips and salsa and guacamole and soda and lemonade—bore little influence on my decision. Germany ended up winning 4-1, and everyone had a great time. Around noon, with the game over and festivities winding down, Chelsea drove me back to the trail. I thanked her profusely for all her generosity and hospitality, and lamented that we didn't have the chance to talk more, or that she didn't get to ask me any of the presumably many, many questions she had about the trail. She was very understanding, and grateful, however. And so we said goodbye, and I continued on my way.

The rest of the day was rather uneventful. I found some trail magic, a cooler of sodas and beers left by the side of the trail near a water source. I think it was from the same guy who I'd seen giving out trail magic the day before. I had a Heineken, because why not? And then I continued to drag my sorry ass through the muggy New York countryside, constantly assaulted by deer flies, mosquitoes, and bedraggled day-hikers until I reached the RPH shelter.

Sonic caught back up with me. He had spent the previous night in Fort Montgomery, New York with Kashmir, so they could watch the United States play Ghana. The United States lost, but it was a well played game, and Sonic had enjoyed it. I wondered where all this newfound interest in soccer was coming from, and if it had spread to the rest of America or was just endemic to people on the trail. Weird. Whatever.

Two days till home.

1. Okay, that's not strictly true. It's also about interacting with "the wild, scenic, pastoral, cultural and natural elements" of Appalachia, "unfettered and unimpeded by competing sights or sounds and in as direct and intimate a manner as possible." (Appalachian Trailways News, July/August 1997). The trail is also supposed to offer hikers' the opportunity to observe, contemplate, and explore the natural world; give them a sense of remoteness and detachment from civilization; and provide them with the chance to experience solitude, freedom, self-reliance, and self discovery. Boring!

2. Since they met in the 1966 finals, Germany and England have played each other in the World Cup once every ten years, on average. But when you consider that the World Cup only takes place every four years—and that there have only been eleven World Cups in the intervening years, and that Germany has played England in roughly half of them—you might come to the completely defensible conclusion that they play each other rather frequently. Which... So... Shut up! And as for seeing a match with a German audience... I guess that depends of how many German people you know. Back to text!

3. This is my obligatory World War II joke. See also: every article in every magazine, newspaper, or tabloid ever written about the Germany-England soccer rivalry. Or, watch this episode of Top Gear, which has absolutely nothing to do with soccer, but is still very illuminating and indicative of the general state of English-German relations. The English just love bringing up WWII when they're dealing with Germans. Probably because they don't have anything else to brag about.

4. Since they met in the aforementioned 1966 World Cup finals—in which England emerged victorious—Germany has won 13 out of 19 matches overall, with one ending in a draw.

Chapter 99: The Elusive Hipster

The Appalachian Trail is home to thousands of animal species, from the Alces alces to the Ursus Americanus. Perhaps the most elusive of all, however, is the Homo eirōneus, or Hipster. Although the hipsters' conservation status remains that of "Least concern," they are rarely seen outside of their native habitat in stylishly dilapidated urban areas, and Portland, Oregon.

On a bright Friday afternoon—at the end of a relaxed, otherwise forgettable 19.6 mile day—I had the privilege and distinct pleasure to witness a group of hipsters out on their semiannual "ironic" vacation. Which, on this occasion, took them to the remarkably drab and excitingly primitive William Brien Memorial Shelter, located an audacious sixty miles from their home in Brooklyn. I was sitting by the shelter, making idle conversation with my fellow thru-hikers Kashmir and Sonic, when the flash of an orange sneaker signaled their imminent arrival.

----

"So where are y'all from?" I asked the newcomers, amused by their preponderance of doofy hats, skinny jeans, and vaguely stylish eyewear.

The hipsters hovered anxiously around our fire circle, as though unsure of their presumed eventual inclusion. Wary, Kashmir and Sonic looked to me for direction. I shrugged. I wasn't about to exclude them.

"Brooklyn," offered one.

I nodded, my suspicions confirmed. "You're hipsters."

"W-What? No!" the man protested, laughing. "We're not hipsters!"

Me thinks they doth protest too much. I winked at Kashmir, rolling my eyes.

"Whereabouts in Brooklyn?" I continued, trying to assuage their growing apprehension. "I know the area, I used to live in the city myself."

They eyed each other nervously.

"Williamsburg," one offered timidly, only to be glared at, tacitly admonished by his companions.

"Hipsters," I repeated, shaking my head.

"We're really not," another assured me, grinning uneasily. "What makes you think we are?"

I shrugged.

"What do you guys do? In Williamsburg?" asked Kashmir, to their general astonishment. The shorter bearded one speaks!

The first man stuttered, obviously made uncomfortable by the direction the conversation was taking, and the general line of questioning.

"We're animators," another finally mumbled.

I guffawed. "You're animators? And you live in Williamsburg? You're hipsters!"

"Well, where did you live?" asked the man with the grin, clearly trying to change the subject.

"My apartment was in the Park Slope, Windsor Terrace area," I yawned.

"Park Slope?" the man smirked. "I guess that makes you a rich lesbian!"

"Right," I said, as the hipsters giggled and congratulated each other. "Well, I do love titties."

And that shut them up.

Or maybe I'm just an ass hole.

Defeated, the hipsters mulled retreating to their inconveniently far-off tents. Kashmir and Sonic earnestly professed an honest curiosity about their livelihood, however, so we didn't lose their company for the night. I felt slightly bad for teasing them, even if I did call them out accurately for what they were. But my regrets were easily forgotten as we bonded over shared reminiscence of life in the city, and the business. Kashmir was excited to learn that the hipsters' crowning professional achievement as animators was a cartoon music video for an independent Australian rock band. Not bad. I wasn't surprised. Or that impressed.

The day had taken me across baren mountaintops; through vast, ethereal fields of blueberry bushes; and past vistas of the distant New York City, still shrouded in an unenviable haze of choking smog. I had thrown myself towards the black, sludgy run-off of a grotesque, stagnant pond to desperately suck down its life-sustaining waters. I had deftly danced around the Lemon Squeezer, an obstacle course of laughable difficulty and curious brevity. And, through it all, I had managed to not have another nervous breakdown, starve to death, or heinously offend any random strangers. Much. Things were looking up. Indeed, tomorrow I would be climbing Bear Mountain; crossing the Hudson River; and meeting up with a particularly kind and hospitable friend of a friend, to stay at her home.

Chapter 98: Breakdown

I don't know if I can do this anymore.

But if I don't manage to persevere, I'll probably never finish.

----

Arriving at the turnoff towards the Wildcat Shelter, I collapse beside the trail in a heap, arms and legs akimbo.

My carefully laid plans unravel before me, fraying like so many pages of my tattered Thru-Hiker's Handbook. That I desperately cleave to, and repeatedly scour for some vague sign of hope. Sadly, its dirtied and torn, nigh unrecognizable covers conceal no hidden wisdom. Dejected, I toss it in the dirt at my feet. And weep.

I was supposed to go 26.3 miles today. That was too ambitious. My muscles still ache, my thighs chafed raw, from the blistering 58 miles I've gone in the past two days. Nearly 30 miles a day. Incredible. Punishing. Stupid. Pointless.

After a few minutes, my sobbing subsides. Regaining some semblance of composure, I manage to wriggle free of my pack, and retrieve my phone. It's nearly one in the afternoon. Somehow, I've only gone twelve miles. At that rate, I know I won't reach the Fingerboard Shelter until after eight o'clock. By which time, the sun will be down, or nearly down. Which means I can forget about making or enjoying a camp fire, or socializing with my fellow hikers. I'll barely have enough time and energy to put up my tent and eat dinner before exhaustion takes me, and I end up on my back, in my sleeping bag, alone with my pain and my grief. And then, tomorrow, all I'll have to look forward to is more of the same. Repeating this grim, joyless process all over again. When all I really want to do is...

A distant peal of thunder pulls me from my reverie. I remember I have two calls to make: one to Megan—mostly for moral support, but also to see if she can come pick me up, if I truly need rescuing—and the other to my dad, telling him I might not be able to make it home in time for his surgery after all. And that I'm a massive failure. And that I'm sorry.

----

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," I whine, choking back tears.

An uneasy silence follows. Do you hesitate because you're carefully choosing your words? Or are you merely withholding some bitter remark, trying to conceal your frustration and annoyance? Whatever the case may be, this isn't what I wanted to hear.

I wanted to hear your mellifluous voice reassuring me, telling me that I can do this. That I'm being silly. That I'm overreacting. And that you're proud of me; that you do believe in me, even if I don't. And that I should just relax. A reminder that this isn't the end of the world.

"What do you want from me?" you finally grumble.

Is that petulance? Exasperation? Or am I projecting? And assuming the worst.

"What do you need me to do?" you ask, resigned.

"Come get me," I say. The words are difficult. Keeping my breathing steady is even harder. "If I need getting."

"Maybe," you sigh. "We'll see. I mean, I have work, and class."

I know you're an important, busy person. I get it. You're beautiful. You're a goddess. Your time is extremely valuable. And I already owe you so much. But think about what it would mean to me, how grateful I would be if you came!

Of course I say none of that, but bite down on my knuckle. Inhale. Exhale. Trying to keep it together. I don't want you to know that I've been crying.

"I'm afraid, Megan," I blurt at last. "I'm afraid if I stop now, if I get off the trail again, so soon, I won't be able to come back."

You think I'm being ridiculous. I don't care. I miss you. I think about you constantly, in my every waking moment. I mean, in every waking moment that isn't otherwise occupied by pressing bodily functions. My memories of you hang around me like a fog, so thick I sometimes can't see the trail in front of me. I have to continuously push you aside, put you from my mind, or I wouldn't be able to make any progress. It's pathetic, really. Isn't it?

"You chose to be out there!" I can hear you reminding me. "Don't forget that!"

I whimper involuntarily, sinking into this fantasy.

"What about me? Did you ever stop to think about how I feel? About how this would affect me? You disappearing for so long?"

"What? But I didn't know what else to do!"

"That's a terrible excuse. Maybe that's because you have no ambition. You could be great, but you're all too willing to settle for mediocre. You'd rather just do the bare minimum to get by than actually try to be somebody, to do something with your life."

"That's not fair! Look at where I am!"

"Lost in the woods, miserable and alone? Alienating yourself from your friends and your family, from humanity? Only succeeding in annoying and antagonizing everybody you meet? All you're doing is hurting yourself. And why? For what?"

I don't know.

"Also, why are you trying so hard to be some kind of enlightened, post-feminist 'sensitive' man? Do you think that's attractive? Because it's not! You're just being selfish. Like a poor little baby who cries so his mommy will come comfort him in his crib, and bring him things. Stop acting like a little boy. I'm not attracted to boys, or babies. I want a man! Be a man!"

Easier said than done. The back of my neck burns with embarrassment. I sputter to talk.

"Also, I'm a better writer than you," you interject, as if I needed the cherry on top. "Your prose is mediocre, and you lack imagination. And you can't sing. You think you can, but you really can't. You're always out of tune, it's--"

But now you've gone too far. And the open wound from where you've stabbed me in the heart closes and scabs over. And I grit my teeth and yank off the scab and tear it in half and ball it up and shove it in my ears so I can't hear any more of your crass, insulting prattle.

"I'm gonna prove you wrong, all you doubters and haters!" I scream defiantly, at nobody in particular. "Nobody believes in me but me! I can do this!"

"Yeah!"

And then a vaguely middle-aged rock band emerges out of the woods, and I know they must be Survivor because they start playing "Eye of the Tiger" just for me. And it's awesome. Immediately pumped, I leap to my feet and practically run the next 14 miles to the next shelter.

Except for not at all.

The slick pitter-patter of rainfall drags me out of my stupor. And I'm still sitting in the dust, my back against a tree. And I tell you I have to run, to get out of the rain. And you dutifully promise to come get me, if that's what I really need. And I choke up, about to cry again, because you don't know what that means, or how it feels. I'm grateful.

And then I'm racing to the Wildcat Shelter, where I call my dad. The thunderstorm has made my decision easier. I'm staying, and getting my rest, regaining my strength. My dad is far too understanding, and accommodating. And, again, I feel a twinge of guilt, and sadness, that I won't be able to be there for him.

But then, hanging up, I close my eyes and breath in the smell of the rain, hearing the rush of water on the tin roof, and I feel immediately better.

----

Sonic and a couple of others eventually join me at the shelter, where I've found a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy that someone left behind. I talk with the others for a little while, but then spend the rest of the afternoon reading the book, cover-to-cover. With a break in the storm, I risk running out to set up my tent, and manage not to get drenched.

The storm doesn't last forever, though, but I try not to regret not pushing on. I know this was good for me, resting, allowing my body to heal. And I take solace in the fact that at least my fellow hikers were as lazy as I was.

Later that night, I lie in my tent, avoiding the bugs, listening to the steady drip of water off the leaves. Sonic has gone with the others to watch the sunset on a nearby rock outcropping, but I have no desire to join them. I made a small fire, difficult with all the recent rain, and watch it die through my bug netting. I wish I had better food, or any food that I considered remotely appetizing. Hot Fudge Sundae Pop Tarts®. I feel nauseous just thinking about them. I silently vow never to buy crap like that again. Only fruit flavored toaster pastries from now on, I promise myself.

And, when I eventually do get to sleep, long after the sun has gone down behind the ridge, I am at peace.

Chapter 97: A Shortcut to Ice Cream

I could not sleep. Mosquitos kept biting me through the thin muslin cloth of my liner. The heat of the night was oppressive, as were the dull snores of my fellow hikers. Sometime in the early A.M., I gave in and put up my tent, where I found it much easier to get comfortable.

Yet I still awoke a mere four or five hours later, in excruciating pain. Rest is normally the best cure for achy muscles, as it allows the acids and toxins that build up during times of physical stress to naturally flush away. Getting a good night's sleep might have really helped in that regard. It was almost imperative. But it was not to be. Too bad.

There would be no rest for the weary. I had an ambitious 24-mile day planned, one that would leave me only five more difficult days short of home. Fortunately, the terrain was mostly flat, with the trail meandering across swamps, past lakes, and through farmers' fields.

What do I remember, besides the omnipresent pain? Besides the slowly enveloping despair and hopelessness. I had been in such a hurry to make it to Harpers Ferry, and to the Delaware Water Gap; the thought of seeing Megan again had lightened my burden—made the weight seem to float off my back—lifted my spirits, and carried me through. Now I was marching away from her, and even the faint allure of home was ebbing. I knew I wouldn't be returning to a party, despite the rapidly approaching July 4th holiday. My dad was about to have surgery. Whether that went well or not, it would be a somber, subdued house, and lonely.

I do remember baking in the blazing sun; and the brilliant, cloudless sky. The shimmer of heat coming off the blacktop at any of the numerous road crossings I made that day. The first appearance of the dreaded and nasty deer fly, a blood-sucking parasite whose bite carries the unexpected punch of a bee sting. The constant grumble of my stomach, as I continuously lurched forward afraid of or unwilling to touch any of the noxious food I carried with me.

My body rebelled against the punishment my brain forced it to endure. My brain rebelled against the degradation of my body. I was at war with myself, and I was losing.

I was sitting besides a road, struggling to swallow down a few meager morsels, when Sonic emerged from the woods in front of me. He was—at least—six foot five, with a scraggly beard and perpetually sweat-soaked Danny Fortson jersey. I'd met Sonic before at some point, not that I could place where in my stupor. He stopped to chat for a bit, and we ended up hiking on together.

It helped to have someone to hike with, even if I had to take three steps for every two of his. He appeared to bound across the landscape as though weightless, jumping from rock to rock, his pack—and the laws of physics—seemingly an afterthought. Yet I somehow kept up as we skirted the edge of a huge, inexplicably placed reservoir. And when Sonic told me there was a farm store where we could buy ice cream just off of NJ94, some seven miles away, I practically started running. It was all he could do to keep up with me.

We followed a raised walkway for about a mile on either side of the surprisingly elaborate suspension bridge over Pochuck Creek. Visions of tubs of Black Raspberry ice cream and hot fudge swirled in my head as I scrambled across a last railroad embankment and saw the road in front of me. We arrived at Heaven Hill Farm about ten minutes before they were due to close, but they dutifully saw that we got our ice cream.

Miraculously, they had Black Raspberry, and something called Maine Blueberry that piqued my interest. I knew it wasn't blueberry season yet, and that the ice cream could therefore hardly be called fresh or all-natural, but I didn't care. It was everything I had been dreaming about, and more. The two of us sat outside in the dust and the sun for nearly twenty minutes as we finished up our cones. I had stupidly failed to buy anything to drink, but made do with some ice cold water from a nearby spigot.

It was almost dinnertime before we set out towards the shelter, which was just over five miles away, which included an eight hundred foot ascent. Sonic got ahead of me in the flat sections, but I caught up to and then passed him as the trail began to climb through a boulder field. And then he caught up with me again—after the trail flattened out at the height of land—as I was singing "Hey Jude" or "Let it Be" at the top of my lungs.

"What was that you were screaming?" he might've asked.

"It's called 'singing' and the Beatles," I shouted, defensively.

"Oh, I thought you were in pain or something," mumbled the clearly tone-deaf Sonic, confused.

We made it to the Wawayanda Shelter together, and in silence. The shelter was packed, but for every hiker there were about six dozen mosquitos. I angrily tossed up my tent and dove inside without bothering to eat a meal or socialize. From all the high-pitched buzzing outside, I could have been at a Formula One race. I felt like a helpless Londoner during the Battle of Britain, listening in the dark for the shrill scream of the attacking enemy, and for the far-off yelps of their unfortunate victims.

And with that delirious mixture of metaphors dancing in my brain, I drifted off to sleep, repeatedly reassuring myself—or just hoping, really—that tomorrow would be better than today...

Chapter 69: The Whip-Poor-Will

The Thru-Hiker's Guide to Avifauna and Ornithology – the definitive compendium of all bird knowledge in the universe – has the following to say about the Whip-poor-will:

The Whip-poor-will, or Canternoctus molestus, is a medium-sized bird native to the North and Central American continents of the planet Earth. Primarily nocturnal and possessing superior natural camoflage, the Whip-poor-will is rarely seen but often heard, usually in the dead of night or just when you're about to fall asleep. It is named onomatopoeically after its unique and singularly annoying call. 

The Whip-poor-will's song has been described by many as haunting and etherial, and has figured prominently in American poetry, literature, and music.

Presumably all of the poets, authors, and musicians who held the Whip-poor-will in such high regard never had to endure a sleepless night stuck with one singing incessantly from an unseen perch in a tree just above their head. If they had, the Whip-poor-will might be properly regarded as the scourge that it is, and may have even been hunted into extinction. Alas, despite human intrusion into and wanton destruction of its natural habitats, the Whip-poor-will's conservation status remains that of "least concern."

----

I lay in my tent, swaddled in the comforting warmth of my sleeping bag, and closed my eyes. Images swam before me. A promising dream world of infinite possibility beckoned.

Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!

My eyes shot open.

Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!

It sounded as though it were coming from inside my tent. But no, it must've been perched on a branch just above my head. Or – who knows – maybe in a nearby tree, like the one Caveman was sleeping under. I could hear him cursing at it under his breath.

Or maybe he was shouting at the top of his lungs for it to shut up and go away or die quickly, only in drastically less polite language. At least that's what it devolved into. The denizens of the shelter grumbled in disapproval. Even Redwing's normally reserved voice pierced the darkness to achingly wonder, "What the bloody hell is that thing?"

And, as if in response, the bird responded.


Whip-poor-will!

It was a long night.

The next morning, we remaining stalwarts bonded over our shared trauma.

"Why can't they have sex during the daytime like the rest of us?" asked Caveman – possibly rhetorically – ignoring the fact that the mating rituals of Homo sapiens are also stereotypically nocturnal, or at least crepuscular.

"What if we mated like the birds do?" he continued. "What if we stood in the middle of a crowded intersection screaming 'Fuck me!' 'Fuck me!' 'Fuck me!'"

"Well, I don't know about you," I shrugged, "But that's how I met my girlfriend."

And we all laughed.

Later that day, we met Sonic – a burly, impossibly tall northbound thru-hiker in a Danny Fortson Seattle SuperSonics jersey – and caught back up with Roughin' It. Oh, and a deer walked up to us while we were eating lunch, and Lil Dipper tried – and failed – to feed it a Pop Tart. P-Nut also got lost and ended up behind us somehow. And Caveman went down a side-trail to a wayside to get a burger and a milkshake. Which he said wasn't worth it. Or something.

It was constantly foggy. Sometimes it drizzled. We walked past supposed view points and saw only clouds. Visibility was nil. Our enjoyment was considerably less so.

And we all ended up at Hightop Hut, some 21.4 miles from Blackrock Hut where we had started. It was filled with the usual all-male chorus of farting, snoring, burping section hikers. Whatever. All in all, a very productive – if relatively uneventful – day. Perhaps a necessary calm before the storm to come.