Chapter 115: The Long Trail

I escaped from town without making much more of a fool of myself than I already had. And hiking while riding a caffeine high? Amazing!

I was thrilled to cross the border into Vermont, and to begin the Long Trail. I ended up at the Congdon Shelter, some fourteen miles from where I began the day. It had started to rain just a few hundred yards before the shelter, so I didn't feel particularly bad about my apparently lax accomplishment.

I sat in my tent for a while, just listening to the rain. And endlessly contemplating my plan to do only easy 15 mile days in order to meet my parents in Hanover on the 23rd. Eventually growing bored with such ruminations, I pulled out my trusty journal, which was quickly filling with rambling diatribes against various petty personal injustices:

It feels weird getting into camp at 4 P.M. No, wait, I meant it feels awesome! Duh.

Another 14.1 done. It's raining now, but I'm in my tent. Bathroom this morning hit the spot. Wait, I'm--

I'm thinking about changing my plan, and doing twenties for the next couple days, so as to get to, er, Hanover by the twenty first. Why? So I can go to Ben and Jerry's on the twenty second and get the Vermonster. I figure that could hold me over the entire day. Why am I writing this way? maybe to practice, or maybe it's just because I'm lazy and I don't want to pick the penn off the page. But now I'm even tiring of that. There are a lot of people at the shelter just hiking the Long Trail. Lazy fucks. Why am I so lethargic? Its It's like six thirty. And I only did 14 miles. I think I ate too much food. Maybe that's why.

Haven't seen Mimi, Fred or Lou all day. On the other hand, Saint is here. Together we make up the rear, rear, rear guard, okay, last deserters of the Nature Train.

Section hiker out there is talking about wine and Bailey's in her resupply. She needs to shut the fuck up. She has. Good. I need some fucking Bailey's. I'll get some at the Long Trail Inn, maybe.

Blah Blah blah. Fuck. Only semi-emotional moment to day was when I realized how close to being done I really am. Fuck. Fuck.

Hiking was good the last couple days, probably because I had company. A tree is going to fall on my tent, and I'm gonna die. Should I go outside and be social? Feel wierd. Weird even. Thoughts scattered, unfocussed. Hiking angry this morning, probably because I accidentally started pouring liquid sugar into my water bottle, thinking it was water, at a coffe place in Williamstown. Fuuuuck. I remember meaning to remember to write that down, but I almost forgot. Fuck it. I'm going to bed. It's 7 P.M.

Chapter 114: An Embarrassment of Embarrassments

I awoke to the steady burble of the stream outside my tent; and to an unnerving grumble from somewhere much closer, and far more disturbing.

This was going to be bad.

I was camped behind the Mountain Goat Outfitter in Williamstown, Massachusetts. Mimi, Fred, Lou and I had hitched in the day before. Starved for food and culture, we had decided to treat ourselves to a fancy dinner at Spice Root, a local Indian restaurant. Delicious. A good choice.

Or not.

I needed to take a shit.

What was I to do? I couldn't rightly dig a cathole in someone's backyard. And the Outfitter wasn't open yet, so that was out. Ring a stranger's doorbell? Definitely not. Maybe a restaurant, or coffee shop?

A sharp, stinging pain shot through my intestines as I waddled desperately down the street, with only a half-formed idea of where I was going. I remembered walking past the place the night before, on our way back from dinner, but everything looked so different then, underneath the street lamps, with the sidewalks choked by throngs of annoyingly boisterous coeds galavanting around in their skimpy lacrosse uniforms. Damnit! Why didn't I pay more attention to where I was going?

At last, I turned a corner and spotted the Tunnel City Coffeeshop. It did exist. And it was open. Perfect. I went in.

And was instantly lost, thrown by the sterile corporate sheen of the café's modern decor. All around me, bright florescent lights flashed off of clean steel tables; my ears bombarded by the soft, smokey coo of a suitably austere singer/songwriter. The other customers and employees seemed so tidy, professional, and dignified. No room for a confused, terrified hiker. Running out of time. With trembling hands, I first ordered an espresso, then timidly asked for the bathroom.

It was occupied, of course. I paced back and forth in increased agitation, and threw back my espresso without bothering to savor it—although, it was pretty tasty—all while keeping a scornful watch on the bathroom door. Finally, it opened, and out walked, eh, who cares. I was in.

And then—sweet release!—I'm making like the Space Shuttle, lifting off the toilet seat on an explosive tower of shit.

----

Returning from the catastrophic scene of horror I left in the bathroom, I tried to play it cool. I ordered an everything bagel, with vegetable cream cheese, then smartly sat at a table outside, all the better to avoid people's accusatory glares. And then, much to my surprise, who walked up but Baltimore Jack, whom I hadn't seen since the Walasi-Yi Center, my third day on the trail!

Baltimore Jack was in fine form, as smug and condescending as ever. He quietly reassured me that—although I had miraculously managed not to die, yet—the hardest part of the trail was still ahead of me, and that I'd probably die. Thanks, Baltimore Jack.

Feeling ever more chipper by the moment, I decided to surreptitiously refill my water bottle at the Coffeeshop before hitching out of town. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I nonchalantly sidled up to the bar where they kept their milks, creamers, and organic agave syrups and whatnot, and grabbed the first thing that looked like water. I wasn't too concerned, and just stood there, gazing off in random directions as I poured, willing myself to be invisible.

"Sir?" came a voice to my right. I snapped out of it. It was a middle-aged woman, an employee. "You do know that's sugar water, right?"

"What? Oh!" I shrugged, bewildered, wanting to die. "I love sugar water, it's delicious. Why? Should I pour it back?"

"No, sir," said the woman, grabbing my bottle as I began to do just that. "I can do it, and wash this out for you. The water is just around the corner, here."

She nodded to the actual water jug, which had a lemon floating in it. Because of course it did. I flushed, and shuffled my feet impotently.

I instantly came to the startling revelation that I hated Massachusetts. Terrible state. And Williamstown? Terrible town. Couldn't wait to put it behind me.