It was two days since I had finished the Watauga Lake Challenge, and my body was still recovering. My legs hurt bizarrely in the morning; I had aches in muscles I previously didn't even know existed. But there was nothing for it. It was time to hike on.
Breakfast was an embittering affair, as P-Nut, Redwing and Lil Dipper bragged about their plans to slackpack some twenty five miles out of town. I grumbled my disapproval, but they remained steadfast committed, and even lobbied me to join them. Despite the fact that the Place was "donation only," however, staying in Damascus was getting too expensive for my tastes. I didn't want to be further tempted by the nearby bars or liquor stores, or to go back to that infernal pizzeria. Towns were always money pits, and I knew the longer I stayed, the less enthusiastic I would be about leaving. Besides, I didn't want to get too used to the meager comforts and luxuries of civilization, such as they were. We were in Virginia. The end was in sight. There was no looking back.
The peer pressure was strong, however. Besides the aforementioned trio, Caboose and Spark were also slackpacking, along with Nature, Alphabet, and an old dude named Ranger. Only myself, Bandito, Caveman and Hobbes were actually planning to hike out. Strider, the World's Greatest Traveller, was staying in Damascus to mow people's lawns and do various other unsavory odd-jobs until he could save enough money to continue his journey. None of us expected to see him again.
Actually cheered on by that encouraging thought, I started out ahead of the others. The trail was fairly flat for about a mile out of town, as it followed a road and the Virginia Creeper Trail, an old railroad right-of-way that's been converted into a bike path. I maintained a relatively steady pace for a couple of hours, until I was suddenly forced to duck off in search of a catholing site.
To my right was a slippery slope down towards a stream, and then the Virginia Creeper Trail. Which was paved. Someone could come along on their bike at any second, and I would have little to no warning. So that was out. To my left was an unforgiving, mercilessly steep incline covered in baren saplings providing scant cover. It didn't seem like I had much of a choice.
I had bushwhacked diagonally up the slope about thirty yards when the mounting pressure inside intestines threatened to become tragically explosive. I desperately hacked away at the ground at the base of the nearest tree, dropped trou, and spun around to relieve myself. Only to realize I was still in full view of the trail and the bike path below it. I figured I had enough of a head start on Caveman, Bandito and Hobbes that none of them would catch up while I was in a compromised position. And it was still far too early for any of the southbound slackpackers to cross my path. I finished my business quickly, and went undisturbed.
Although my catholing location was unfortunate, my timing could not have been more fortuitous. It seemed like less than five minutes had elapsed before Caboose came crashing towards me through the trees. He was a man possessed, clearly relishing a return to the hearth, his dog, a pizza, a shower, and a bed. I hissed epithets at him as he whistled passed, but he was going to fast to hear me. He had already gone something like fifteen miles in the time it had taken me to do nine.
Damn him, I thought, envying his speed and dexterity, unencumbered as he was. I vowed then to never slackpack, so long as I lived. It was cheating. It was indecent. It was barbaric, and unforgivably evil. I couldn't wait to do it myself. Maybe I could make my friends slackpack me when I got closer to home.
Lil Dipper and Redwing approached, with P-Nut dutifully in tow.
"Hey traitors," I said, waving at them. "Hope you fall off a cliff and die!"
"Whatever M.C.," muttered Redwing, rolling her eyes. "You're just jealous."
"How dare you," I shouted, "accurately portray the situation!"
"You should have came with us," said Lil Dipper, giggling.
"Never!" I shrieked. "I hate all of you!"
"Hey man," said P-Nut. "How's it going?"
"Oh, you know," I shrugged. "Just took a dump in the woods."
"Right on, man" laughed P-Nut.
"Hey!" I screamed, realizing my mistake. "Don't act all chummy with me! We're sworn enemies!"
"Since when?" asked Redwing, rather levelly.
"Shut up!" I hated being backed into a corner like this. "Since 1776!"
"Oh, very witty!" said Lil Dipper, though I doubt she was that impressed.
I spat, and called them the worst name I could think of. "Slackpackers," I said, shaking my head.
Yet I felt sad and utterly alone as I watched them disappear into the woods behind me. I knew I should have gone with them. What was I thinking? No! Be strong, I thought. They're going to be in town tonight, eating pizza and drinking beer, laughing and having fun, and spending lots of money, while I'll be enjoying that instant oatmeal I picked out of the hiker box, and then crying myself to sleep in my sleeping bag in a tent in the middle of the woods. For free. Wait, no! Stop, this isn't helping! Damn it all!
"Hi M.C.!" said Alphabet, smiling cheerfully at me as she and Spark walked up.
Without thinking, I stuck out my foot and tripped tripped Alphabet. She stumbled and fell awkwardly into some pricker bushes.
"What the hell was that for?" Spark demanded. Alphabet rolled over, several thorns stuck in her hands, on the verge of tears.
I immediately felt terrible. "Sorry," I mumbled, and belatedly offered Alphabet a helping hand.
She didn't take it, and glared at me, wounded. Spark quickly helped her up, then turned to me.
"You know what's coming, don't you?" she asked.
"Yes," I sighed, and resignedly covered my face in my hands to protect myself. And then she kicked me in the balls.
Just leave me here to die, I thought as I lay on the ground weeping. But they already had. I decided to take a break to catch my breath, and to wait for the intense throbbing pain in my testicles to wain. It was going to be a long day.
Showing posts with label The Place. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Place. Show all posts
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Chapter 42: Damascus
We awoke around seven to a steady drizzle. P-Nut, Caveman and Fat Jim had arrive sometime after us during the night, and were tented nearby on the lawn. My entire body ached. I felt like a dog turd that had been trampled by a herd of elephants.
My feet were bruised and swollen. My legs wobbled like shredded string cheese. My left achilles tendon had tightened up so considerably I could barely walk. But hobble I did, inside, in an increasing panic to find a bathroom.
The Place was empty. There must have been two dozen open bunks. In our exhausted stupor, hadn't even looked inside to check if there was room. It was a ridiculous lapse in judgement, but I didn't care. We had just hiked forty miles in eighteen hours.
Bandito and I went to a diner for breakfast. The food was terrible. It was the best meal we would ever eat, at least until lunchtime. I had a milkshake, and we waited for his aunt and uncle to arrive. Or maybe they were his cousins. He had relatives coming to meet us, in any case.
They came. And they were wonderfully generous and accommodating. They drove us to nearby Abingdon, Virginia, and put us up in a hotel. Then we went out for lunch. Mexican food. Then we did our laundry, and I called some friends to alert them of my progress. Then we went out for dinner. And then we went back to the hotel, and slept in real beds for a change. It was glorious.
The next day we had the complimentary continental breakfast in the hotel. I had never seen such a magnificent array of foods. I decided to try a little of everything. Sometimes I had seconds. Bandito's relatives drove us back to Damascus, where we claimed bunks at the Place. If I had been capable of feeling anything besides excruciating pain and exhaustion, I might have been happy to see that Caveman, P-Nut, and Hobbes were still there.
Bandito showed his relatives around town, taking them to the Mt. Roger's Outfitter, where they stocked up on expensive freeze dried foods. I sat outside on a lawn chair, dead to the world. Braids may have walked past, or maybe it was a mirage. I may have teased her for being the overly ambitious one, yet we had caught up with her. Again. I may have told her that we had just done the Watauga Lake Challenge. She may have then questioned our sanity. And that would have meant a lot, coming from her, if it had really happened. But I can't be sure.
Bandito came out and spoke to Braids briefly, before she went on her way. She was hiking out that day, and we'd likely never see her again. My heart might have fluttered, but I could feel no real sadness or empathy. I could feel nothing. We said goodbye to Braids and waved her off. Bandito smirked, and said I looked like I was in a much better mood all of a sudden. I don't know what he was talking about.
We said goodbye to Bandito's relatives. I hope I was appropriately profuse in thanking them for their ridiculous hospitality, but I have no memory of the conversation. They plied us with snacks and fruit, and then left. They were charming and adorable, just like the rest of Bandito's family. He had relatives strategically placed all along the Eastern Seaboard. I was sorry my family lived only in New England, and couldn't be as helpful, to repay his and their kindness.
We eventually found our way to Quincey's Pizza for dinner. Our fellow hikers had seemingly shut the place down, either through guile or their elite hiker stench. We had almost the entire restaurant to ourselves. Miller Time was there, shamelessly hitting on a conspicuously intoxicated Nature. Caboose and Spark were there, splitting a six dollar pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon. And then there was the kiddie table, occupied by Hobbes, P-Nut, Lil Dipper, Redwing, Saint, Caveman, Alphabet, Sasquatch, and the Loch Ness Monster. It felt great to be back amongst friends.
I abstained from alcoholic beverages, and managed to eat an entire pizza without vomiting or having more than one bout of uncontrollable diarrhea. Nature reintroduced me to Alphabet, whom I'd previously met as Kate. The last time I'd seen her, she was dashing up Clingman's Dome in the dark, planning to camp on top. Alphabet was a raging alcoholic, and was considering starting her own brewery when she finished with the trail to expedite her inevitable liver failure. She had heard from Nature that I was a home brewer, and had been excited to read a recipe I had written for an India Pale Ale in a shelter log. I was suddenly her new best friend, and we held a long, fascinating conversation almost exclusively about beer. It was all she wanted to talk about. Which was fine with me, because beer was also one of my favorite subjects. After food. And pooping.
When the waiter brought our bills, we finally learned each other's real names. I already knew Caboose and Spark were Brian and Alyson, and that Lil Dipper and Redwing had weird and British names like Clarice and Helena. And that P-Nut was actually named P-Nut, because his parents were hippies. But I didn't know that Caveman's real name was Devin, or that Bandito's name was Josh. You'd think I'd have learned his real name, having spent so much time with him and his family, but, as far as I could remember, they had all referred to him as Bandito. Odd. I was especially surprised to find out my real name was T. Baxter Corwin Neuse-Braunlich III, Esq. Hobbes was the most upset to have his secret identity revealed, however. Those of us who were sober enough to remember his real name proceeded to torture him with it by calling him Adam exclusively from then on.
We returned to the Place and found we had a couple hours to kill. I suggested playing cards, as I had gotten a deck from a woman giving out trail magic some days earlier. Redwing eagerly accepted my challenge, and bragged about her prodigious skill at Hearts. Apparently the game was all she played with her friends as they blitzed merrily around Europe on their ubiquitous high-speed railroad system. She and Lil Dipper often went to Paris after school, just to get an espresso and a scone at Le Plaza Athenée, and spent the four hours on the train playing cards. I was going down.
I shot the moon on the first hand. As it bore on, the game increasingly resembled the American Revolution. It ultimately ended with Lil Dipper and Redwing in tears, begging for forgiveness, and swearing fealty to and unwavering respect towards American awesomeness and our universal superiority over everything. Overcome by my victory, I sang The Star-Spangled Banner in their faces, had a patriotic orgasm in my pants, and then went to bed. With apologies to my numerous past and current girlfriends, it was the best night of my life.
Except for the snoring, which drove me to sleep on the porch. In the rain. At four in the morning.
My feet were bruised and swollen. My legs wobbled like shredded string cheese. My left achilles tendon had tightened up so considerably I could barely walk. But hobble I did, inside, in an increasing panic to find a bathroom.
The Place was empty. There must have been two dozen open bunks. In our exhausted stupor, hadn't even looked inside to check if there was room. It was a ridiculous lapse in judgement, but I didn't care. We had just hiked forty miles in eighteen hours.
Bandito and I went to a diner for breakfast. The food was terrible. It was the best meal we would ever eat, at least until lunchtime. I had a milkshake, and we waited for his aunt and uncle to arrive. Or maybe they were his cousins. He had relatives coming to meet us, in any case.
They came. And they were wonderfully generous and accommodating. They drove us to nearby Abingdon, Virginia, and put us up in a hotel. Then we went out for lunch. Mexican food. Then we did our laundry, and I called some friends to alert them of my progress. Then we went out for dinner. And then we went back to the hotel, and slept in real beds for a change. It was glorious.
The next day we had the complimentary continental breakfast in the hotel. I had never seen such a magnificent array of foods. I decided to try a little of everything. Sometimes I had seconds. Bandito's relatives drove us back to Damascus, where we claimed bunks at the Place. If I had been capable of feeling anything besides excruciating pain and exhaustion, I might have been happy to see that Caveman, P-Nut, and Hobbes were still there.
Bandito showed his relatives around town, taking them to the Mt. Roger's Outfitter, where they stocked up on expensive freeze dried foods. I sat outside on a lawn chair, dead to the world. Braids may have walked past, or maybe it was a mirage. I may have teased her for being the overly ambitious one, yet we had caught up with her. Again. I may have told her that we had just done the Watauga Lake Challenge. She may have then questioned our sanity. And that would have meant a lot, coming from her, if it had really happened. But I can't be sure.
Bandito came out and spoke to Braids briefly, before she went on her way. She was hiking out that day, and we'd likely never see her again. My heart might have fluttered, but I could feel no real sadness or empathy. I could feel nothing. We said goodbye to Braids and waved her off. Bandito smirked, and said I looked like I was in a much better mood all of a sudden. I don't know what he was talking about.
We said goodbye to Bandito's relatives. I hope I was appropriately profuse in thanking them for their ridiculous hospitality, but I have no memory of the conversation. They plied us with snacks and fruit, and then left. They were charming and adorable, just like the rest of Bandito's family. He had relatives strategically placed all along the Eastern Seaboard. I was sorry my family lived only in New England, and couldn't be as helpful, to repay his and their kindness.
We eventually found our way to Quincey's Pizza for dinner. Our fellow hikers had seemingly shut the place down, either through guile or their elite hiker stench. We had almost the entire restaurant to ourselves. Miller Time was there, shamelessly hitting on a conspicuously intoxicated Nature. Caboose and Spark were there, splitting a six dollar pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon. And then there was the kiddie table, occupied by Hobbes, P-Nut, Lil Dipper, Redwing, Saint, Caveman, Alphabet, Sasquatch, and the Loch Ness Monster. It felt great to be back amongst friends.
I abstained from alcoholic beverages, and managed to eat an entire pizza without vomiting or having more than one bout of uncontrollable diarrhea. Nature reintroduced me to Alphabet, whom I'd previously met as Kate. The last time I'd seen her, she was dashing up Clingman's Dome in the dark, planning to camp on top. Alphabet was a raging alcoholic, and was considering starting her own brewery when she finished with the trail to expedite her inevitable liver failure. She had heard from Nature that I was a home brewer, and had been excited to read a recipe I had written for an India Pale Ale in a shelter log. I was suddenly her new best friend, and we held a long, fascinating conversation almost exclusively about beer. It was all she wanted to talk about. Which was fine with me, because beer was also one of my favorite subjects. After food. And pooping.
When the waiter brought our bills, we finally learned each other's real names. I already knew Caboose and Spark were Brian and Alyson, and that Lil Dipper and Redwing had weird and British names like Clarice and Helena. And that P-Nut was actually named P-Nut, because his parents were hippies. But I didn't know that Caveman's real name was Devin, or that Bandito's name was Josh. You'd think I'd have learned his real name, having spent so much time with him and his family, but, as far as I could remember, they had all referred to him as Bandito. Odd. I was especially surprised to find out my real name was T. Baxter Corwin Neuse-Braunlich III, Esq. Hobbes was the most upset to have his secret identity revealed, however. Those of us who were sober enough to remember his real name proceeded to torture him with it by calling him Adam exclusively from then on.
We returned to the Place and found we had a couple hours to kill. I suggested playing cards, as I had gotten a deck from a woman giving out trail magic some days earlier. Redwing eagerly accepted my challenge, and bragged about her prodigious skill at Hearts. Apparently the game was all she played with her friends as they blitzed merrily around Europe on their ubiquitous high-speed railroad system. She and Lil Dipper often went to Paris after school, just to get an espresso and a scone at Le Plaza Athenée, and spent the four hours on the train playing cards. I was going down.
I shot the moon on the first hand. As it bore on, the game increasingly resembled the American Revolution. It ultimately ended with Lil Dipper and Redwing in tears, begging for forgiveness, and swearing fealty to and unwavering respect towards American awesomeness and our universal superiority over everything. Overcome by my victory, I sang The Star-Spangled Banner in their faces, had a patriotic orgasm in my pants, and then went to bed. With apologies to my numerous past and current girlfriends, it was the best night of my life.
Except for the snoring, which drove me to sleep on the porch. In the rain. At four in the morning.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Chapter 41: The Watauga Lake Challenge
This is exhilarating and beautiful! No, this is awful. I'm not going to make it. Why am I doing this to myself? I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. I'm tired. Ohh, a butterfly!
These are just a few of the myriad thoughts that may have passed through my brain that day as I attempted the Watauga Lake Challenge, which involved hiking the forty miles from the Watauga Lake Shelter into Damascus, Virginia in less than twenty-four hours. As went the miles, so went my mind.
I was the first out of camp that morning, setting off just after 7:30 AM. I figured the hike would take me about fifteen hours, ten at a brisk three mile-per-hour pace, then five more at a more relaxed two miles-per-hour. I would take the uphills as I normally did, slowly, with as many breaks and as much swearing as possible, and then run downhill, so much as I could, whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a good plan, perhaps only slightly unrealistic, and was utterly doomed to failure.
I'd been hiking for less than ten minutes when I passed where Hobbes had camped. He hadn't spent the night in the shelter with the rest of us, opting instead to tent further along the trail, next to the lake. I respectfully kept silent, hoping not to wake him. And then he emerged from behind a tree ahead of me. He was completely naked. I think I surprised him as much he surprised me. The man was hung like Lil Dipper's hammock. Which is to say poorly. Or that he was pink, loose, and floppy. I found myself staring in morbid fasciation.
"Hey, man," he said casually, as if trying to brush off his appearance. "What's going on?
"Oh, you know," I said, still bewildered. "Walking."
"Look," he said, leveling with me. "Is this going to be a problem?" He gestured down at himself.
I shook my head emphatically. "No! Not at all! My penis is tiny. I mean, it's pathetic. Really! I mean, do you want to see it?"
He winced. "No!"
"Oh, right," I mumbled, remembering that straight men don't usually show each other their junk. "It really is tiny though," I stammered. "Honest! So you have nothing to be ashamed about!"
"I'm not ashamed," shrugged Hobbes, pulling his pants on. "After all, I'm big enough for your ex-girlfriend."
He then needlessly elaborated, explaining in lurid detail how he had pleased my unsurprisingly game ex-girlfriend in ways I never could. I was almost offended. But no, I had it coming. I excused myself and quickly continued on, as much to hide my embarrassment as to make up for the delay.
The Watauga Dam is a tepid pile of useless gravel compared to Fontana Dam, with none of the latter's grandiose majesty or reassuringly solid concrete construction. It is an earth- and rock-filled dam, and gives off the impression that it could crumble or collapse at any second. Walking across it was thus only mildly disconcerting, and made me glad I was in a hurry.
The next few miles were fairly unremarkable, and passed more or less without incident. I climbed slowly but steadily through the early-morning mist, believing, rightly as it turned out, that the fog would burn off, and that we'd have good weather that day. Overall, I thought I was doing pretty well, and stopped just before the Vandeventer Shelter for a quick snack. I doffed my pack and was about to sit down when Bandito stumbled upon me, much to my dismay. He said he'd left half an hour or so after me. I didn't think that he should've caught up to me so quickly, and I scolded him for it.
"Respect your elders," I said. "By walking slower than them. Doesn't it say something like that in the Bible?"
Apparently not, as Bandito promptly pointed out. Still, I was happy to have some company. We decided to complete the rest of the challenge together.
We'd gone somewhere between seven and fourteen miles when we caught up with Fredo. The rush of adrenaline I was feeling from the challenge must have been getting to me, because I was in a singularly peppy mood. I asked Fredo how far it was to the next shelter.
He paused thoughtfully, consulting his guidebook. "Well, I think it's been about six miles since the last shelter--"
"Oh, that's no help to me!" I interrupted, "I never look back!"
And then I disappeared into the woods, leaving Fredo stunned, perplexed, and probably marveling at how much of an insensitive jerk I was. He would continue hating my guts for the next 1,400 miles, until we'd become the best of friends. He would even serve as the best man at my wedding. Except for that I'm not married. But that's another story.
My good mood continued when we arrived at the Iron Mountain Shelter for lunch. We'd gone fourteen miles, and it wasn't much past noon. At this rate, we'd reach Damascus sometime around eight o'clock at night. We were flying.
I wrote in the shelter log:
Bandito and I struggled to find ways to pass the time. We had long since realized that our tastes in movies didn't overlap that much beyond some very recent blockbusters and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. He knew more about obscure biblical epics and the family films of the 1950's than I thought was necessarily healthy. I probably knew more about literally everything else than he thought was healthy. We could only play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon for so long. And so I told Bandito my life story.
I was born on December 18th, 1983. Mine was a difficult birth. In the womb, my umbilical cord had somehow gotten tied in a knot; if it had been pulled tight, I might have suffocated and died. Already, it was as if the fates were aligned against me.
My earliest memory is of biting my grandfather on the ankle, before I was even old enough to crawl. He would later die. Of Parkinson's disease. And not until I was nineteen.
I was a very cute toddler and had many friends and was perfectly well-adjusted until I entered the first grade. Then, because my ears stuck out, I was ostracized and ridiculed. People derisively called me "Dumbo" pretty much all day, every day until I hit puberty. The constant abuse left me emotionally scarred and socially stunted. It would take me years to recover. That is, if I ever did.
My first crush was the girl who lived across the street. We were great friends, and used to walk to school together every day. Her name was Amber. We ended up dating for one torrid, unforgettable weekend in the eighth grade. Okay, so we never went on a single date, and I technically never saw her in the brief period of time we were actually "dating," but I was still heartbroken when it ended. It would take me two years to get over it. That is, if I ever did. Even then, the only thing that snapped me out of my depressive funk was going out with her for a second time.
We were sophomores in high school, and Amber asked me to the homecoming dance. I said yes, we went, we kissed, and I was so terrible at it that she promptly dumped me and never spoke to me again. Or I just had no idea what I was doing, inadvertently treated her like garbage, and then could never work up the courage to speak to her again. Either way, our friendship was ruined, and it was entirely my fault. However unpleasant, the experience was elucidating and formative. I quickly lost any respect I had for myself, and was filled with regret and a deep and abiding self-hatred.
In between junior and senior years of high school, I went on an eleven-day backpacking and sea kayaking trip with the Appalachian Mountain Club. That was my first experience with long-distance hiking and the Appalachian Trail. I didn't shower the entire time. Everybody loved me. It was a blast. And I never thought in a million years I'd do anything like it ever again.
It was only in my senior year of high school that I really came into my own. And by that I mean stopped being a total slobbish loser. Don't get me wrong, I was still a nerd and a total band geek, and was still mostly terrified of the popular crowd, but, all of a sudden, every girl in school wanted me. This might have had something to do with me toning down my self-deprecating humor and comporting myself with more dignity and confidence, exuding charm and charisma. And also being really, really good looking. Or, it might have had to do with the fact that I had a steady girlfriend for the first time in my life, and that made it suddenly safe to approach me. That, or it somehow validated my worth in a way that me being really, really good looking, and consistently charming, funny, and charismatic didn't. I really have no idea. I don't understand women.
Anyway, I had a real girlfriend at last. She was a musician, her name was Libby, and we were very much in love. Or at least I was. I would have stayed with her forever. I even had the opportunity to cheat on her while she was away at band camp, but I actively chose not to! Such was the measure of my devotion. Then I found out she cheated on me. While at band camp. Whoops. I was heartbroken, fell into a depressive and existential funk, became anorexic, lost thirty pounds, and developed a raging hydrocodone addiction. It would take me two years to get over it. That is, if I ever did. I have a lot of problems.
Bandito was fascinated, soaking in every detail, and very much wanted me to continue my story. But I was tired, and took a break from storytelling for the time being. It was only mid-afternoon, after all. We still had twenty-one miles to go.
We found some trail magic just before Tennessee Route 91. There was a garish metal box marked with crucifixes behind a tree, filled with useless garbage. And one bottle of Pepsi. Bandito and I looked to each other. His expression was inscrutable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking in that moment. I know I was thinking about physically subduing him somehow, then drinking the entire soda myself. But he was a black belt in Taekwondo, and I've lost every fight I've ever been in. We shared the Pepsi, then hiked on.
I tend to think that modern civilization is hideously ugly, with its garish excesses, pervasive moral bankruptcy and vile pollution. There's something oppressive and bleak about the urban landscape; about the cold, monolithic buildings that blot out the sky; the graffitied highway overpasses; the ubiquitous strip malls, their gutters clogged with litter; the millions of miserable people moping around, toiling away at soulless, degrading jobs for the mere privilege of prolonging their own pitiable, pointless existences. Yet, at the same time, I find there's something achingly beautiful and poignant about civilization in decay.
After crossing the road, we walked through a long, wind-swept meadow, past the ruins of a long-abandoned farm house, its yard overgrown with weeds. The remains of a weathered wooden fence still stood nearby, stoic and resolute, despite years of neglect and disrepair. Wildflowers grew through the cracks in a crumbling stone foundation. It was incredibly peaceful, somehow primal but mysterious, bittersweet yet hopeful. And utterly breathtaking. I only wish we hadn't been in so much of a hurry, or I would have slowed down to more properly enjoy it.
We met a lone camper just before Low Gap. He was a young kid, around Bandito's age, and seemed startlingly sad and lonely. He mumbled a greeting, staring into the distance with vacant eyes, and then asked me if he could bum a cigarette. I honestly replied that I didn't smoke. And we hiked on. His tragic appearance stuck with me, however, and I immediately told Bandito how horrible I felt for the guy.
"He looked so sad," I moaned. "Couldn't you see it in his eyes?"
Bandito agreed with me.
"I bet he lives at home, his parents are divorced, and his step-father is a drunk and abusive," I speculated. "He probably got tired of all the constant screaming and fighting and one day just packed up and left. He hitched a ride out here, because he's always wanted to hike the trail. It's the one place he can find peace. Plus, his real daddy always wanted to do it, and if he succeeds, it'll be the greatest thing anyone in his family will have ever accomplished."
Bandito was skeptical of this assessment.
"But he's never going to make it," I lamented. "He has the wrong gear. He's not prepared. He's only been on the trail for a day, and he's already ran out of cigarettes."
"I think you're seeing things," said Bandito, sounding a little worried.
"I'm not!" I cried, "And you know what the saddest part is, Bandito?"
Bandito rolled his eyes. "What's that, M.C.?"
"He's going the wrong direction!"
Bandito didn't understand.
"If he got dropped off at Low Gap, and he probably did," I explained, "Then he went south instead of north, and he only made it half a mile!"
"You're projecting all over him," Bandito asserted. "Also, you're nuts."
"Maybe," I conceded.
We reached Low Gap, where there was a picnic table and a boxed spring. Or what might have been a boxed spring. It looked more like a concrete drainage ditch. Whatever it was, it made me glad we were treating our water. We sat down at the table to make and eat our dinners. It was getting late.
Hobbes passed us while we were eating dinner.
"Oh, hi!" I said, startled by his sudden appearance. I was glad to see he was wearing pants.
"Hey, you!" he said sardonically, winking at me.
"Are you doing the forty mile challenge?" asked Bandito.
"I wasn't planning on it, but then everybody else was doing it," shrugged Hobbes.
"Because the best things in life always come after caving to peer pressure," I snorted. "Because caving to peer pressure never has horrible, unforeseen consequences."
"Stop," Hobbes interrupted. "Just stop."
"Yeah," agreed Bandito, shaking his head. "The first joke was just okay, but the second? You overdid it."
"How dare you," I breathed, then returned to my meal, pouting in silence.
"Well, it's been charming as usual," said Hobbes, after collecting water. "I'm going to continue on. I don't want to get into town too much after dark."
"After dark?" I asked, incredulous, consulting my guidebook. "It's only fifteen more miles. What are you worried about?"
Hobbes scoffed, nodded to Bandito, then trudged away. I would have resented his speed and resilience, but it was still light out. I thought we were doing pretty good.
It was starting to get dark. Bandito asked me to continue telling him my life's story. As much to keep the bears away as to stave off boredom, I obliged him.
I went to New York University, where I studied Dramatic Writing and Post-Industrial Bovine Effluence.
"What's that?" asked Bandito.
"Never mind," I said. "It's bullshit."
I had been living in New York City for less than two weeks before 9/11. We had been going to classes for only three days. I was in the shower when it happened. When I got out, my roommate Jim was watching the news on TV. His mother had called him, frantic, and told him a plane had just hit the World Trade Center. She had just wanted to know that he was okay. Of course he was. The chances that any given college freshman would even be awake, let alone sightseeing, at nine o'clock in the morning on a school day were astronomically low.
Still, I remember wondering how stupid the pilot had to be, or how he couldn't have seen the Twin Towers looming in front of him. It was a brilliant, cloudless day. I had just sat down to watch the news with Jim when the second plane hit. It was just about then that we started having the sneaking suspicion that something fishy was going on.
Throughout the day, people trickled in and out of our dorm, most going in groups to give blood at Red Cross stations set up all over the city. Classes had been cancelled of course, and the security guards were encouraging everyone to stay inside. Probably a prudent idea, considering the amount of toxins and asbestos and ash floating around in the air that day. I probably breathed in enough of it in the next couple days to assure I'd die of lung cancer. I didn't need to be out there. It was disturbing and traumatic enough just being there, stuck inside, seeing the smoke clouds billowing outside our windows, hearing the sirens in the distance, feeling lost and helpless.
A girl came in sometime during the morning crying hysterically. The gay couple that lived across the hall from me tried in vain to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. She had been downtown, and had seen people jumping. We all understood.
Bandito knew what happened next. Everybody knows. None of us there in the city were really mature enough or had the proper perspective to grasp what had happened. We didn't know how to react. It would take days or weeks for it to set in. Lots of people in my department ended up dropping out. Some couldn't see the point in continuing at school in light of what happened, others were scared, or too emotionally conflicted to return to the city. Some were simply pulled out by their families. I stayed. I got a C+ in Psych 101 that semester, the lowest grade I would ever receive. It was 9/11's fault.
I may have glossed over a few details of the following months and years. My sophomore year in college was a blur of academic brilliance and debauchery. My junior year, I met Megan.
Megan was just like me in every conceivable way, except she was a girl, she grew up a different state, had a completely different childhood experience, and liked different things and had different priorities in life. In other words, we were sickeningly perfect for each other. But our relationship was far from perfect.
The first time we met, we crash a mixer one of our mutual friends was hosting for incoming freshman. At the end of the night, after walking her back to her dorm, I had turned to her and said, "We should do this again sometime. You know, the next time they have a dance." She had nodded and backed away slowly, probably thinking I was some kind of crazy person. And I had gone home and banged my head against the wall. Yet, somehow, I hadn't completely sabotaged myself. That was just the first and probably least objectionable of all the mistakes I made, but here we are, six years later, still together.
Bandito and I bulldozed through the Abingdon Gap Shelter area without even stopping. It was surprisingly crowded. An entire troop of Boy Scouts were making camp nearby. Bandito urged me onward, telling me we only had 10.2 miles to go.
"Did someone just say they were going ten point two miles further?" asked someone.
"Yes. Yes they did," responded another.
"They do know it's already nine o'clock, right?" asked the first.
"I have no idea," said the second. "They're probably crazy."
"I agree," said the first. "Aren't they worried about bears? And sleeping?"
Yeah, right. I laughed inwardly at their dialog, smug in my assumption that we were assuredly would not be attacked and mauled by a bear. Or would we? It was awfully dark. I started to worry.
"Did someone just ask someone else if they heard someone say they were hiking ten miles further?" asked Bandito.
"Yes," I said. "And I rather think they thought that we were rather crazy."
"But we are!" said Bandito. "I'm hallucinating badly. You smell like mexican food!"
"Rather," I said, adding "I'm saying 'rather' rather a lot, aren't I?"
"I don't know," said Bandito. "If we don't get there soon, I might start chewing on your leg."
We stopped only twice after that, once at the Tennessee-Virgina border to take pictures, and another just before Damascus to have a nervous breakdown. We heard noises in the woods. Twigs snapping, strange growlings. We started giggling uncontrollably. I may have started sobbing. But there was nothing. We never saw any animal.
We were practically carrying each other by the time we made it into town. Seeing the lights emerge out of the darkness was wonderful. We could hardly feel what must have been the truly awful, excruciating pain in our legs as we jogged or stumbled the last few hundred yards.
It was just about midnight. There was a replica of a shelter on a town green. We stopped to sit down, and take off our boots. I did not smell like mexican food. I smelled like I was tired. I wanted to go to sleep right there, but a sign said "no camping."
"Is it really camping if we don't set up a tent?" asked Bandito.
We couldn't be too sure, and there were cop cars patrolling the area. "We better not stay here, Bandito," I said. "I feel drunk." I felt drunk.
"I feel drunk too," said Bandito. "Except I've never had alcohol, because it's illegal."
"But it's delicious," I protested.
"Fine!" said Bandito. "I'll have a drink when I turn one hundred."
"You're my hero," I said.
"Stop hitting on me," said Bandito. "Wait, I didn't say that. M.C. You're an unreliable narrator!"
"N-no!" I protested, wobbly. "That was just a stylistic flourish to help put the reader in our delirious mindset."
"You're a genius," gushed Bandito.
"Who're you calling a psycho!" I yelled at a nearby telephone pole.
It took us an hour to get to the Place. Which is the name of the hostel there. In Damascus. We got into town at twelve. It took us an hour to do the last mile to the hostel. We only got lost twice trying to find the place, and almost asked a police officer if we could just sleep in the jail. When we finally did arrive at the Place, we found Hobbes tented outside. He was long asleep. We didn't even bother checking to see if there was room inside the hostel, there was, and quickly just set up our tents and passed out.
I was the first out of camp that morning, setting off just after 7:30 AM. I figured the hike would take me about fifteen hours, ten at a brisk three mile-per-hour pace, then five more at a more relaxed two miles-per-hour. I would take the uphills as I normally did, slowly, with as many breaks and as much swearing as possible, and then run downhill, so much as I could, whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was a good plan, perhaps only slightly unrealistic, and was utterly doomed to failure.
I'd been hiking for less than ten minutes when I passed where Hobbes had camped. He hadn't spent the night in the shelter with the rest of us, opting instead to tent further along the trail, next to the lake. I respectfully kept silent, hoping not to wake him. And then he emerged from behind a tree ahead of me. He was completely naked. I think I surprised him as much he surprised me. The man was hung like Lil Dipper's hammock. Which is to say poorly. Or that he was pink, loose, and floppy. I found myself staring in morbid fasciation.
"Hey, man," he said casually, as if trying to brush off his appearance. "What's going on?
"Oh, you know," I said, still bewildered. "Walking."
"Look," he said, leveling with me. "Is this going to be a problem?" He gestured down at himself.
I shook my head emphatically. "No! Not at all! My penis is tiny. I mean, it's pathetic. Really! I mean, do you want to see it?"
He winced. "No!"
"Oh, right," I mumbled, remembering that straight men don't usually show each other their junk. "It really is tiny though," I stammered. "Honest! So you have nothing to be ashamed about!"
"I'm not ashamed," shrugged Hobbes, pulling his pants on. "After all, I'm big enough for your ex-girlfriend."
He then needlessly elaborated, explaining in lurid detail how he had pleased my unsurprisingly game ex-girlfriend in ways I never could. I was almost offended. But no, I had it coming. I excused myself and quickly continued on, as much to hide my embarrassment as to make up for the delay.
The Watauga Dam is a tepid pile of useless gravel compared to Fontana Dam, with none of the latter's grandiose majesty or reassuringly solid concrete construction. It is an earth- and rock-filled dam, and gives off the impression that it could crumble or collapse at any second. Walking across it was thus only mildly disconcerting, and made me glad I was in a hurry.
The next few miles were fairly unremarkable, and passed more or less without incident. I climbed slowly but steadily through the early-morning mist, believing, rightly as it turned out, that the fog would burn off, and that we'd have good weather that day. Overall, I thought I was doing pretty well, and stopped just before the Vandeventer Shelter for a quick snack. I doffed my pack and was about to sit down when Bandito stumbled upon me, much to my dismay. He said he'd left half an hour or so after me. I didn't think that he should've caught up to me so quickly, and I scolded him for it.
"Respect your elders," I said. "By walking slower than them. Doesn't it say something like that in the Bible?"
Apparently not, as Bandito promptly pointed out. Still, I was happy to have some company. We decided to complete the rest of the challenge together.
We'd gone somewhere between seven and fourteen miles when we caught up with Fredo. The rush of adrenaline I was feeling from the challenge must have been getting to me, because I was in a singularly peppy mood. I asked Fredo how far it was to the next shelter.
He paused thoughtfully, consulting his guidebook. "Well, I think it's been about six miles since the last shelter--"
"Oh, that's no help to me!" I interrupted, "I never look back!"
And then I disappeared into the woods, leaving Fredo stunned, perplexed, and probably marveling at how much of an insensitive jerk I was. He would continue hating my guts for the next 1,400 miles, until we'd become the best of friends. He would even serve as the best man at my wedding. Except for that I'm not married. But that's another story.
My good mood continued when we arrived at the Iron Mountain Shelter for lunch. We'd gone fourteen miles, and it wasn't much past noon. At this rate, we'd reach Damascus sometime around eight o'clock at night. We were flying.
I wrote in the shelter log:
Redwing is a devastatingly beautiful, completely charming, startlingly intelligent, ultimately respectable, perfectly dignified human being, who would never do or say anything to hurt anyone. She is a true and loyal friend, has never smoked crack, and has definitely not murdered any drifters. Furthermore, if she had, I would personally assist her in disposing of the bodies. Probably by burning them. Such is my devotion to her as a friend. Major Chafage is an ass.
P-NutAnd then we hiked on.
Bandito and I struggled to find ways to pass the time. We had long since realized that our tastes in movies didn't overlap that much beyond some very recent blockbusters and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. He knew more about obscure biblical epics and the family films of the 1950's than I thought was necessarily healthy. I probably knew more about literally everything else than he thought was healthy. We could only play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon for so long. And so I told Bandito my life story.
I was born on December 18th, 1983. Mine was a difficult birth. In the womb, my umbilical cord had somehow gotten tied in a knot; if it had been pulled tight, I might have suffocated and died. Already, it was as if the fates were aligned against me.
My earliest memory is of biting my grandfather on the ankle, before I was even old enough to crawl. He would later die. Of Parkinson's disease. And not until I was nineteen.
I was a very cute toddler and had many friends and was perfectly well-adjusted until I entered the first grade. Then, because my ears stuck out, I was ostracized and ridiculed. People derisively called me "Dumbo" pretty much all day, every day until I hit puberty. The constant abuse left me emotionally scarred and socially stunted. It would take me years to recover. That is, if I ever did.
My first crush was the girl who lived across the street. We were great friends, and used to walk to school together every day. Her name was Amber. We ended up dating for one torrid, unforgettable weekend in the eighth grade. Okay, so we never went on a single date, and I technically never saw her in the brief period of time we were actually "dating," but I was still heartbroken when it ended. It would take me two years to get over it. That is, if I ever did. Even then, the only thing that snapped me out of my depressive funk was going out with her for a second time.
We were sophomores in high school, and Amber asked me to the homecoming dance. I said yes, we went, we kissed, and I was so terrible at it that she promptly dumped me and never spoke to me again. Or I just had no idea what I was doing, inadvertently treated her like garbage, and then could never work up the courage to speak to her again. Either way, our friendship was ruined, and it was entirely my fault. However unpleasant, the experience was elucidating and formative. I quickly lost any respect I had for myself, and was filled with regret and a deep and abiding self-hatred.
In between junior and senior years of high school, I went on an eleven-day backpacking and sea kayaking trip with the Appalachian Mountain Club. That was my first experience with long-distance hiking and the Appalachian Trail. I didn't shower the entire time. Everybody loved me. It was a blast. And I never thought in a million years I'd do anything like it ever again.
It was only in my senior year of high school that I really came into my own. And by that I mean stopped being a total slobbish loser. Don't get me wrong, I was still a nerd and a total band geek, and was still mostly terrified of the popular crowd, but, all of a sudden, every girl in school wanted me. This might have had something to do with me toning down my self-deprecating humor and comporting myself with more dignity and confidence, exuding charm and charisma. And also being really, really good looking. Or, it might have had to do with the fact that I had a steady girlfriend for the first time in my life, and that made it suddenly safe to approach me. That, or it somehow validated my worth in a way that me being really, really good looking, and consistently charming, funny, and charismatic didn't. I really have no idea. I don't understand women.
Anyway, I had a real girlfriend at last. She was a musician, her name was Libby, and we were very much in love. Or at least I was. I would have stayed with her forever. I even had the opportunity to cheat on her while she was away at band camp, but I actively chose not to! Such was the measure of my devotion. Then I found out she cheated on me. While at band camp. Whoops. I was heartbroken, fell into a depressive and existential funk, became anorexic, lost thirty pounds, and developed a raging hydrocodone addiction. It would take me two years to get over it. That is, if I ever did. I have a lot of problems.
Bandito was fascinated, soaking in every detail, and very much wanted me to continue my story. But I was tired, and took a break from storytelling for the time being. It was only mid-afternoon, after all. We still had twenty-one miles to go.
We found some trail magic just before Tennessee Route 91. There was a garish metal box marked with crucifixes behind a tree, filled with useless garbage. And one bottle of Pepsi. Bandito and I looked to each other. His expression was inscrutable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking in that moment. I know I was thinking about physically subduing him somehow, then drinking the entire soda myself. But he was a black belt in Taekwondo, and I've lost every fight I've ever been in. We shared the Pepsi, then hiked on.
I tend to think that modern civilization is hideously ugly, with its garish excesses, pervasive moral bankruptcy and vile pollution. There's something oppressive and bleak about the urban landscape; about the cold, monolithic buildings that blot out the sky; the graffitied highway overpasses; the ubiquitous strip malls, their gutters clogged with litter; the millions of miserable people moping around, toiling away at soulless, degrading jobs for the mere privilege of prolonging their own pitiable, pointless existences. Yet, at the same time, I find there's something achingly beautiful and poignant about civilization in decay.
After crossing the road, we walked through a long, wind-swept meadow, past the ruins of a long-abandoned farm house, its yard overgrown with weeds. The remains of a weathered wooden fence still stood nearby, stoic and resolute, despite years of neglect and disrepair. Wildflowers grew through the cracks in a crumbling stone foundation. It was incredibly peaceful, somehow primal but mysterious, bittersweet yet hopeful. And utterly breathtaking. I only wish we hadn't been in so much of a hurry, or I would have slowed down to more properly enjoy it.
We met a lone camper just before Low Gap. He was a young kid, around Bandito's age, and seemed startlingly sad and lonely. He mumbled a greeting, staring into the distance with vacant eyes, and then asked me if he could bum a cigarette. I honestly replied that I didn't smoke. And we hiked on. His tragic appearance stuck with me, however, and I immediately told Bandito how horrible I felt for the guy.
"He looked so sad," I moaned. "Couldn't you see it in his eyes?"
Bandito agreed with me.
"I bet he lives at home, his parents are divorced, and his step-father is a drunk and abusive," I speculated. "He probably got tired of all the constant screaming and fighting and one day just packed up and left. He hitched a ride out here, because he's always wanted to hike the trail. It's the one place he can find peace. Plus, his real daddy always wanted to do it, and if he succeeds, it'll be the greatest thing anyone in his family will have ever accomplished."
Bandito was skeptical of this assessment.
"But he's never going to make it," I lamented. "He has the wrong gear. He's not prepared. He's only been on the trail for a day, and he's already ran out of cigarettes."
"I think you're seeing things," said Bandito, sounding a little worried.
"I'm not!" I cried, "And you know what the saddest part is, Bandito?"
Bandito rolled his eyes. "What's that, M.C.?"
"He's going the wrong direction!"
Bandito didn't understand.
"If he got dropped off at Low Gap, and he probably did," I explained, "Then he went south instead of north, and he only made it half a mile!"
"You're projecting all over him," Bandito asserted. "Also, you're nuts."
"Maybe," I conceded.
We reached Low Gap, where there was a picnic table and a boxed spring. Or what might have been a boxed spring. It looked more like a concrete drainage ditch. Whatever it was, it made me glad we were treating our water. We sat down at the table to make and eat our dinners. It was getting late.
Hobbes passed us while we were eating dinner.
"Oh, hi!" I said, startled by his sudden appearance. I was glad to see he was wearing pants.
"Hey, you!" he said sardonically, winking at me.
"Are you doing the forty mile challenge?" asked Bandito.
"I wasn't planning on it, but then everybody else was doing it," shrugged Hobbes.
"Because the best things in life always come after caving to peer pressure," I snorted. "Because caving to peer pressure never has horrible, unforeseen consequences."
"Stop," Hobbes interrupted. "Just stop."
"Yeah," agreed Bandito, shaking his head. "The first joke was just okay, but the second? You overdid it."
"How dare you," I breathed, then returned to my meal, pouting in silence.
"Well, it's been charming as usual," said Hobbes, after collecting water. "I'm going to continue on. I don't want to get into town too much after dark."
"After dark?" I asked, incredulous, consulting my guidebook. "It's only fifteen more miles. What are you worried about?"
Hobbes scoffed, nodded to Bandito, then trudged away. I would have resented his speed and resilience, but it was still light out. I thought we were doing pretty good.
It was starting to get dark. Bandito asked me to continue telling him my life's story. As much to keep the bears away as to stave off boredom, I obliged him.
I went to New York University, where I studied Dramatic Writing and Post-Industrial Bovine Effluence.
"What's that?" asked Bandito.
"Never mind," I said. "It's bullshit."
I had been living in New York City for less than two weeks before 9/11. We had been going to classes for only three days. I was in the shower when it happened. When I got out, my roommate Jim was watching the news on TV. His mother had called him, frantic, and told him a plane had just hit the World Trade Center. She had just wanted to know that he was okay. Of course he was. The chances that any given college freshman would even be awake, let alone sightseeing, at nine o'clock in the morning on a school day were astronomically low.
Still, I remember wondering how stupid the pilot had to be, or how he couldn't have seen the Twin Towers looming in front of him. It was a brilliant, cloudless day. I had just sat down to watch the news with Jim when the second plane hit. It was just about then that we started having the sneaking suspicion that something fishy was going on.
Throughout the day, people trickled in and out of our dorm, most going in groups to give blood at Red Cross stations set up all over the city. Classes had been cancelled of course, and the security guards were encouraging everyone to stay inside. Probably a prudent idea, considering the amount of toxins and asbestos and ash floating around in the air that day. I probably breathed in enough of it in the next couple days to assure I'd die of lung cancer. I didn't need to be out there. It was disturbing and traumatic enough just being there, stuck inside, seeing the smoke clouds billowing outside our windows, hearing the sirens in the distance, feeling lost and helpless.
A girl came in sometime during the morning crying hysterically. The gay couple that lived across the hall from me tried in vain to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. She had been downtown, and had seen people jumping. We all understood.
Bandito knew what happened next. Everybody knows. None of us there in the city were really mature enough or had the proper perspective to grasp what had happened. We didn't know how to react. It would take days or weeks for it to set in. Lots of people in my department ended up dropping out. Some couldn't see the point in continuing at school in light of what happened, others were scared, or too emotionally conflicted to return to the city. Some were simply pulled out by their families. I stayed. I got a C+ in Psych 101 that semester, the lowest grade I would ever receive. It was 9/11's fault.
I may have glossed over a few details of the following months and years. My sophomore year in college was a blur of academic brilliance and debauchery. My junior year, I met Megan.
Megan was just like me in every conceivable way, except she was a girl, she grew up a different state, had a completely different childhood experience, and liked different things and had different priorities in life. In other words, we were sickeningly perfect for each other. But our relationship was far from perfect.
The first time we met, we crash a mixer one of our mutual friends was hosting for incoming freshman. At the end of the night, after walking her back to her dorm, I had turned to her and said, "We should do this again sometime. You know, the next time they have a dance." She had nodded and backed away slowly, probably thinking I was some kind of crazy person. And I had gone home and banged my head against the wall. Yet, somehow, I hadn't completely sabotaged myself. That was just the first and probably least objectionable of all the mistakes I made, but here we are, six years later, still together.
Bandito and I bulldozed through the Abingdon Gap Shelter area without even stopping. It was surprisingly crowded. An entire troop of Boy Scouts were making camp nearby. Bandito urged me onward, telling me we only had 10.2 miles to go.
"Did someone just say they were going ten point two miles further?" asked someone.
"Yes. Yes they did," responded another.
"They do know it's already nine o'clock, right?" asked the first.
"I have no idea," said the second. "They're probably crazy."
"I agree," said the first. "Aren't they worried about bears? And sleeping?"
Yeah, right. I laughed inwardly at their dialog, smug in my assumption that we were assuredly would not be attacked and mauled by a bear. Or would we? It was awfully dark. I started to worry.
"Did someone just ask someone else if they heard someone say they were hiking ten miles further?" asked Bandito.
"Yes," I said. "And I rather think they thought that we were rather crazy."
"But we are!" said Bandito. "I'm hallucinating badly. You smell like mexican food!"
"Rather," I said, adding "I'm saying 'rather' rather a lot, aren't I?"
"I don't know," said Bandito. "If we don't get there soon, I might start chewing on your leg."
We stopped only twice after that, once at the Tennessee-Virgina border to take pictures, and another just before Damascus to have a nervous breakdown. We heard noises in the woods. Twigs snapping, strange growlings. We started giggling uncontrollably. I may have started sobbing. But there was nothing. We never saw any animal.
We were practically carrying each other by the time we made it into town. Seeing the lights emerge out of the darkness was wonderful. We could hardly feel what must have been the truly awful, excruciating pain in our legs as we jogged or stumbled the last few hundred yards.
It was just about midnight. There was a replica of a shelter on a town green. We stopped to sit down, and take off our boots. I did not smell like mexican food. I smelled like I was tired. I wanted to go to sleep right there, but a sign said "no camping."
"Is it really camping if we don't set up a tent?" asked Bandito.
We couldn't be too sure, and there were cop cars patrolling the area. "We better not stay here, Bandito," I said. "I feel drunk." I felt drunk.
"I feel drunk too," said Bandito. "Except I've never had alcohol, because it's illegal."
"But it's delicious," I protested.
"Fine!" said Bandito. "I'll have a drink when I turn one hundred."
"You're my hero," I said.
"Stop hitting on me," said Bandito. "Wait, I didn't say that. M.C. You're an unreliable narrator!"
"N-no!" I protested, wobbly. "That was just a stylistic flourish to help put the reader in our delirious mindset."
"You're a genius," gushed Bandito.
"Who're you calling a psycho!" I yelled at a nearby telephone pole.
It took us an hour to get to the Place. Which is the name of the hostel there. In Damascus. We got into town at twelve. It took us an hour to do the last mile to the hostel. We only got lost twice trying to find the place, and almost asked a police officer if we could just sleep in the jail. When we finally did arrive at the Place, we found Hobbes tented outside. He was long asleep. We didn't even bother checking to see if there was room inside the hostel, there was, and quickly just set up our tents and passed out.
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