The sun rose, the birds came out, and I awoke to the not-so-distant sounds of the river. And the rather pressing need to urinate. Emerging groggily from my tent, I noted with some relief that both Fredo and my sister were, blessedly, still alive, their heads not caved in by some crazed man's tragically emptied cook-pot. Although Matterhorn had evidently managed to slake his insatiable European bloodlust, at least for the moment, I remained convinced he would seek vengeance for his destroyed dinner at some point, and made a mental note not to be caught alone with him in the future.
Buckeye caught up to us later that morning, before we had yet broken camp. He might have missed us had we not called him over, such was the awesomeness and subtlety of our stealth site. Evidently relieved to see us, Buckeye greeted us with his usual brand of profanity-laced exuberance. It had been almost a week since we had left him in Stratton, and he'd been chasing us ever since. It seemed that, for some reason, he had expected us to do leisurely twelve to fifteen mile days. Probably because we had told him as much, before parting ways. Unfortunately, in his absence we had decided to push harder, and had increased our pace some fifty percent. Buckeye had thus been forced to do multiple thirty-mile days just to catch up, a seemingly superhuman effort at this point of our journey. Of course, he had also been hiking so quickly so as to avoid our collective slack-packing nemesis, the notorious tour hiker Loud Mouth.
Fredo seized the opportunity to fill Buckeye in on our own week's misadventures, which had apparently involved me "stealing" several pounds of candy and trail mix from a group of unsuspecting trail maintainers, brazenly ruining another thru-hiker's dinner, and then definitively making up for all of that—and my myriad other crimes—by writing an all-encompasing mea culpa in the Bald Mountain Lean-to log, the contents of which I won't repeat here. Fredo also warned Buckeye about the Georgia Peaches. We assumed we had left them behind the day before, but Buckeye claimed not to have met them, and it was better not to take a chance...
Swift-flowing but seemingly shallow, the Pleasant River beckoned to us. Departing early with my sister, I made the seemingly prudent, time-saving decision to ford the river without first removing my boots. Ten seconds later, as I made a mad dash splashing through shin-high water, I realized I had probably made a mistake. Two minutes later, my soggy boots strapped uselessly on the outside of my pack, my feet ensconced uncomfortably in wet socks and my nearly-destroyed Tevas, we set off again into the entrancingly titled "Hermitage Preserve."
"The Hermitage" is an area of astonishing tranquility and unparalleled natural beauty that's also pretty much indistinguishable from everywhere else on the trail. However, unlike the rest of the trail, "The Hermitage" has one inviolable rule: absolutely no camping is permitted, anywhere, under any circumstances, by anyone, ever. Naturally, we almost immediately stumbled upon the Georgia Peaches, who had evidently camped right in the middle of the trail.
Damn them and their sinuous, seductive charms! How I hated them. Who could be so stupid as to attempt the Wilderness with only six packets of ramen and a handful of candy? With no tent, no cook pot, and no warm clothing. I honestly could not understand how they hadn't starved or frozen to death, or been hit by a meteorite, or mauled by rabid beavers, or otherwise struck down by a merciful God. How had they even made it this far? Neither I nor anyone else, to my knowledge, had ever even seen them actually walking; they were usually seen taking rest breaks, snacking, or while sun bathing, half-naked, on a boulder. A quick laugh, an intoxicating smile, an ingratiating politeness, feigned innocence, and an unconscionable, unforgivable amount of natural beauty, intelligence, and charisma appeared to have taken them a long way. But they weren't getting to me. Yet.
My sister, on the other hand, was far more easily deterred, and made the seemingly fatal mistake of stopping to talk with them. I stood there, impatient, wanting badly to move on for what seemed like half an hour. Probably because it was. We had left early with the sole purpose of getting a good head start, yet here we were, bogged down with Sodium Chloride and Calypso, or whatever their names were. They proceeded to ask my sister a series of at first innocent but then increasingly invasive questions.
"You're hiking with your brother? That's so sweet!" said Sodium Chloride, or the other one.
"I know," said my sister, Hot Sauce. "I'm awesome."
I hate everybody, I thought, glaring at them in what I hoped was an unsubtle way.
"Unfortunately, we've had to hike faster than either of us would like, because I have to get off-trail on the twenty third to go down to North Carolina to start work," explained my sister, unnecessarily. "Because I'm an outdoor educator."
"No kidding! I'm an outdoor educator too," exclaimed Calypso, maybe half-believably. "Where do you work?"
"At a company called Adventure Trek. It's a totally awesome company, sort of like Google only way better, and the compensation is highly lucrative. I'd strongly recommend working for them, or, failing that, being me." said my sister, helpfully.
"I was thinking that exact same thing!" cried Calypso. "Can I have your e-mail? Maybe we can meet up later, when we're both back in the South. Because you know we're from Georgia."
"Yes. We know," I said, trying to hurry things up. "Because you call yourself the Georgia Peaches."
The three girls shot me a hurt look, as if to say butt out, but in a really polite, passive-aggressive way.
"So, what's the name of your supervisor at Adventure Treks? Because I'd love to have a name or a reference I can call," Calypso asked, hastily combing her bangs to approximate my sister's appearance. "Also, what's your social security number? And do you have any relevant personal history I should be aware of?"
I want to die, I thought, over and over again. Then I remembered my purpose... That glorious sign—signaling the northern terminus of the Trail, that existed as yet only in my imagination—and maybe some other things, that could be waiting for me on top of Katahdin... It steeled my resolve, and I tore my sister out of there before the evil cousins had a chance to memorize her vocal inflections.
We were seventy two miles away. Just five more days. I had to make it.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Chapter 143: The 100-Mile Wilderness (Take 2)
On a fateful day that presumably fell sometime during the week, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I finally set out into the infamous hundred mile wilderness. Spirits were low, despite the exhilaration we all felt from being so close to the end of our adventure. Though it took considerable effort, I heroically did my part to motivate and encourage my friends by walking slower than them, falling down and hurting myself a lot, and ceaslessly complaining about everything and everybody.
We soon happened upon a sign, weathered and stoic, belatedly advising all comers that attempting the “wilderness” with anything less than ten days of supplies was egregiously foolhardy and would surely result in our inevitable, gruesome deaths. We were already at leastfive minutes fifty yards feet from the road. We had come too far to turn back.
For a brief moment, I warmly remembered all the haters, mostly in the South, who had so often predicted our premature demise. There had been those who repeatedly warned us that if we didn't buy their $200 rain gear, for example, we were gonna die. Or that if we attempted to hike the Smokies with thermals that were even 20% cotton, we were gonna die. And that if we continued to hike naked, even for just one more day, under that blistering sun, we were definitely gonna get eaten by dragons and die. Rest assured, dear reader, we were well inured to these idle threats by now, and we were not about let this latest proclamation deter us. Besides, we had at least two and a half days of food. How bad could it be?
Very bad, as it turned out, though not on the first day, the proceedings of which, besides the spotting of the aforementioned sign, were not particularly memorable. Yes, it was on our second day out that the trouble really started, our lives irrevocably changed, and our hike forever ruined.
It was on the second day that we met them. The Georgia Peaches. I had fallen behind that morning, as I frequently did, taking long breaks to sob quietly into the underbrush. Cresting yet another of the innumerable boulder-strewn, granite slabbed ridges that merrily dot the New Hampshire and Maine sections of the trail, I spotted them. Their long, languid bodies lying lackadaisically across the trail, luxuriating in the sun and the attentions of a delirious, weak-minded fool. Fredo.
I knew immediately that he was in trouble, his three-mile-an-hour pace shot, the contents of his pack strewn about the ground, his food bag open. Curiously, the Peaches seemed not to be carrying any food or equipment themselves, and were so clean and cheerful in appearance and demeanor that I began to suspect that they hadn't hiked there at all, but had simply appeared at that very spot, emerging from the deepest depths of Hell that very morning.
They were sirens or succubi, I was sure of it, and were clearly intent on devouring my friend alive, leeching his life's spirit, or at the very least mooching his food. And they were good at what they did. But my attentions were elsewhere, my mind preoccupied with dreams of Katahdin, with long-nurtured secret plans of fantastic design and foolish ambition. I alone appeared immune to their "charms." Clearly, it was up to me to rescue my friend. But I didn't. I promptly left in disgust, and then mercilessly made fun of him for it later.
That night the three of us found a sweet stealth site by the west branch of the Pleasant River. We camped there with the frequently-naked Austrian, Matterhorn. Or was he Swiss? No matter. Any way, yes, Materhorn, the same man whose dinner I had accidentally destroyed not two nights earlier. I feared for my safety that night, and was plagued by nightmares in which I was repeatedly and viciously attacked by a very angry, very nude European wielding a terrifying pot of cold macaroni.
The next morning I awoke, unfortunately still alive, for little did I know what new terrors this day would bring...
We soon happened upon a sign, weathered and stoic, belatedly advising all comers that attempting the “wilderness” with anything less than ten days of supplies was egregiously foolhardy and would surely result in our inevitable, gruesome deaths. We were already at least
For a brief moment, I warmly remembered all the haters, mostly in the South, who had so often predicted our premature demise. There had been those who repeatedly warned us that if we didn't buy their $200 rain gear, for example, we were gonna die. Or that if we attempted to hike the Smokies with thermals that were even 20% cotton, we were gonna die. And that if we continued to hike naked, even for just one more day, under that blistering sun, we were definitely gonna get eaten by dragons and die. Rest assured, dear reader, we were well inured to these idle threats by now, and we were not about let this latest proclamation deter us. Besides, we had at least two and a half days of food. How bad could it be?
Very bad, as it turned out, though not on the first day, the proceedings of which, besides the spotting of the aforementioned sign, were not particularly memorable. Yes, it was on our second day out that the trouble really started, our lives irrevocably changed, and our hike forever ruined.
It was on the second day that we met them. The Georgia Peaches. I had fallen behind that morning, as I frequently did, taking long breaks to sob quietly into the underbrush. Cresting yet another of the innumerable boulder-strewn, granite slabbed ridges that merrily dot the New Hampshire and Maine sections of the trail, I spotted them. Their long, languid bodies lying lackadaisically across the trail, luxuriating in the sun and the attentions of a delirious, weak-minded fool. Fredo.
I knew immediately that he was in trouble, his three-mile-an-hour pace shot, the contents of his pack strewn about the ground, his food bag open. Curiously, the Peaches seemed not to be carrying any food or equipment themselves, and were so clean and cheerful in appearance and demeanor that I began to suspect that they hadn't hiked there at all, but had simply appeared at that very spot, emerging from the deepest depths of Hell that very morning.
They were sirens or succubi, I was sure of it, and were clearly intent on devouring my friend alive, leeching his life's spirit, or at the very least mooching his food. And they were good at what they did. But my attentions were elsewhere, my mind preoccupied with dreams of Katahdin, with long-nurtured secret plans of fantastic design and foolish ambition. I alone appeared immune to their "charms." Clearly, it was up to me to rescue my friend. But I didn't. I promptly left in disgust, and then mercilessly made fun of him for it later.
That night the three of us found a sweet stealth site by the west branch of the Pleasant River. We camped there with the frequently-naked Austrian, Matterhorn. Or was he Swiss? No matter. Any way, yes, Materhorn, the same man whose dinner I had accidentally destroyed not two nights earlier. I feared for my safety that night, and was plagued by nightmares in which I was repeatedly and viciously attacked by a very angry, very nude European wielding a terrifying pot of cold macaroni.
The next morning I awoke, unfortunately still alive, for little did I know what new terrors this day would bring...
Monday, September 10, 2012
Chapter 143: Oroboros
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.
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.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Chapter 142: Atonement
As we reach the end of our journeys, and thus our narratives, it is only natural for us to reflect. On all we've seen, and on all we've done. The pain we've felt. The exhilaration. The friendships made, and broken. The iron bonds of fellowship forged in toil, tragedy, and triumph, that no amount of time or space could ever tear asunder. The people we've hurt along the way. The good times we've had. The bad. The times it rained. The days when when we just wanted to stay cocooned inside our sleeping bags forever, listening to the raindrops fall, and the world pass us by. Those few joyous occasions when we could celebrate a reunion with long-lost friends, then congregate around a camp fire swapping stories, watching the sun set, and uniting in shared admiration of a giant bag of M&Ms...
Speaking of pain, I now consider myself extraordinarily lucky that—in the entire course of my travels—I never suffered a serious injury. Don't get me wrong, shin splints are plenty painful, as are burst blisters, and that weird problem I was having with my right (or was it left?) Achilles tendon that, well... But that's besides the point. I was lucky. Period. Nothing ever happened to seriously threaten my hike. Miller Time fell and broke his leg coming down off of The Priest in Virginia. Cotton brazenly wore blue jeans in the Smoky Mountains and froze to death. Robo-Vader and Runny Bottoms caught giardia, twice. Alphabet got homesick. Veggie got an infected spider bite. That southbounder in Gorham had an infected spider bite. Heck, sometime after leaving Stratton, a spider had bitten me. It never got infected, though.
Anyway, and with all of that in mind—and I do mean all—here is my registry entry from the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to:
Speaking of pain, I now consider myself extraordinarily lucky that—in the entire course of my travels—I never suffered a serious injury. Don't get me wrong, shin splints are plenty painful, as are burst blisters, and that weird problem I was having with my right (or was it left?) Achilles tendon that, well... But that's besides the point. I was lucky. Period. Nothing ever happened to seriously threaten my hike. Miller Time fell and broke his leg coming down off of The Priest in Virginia. Cotton brazenly wore blue jeans in the Smoky Mountains and froze to death. Robo-Vader and Runny Bottoms caught giardia, twice. Alphabet got homesick. Veggie got an infected spider bite. That southbounder in Gorham had an infected spider bite. Heck, sometime after leaving Stratton, a spider had bitten me. It never got infected, though.
Anyway, and with all of that in mind—and I do mean all—here is my registry entry from the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to:
August 18,
Everything is fun and games until you "accidentally" steal some day hiker's/trail maintainer's food, fall on your ass, and then knock over someone's dinner.
I have a lot of things to be sorry for, and no better time than now to atone.
I'm sorry to that day hiker in the Shenandoah's whose food I stole. Rest assured your Camelback® Electrolyte™ Drink Mix© and Carnation Instant Breakfast did not go to waste.
I'm sorry to whomever I stole those candy bars from yesterday. I hopethe 0.4 mile walk back to the parking lot wasn't tooyour day wasn't ruined.
I'm sorry to my sister, for making her hike around 18 miles a day through Maine.
I'm sorry to all the people I've written mean things about in registers. I'm sorry to Fredo, for not loving him the way he wants to be loved. I'm sorry to Freeman and Strider, for leaving you behind. I'm sorry to all my other trail friends who have already finished, that I couldn't be there for your summit days. I'm sorry to my friends, my family, and especially Megan for disappearing for 5 months to go on this crazy adventure.
I'm especially sorry to that spider, for taking a shit so near you that you felt compelled to bite me in the ass. It hurts, and I have yet to develop super powers.
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.)
Monday, May 14, 2012
Chapter 139: Losing the Thread
One of the great things about hiking the Appalachian Trail is that, each day, one is working towards a concrete goal, e.g., the next 15.3 miles to the shelter, the next town to resupply, Katahdin. Every day has its purpose. Each step one takes is one fewer towards one's final destination. Which, when it comes, is both a horrible and wonderful realization all at once.
No wandering is aimless, no meal less than a feast, no vista anything less than dazzling, unforgettable, or utterly unique. While certain aspects of one's daily routine—the packing and unpacking, the making of meals; the sobbing quietly in the bushes, etc.—could devolve into monotony, one can always be cheered by the thought that, one day soon, this would all end.
Years later, I'm sitting in my (comfortable) apartment above the city, gazing at the grey clouds outside, feeling a cool breeze roll in through an open window, and wondering where I'd be if I were anywhere but here. Virginia, rollicking alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway? New Hampshire, looking South across snow-capped peaks? Colorado, waking up each day to the spectacular unknown? Somewhere in California or Montana, where, um... Nah, probably not those latter two.
I hear your angry groaning from the other room, yanking me from my reverie. I could ask you what's wrong, offer you comfort, or support. But you would push me away, claiming I don't understand. But I do. It's like that time I had shin splints. Or, as Bandito and I used to joke on the trail, whatever's ailing you, there's a simple solution: stop.
"Hungry? Stop hiking. Starving to death? Stop hiking. Shin bones sticking up out of where your kneecaps used to be, blood spurting everywhere? Stop hiking. And, uh, maybe call an ambulance."
That sort of thing.
But I know you would dismiss my hard-won wisdom as hokey, or overly simplistic. The frustrations and pitfalls of the real world cannot be so simply ignored, or avoided. And there is no end in sight, no ultimate goal as clearly identifiable as a plaque on top of a faraway mountain. And so my mind, if not my spirit, drifts away from these dreary thoughts, dons my (by-now tattered) Dragon Scale parka, and floats out the window into the rain. Across the rooftops, over the trees, beyond the endless strips of car-strapped blacktop. Towards the mountains. Towards peace. Towards home.
Oh, and, by the way, on August 15th, 2010, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I left Buckeye in Stratton—he was waiting for Veggie, and his beloved Ohio State bandana—and hiked 15.3 miles to the Little Bigelow Lean-to, a.k.a. "The Tubs," where we got some trail magic from some overnight hikers. Thanks, overnighters.
No wandering is aimless, no meal less than a feast, no vista anything less than dazzling, unforgettable, or utterly unique. While certain aspects of one's daily routine—the packing and unpacking, the making of meals; the sobbing quietly in the bushes, etc.—could devolve into monotony, one can always be cheered by the thought that, one day soon, this would all end.
----
Years later, I'm sitting in my (comfortable) apartment above the city, gazing at the grey clouds outside, feeling a cool breeze roll in through an open window, and wondering where I'd be if I were anywhere but here. Virginia, rollicking alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway? New Hampshire, looking South across snow-capped peaks? Colorado, waking up each day to the spectacular unknown? Somewhere in California or Montana, where, um... Nah, probably not those latter two.
I hear your angry groaning from the other room, yanking me from my reverie. I could ask you what's wrong, offer you comfort, or support. But you would push me away, claiming I don't understand. But I do. It's like that time I had shin splints. Or, as Bandito and I used to joke on the trail, whatever's ailing you, there's a simple solution: stop.
"Hungry? Stop hiking. Starving to death? Stop hiking. Shin bones sticking up out of where your kneecaps used to be, blood spurting everywhere? Stop hiking. And, uh, maybe call an ambulance."
That sort of thing.
But I know you would dismiss my hard-won wisdom as hokey, or overly simplistic. The frustrations and pitfalls of the real world cannot be so simply ignored, or avoided. And there is no end in sight, no ultimate goal as clearly identifiable as a plaque on top of a faraway mountain. And so my mind, if not my spirit, drifts away from these dreary thoughts, dons my (by-now tattered) Dragon Scale parka, and floats out the window into the rain. Across the rooftops, over the trees, beyond the endless strips of car-strapped blacktop. Towards the mountains. Towards peace. Towards home.
----
Oh, and, by the way, on August 15th, 2010, Fredo, Hot Sauce and I left Buckeye in Stratton—he was waiting for Veggie, and his beloved Ohio State bandana—and hiked 15.3 miles to the Little Bigelow Lean-to, a.k.a. "The Tubs," where we got some trail magic from some overnight hikers. Thanks, overnighters.
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