And so we come down to it. On the morning of the 18th, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I started off on the last 22 mile stretch towards Monson, Maine, and the start of the 100 Mile Wilderness. Which, of course, is where this story all began, all those many days (or years) ago.
When I first proposed hiking together, I had told my sister, "Yeah, come out to the trail. It'll be a blast. We'll do 12.5 miles a day... Relax..." Since she had joined me, however, we had gone 8.4, then 15.3, 17.3, and finally 18.8 miles each day. She wasn't exactly thrilled by our pace, but she wasn't overwhelmed by it, either.
Still, after hiking over two thousand miles myself, I wasn't entirely jazzed by the idea of such a long haul into town. So I admit it: I fully planned on taking a blue blazed trail—the one to Lake Hebron, and then on to Pleasant Road—that would cut 1.3 miles out of our trip. Sue me.
The best part was, once Hot Sauce and I hit the road, we quickly found a hitch into town in the back of someone's pickup truck.
Blue blazing, yellow blazing, what's the difference?
Shaw's Lodging in Monson—a legendary hiker's hostel, if there are any on the Trail—exceeded all of our expectations. Which wasn't terribly difficult; our expectations were exceedingly low, as set by the establishment's rather iffy depiction in the laughably awful "Southbounders."1 The movie makes Shaw's seem like some sort of cultish hippy commune, where nobody's allowed to wear even their homemade hemp sandals inside, and there are no locked doors anywhere, ever.
Far from that hellish nightmare, what we found was simply a collection of large, well-maintained, adequately furnished bunk rooms; some blessedly warm showers; a cavernous dining room; a TV lounge replete with sunken-in couch, pre-stained coffee table, and a hearty selection of dusty board games; and a veritable cornucopia of a hiker's box.2 Amongst the items left behind? A ziplock bag of chipotle-flavored pepper flakes that my sister snatched up immediately, thus earning her trail name: Hot Sauce.
The three of us attempted a resupply at the Monson General Store, but were quickly discouraged. If we'd wanted to rent a VHS tape—or stock up on car batteries or replacement parts for our snow mobile—we might have had more success. Luckily, we still had a bit of food leftover from Straton, or else we might have needed to hitch two miles north to Wal-Mart. Sated, we visited an ATM at a nearby gas station—where I found my checking balance to be a startling $0.00—bought a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm, and then retreated to the hostel for a good night's rest.
Because we know what awaited us on the morrow: the 100 Mile Wilderness.
1. "Southbounders" tells the story of Olivia, a spoiled rich girl who sets off to hike the trail the wrong way, and largely fails: she falls down a lot, is pestered by an annoying fat man, and awkwardly romances a scraggly guitar-playing hipster with douchey facial hair. Taken as pure cinema, the film is sadly mediocre, neither entertaining nor emotionally or thematically uplifting. As an anthropological study, on the other hand, the film serves as an astonishingly accurate portrait of the atrocious, abominable southbounder. The trailer can be seen here.
2. About that hiker's box: apparently, most southbounders abruptly quit after finishing the 100 Mile Wilderness, and Shaw's is where they go to rest, wash up, and suffer their inevitable nervous breakdowns. That they leave behind most of their uneaten food—and sometimes their non-consumable possessions as well, like stoves, trekking poles, and sleeping pads, amongst other swag—is only icing on the cake. So, thanks, Shaw's, for your hospitality. And thanks also, southbounders, for being awful and quitting.
Showing posts with label southbounders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label southbounders. Show all posts
Monday, September 10, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Chapter 141: Pancakes
On the morning of August 17th, 2010, I awoke to a strange, unearthly grumble. Sitting up, I eyed my sister suspiciously, but—somehow—it wasn't her surprisingly sonorous snoring. Emerging from my Tarptent into a thick, soupy fog, I quickly deduced that it wasn't Fredo, either, as his hammock was strung up a conscientious and considerate twenty yards away. Nor was it the spectacularly reverberating apneas of all those snotty, southbound section hikers who had so courteously occupied all the space in the nearby Pierce Pond Lean-to the night before. The family of loons bobbing along serenely through the mist on the adjacent lake were similarly guiltless.
Who—or what—was causing this ungodly noise?
...
Okay, so I could continue on in that vein, explaining in my typically florid way that the "strange, unearthly grumble" was just my stomach growling. (Ha ha, what a funny joke!) And how Hot Sauce, Fredo and I eventually enjoyed a "lumberjack breakfast" at the Harrison Camps that morning, to satiate my growing hunger. But I won't. Because who—except possibly food fetishists and hipsters with internet cooking shows—really cares about that sort of thing, or wants to hear about it in such exhaustive detail? (FYI, the lumberjack breakfast was a stack of twelve gigantic pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped butter, smothered in maple syrup, with a side of fried eggs and more coffee than any of us could ever drink. Not that we didn't try.)
I could also tell you about our momentous crossing of the Kennebec River, which involved getting a canoe ride from an obese mountain man in tattered sweat pants who seemed to have an entire family of birds nesting in his beard, and may have been a serial killer. Or at least a not-so-distant relative of one. But I won't do that either.
I could tell you about the trail magic we encountered later, just south of US201. Actually, I will: we found a cooler beside the trail containing an assortment of candy bars and soda and even a couple cans of Keystone Light®. For whatever reason—but probably because he's a selfish bastard—Fredo took all the beers, then giggled sadistically when we ran into a couple of SOBOs later on who were looking forward to getting some. Naturally, we didn't tell them there weren't any left, but cruelly sent them on towards their inevitable disappointment.
I could tell you how I may or may not have accidentally stolen some trail maintainer's gorp at the Pleasant Pond Lean-to. (I mean, who leaves a giant stuff-sack full of delicious, delicious trail mix unattended and expects it not to get stolen?) But I certainly won't do that. (Too unbelievable. Like I would ever do such a thing.)
I could even tell you how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I first met Matterhorn—an annoyingly spry and well-equipped section hiker from Switzerland—and stayed with him at the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to after hiking up in the dark singing John Legend songs.
But my heart just isn't in it.
Instead, I'll leave you with excerpt from Rutledge Sandybottom's excessively, er, florid, probably pretty bad Repressed Desire:
Tomorrow, a special treat, and back to the business at hand...
Who—or what—was causing this ungodly noise?
...
Okay, so I could continue on in that vein, explaining in my typically florid way that the "strange, unearthly grumble" was just my stomach growling. (Ha ha, what a funny joke!) And how Hot Sauce, Fredo and I eventually enjoyed a "lumberjack breakfast" at the Harrison Camps that morning, to satiate my growing hunger. But I won't. Because who—except possibly food fetishists and hipsters with internet cooking shows—really cares about that sort of thing, or wants to hear about it in such exhaustive detail? (FYI, the lumberjack breakfast was a stack of twelve gigantic pancakes with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped butter, smothered in maple syrup, with a side of fried eggs and more coffee than any of us could ever drink. Not that we didn't try.)
I could also tell you about our momentous crossing of the Kennebec River, which involved getting a canoe ride from an obese mountain man in tattered sweat pants who seemed to have an entire family of birds nesting in his beard, and may have been a serial killer. Or at least a not-so-distant relative of one. But I won't do that either.
I could tell you about the trail magic we encountered later, just south of US201. Actually, I will: we found a cooler beside the trail containing an assortment of candy bars and soda and even a couple cans of Keystone Light®. For whatever reason—but probably because he's a selfish bastard—Fredo took all the beers, then giggled sadistically when we ran into a couple of SOBOs later on who were looking forward to getting some. Naturally, we didn't tell them there weren't any left, but cruelly sent them on towards their inevitable disappointment.
I could tell you how I may or may not have accidentally stolen some trail maintainer's gorp at the Pleasant Pond Lean-to. (I mean, who leaves a giant stuff-sack full of delicious, delicious trail mix unattended and expects it not to get stolen?) But I certainly won't do that. (Too unbelievable. Like I would ever do such a thing.)
I could even tell you how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I first met Matterhorn—an annoyingly spry and well-equipped section hiker from Switzerland—and stayed with him at the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to after hiking up in the dark singing John Legend songs.
But my heart just isn't in it.
Instead, I'll leave you with excerpt from Rutledge Sandybottom's excessively, er, florid, probably pretty bad Repressed Desire:
It's late, and we're on a long drive to nowhere in the dark. Your headlights sweep past eerily familiar street signs, long rows of seemingly empty houses, bereft of any signs of life. The silence between us fills with bittersweet reminiscence, regret, and longing—both for past glory, and for a future that might never be.Ew. Best leave that there.
I catch you glancing at me from across the car. You look away quickly, abashed. But I'm the one who should be ashamed. I'm the one who's staring.
Before, I might have felt the warmth of your breath on my cheek, your hand tugging on my shirt, and the brush of your lips against mine, as I leaned into you, pushing you back into the door of your car.
But no, I lacked the courage. To touch you. Instead, I just stood back and watched as you searched through your purse for your keys. Admiring your figure in the soft glow of the streetlamp overhead. Alone together in the parking lot, intoxicated by your closeness, by the way the your dress clung to your body from the sweat.
The sweat of the dance, the drinks, the laughter... The furtive looks, shared in secret, across the table, through the crowd.
And my memory of all else fades, crushing into a swirling vortex of you. The twinkle in your eyes, the crooked curve of your smile. And suddenly I'm back in the car, short of breath, pulse pounding in my neck.
Meeting your eyes, seeing your breasts heave with every breath, I wonder if you've felt the same.
Tomorrow, a special treat, and back to the business at hand...
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Chapter 140: Major Chafage Returns
Which will aim to be just like "The Dark Knight Rises"—or whatever's the hot sequel du jour as you're reading this—only way more epic, awesome, and ultimately tragic.
One last note: my 2012 northbound brethren have made the seemingly spontaneous decision—en masse—to call southbounders "Shortbeard[s]," which is both fantastically clever and somewhat annoying. In that I didn't think of it myself.
Also, whilst relaxing atop Bear Mountain, enjoying the view and some well-earned spoils, Megan and I overheard a SOBO telling a day hiker that "[I]t usually takes people four to six months to hike the entire trail. Old people do it in six months. Younger, actually fit people—who aren't old, decrepit cripples who should probably be sent straight to the ovens—do it in four."
See what I mean? Evil to the core. SOBOs ruin everything.
Oh, and one last, final note4: There are those of you who may wonder why I have not continued with the adventures of 2010, relating in exhausting detail how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I trekked from the Little Biggelow Lean-to all the way to the Pierce Pond Lean-to some 17.3 miles away. Where we were driven out of the shelter by some dastardly section-hiking snorers and forced to put up tents by the water's edge in an ethereal mist as loons sang hauntingly to us from across the water, blah blah blah.
There's a simple, probably pretty feeble reason for that: as my narrative reaches its inevitable conclusion, so, in a sense, does my journey. I really feel that as long as I'm not done with my story, I'm not done with the trail. As long as there's more to write, I have an excuse to travel back in my mind, to revisit those blissful days...
Or at least that's how I felt yesterday morning. Now I'm not so sure. One of the SOBOs we met—okay, he may have been a flip-flopper, given his conspicuous knowledge of trail conditions further south—was in terrible shape. His shirt and shorts were plastered to his body from sweat; he winced noticeably with every other step; and he carried a pair of soiled, grime-encrusted socks in a bungee cord on the outside of his pack, a very (horribly) familiar sight. And he was wearing the very same (horrible) Vasque boots that I started the trail with. Except for that he was evidently a southbounder—who are, lest we forget, the very worst type of person in the world, even worse than Nazis, religious fundamentalists, terrorists, bankers, and oil executives, if they can even be considered human beings—my heart ached for him. And I had no more trail magic to give, all the plums I had brought already given out to the NOBOs we had met earlier. Of course, I hated him, too. How could I not? But did I hate him merely because he was a SOBO? Or did I hate him because he so reminded me of myself?
Later that night, as Megan and I rolled into camp, bickering like an old married couple, drenched in sweat, surrounded by a cloud of hungry mosquitos, each smelling worse than a dead orangutan's ass hole, I had an epiphany: Who in their right mind would go through all this voluntarily? Again. And why? Were the fleeting moments of solitude, of physical and spiritual release, of emotional uplift, of communion with nature—and one's fellow traveler—really worth all the associated aches and pains, the itches, the bitter dissension, the petty jealousies, the panicked sprints into the undergrowth—trekking pole in one hand, toilet paper in the other—while trying to push from one's mind the overriding fear of shitting one's pants?
It was, once. But now?
I don't know.
1. Either as preparation for or in anticipation of a backpacking or maybe kayaking trip later this summer, Megan agreed to accompany me on a one-night camping trip to Bear Mountain, CT. We aimed to retrace my steps from Salisbury, CT to the Race Brook Falls campsite in Massachusetts, a seemingly unambitious 12 mile day. We got a late start, however, and for a variety of other reasons, which I will never speak of, only made it 4.2 miles to the Sages Ravine Brook Campsite, just across the state line.
2. Oh, that's right, I didn't ask.
3. This should not come as a surprise for those of you familiar with our earlier adventures in Europe. See my as-yet unpublished memoirs, "Memoirs of an Adventure," for further details.5
4. Really, this time. I promise.
5. Oh wait, you can't. (Yet.)
August 4th, 2012
Well, I'm back on the A.T. again. Admittedly, it's only a single night engagement1, so maybe it doesn't deserve all the above pomp and circumstance...
And it's not gone well.
Megan and I have met three NOBOs—Sling Blade, Tantrum, and, erm, Other Guy—three SOBOs—I didn't catch their names, for some reason2—about a thousand mosquitos—all of whom loved to make our acquaintance—and more than our fair share of wayward, clueless day hikers.
Also, I believe Megan is plotting my imminent death.3 More on this in a moment.
Rest assured, loyal readers, it is very likely that I will not survive the night.
Let me count the dangers:
1) I have an inexplicable, pounding headache. Am I having an aneurism? Is it a tumor? Blood clots? Or has Megan poisoned me, sneaking arsenic into the peanut butter and Nutella bagel she (rather suspiciously) offered to make me for dinner? Or is it...
2) Those fucking bugs, beetles, birds or whatever the fuck they are making that incessant CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP noise just outside my trusty Tarptent?
3) Or maybe it's dehydration.
4) Megan insisted on eating a candy bar inside the tent, and is now in the process of sprinkling my side with crumbs. Is she laying bait, trying to lure a black bear to eat me? She remains mute on the subject, but I have my suspicions.
5) I have to pee.
...
UPDATE: 06:41, August 5th, 2012
Megan has "accidentally" elbowed me in the face about 50,000 times during the night. She blames the cramped quarters of my (come on, it's practically cavernous!) Tarptent. I blame her sinister, probably homicidal machinations.
My nose may be broken, but my spirit remains undaunted.
2nd UPDATE: 10:26, August 5th
About 200 yards from the parking lot, I tripped over a pebble and fell straight on my face, breaking my right foot, my left knee, both my elbows, and nearly every other bone in my body. However, instead of running to the car or to get help, Megan insisted on photographing the incident for posterity. I think she may have pushed me.
One last note: my 2012 northbound brethren have made the seemingly spontaneous decision—en masse—to call southbounders "Shortbeard[s]," which is both fantastically clever and somewhat annoying. In that I didn't think of it myself.
Also, whilst relaxing atop Bear Mountain, enjoying the view and some well-earned spoils, Megan and I overheard a SOBO telling a day hiker that "[I]t usually takes people four to six months to hike the entire trail. Old people do it in six months. Younger, actually fit people—who aren't old, decrepit cripples who should probably be sent straight to the ovens—do it in four."
See what I mean? Evil to the core. SOBOs ruin everything.
Oh, and one last, final note4: There are those of you who may wonder why I have not continued with the adventures of 2010, relating in exhausting detail how Fredo, Hot Sauce and I trekked from the Little Biggelow Lean-to all the way to the Pierce Pond Lean-to some 17.3 miles away. Where we were driven out of the shelter by some dastardly section-hiking snorers and forced to put up tents by the water's edge in an ethereal mist as loons sang hauntingly to us from across the water, blah blah blah.
There's a simple, probably pretty feeble reason for that: as my narrative reaches its inevitable conclusion, so, in a sense, does my journey. I really feel that as long as I'm not done with my story, I'm not done with the trail. As long as there's more to write, I have an excuse to travel back in my mind, to revisit those blissful days...
Or at least that's how I felt yesterday morning. Now I'm not so sure. One of the SOBOs we met—okay, he may have been a flip-flopper, given his conspicuous knowledge of trail conditions further south—was in terrible shape. His shirt and shorts were plastered to his body from sweat; he winced noticeably with every other step; and he carried a pair of soiled, grime-encrusted socks in a bungee cord on the outside of his pack, a very (horribly) familiar sight. And he was wearing the very same (horrible) Vasque boots that I started the trail with. Except for that he was evidently a southbounder—who are, lest we forget, the very worst type of person in the world, even worse than Nazis, religious fundamentalists, terrorists, bankers, and oil executives, if they can even be considered human beings—my heart ached for him. And I had no more trail magic to give, all the plums I had brought already given out to the NOBOs we had met earlier. Of course, I hated him, too. How could I not? But did I hate him merely because he was a SOBO? Or did I hate him because he so reminded me of myself?
Later that night, as Megan and I rolled into camp, bickering like an old married couple, drenched in sweat, surrounded by a cloud of hungry mosquitos, each smelling worse than a dead orangutan's ass hole, I had an epiphany: Who in their right mind would go through all this voluntarily? Again. And why? Were the fleeting moments of solitude, of physical and spiritual release, of emotional uplift, of communion with nature—and one's fellow traveler—really worth all the associated aches and pains, the itches, the bitter dissension, the petty jealousies, the panicked sprints into the undergrowth—trekking pole in one hand, toilet paper in the other—while trying to push from one's mind the overriding fear of shitting one's pants?
It was, once. But now?
I don't know.
1. Either as preparation for or in anticipation of a backpacking or maybe kayaking trip later this summer, Megan agreed to accompany me on a one-night camping trip to Bear Mountain, CT. We aimed to retrace my steps from Salisbury, CT to the Race Brook Falls campsite in Massachusetts, a seemingly unambitious 12 mile day. We got a late start, however, and for a variety of other reasons, which I will never speak of, only made it 4.2 miles to the Sages Ravine Brook Campsite, just across the state line.
2. Oh, that's right, I didn't ask.
3. This should not come as a surprise for those of you familiar with our earlier adventures in Europe. See my as-yet unpublished memoirs, "Memoirs of an Adventure," for further details.5
4. Really, this time. I promise.
5. Oh wait, you can't. (Yet.)
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Chapter 131: General Chafage
After our slackpacking adventure—twenty plus miles over Wildcat, Carter Dome, and Mt. Moriah in only eleven hours!—Veggie, Buckeye, Fredo and I spent a day lazing around the White Birches campground, swimming in the pool, drinking copious amounts of beer, and watching VH1 countdown the top 100 pop songs of the 1990's. Awesome.
The next morning, we got some trail magic and a ride to the trailhead from one of Buckeye's friends, then hiked out singing the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way." (No. 3 on the countdown.) Again. Because of course we did.
We weren't feeling particularly ambitious that day, however, and so only went an easy 11.8 miles to the Gentian Pond Shelter. Katahdin—and the end of the trail, and all that other unpleasantness involved with our inevitable return to "real life"—loomed just 286.1 miles away, after all. We fully intended to savor every single step. Besides, I figured I had roughly twenty days to finish, which dictated a relatively relaxed pace of only fourteen miles a day. I wasn't in a hurry. And I constantly lobbied my friends tobe lazy stay with me.
Unfortunately—and as usual—events conspired to put me in a particularly nasty mood upon our arrival at Gentian Pond. Maybe it was because we'd run into Sativa James and Loud Mouth in town the day before. (They had yellow blazed again, and seemed hell-bent on catching up with us. Why? I felt like I had made it perfectly clear, in my typically passive-agressive way, that I hated their guts and wanted them to die. Was it just to torture me?) Or maybe it was because there was an ornery south-bounder already occupying the shelter.
Feeling thusly apocalyptic, I wrote two registry entries, one at night:
And the other the next morning, after I had courageously endured the south-bounder's rather peculiar early-morning rituals:
The next morning, we got some trail magic and a ride to the trailhead from one of Buckeye's friends, then hiked out singing the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way." (No. 3 on the countdown.) Again. Because of course we did.
We weren't feeling particularly ambitious that day, however, and so only went an easy 11.8 miles to the Gentian Pond Shelter. Katahdin—and the end of the trail, and all that other unpleasantness involved with our inevitable return to "real life"—loomed just 286.1 miles away, after all. We fully intended to savor every single step. Besides, I figured I had roughly twenty days to finish, which dictated a relatively relaxed pace of only fourteen miles a day. I wasn't in a hurry. And I constantly lobbied my friends to
Unfortunately—and as usual—events conspired to put me in a particularly nasty mood upon our arrival at Gentian Pond. Maybe it was because we'd run into Sativa James and Loud Mouth in town the day before. (They had yellow blazed again, and seemed hell-bent on catching up with us. Why? I felt like I had made it perfectly clear, in my typically passive-agressive way, that I hated their guts and wanted them to die. Was it just to torture me?) Or maybe it was because there was an ornery south-bounder already occupying the shelter.
Feeling thusly apocalyptic, I wrote two registry entries, one at night:
Nice trail magic back at the water source! I know I was just in town for 3 days drinking Magic Hat and chilling by the pool, but I really needed some soda today to help me keep going. Plus I know there's nobody behind me and fuck SOBOs, so I took seven!! And if you come along tomorrow and there aren't any, that means I finished them. Ha ha!! Fuck you.(All of which was purely fiction and meant as a joke.)
-Major Chafage
PS. It was Dr. Pepper, Mug Root Beer, and Orange Crush. HA HA HA HA HA!!!
And the other the next morning, after I had courageously endured the south-bounder's rather peculiar early-morning rituals:
Dear SOBOs,Good stuff! Three weeks left on the trail, and I was having so much fun... I wished it would never end.
I love you, but you're never going to make it. Not because you're bad hikers, or you have the wrong equipment, but because you're all so infuriatingly annoying, waking up at 4 AM to fuck your water bottles (that's what it sounded like), talking in normal voices when people are sleeping, smoking in the shelter, blasting death metal on your iPod, and just generally acting like discourteous dick-holes, some tired NOBO at the end of his rope is going to murder you. Just a fair warning. I want you to be safe!
Love forever,
Major Chafage
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Chapter 129: An Excess of Effluvia
I deftly slipped into my merino wool base layer and took a seat outside the Madison Spring Hut. We had to wait until the AMC's paying customers had finished their dinner before going in.
Wonderful. All we could do was wait, shivering occasionally in a cool gust of wind, watching the clouds billow overhead in the encroaching darkness.
Buckeye, Twizzler and I had enjoyed once-a-year weather earlier that morning atop Mount Washington. Winds were a blistering four miles an hour; visibility was so terrible we could barely see the Atlantic Ocean gleaming on the horizon, some seventy miles away. Naturally, we spent as little time at the summit as possible, stopping only long enough to pose for the obligatory photos, check out the museum, have a snack, and take a two hour nap.
After lunch, we said goodbye to our fellow NOBO's Mimi, Fred, Lou, Creepy and Nobody for the final time—some of whom we had only met the day before—and began the long, arduous trek to the Madison Spring Hut. Seven and a half miles. All above tree line. It was torture.
Mostly because I needed to take a shit. Now, you might be wondering, why hadn't I gone to the bathroom at the summit? And that would be a good question. The best answer to which is, "Shut the fuck up."
Digging the second highest cathole on the trail was awkward. Doubly awkward, actually, considering the fragile state of the surrounding alpine vegetation and the general preponderance of nearby day hikers. Fortunately, I found a relatively secluded spot between two boulders and, well, made do.
We made it to the Madison Spring Hut in the early afternoon; We were, by design, the very first thru-hikers to arrive. Securing work-for-stay was thus ridiculously easy, and our chores summarily dispatched. But then began the long, tedious waiting game for dinner.
And then Guillermo, One Pace, and Creamcicle waltzed in from the North, a trio of ridiculously bearded south-bounders bursting with unearned confidence and strained machismo. Their conversation reeked of barely-restrained condescension and empty braggadocio. They had just finished Maine, and done the Mahoosuc Notch, and clearly expected us to prostrate ourselves at the feet of their magnificence. Bullshit.
Serendipitously, help soon presented itself in the form of a skinny north-bounder, his oddly familiar face framed by a halo of preposterously curly hair.
"Shorts?"
"Major Chafage!" cried Shorts, his eyes lighting up.
"I thought that was you! Mimi told me you were just about a day behind."
"I feel like I've been a day or two behind you for over a month, man! I've been chasing you for hundreds of miles!"
This wasn't creepy at all in context, by the way. It was actually sort of flattering. I mean, of course it was. I was dying to know what sort of chaos and discord I was leaving in my wake. And Shorts dutifully filled me in.
"Remember how you wrote something in a shelter log about finding a six pack of beer in the crook of a tree and then pouring it out?"
Yes. "Yes," I nodded.
"That really pissed off a lot of people!" Shorts laughed.
And so it went. I don't know why, but I never asked him about his hike, or the various things he'd seen and experienced. The people he'd met. The friends he'd made, and lost. And it's not because I'm a raging egomaniac. Well, not completely because of that. I hope.
I would see Shorts only once or twice after that night. Once again, our paths diverged. He had a schedule to keep, and pink-blazing love birds to keep up with. Meanwhile, with the late but welcome arrivals of Fredo and Veggie, my final trail family was complete...
Wonderful. All we could do was wait, shivering occasionally in a cool gust of wind, watching the clouds billow overhead in the encroaching darkness.
Buckeye, Twizzler and I had enjoyed once-a-year weather earlier that morning atop Mount Washington. Winds were a blistering four miles an hour; visibility was so terrible we could barely see the Atlantic Ocean gleaming on the horizon, some seventy miles away. Naturally, we spent as little time at the summit as possible, stopping only long enough to pose for the obligatory photos, check out the museum, have a snack, and take a two hour nap.
After lunch, we said goodbye to our fellow NOBO's Mimi, Fred, Lou, Creepy and Nobody for the final time—some of whom we had only met the day before—and began the long, arduous trek to the Madison Spring Hut. Seven and a half miles. All above tree line. It was torture.
Mostly because I needed to take a shit. Now, you might be wondering, why hadn't I gone to the bathroom at the summit? And that would be a good question. The best answer to which is, "Shut the fuck up."
Digging the second highest cathole on the trail was awkward. Doubly awkward, actually, considering the fragile state of the surrounding alpine vegetation and the general preponderance of nearby day hikers. Fortunately, I found a relatively secluded spot between two boulders and, well, made do.
We made it to the Madison Spring Hut in the early afternoon; We were, by design, the very first thru-hikers to arrive. Securing work-for-stay was thus ridiculously easy, and our chores summarily dispatched. But then began the long, tedious waiting game for dinner.
And then Guillermo, One Pace, and Creamcicle waltzed in from the North, a trio of ridiculously bearded south-bounders bursting with unearned confidence and strained machismo. Their conversation reeked of barely-restrained condescension and empty braggadocio. They had just finished Maine, and done the Mahoosuc Notch, and clearly expected us to prostrate ourselves at the feet of their magnificence. Bullshit.
Serendipitously, help soon presented itself in the form of a skinny north-bounder, his oddly familiar face framed by a halo of preposterously curly hair.
"Shorts?"
"Major Chafage!" cried Shorts, his eyes lighting up.
"I thought that was you! Mimi told me you were just about a day behind."
"I feel like I've been a day or two behind you for over a month, man! I've been chasing you for hundreds of miles!"
This wasn't creepy at all in context, by the way. It was actually sort of flattering. I mean, of course it was. I was dying to know what sort of chaos and discord I was leaving in my wake. And Shorts dutifully filled me in.
"Remember how you wrote something in a shelter log about finding a six pack of beer in the crook of a tree and then pouring it out?"
Yes. "Yes," I nodded.
"That really pissed off a lot of people!" Shorts laughed.
And so it went. I don't know why, but I never asked him about his hike, or the various things he'd seen and experienced. The people he'd met. The friends he'd made, and lost. And it's not because I'm a raging egomaniac. Well, not completely because of that. I hope.
I would see Shorts only once or twice after that night. Once again, our paths diverged. He had a schedule to keep, and pink-blazing love birds to keep up with. Meanwhile, with the late but welcome arrivals of Fredo and Veggie, my final trail family was complete...
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Chapter 124: A Field Guide to Annoying
The bro: the aggressively macho, juvenile male who never graduated from wearing sports jerseys and cargo shorts, crew cuts, and Oakley's, and can never shut up about that awesome he got hammered once, even though that happens with startling regularity. Weaknesses include Lite beers, receding hairlines, and Derek Jeter.
The douche: similar to the above, except he disguises his inherent bro-ness with pink polo shirts, Ray Ban's, and pointedly casual flip-flops. Weaknesses include wine spritzers, shopping, and underage women. Kidding! And frequent repetitive stress injuries in the wrist and elbow. From playing tennis. Kidding again! From masturbation.
The hipster douche: Look down. Look up. Is it wearing orange sneakers, wooden clogs, or rubber galoshes? A doofy, anachronistic hat? Now take in the whole picture, if you can stomach it. Is it wearing too-tight jeans, a purple leotard, and/or a rumpled t-shirt from the seventies? Congrats, you've found yourself a hipster. Weaknesses include cheap German lagers brewed inexplicably in Wisconsin, irony, and the ever amorphous "authentic," whatever that is.
The cynic: He could be anyone. He could be sitting right next to you. He could be one of your best friends, or most-trusted colleagues. Identifying characteristics include apathy, sarcasm, and an inexplicably bitterness towards everyone and everything. Weaknesses include anything anyone puts in front of him, and a general lack of self-esteem. Pity this man.
Lawyers: a subsect of the "douche," only better dressed. Do not confuse any perceived friendliness as genuine interest and engage them in conversation. You will be billed for your kindness, and will later regret your naiveté. Weaknesses of the lawyer include a near-debilitating level of smugness which opens them up to sudden attacks. Also, the exposed area of the neck just below their jaw. Their armor is weakest there.
Politicians: These are lawyers just wrapped in a protective layer of bureaucracy. Weaknesses: Fire. Dismemberment. Sunlight. No, wait, that's vampires. I meant to say "hookers" and "shady real-estate deals." And fire.
Al QaedaSort of a combination of all the above. Aggressive and violence prone like the bro, fiercely dogmatic like the hipster, full of irrepressible hatred like the cynic. Can be identified by the prominence of box cutters, dynamite, and automatic weapons amongst their personal effects. And by a pronounced affection for pornography. Weaknesses include ammonium nitrate, latent feelings of empathy (but don't count on it), and falafel. Who doesn't like falafel?
The southbounder: The absolute worst of all. So evil, evil resents the association. Weaknesses include a false sense of superiority, the phrase "You're never going to make it," and mortality.
Veggie and I ran up the hill in the rain. I had caught up with her earlier, at the Thistle Hill Shelter, when I'd sought cover during an earlier afternoon squall. It had blown over quickly, a pale prelude of things to come.
Now, the branches above me creaked and cracked in a mere sixty mile-per-hour breeze. The sky was a malevolent black, green, or purple, frequently illuminated by skittering strands of lightning. Leaves twirled and rustled around my feet, whipped and twisted into eddies by the furious wind. It was, quite frankly, terrifying.
We'd heard a weather report earlier, when we'd stopped in at a deli in West Hartford, VT. A severe thunderstorm warning was in effect. We were to expect hail stones the size of golf balls, and maybe even a tornado. Fortunately, I knew we were far ahead of the trailing group of fellow NOBO's I'd left behind at the Wintturi Shelter. Hypothetically, if we hurried, we coule make it to the ironically named Happy Hill Shelter before the storm hit, and have the whole place to ourselves. At least, that was the plan.
Through diminutive in stature, Veggie was actually an incredibly accomplished hiker. I'm no speed demon myself, but I was continually impressed by her ability to keep up. Or, okay, fine: I may have actually been lagging behind. That is, until the innocuous forks of lightning overhead started morphing into menacing steak knives, and threatened to come down on my head.
There are few motivating factors quite like the fear of imminent death. That, and an urgent desire to change out of my now-soiled underwear. I passed Veggie like she was standing still, her eyes turned fearfully upward as her hair stuck out for some reason in random directions. Whatever.
Luckily, we were only about a mile from the shelter. Despite never having run better than an eight minute mile in any of our fitness tests in high school—and despite carrying a 40 lb. backpack—I think I reached the shelter in three minutes flat. Take that, Roger Bannister.
Laughing maniacally, I triumphantly ran up under the shelter eaves just as the sky opened up.
"Take that nature!" I shouted, shaking my fists at the sky. "Is that the best you got? I freakin' turned you around and made you my--"
At which point I happened to turn to see eight sets of eyeballs bulging at me from the depths of the shelter. Gaping mouths. The slightest hint of drool. The vague feeling of vacuous stupidity. The quiet echoes of several broken conversations dispersing, drifting off into the atmosphere.
Southbounders.
They begrudgingly made room for me in the dankest, darkest corner, near a window where errant raindrops could splatter in. Thanks a lot. I quietly stewed in a growing homicidal rage until Veggie arrived to diffuse the situation.
"Oh, you'll definitely find trail magic on your way into town tomorrow," someone was telling me.
"Is that so?" I asked absentmindedly, skeptical.
"Oh, yeah!" another agreed. "In front of every house on the way in."
"Lemonade."
"Iced tea."
"Fresh fruit."
"Cookies."
"Hundred-dollar bills."
"The streets are practically paved with them!"
"Sounds like a hard hike," I observed dryly.
"No, easiest four miles ever," someone scoffed.
What? "What?" I asked, incredulous. "You came from Hanover?"
"Yeah," came all. They looked to each other, nodded thoughtfully.
Veggie gripped my arm, restraining me. I looked down. My hands were balled into fists.
"Yeah," someone repeated. "We've been here since noon!"
"Didn't want to get rained on, after all."
"That'd just be stupid."
And then I turned and walked back out into the hail and rain, hoping to get struck by lightning. Or maybe I just read a Star Wars novel I found until crying myself to sleep. Whatever.
The douche: similar to the above, except he disguises his inherent bro-ness with pink polo shirts, Ray Ban's, and pointedly casual flip-flops. Weaknesses include wine spritzers, shopping, and underage women. Kidding! And frequent repetitive stress injuries in the wrist and elbow. From playing tennis. Kidding again! From masturbation.
The hipster douche: Look down. Look up. Is it wearing orange sneakers, wooden clogs, or rubber galoshes? A doofy, anachronistic hat? Now take in the whole picture, if you can stomach it. Is it wearing too-tight jeans, a purple leotard, and/or a rumpled t-shirt from the seventies? Congrats, you've found yourself a hipster. Weaknesses include cheap German lagers brewed inexplicably in Wisconsin, irony, and the ever amorphous "authentic," whatever that is.
The cynic: He could be anyone. He could be sitting right next to you. He could be one of your best friends, or most-trusted colleagues. Identifying characteristics include apathy, sarcasm, and an inexplicably bitterness towards everyone and everything. Weaknesses include anything anyone puts in front of him, and a general lack of self-esteem. Pity this man.
Lawyers: a subsect of the "douche," only better dressed. Do not confuse any perceived friendliness as genuine interest and engage them in conversation. You will be billed for your kindness, and will later regret your naiveté. Weaknesses of the lawyer include a near-debilitating level of smugness which opens them up to sudden attacks. Also, the exposed area of the neck just below their jaw. Their armor is weakest there.
Politicians: These are lawyers just wrapped in a protective layer of bureaucracy. Weaknesses: Fire. Dismemberment. Sunlight. No, wait, that's vampires. I meant to say "hookers" and "shady real-estate deals." And fire.
Al QaedaSort of a combination of all the above. Aggressive and violence prone like the bro, fiercely dogmatic like the hipster, full of irrepressible hatred like the cynic. Can be identified by the prominence of box cutters, dynamite, and automatic weapons amongst their personal effects. And by a pronounced affection for pornography. Weaknesses include ammonium nitrate, latent feelings of empathy (but don't count on it), and falafel. Who doesn't like falafel?
The southbounder: The absolute worst of all. So evil, evil resents the association. Weaknesses include a false sense of superiority, the phrase "You're never going to make it," and mortality.
----
Veggie and I ran up the hill in the rain. I had caught up with her earlier, at the Thistle Hill Shelter, when I'd sought cover during an earlier afternoon squall. It had blown over quickly, a pale prelude of things to come.
Now, the branches above me creaked and cracked in a mere sixty mile-per-hour breeze. The sky was a malevolent black, green, or purple, frequently illuminated by skittering strands of lightning. Leaves twirled and rustled around my feet, whipped and twisted into eddies by the furious wind. It was, quite frankly, terrifying.
We'd heard a weather report earlier, when we'd stopped in at a deli in West Hartford, VT. A severe thunderstorm warning was in effect. We were to expect hail stones the size of golf balls, and maybe even a tornado. Fortunately, I knew we were far ahead of the trailing group of fellow NOBO's I'd left behind at the Wintturi Shelter. Hypothetically, if we hurried, we coule make it to the ironically named Happy Hill Shelter before the storm hit, and have the whole place to ourselves. At least, that was the plan.
Through diminutive in stature, Veggie was actually an incredibly accomplished hiker. I'm no speed demon myself, but I was continually impressed by her ability to keep up. Or, okay, fine: I may have actually been lagging behind. That is, until the innocuous forks of lightning overhead started morphing into menacing steak knives, and threatened to come down on my head.
There are few motivating factors quite like the fear of imminent death. That, and an urgent desire to change out of my now-soiled underwear. I passed Veggie like she was standing still, her eyes turned fearfully upward as her hair stuck out for some reason in random directions. Whatever.
Luckily, we were only about a mile from the shelter. Despite never having run better than an eight minute mile in any of our fitness tests in high school—and despite carrying a 40 lb. backpack—I think I reached the shelter in three minutes flat. Take that, Roger Bannister.
Laughing maniacally, I triumphantly ran up under the shelter eaves just as the sky opened up.
"Take that nature!" I shouted, shaking my fists at the sky. "Is that the best you got? I freakin' turned you around and made you my--"
At which point I happened to turn to see eight sets of eyeballs bulging at me from the depths of the shelter. Gaping mouths. The slightest hint of drool. The vague feeling of vacuous stupidity. The quiet echoes of several broken conversations dispersing, drifting off into the atmosphere.
Southbounders.
They begrudgingly made room for me in the dankest, darkest corner, near a window where errant raindrops could splatter in. Thanks a lot. I quietly stewed in a growing homicidal rage until Veggie arrived to diffuse the situation.
"Oh, you'll definitely find trail magic on your way into town tomorrow," someone was telling me.
"Is that so?" I asked absentmindedly, skeptical.
"Oh, yeah!" another agreed. "In front of every house on the way in."
"Lemonade."
"Iced tea."
"Fresh fruit."
"Cookies."
"Hundred-dollar bills."
"The streets are practically paved with them!"
"Sounds like a hard hike," I observed dryly.
"No, easiest four miles ever," someone scoffed.
What? "What?" I asked, incredulous. "You came from Hanover?"
"Yeah," came all. They looked to each other, nodded thoughtfully.
Veggie gripped my arm, restraining me. I looked down. My hands were balled into fists.
"Yeah," someone repeated. "We've been here since noon!"
"Didn't want to get rained on, after all."
"That'd just be stupid."
And then I turned and walked back out into the hail and rain, hoping to get struck by lightning. Or maybe I just read a Star Wars novel I found until crying myself to sleep. Whatever.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Chapter 91: The Carousel
I feel isolated, disconnected, like the lonely little kid at the amusement park who was too late to get on the merry-go-round: I can only watch and imagine the happiness, the comfort, and the sense of purpose those riding it must feel. Knowing they have a place. Surrounded by friends, flashing lights, and music. Once a revolution, I might catch a face in the crowd, but then the ride goes on, and I am gone. And alone.
However, I know that—at some point—the song will end, and the carousel will slow to a halt, and all those contented little kids will have to shuffle off, disappointed. Some will selfishly cling to their seats to take another spin, but they will see their friends replaced by strangers, and then the tune will change, and the world they have grown to love will seem foreign and terrifying. The few self-aware souls amongst them will look back and see the endless line of eager children waiting to displace them. But not me. Never me. I will have given up and wandered off, without a hope of ever getting on.
Caveman was gone. Merf was hiking with her friend Dietrich—whom I had dubbed Blitz earlier that morning, due to his unflagging speed and seemingly limitless energy—leaving me to continue on my own, alone with my thoughts. Which was fine by me; I found no comfort in company.
Nor, unfortunately, solace in solitude. The twist and creak of branches bending in the wind, the quiet rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, and the incessant cheerful chirping of nearby birds thus became just the ironic soundtrack to my melancholy. My floating reverie.
I passed the Traveling Circus at a road crossing. They were in a typically cheerful mood, waiting for one of their compatriots to pick them up for the short ride back into civilization. I numbly mumbled a half-hearted goodbye, and then shuffled off, dispirited, towards the Eckville Shelter.
Little more than a glorified garage, the Eckville Shelter was just a couple hundred yards up the road, behind the first house on the right. The caretaker's house. A figure of much speculation and foreboding, the caretaker appeared at first only in fleeting glances, peering out suspiciously from behind a drawn window curtain. He would later emerge suddenly to growl at us filthy, marauding hikers to "clean up" and to "get [our crap] off [his] lawn." I didn't know whether to fear, respect, or pity the old man.
That said, I had heard from a (presumably unreliable) south-bounder that the caretaker took kindly to hikers who helped out around the shelter, and that I might even get a popsicle or something if I swept. Naturally, I had hardly dropped my pack inside before asking someone for the broom. Five minutes later, the caretaker came out to reward me with an ice-cold Pepsi. Five minutes after that, he returned with half a watermelon for the rest of us to share. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all.
I ended up sleeping in a chair, leaving the last two available bunks for Merf and Blitz. The other bunks were already occupied, by an assortment of older, more sensitive and physically fragile hikers. Like the Syke Brothers, who were hiking to raise money for charity. For some reason, they reminded me strongly of Redwing and Lil Dipper. Except for that they were very much older, lewd, comically profane, almost completely unintelligible, male, and considerably less attractive. Maybe it was because they were British.
The next morning I hiked off alone once again.
I took frequent breaks in the day that followed, the better to allow Merf and Blitz time and opportunity to catch up with me. It was Blitz's last day on the trail. His girlfriend was coming to pick him up, and was bringing a picnic lunch with her to celebrate the occasion. That was something I didn't want to miss. Did I deserve it? Hadn't I been a good friend, helping Merf and Blitz get through some very difficult and demanding terrain? Or was I just being a mooch? I'm not sure. I don't really care.
Still, Blit'z girlfriend was very nice, as was the assortment of surprisingly (and perhaps disappointingly) healthy snacks she brought with her. None of which did anything to lessen the depressive funk I could feel myself slipping into. Perhaps I envied Blitz? His journey was over; he was going home, retreating into the warmth and comfort of his loved one's arms. Whereas, I was still out in the woods, with nearly a thousand miles still left to go. I definitely envied Blitz.
It hardly seems possible that Merf and I made it into Palmerton, Pennsylvania that day. Somehow, despite stopping for our trail magic snack and to say goodbye to Blitz, we made it twenty five miles, then hitched into town before sunset. I never would have made it without Merf. Unfortunately, I doubt she can say the same of me.
We managed to hitch a ride into town within five minutes. I say we, but Merf really had everything to do with that. A solitary male hitchhiker can be imposing, even scary. As a couple? People probably just assumed we were married, and therefore found us unthreatening. Whatever. I didn't question it.
We were staying the night in the Palmerton Jail. A former jail that was now just a hiker hostel and sometime hang-out for the local Boy Scout troops. Checking in did involve undergoing a background check at the local police station, though. I wouldn't recommend staying there if you have any outstanding warrants. Or maybe even unpaid parking tickets.
Everyone showed up. Little Brown. The entire Traveling Circus, drunk. A mysterious and tragically misguided southbound section hiker. I showered, soaked my feet in Epsom salts, ate my dinner in relative silence, and tried not to let my aggravations get the better of me. People gradually left to go to a nearby hotel bar, or turned in for the night, and things quieted down.
We were two days from the Delaware Water Gap, and the New Jersey border. All that remained between us and that goal was the absolute worst section of trail anywhere. I slept like a baby. Which is to say, fitfully, often waking with the urge to cry and/or urinate myself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
However, I know that—at some point—the song will end, and the carousel will slow to a halt, and all those contented little kids will have to shuffle off, disappointed. Some will selfishly cling to their seats to take another spin, but they will see their friends replaced by strangers, and then the tune will change, and the world they have grown to love will seem foreign and terrifying. The few self-aware souls amongst them will look back and see the endless line of eager children waiting to displace them. But not me. Never me. I will have given up and wandered off, without a hope of ever getting on.
----
Caveman was gone. Merf was hiking with her friend Dietrich—whom I had dubbed Blitz earlier that morning, due to his unflagging speed and seemingly limitless energy—leaving me to continue on my own, alone with my thoughts. Which was fine by me; I found no comfort in company.
Nor, unfortunately, solace in solitude. The twist and creak of branches bending in the wind, the quiet rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, and the incessant cheerful chirping of nearby birds thus became just the ironic soundtrack to my melancholy. My floating reverie.
I passed the Traveling Circus at a road crossing. They were in a typically cheerful mood, waiting for one of their compatriots to pick them up for the short ride back into civilization. I numbly mumbled a half-hearted goodbye, and then shuffled off, dispirited, towards the Eckville Shelter.
Little more than a glorified garage, the Eckville Shelter was just a couple hundred yards up the road, behind the first house on the right. The caretaker's house. A figure of much speculation and foreboding, the caretaker appeared at first only in fleeting glances, peering out suspiciously from behind a drawn window curtain. He would later emerge suddenly to growl at us filthy, marauding hikers to "clean up" and to "get [our crap] off [his] lawn." I didn't know whether to fear, respect, or pity the old man.
That said, I had heard from a (presumably unreliable) south-bounder that the caretaker took kindly to hikers who helped out around the shelter, and that I might even get a popsicle or something if I swept. Naturally, I had hardly dropped my pack inside before asking someone for the broom. Five minutes later, the caretaker came out to reward me with an ice-cold Pepsi. Five minutes after that, he returned with half a watermelon for the rest of us to share. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all.
I ended up sleeping in a chair, leaving the last two available bunks for Merf and Blitz. The other bunks were already occupied, by an assortment of older, more sensitive and physically fragile hikers. Like the Syke Brothers, who were hiking to raise money for charity. For some reason, they reminded me strongly of Redwing and Lil Dipper. Except for that they were very much older, lewd, comically profane, almost completely unintelligible, male, and considerably less attractive. Maybe it was because they were British.
The next morning I hiked off alone once again.
I took frequent breaks in the day that followed, the better to allow Merf and Blitz time and opportunity to catch up with me. It was Blitz's last day on the trail. His girlfriend was coming to pick him up, and was bringing a picnic lunch with her to celebrate the occasion. That was something I didn't want to miss. Did I deserve it? Hadn't I been a good friend, helping Merf and Blitz get through some very difficult and demanding terrain? Or was I just being a mooch? I'm not sure. I don't really care.
Still, Blit'z girlfriend was very nice, as was the assortment of surprisingly (and perhaps disappointingly) healthy snacks she brought with her. None of which did anything to lessen the depressive funk I could feel myself slipping into. Perhaps I envied Blitz? His journey was over; he was going home, retreating into the warmth and comfort of his loved one's arms. Whereas, I was still out in the woods, with nearly a thousand miles still left to go. I definitely envied Blitz.
It hardly seems possible that Merf and I made it into Palmerton, Pennsylvania that day. Somehow, despite stopping for our trail magic snack and to say goodbye to Blitz, we made it twenty five miles, then hitched into town before sunset. I never would have made it without Merf. Unfortunately, I doubt she can say the same of me.
We managed to hitch a ride into town within five minutes. I say we, but Merf really had everything to do with that. A solitary male hitchhiker can be imposing, even scary. As a couple? People probably just assumed we were married, and therefore found us unthreatening. Whatever. I didn't question it.
We were staying the night in the Palmerton Jail. A former jail that was now just a hiker hostel and sometime hang-out for the local Boy Scout troops. Checking in did involve undergoing a background check at the local police station, though. I wouldn't recommend staying there if you have any outstanding warrants. Or maybe even unpaid parking tickets.
Everyone showed up. Little Brown. The entire Traveling Circus, drunk. A mysterious and tragically misguided southbound section hiker. I showered, soaked my feet in Epsom salts, ate my dinner in relative silence, and tried not to let my aggravations get the better of me. People gradually left to go to a nearby hotel bar, or turned in for the night, and things quieted down.
We were two days from the Delaware Water Gap, and the New Jersey border. All that remained between us and that goal was the absolute worst section of trail anywhere. I slept like a baby. Which is to say, fitfully, often waking with the urge to cry and/or urinate myself. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Chapter 80: Pennsylvania
Every state along the Appalachian Trail has its own personality, quirks and peculiarities that are often a source of pride and reverence for the locals.
Georgia is where most sensible folk start off, and so therefore doesn't really have to be all that spectacular or challenging in order for people to feel good about it.1 North Carolina and Tennessee, of course, have the Smoky Mountains, but are also the second and third states one enters, which is exciting in and of itself. Virginia has the Grayson Highlands and Shenandoah National Park, but is also famous for having the longest section of trail of any state. West Virginia, on the other hand, is notable for having the shortest. Maryland surprises all by being relatively easy and gorgeous. And then there's Pennsylvania. And it sucks.
Pennsylvania has nothing. There is literally nothing good about Pennsylvania. And that's the entire state. And the people in charge of routing the trail through Pennsylvania knew that. Whoever they were—geologists, politicians, or, more likely, deranged sociopathic lunatics—they didn't want their state to pale in comparison to their rivaling neighbors. Unfortunately, they seem to have overcompensated for their homestate's drab mediocrity by making the trail there as aggressively unpleasant as possible.
The Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania apparently runs through one massive, continuous Superfund site that stretches from the Maryland to New Jersey borders. As an added bonus, the path itself is a mess of razor sharp rocks lined with toxic raspberries, venomous snakes, cannibalistic hillbillies, and ravenous bears. If hikers don't break their ankles, suffer food poisoning, get eaten, or get eaten, they might still be bored to tears, but usually consider themselves lucky.2
Knowing that was what I had to look forward to, I took an hour and a half lunch break at PenMar Park, a scenic area just south of the Mason-Dixon line. I was very relieved to have escaped the Ensign Cowall Shelter unscathed. The atmosphere inside the shelter had been so toxic from the chain smoking, grunting, snoring, rude, inconsiderate, scary, and generally evil southbounders that I had actually packed up my things and left to tent around midnight, startling some of the others. But I didn't care. Merf had backtracked to a hostel just off the trail to pick up a mail drop that morning. Now I was dragging my feet, hoping she'd catch up. And PenMark Park seemed like the place to do it.
A group of senior citizens was having an impromptu party and elaborate alfresco meal just beside the trail.
Never one to pass up an opportunity for Yogi-ing, I made a big show of collapsing on a nearby picnic table, dramatically doffed my pack, and then lay about wheezing and coughing and trying to look as sad, hungry, and helpless as possible. Of course, the kindly old folks could hardly help but notice me writhing around in front of them, whimpering and making puppy dog eyes. It wasn't long before someone asked me if I was thru-hiking. Yes, I responded, perhaps too enthusiastically. Then they asked me if I was hungry. Score.
Iced tea. Salad. Pasta Salad. Potato Salad. Egg Salad. Fruit Salad. Soda. Cake. Soda. They had it all. And they didn't want leftovers. I told them I was writing a book about my experiences.3They teased me for going to NYU and for being a liberal, and told me just how ineffectual President Obama was being in response to the then-ongoing oil spill disaster in the Gulf. After I had composed myself—their barbs had hurt me deeply, to the point that I had ran off to cry in the bathroom—I jokingly threatened to take away their Medicare and Medicaid checks, and they, realizing their own hypocrisy, begged my forgiveness. Then we all laughed about it and continued eating. Because if there's one thing that transcends age, gender, race, religion, and political affiliation, its shared enthusiasm for pasta salad.
I kept hoping that Merf would show up before the old people left, or before I ate all their remaining food, whichever came first. Tragically, she never made it. And, eventually, I had to give up the pretense of waiting for her and move along.
Southern Pennsylvania is actually quite beautiful, and contains some of the best maintained stretches of trail anywhere. The shelters were pristine and tidy. Even the privies were ridiculously nice and accommodating, coming pre-stocked with toilet paper, and with a paucity of grime, heinous smells, and scary dark corners filled with cobwebs and beady little insect eyes peering out at you while you did your business. Of all the ways to go out—and in Pennsylvania, there are many—being bitten by a Latrodectus while taking a dump in an outhouse in the woods is probably the least dignified.
It was drizzling by the time I arrived at the Tumbling Run Shelters. Yes, plural. There are two shelters there, one for "snoring," and the other for "non-snoring." I wasn't about to take my chances, and tented. Ridley and Panther were there. A younger guy named Dreamcatcher was there. I knew him from his registry entries, and also from his nice habit of making dreamcatchers from scratch and leaving them hanging in shelters. Merf arrived later with Cubbie and Dilly Dally, whom I disliked immediately for the sole reason that they started hiking the A.T. after me. I always resented people who were faster than I was. It would continue to be a problem until I finished.
We had a nice night there, at Tumbling Run. There were no obnoxious southbounders to ruin everything this time. Dreamcatcher and I built a fire. Or someone built a fire, I forget who. Maybe Cornpatch, if he was there. We all got to talking, and it was like old times. Even though I had just met half of them. Dreamcatcher was surprised to find out I was eight years older than him. He had just graduated high school. I was flattered to think I could still pass for a teenager even with my creepy porn-mustache.4
And then we all went to sleep, doing our best to ignore the angry rattlesnake that lived under the shelter.
1. For me, Georgia may not have been all that special, but it was first, and for that reason alone I will always look back on it with fondness. In that respect, it's sort of like my first girlfriend. Sure, she may have dumped me after a three days, but she taught me so much in that time about life and love. For example, if a woman ever approaches you and says, "Can I ask you a question?" the only proper response is to run away screaming with your fingers in your years. Okay, terrible analogy. That's why this is a footnote.
2. The worst aspect of Pennsylvania, however, is that it actually makes one look forward to New Jersey, the existential ramifications of which are too horrifying to contemplate.
3. Okay, technically that wasn't true at the time. I was thinking about writing a book, however, even if I wasn't actively writing it. Anyway, they made me promise to remember them well in my memoirs, if not actually cut them a percentage of my royalties. I dutifully wrote down the name of their group inside my Thru-Hiker's Handbook. The same Thru-Hiker's Handbook I would ultimately lose somewhere in New York state. Oops. Sorry, kind old people!
4. Note: not a picture. Just an alternate account verifying its existence. There is no photographic evidence that such a 'stache ever existed. That you know of. Even if such photos were to exist, I would have had them destroyed long ago.
Georgia is where most sensible folk start off, and so therefore doesn't really have to be all that spectacular or challenging in order for people to feel good about it.1 North Carolina and Tennessee, of course, have the Smoky Mountains, but are also the second and third states one enters, which is exciting in and of itself. Virginia has the Grayson Highlands and Shenandoah National Park, but is also famous for having the longest section of trail of any state. West Virginia, on the other hand, is notable for having the shortest. Maryland surprises all by being relatively easy and gorgeous. And then there's Pennsylvania. And it sucks.
Pennsylvania has nothing. There is literally nothing good about Pennsylvania. And that's the entire state. And the people in charge of routing the trail through Pennsylvania knew that. Whoever they were—geologists, politicians, or, more likely, deranged sociopathic lunatics—they didn't want their state to pale in comparison to their rivaling neighbors. Unfortunately, they seem to have overcompensated for their homestate's drab mediocrity by making the trail there as aggressively unpleasant as possible.
The Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania apparently runs through one massive, continuous Superfund site that stretches from the Maryland to New Jersey borders. As an added bonus, the path itself is a mess of razor sharp rocks lined with toxic raspberries, venomous snakes, cannibalistic hillbillies, and ravenous bears. If hikers don't break their ankles, suffer food poisoning, get eaten, or get eaten, they might still be bored to tears, but usually consider themselves lucky.2
Knowing that was what I had to look forward to, I took an hour and a half lunch break at PenMar Park, a scenic area just south of the Mason-Dixon line. I was very relieved to have escaped the Ensign Cowall Shelter unscathed. The atmosphere inside the shelter had been so toxic from the chain smoking, grunting, snoring, rude, inconsiderate, scary, and generally evil southbounders that I had actually packed up my things and left to tent around midnight, startling some of the others. But I didn't care. Merf had backtracked to a hostel just off the trail to pick up a mail drop that morning. Now I was dragging my feet, hoping she'd catch up. And PenMark Park seemed like the place to do it.
A group of senior citizens was having an impromptu party and elaborate alfresco meal just beside the trail.
Never one to pass up an opportunity for Yogi-ing, I made a big show of collapsing on a nearby picnic table, dramatically doffed my pack, and then lay about wheezing and coughing and trying to look as sad, hungry, and helpless as possible. Of course, the kindly old folks could hardly help but notice me writhing around in front of them, whimpering and making puppy dog eyes. It wasn't long before someone asked me if I was thru-hiking. Yes, I responded, perhaps too enthusiastically. Then they asked me if I was hungry. Score.
Iced tea. Salad. Pasta Salad. Potato Salad. Egg Salad. Fruit Salad. Soda. Cake. Soda. They had it all. And they didn't want leftovers. I told them I was writing a book about my experiences.3They teased me for going to NYU and for being a liberal, and told me just how ineffectual President Obama was being in response to the then-ongoing oil spill disaster in the Gulf. After I had composed myself—their barbs had hurt me deeply, to the point that I had ran off to cry in the bathroom—I jokingly threatened to take away their Medicare and Medicaid checks, and they, realizing their own hypocrisy, begged my forgiveness. Then we all laughed about it and continued eating. Because if there's one thing that transcends age, gender, race, religion, and political affiliation, its shared enthusiasm for pasta salad.
I kept hoping that Merf would show up before the old people left, or before I ate all their remaining food, whichever came first. Tragically, she never made it. And, eventually, I had to give up the pretense of waiting for her and move along.
Southern Pennsylvania is actually quite beautiful, and contains some of the best maintained stretches of trail anywhere. The shelters were pristine and tidy. Even the privies were ridiculously nice and accommodating, coming pre-stocked with toilet paper, and with a paucity of grime, heinous smells, and scary dark corners filled with cobwebs and beady little insect eyes peering out at you while you did your business. Of all the ways to go out—and in Pennsylvania, there are many—being bitten by a Latrodectus while taking a dump in an outhouse in the woods is probably the least dignified.
It was drizzling by the time I arrived at the Tumbling Run Shelters. Yes, plural. There are two shelters there, one for "snoring," and the other for "non-snoring." I wasn't about to take my chances, and tented. Ridley and Panther were there. A younger guy named Dreamcatcher was there. I knew him from his registry entries, and also from his nice habit of making dreamcatchers from scratch and leaving them hanging in shelters. Merf arrived later with Cubbie and Dilly Dally, whom I disliked immediately for the sole reason that they started hiking the A.T. after me. I always resented people who were faster than I was. It would continue to be a problem until I finished.
We had a nice night there, at Tumbling Run. There were no obnoxious southbounders to ruin everything this time. Dreamcatcher and I built a fire. Or someone built a fire, I forget who. Maybe Cornpatch, if he was there. We all got to talking, and it was like old times. Even though I had just met half of them. Dreamcatcher was surprised to find out I was eight years older than him. He had just graduated high school. I was flattered to think I could still pass for a teenager even with my creepy porn-mustache.4
And then we all went to sleep, doing our best to ignore the angry rattlesnake that lived under the shelter.
1. For me, Georgia may not have been all that special, but it was first, and for that reason alone I will always look back on it with fondness. In that respect, it's sort of like my first girlfriend. Sure, she may have dumped me after a three days, but she taught me so much in that time about life and love. For example, if a woman ever approaches you and says, "Can I ask you a question?" the only proper response is to run away screaming with your fingers in your years. Okay, terrible analogy. That's why this is a footnote.
2. The worst aspect of Pennsylvania, however, is that it actually makes one look forward to New Jersey, the existential ramifications of which are too horrifying to contemplate.
3. Okay, technically that wasn't true at the time. I was thinking about writing a book, however, even if I wasn't actively writing it. Anyway, they made me promise to remember them well in my memoirs, if not actually cut them a percentage of my royalties. I dutifully wrote down the name of their group inside my Thru-Hiker's Handbook. The same Thru-Hiker's Handbook I would ultimately lose somewhere in New York state. Oops. Sorry, kind old people!
4. Note: not a picture. Just an alternate account verifying its existence. There is no photographic evidence that such a 'stache ever existed. That you know of. Even if such photos were to exist, I would have had them destroyed long ago.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Chapter 79: Out From Under
Returning to the trail, I was in terrible shape. I missed Megan something awful. I missed my friends. Sure, Ridley and Panther seemed nice enough, but I didn't particularly feel like imposing myself on their company. I had asked them about my other friends, the ones I'd left behind—Merf, Freeman, Jason, and Shorts—but hadn't truly held out hope that any of them would actually catch up with me. I found out from a note in a shelter log that Caboose and Spark were somehow ahead of me, but I didn't seriously expect that I would catch up to them, either. For now, I was alone.
The day passed in a depressive stupor. I somehow managed to avoid the nervous breakdowns that had plagued me the day before, and so spent a considerably shorter amount of time crying in the bushes. Still, I didn't feel especially motivated or productive. I realized with some consternation that I didn't really have anything to hike for. Without Megan to race to, or my friends to urge me on, I was adrift, directionless, without a purpose. For a moment, I seriously contemplated quitting. And if I hadn't just bought swanky new boots and a sleeping bag liner—and if my sister hadn't just sent me such a rich plethora of delicious food in my most recent mail drop—I very well might have.
Maryland was a beautiful state to walk through. A short one, too. It left you very little time to get a bad impression. Still, knowing the dreaded horrors of Pennsylvania awaited me the next day wasn't exactly reassuring, and may have only added to my growing ennui.
I gleaned little pleasure from visiting the original Washington Monument, the shoddy architecture of which seemed to imply our beloved first president wasn't a respectable, erudite warrior/philosopher but some kind of rough-hewn troglodyte. It rather resembled a sort of primitive lighthouse, albeit one inexplicably located some sixty-five miles from the nearest ocean. I was reminded strongly of the vaguely medieval watchtowers the devious, imperialist Brits constructed all along their coastlines to instantly warn their forces occupying Scotland and Ireland of potential invasions by courageous French liberators. All that was missing was a signal fire attended to by some snaggletoothed, tea-sipping prig. But I digress.
Sometime later I passed Hobbit, a northbound thru-hiker about my age who was attempting the Four State Challenge. He had started sometime earlier that morning on the West Virginia/Virginia border, and was trying to make it through to Pennsylvania in less than twenty-four hours. Having done my own challenge, I understood what he was going through, and wished him luck. Here was another person I could envision hiking and becoming friends with, yet he clearly had other priorities.
My sense of unease and lethargy continued as I arrived at the Ensign Cowall Shelter. Who was I, if I wasn't racing to meet Megan? Who was I, if I wasn't cracking jokes with my friends? I was a class clown without a class. I was an avant garde performance artist with no audience. I was Darth Vader without Luke Skywalker to fight against. I was suddenly lacking that core essential je ne sais quoi that defined me as a person, that gave my travels depth and meaning. I had suddenly turned into just another lonely little boy, lost and scared in the woods.
And then they came.
I don't remember their names, but I do remember their faces. The woman, not at all gaunt or haggard as one might expect, full of bluster, showing no ill-effects from the cancer she claimed was ravaging her body. Her brother, as quiet and seemingly harmless as she was brash and acerbic, instantly flitting about the shelter like a moth around a lightbulb, and equally annoying. Their dogs, whom they vowed were well-behaved and not at all likely to piss or defecate all over camp, my gear, or my dinner. And their wiry, dangerous companion, who tramped around flashing his toothless smile, flexing his tattoos, flinging a hatchet into nearby trees, flaunting the blowgun he carried and used as a walking stick. The same blowgun it was illegal for him to carry through any National Park, and with which he had apparently shot someone's pet rabbit in Duncannon, Pennsylvania.
Two questions immediately sprung to mind. Who exactly were these people? And why did they exist?
They were Southbounders. The first of many. And—apparently—for no good, earthly reason.
The woman would not shut up. Her toothless companion could not stop chain-smoking, or scaring the living bejeezus out of me. And her brother could not refrain from creeping me out. I desperately wanted not to be alone with them.
And then Ridley and Panther arrived. I never loved them more than in that moment. Apollo and Cornpatch arrived, two more northbounders to further alleviate the pressure I felt building inside me. And then, most spectacularly of all, Merf!
She looked and seemed much the same as when I left her, and was in typically good spirits, despite having done twenty five miles that day. We quickly caught up, and she filled me in on the various goings on that I had missed, stuff that had been happening behind me. It truly was fascinating, to hear tell of at least some of the carnage I'd left in my wake. It was certainly an ego boost, but it also felt fantastic to reconnect with her again, some eight hundred miles later. I had missed her. I was happy to see her.
And just like that, I was back with friends. And I had a purpose. Although they may not be as admirable as love, resentment and hatred can be just as powerful as motivating factors. And as every hero needs a villain, I had found mine at last. Or, more precisely, a new one. Southbounders.
Evil, dirty Southbounders who thought they knew everything and did everything backwards. It would be a glorious crusade. And somewhat pathetic. And would somewhat sour what should have been a pristine, uplifting experience. But it was all I had, at that moment. It would be enough.
The day passed in a depressive stupor. I somehow managed to avoid the nervous breakdowns that had plagued me the day before, and so spent a considerably shorter amount of time crying in the bushes. Still, I didn't feel especially motivated or productive. I realized with some consternation that I didn't really have anything to hike for. Without Megan to race to, or my friends to urge me on, I was adrift, directionless, without a purpose. For a moment, I seriously contemplated quitting. And if I hadn't just bought swanky new boots and a sleeping bag liner—and if my sister hadn't just sent me such a rich plethora of delicious food in my most recent mail drop—I very well might have.
Maryland was a beautiful state to walk through. A short one, too. It left you very little time to get a bad impression. Still, knowing the dreaded horrors of Pennsylvania awaited me the next day wasn't exactly reassuring, and may have only added to my growing ennui.
I gleaned little pleasure from visiting the original Washington Monument, the shoddy architecture of which seemed to imply our beloved first president wasn't a respectable, erudite warrior/philosopher but some kind of rough-hewn troglodyte. It rather resembled a sort of primitive lighthouse, albeit one inexplicably located some sixty-five miles from the nearest ocean. I was reminded strongly of the vaguely medieval watchtowers the devious, imperialist Brits constructed all along their coastlines to instantly warn their forces occupying Scotland and Ireland of potential invasions by courageous French liberators. All that was missing was a signal fire attended to by some snaggletoothed, tea-sipping prig. But I digress.
Sometime later I passed Hobbit, a northbound thru-hiker about my age who was attempting the Four State Challenge. He had started sometime earlier that morning on the West Virginia/Virginia border, and was trying to make it through to Pennsylvania in less than twenty-four hours. Having done my own challenge, I understood what he was going through, and wished him luck. Here was another person I could envision hiking and becoming friends with, yet he clearly had other priorities.
My sense of unease and lethargy continued as I arrived at the Ensign Cowall Shelter. Who was I, if I wasn't racing to meet Megan? Who was I, if I wasn't cracking jokes with my friends? I was a class clown without a class. I was an avant garde performance artist with no audience. I was Darth Vader without Luke Skywalker to fight against. I was suddenly lacking that core essential je ne sais quoi that defined me as a person, that gave my travels depth and meaning. I had suddenly turned into just another lonely little boy, lost and scared in the woods.
And then they came.
I don't remember their names, but I do remember their faces. The woman, not at all gaunt or haggard as one might expect, full of bluster, showing no ill-effects from the cancer she claimed was ravaging her body. Her brother, as quiet and seemingly harmless as she was brash and acerbic, instantly flitting about the shelter like a moth around a lightbulb, and equally annoying. Their dogs, whom they vowed were well-behaved and not at all likely to piss or defecate all over camp, my gear, or my dinner. And their wiry, dangerous companion, who tramped around flashing his toothless smile, flexing his tattoos, flinging a hatchet into nearby trees, flaunting the blowgun he carried and used as a walking stick. The same blowgun it was illegal for him to carry through any National Park, and with which he had apparently shot someone's pet rabbit in Duncannon, Pennsylvania.
Two questions immediately sprung to mind. Who exactly were these people? And why did they exist?
They were Southbounders. The first of many. And—apparently—for no good, earthly reason.
The woman would not shut up. Her toothless companion could not stop chain-smoking, or scaring the living bejeezus out of me. And her brother could not refrain from creeping me out. I desperately wanted not to be alone with them.
And then Ridley and Panther arrived. I never loved them more than in that moment. Apollo and Cornpatch arrived, two more northbounders to further alleviate the pressure I felt building inside me. And then, most spectacularly of all, Merf!
She looked and seemed much the same as when I left her, and was in typically good spirits, despite having done twenty five miles that day. We quickly caught up, and she filled me in on the various goings on that I had missed, stuff that had been happening behind me. It truly was fascinating, to hear tell of at least some of the carnage I'd left in my wake. It was certainly an ego boost, but it also felt fantastic to reconnect with her again, some eight hundred miles later. I had missed her. I was happy to see her.
And just like that, I was back with friends. And I had a purpose. Although they may not be as admirable as love, resentment and hatred can be just as powerful as motivating factors. And as every hero needs a villain, I had found mine at last. Or, more precisely, a new one. Southbounders.
Evil, dirty Southbounders who thought they knew everything and did everything backwards. It would be a glorious crusade. And somewhat pathetic. And would somewhat sour what should have been a pristine, uplifting experience. But it was all I had, at that moment. It would be enough.
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