On October 24th, 2007, I was gainfully employed, living in New York with my girlfriend, our cat, and a random homeless film student we grabbed off the street to subsidize our rent. My future was looking bright. I had recently been promoted at work and was making and developing what I thought were the meaningful professional relationships that would carry me through to the next phase of my career, whatever that was. Meanwhile, all I had to look forward to were Friday nights at the Hop Devil Grill or Crocodile Lounge; an endless parade of mirthful excess, debauchery, and the occasional weekend in the Hamptons; rooftop parties; MTA fare increases; my landlord being a jerk; and falling asleep mostly every night to the dulcet tones of Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert, if not the unpleasant drone of hipsters drinking in the courtyard behind our building.
Twenty-four hours later, I found out that I was being laid off. That the next day, Friday the 26th, would be my last day at work. And that I would spend it training the intern who would be replacing me.
Six hours after that, I was drunk.
Instantly, the future I had once believed so certain and inevitable had evaporated. I didn't know if I could afford to pay my rent the next month, let alone make it to the end of my lease. Money had always been tight, if inconsequential; what was the point in saving money if your life was to be intolerable? But now that my income was gone, money was abruptly paramount, an all-consuming worry that would dominate my every waking moment. I quickly said goodbye to Friday nights at Hop Devil; bid a hearty farewell to those rooftop parties; and came to dread those pernicious MTA fare increases all the more, not as insignificant annoyances, but as evidence of the duplicity of our government, run as it was by a sinister corporate oligarchy, and the encroaching degradation of our civic and social values. And, all of a sudden, I was contemplating alternate career paths and lifestyles, going travelling, leaving the city, leaving my friends, completely abandoning this life I had so carefully constructed and cultivated. I was adrift, mentally, physically, and spiritually. Everything had been turned around in just a few short hours.
On May 26th, 2010, I experienced a similarly dramatic if slightly less life-altering reversal. At 10:00 that morning, I was a sweaty, smelly, dirty, hungry, uncivilized mountain man; horrifying to contemplate, even worse to behold. Four hours later, I was in Baltimore, wondering why I was waiting for their impossibly dysfunctional public transportation system to work when I could just as easily walk where I was going. Then I was buying deodorant and some industrial strength air-freshener. Four hours after that, I had showered, been reintroduced to my girlfriend's sister—"Oh my God! Look at you!" Liz had said in greeting, a deeply concerned look on her face—devoured an entire pizza to the apparent delight of some impressionable public school children, and finally found myself sitting in the upper deck at Camden Yards, watching the Oakland Athletics completely embarrass the hometown Orioles. I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, when he suddenly found himself all cleaned up and dining amongst the Bruce Ismays and Molly Browns in the first class lounge. Or, alternately, like when I lost my job, only the total opposite.
Twenty-four hours after that, I had caught up on mostly all of my favorite TV shows; showered again; done my laundry, twice; eaten almost everything I considered edible in Liz's refrigerator; discovered my achilles tendon had tightened up so much I could barely walk; and unceremoniously thrown my hiking boots out on the curb.
Twenty-four hours after that, I had enjoyed a hug-filled reunion with Megan; eaten a giant burrito at Chipotle; drank almost two liters of soda; eaten most of several small gourmet pizzas; drank a bunch of beer; and participated in a drunken sing-along of Oasis's "Wonderwall" during which Liz, her friends and I had all inexplicably screamed the lyrics in Megan's bemused and startled face.
Forty-eight hours after that, I had eaten crab dip and ground beef on chili nachos, made pizza and guacamole, drank copious amounts of beer, eaten several veggie burgers, fallen asleep in a drunken torpor, and then woke up to find Megan's arm draped over my chest and her lips brushing my neck, her face nuzzled against my cheek.
And the day after that was more of the same.
And then it was June 1st, and it was time to go back.
And I was saying goodbye to Liz and her roommate Kristie, neither of whom could have been nicer or more accommodating. And then Meg was driving me back to Harpers Ferry, where I picked up a maildrop from my sister. Which was way too big. Meg and I looked around fruitlessly for a place to get lunch. Eventually, we ended up paying the six bucks to get into the main parking lot, then found a picnic table where I heated up a package of pre-cooked Indian food my sister had sent me.
And it was over all too soon. I felt like there had been so much left unsaid, and such a gulf of experience between us that I wanted to share, that I wanted to tell her about. But couldn't. Because there wasn't enough time. Because every time I looked in her blue—or are they hazel?—eyes, all my thoughts seemed to fizzle away, and I was left with the inexplicable and uncontrollable desire just to kiss her, and never let go, and to bathe in the warmth of her affection, and to die, contented. Happy.
And then a shuttle came, taking people back down into the park. Megan and I hurriedly said our goodbyes, and then I literally had to run to catch the bus. And Megan waved, remaining rooted to the spot where I left her, until my bus turned a corner and drove out of sight.
I nearly had a nervous breakdown later that afternoon, and only made it nine miles before dark.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
In Memoriam
Except from The New York Times, 30th May, 2010:
On the 26th of May 2010, writes bereavement correspondent Redwing, a small service was held at the Ed Garvey shelter in commemoration of a dear friend – Major Chafage – who so recently passed away. The funeral was followed by a wake where instant mashed potatoes, foil-packet tuna and Knorr Pasta Sides were served. John Smith, whose name has been changed in the interests of privacy, provided the entertainment. Smith, known by his trail name "Hobbes" treated guests to a performance on the acoustic guitar, performing well-known songs such as "We’ll Meet Again," "I’ll Be Missing You" by Puff Daddy, and a rare rendition of T-Pain’s "Bartender." Major Chafage, who started hiking the 2000-mile Appalachian Trail on March the 21st, was forced to leave the trail on the 25th of May, just short of the halfway mark after Harper’s Ferry, needing to take a short trip to Baltimore. He would never catch up to his friends again and was essentially dead to them. A plaque was erected in his honour. It read:
On the 26th of May 2010, writes bereavement correspondent Redwing, a small service was held at the Ed Garvey shelter in commemoration of a dear friend – Major Chafage – who so recently passed away. The funeral was followed by a wake where instant mashed potatoes, foil-packet tuna and Knorr Pasta Sides were served. John Smith, whose name has been changed in the interests of privacy, provided the entertainment. Smith, known by his trail name "Hobbes" treated guests to a performance on the acoustic guitar, performing well-known songs such as "We’ll Meet Again," "I’ll Be Missing You" by Puff Daddy, and a rare rendition of T-Pain’s "Bartender." Major Chafage, who started hiking the 2000-mile Appalachian Trail on March the 21st, was forced to leave the trail on the 25th of May, just short of the halfway mark after Harper’s Ferry, needing to take a short trip to Baltimore. He would never catch up to his friends again and was essentially dead to them. A plaque was erected in his honour. It read:
R.I.P Major Chafage
April 8th 2010 – 25th May 2010
A good, honest, witty, smart, foul-mouthed and enduring friend who, all too soon, was torn away from us by love.
Goodbye America's rose;
May you ever grow in our hearts.
You were the grace that placed itself
Where lives were torn apart.
And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind:
Never fading with the sunset
When the rain set in.
And your footsteps will always fall here,
Along Appalachia's greenest hills;
Your candle's burned out long before
Your legend ever will.
No flowers please, but gift cards to Chipotle would be greatly appreciated.
Chapter 76: Harpers Ferry
Caveman, Bandito and I arrived at the David Lesser Memorial Shelter to find Nature already there. She was in a typically cheerful mood, and quickly told us her intentions to wake up early in the morning to get breakfast at Keys Gap, some three miles away. Sounded like a plan to me. If we didn't join her there, I at least hoped to get up early enough to see her off.
We wouldn't, and I did't. And we wouldn't see her in Harpers Ferry, either. And so, as with so many others before her, and since, I never got to say goodbye. Which is a shame. We had been hiking together off and on for eight hundred miles. She had been our guide, a clarion voice of wisdom and reason, and a good friend. Plus she had given me pizza. I would miss her.
Also strangely missing that night was Hobbes. I thought I remembered seeing seen him earlier in the day, but where was he now? Was he attempting the Four State Challenge, where you walk the forty-odd miles from the Virginia/West Virginia border through Maryland into Pennsylvania in less that 24 hours? If so, I hadn't heard about it. Although it wouldn't surprise me. Was he simply stealth camping elsewhere, in solitude, as was his wont? Or had he vanished completely, evaporating into the ether?
When I met Hobbes, he had been mercurial if not downright surly, but it hadn't taken me long to appreciate his intelligence, caustic sense of humor, and disturbing handsomeness. And now he was gone, as mysterious as ever. Again, I never got to say goodbye. But he wasn't the sentimental type.
In a brazen act redolent of the callous laziness that would come to define him, Caveman decided not to tent with the Bandito and me, and instead slept up at the shelter. Which was fine. Why would I want to spend any more time with that uncultured neanderthal? Just because this would be, as far as I knew, my last night on the trail with him? No. To be honest, I didn't even like Caveman. I looked forward to never seeing him again. That jerk.
Anyway, there were some lovely tent pads just below the shelter where Bandito and I set up for the night. In fact, the entire shelter area was gorgeous. Even the privy was kind of swanky. The only drawback was the 0.2 mile hike downhill to the water source. Which I deftly avoided, by asking Bandito to collect my water for me. One last bullying act as a surrogate big brother.
Bandito was the same as ever, with his eternally optimistic verve and innocently flamboyant enthusiasm for life. And I was still the same embittered, profanely cantankerous old soul that he had met all those weeks ago, despite his constant cajoling for me to be a better person. I tried to let him think it was working. And maybe it was. I could only that I was as positive an influence on him as he was on me. And that he wouldn't become an insufferable, sanctimonious brat without my steadying influence, without me around to curb his worst, most destructive impulses. Because that's exactly how our relationship worked.
And so Bandito and I settled into our tents, but stayed up perhaps later than we should have talking to each other across the campsite, much like we had almost two months earlier at Beech Gap. Just like it had been in the beginning.
I'd been to Harpers Ferry once before, with my family. I couldn't have been very old at the time. My memories of it are minimal, to say the least. Still, I remembered enough to know when we were getting close.
Our adrenaline, and the anticipation of actually making it into town, kept us at a terrific pace that morning. We hardly slowed when we reached the bridge across the Shenandoah. Okay, so we slowed a little, but only enough to take some celebratory pictures.
We soon started bumping into all sorts of younger kids and families and people out with tour groups. Many of whom glared at us with wrinkled noses, as though to say, "Who are all these homeless people marching through our historical site?" I gleefully ignored them, and led our parade down into the city itself. If I hadn't been so excited, I would have remembered to whistle or sing "John Brown's Body." Alas.
Oddly, we came into the city from the opposite direction as I had expected. At first I was puzzled that everything seemed backwards. I envisioned crossing the bridge and ending up immediately in the city proper, not on the bluffes behind it. But no matter. Once we had descended into the town itself, everything was more or less how I remembered it.
We hadn't been wandering around for too long before we saw some familiar green and blue backpacks propped by the entrance to a cafe. Peering down into the outdoor dining area, whom do we see eating breakfast? Redwing and Lil Dipper! Naturally.
It wouldn't be my last heartfelt reunion with long lost friends on my adventure, but it may have been the warmest and most serendipitous and exciting. None of us had any idea that we would see each other there in town. We had hoped to, but hadn't been foolish enough to outright expect it. Yet there we were.
Caveman, Bandito and I of course pestered Redwing and Lil Dipper for news on their various ailments, and needled them mercilessly for having skipped such a small section of the trail. They told us that they were all better, thanks, and then politely informed us that we could go to hell. C'est la vie.
Our good humor and spirit carried us to the Amtrak station, where I was to catch my train into Washington D.C., and there somehow catch another train into Baltimore, where I'd be meeting Liz, Megan's little sister. By now it was beyond any of them to chide me for or talk me out of abandoning them. They'd had their chance to lobby me to stay, but had let it pass, long ago. And so we were left with only a few short moments to say goodbye and bask in each other's company.
Except the train was late. Invariably. First ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour. The others were not so keen to wait around all day with me, and I understood. Bandito had a package to pick up at the post office. Redwing and Lil Dipper were meeting P-Nut somewhere after he returned from Walmart with knee braces and compression sleeves. Oh, P-Nut. I hadn't a chance to say goodbye to him either.
Bandito mentioned that his mother might have sent him cookies or brownies in his maildrop. Which was an intriguing enough idea for the rest of us to urge him to run to pick it up before my train came. If he could, maybe we could share them. One last treat as a final hurrah. And so Bandito dashed off.
And then a whistle blew in the distance. Before we could see it, we could hear and then feel the telltale rumble of the train approaching. Panicked, I called Bandito, and tried to get him to come back, but it was too late. He was too far away, and my train was pulling into the station.
At least Caveman, Redwing, and Lil Dipper were there. I was torn between the sadness of missing them and the rest of their adventure and my own excitement about getting back into civilization, if ever so briefly. And then the Amtrak conductor was a monumental jerk to me, and almost didn't let me on the train, but I'd rather not dwell on that.
I waved to my friends, got on the train, and was off. Did I wave? Or did I hug them goodbye? Were we hugging friends? If not, why not? Maybe Redwing and Lil Dipper were recently showered, while I still smelled and resembled a rank, festering corpse. So that would explain our certain lack of intimacy. And of course Caveman and I were way too manly for hugs. Or maybe if we had hugged, we never would've escaped each other's arms. I felt confused, disappointed, and melancholy. But no matter. I put it from my mind, looked out the window, and tried only to think of tomorrow, and the next day.
I had come so far in only two months. Who knows where I would be in even the next few hours?
We wouldn't, and I did't. And we wouldn't see her in Harpers Ferry, either. And so, as with so many others before her, and since, I never got to say goodbye. Which is a shame. We had been hiking together off and on for eight hundred miles. She had been our guide, a clarion voice of wisdom and reason, and a good friend. Plus she had given me pizza. I would miss her.
Also strangely missing that night was Hobbes. I thought I remembered seeing seen him earlier in the day, but where was he now? Was he attempting the Four State Challenge, where you walk the forty-odd miles from the Virginia/West Virginia border through Maryland into Pennsylvania in less that 24 hours? If so, I hadn't heard about it. Although it wouldn't surprise me. Was he simply stealth camping elsewhere, in solitude, as was his wont? Or had he vanished completely, evaporating into the ether?
When I met Hobbes, he had been mercurial if not downright surly, but it hadn't taken me long to appreciate his intelligence, caustic sense of humor, and disturbing handsomeness. And now he was gone, as mysterious as ever. Again, I never got to say goodbye. But he wasn't the sentimental type.
In a brazen act redolent of the callous laziness that would come to define him, Caveman decided not to tent with the Bandito and me, and instead slept up at the shelter. Which was fine. Why would I want to spend any more time with that uncultured neanderthal? Just because this would be, as far as I knew, my last night on the trail with him? No. To be honest, I didn't even like Caveman. I looked forward to never seeing him again. That jerk.
Anyway, there were some lovely tent pads just below the shelter where Bandito and I set up for the night. In fact, the entire shelter area was gorgeous. Even the privy was kind of swanky. The only drawback was the 0.2 mile hike downhill to the water source. Which I deftly avoided, by asking Bandito to collect my water for me. One last bullying act as a surrogate big brother.
Bandito was the same as ever, with his eternally optimistic verve and innocently flamboyant enthusiasm for life. And I was still the same embittered, profanely cantankerous old soul that he had met all those weeks ago, despite his constant cajoling for me to be a better person. I tried to let him think it was working. And maybe it was. I could only that I was as positive an influence on him as he was on me. And that he wouldn't become an insufferable, sanctimonious brat without my steadying influence, without me around to curb his worst, most destructive impulses. Because that's exactly how our relationship worked.
And so Bandito and I settled into our tents, but stayed up perhaps later than we should have talking to each other across the campsite, much like we had almost two months earlier at Beech Gap. Just like it had been in the beginning.
----
I'd been to Harpers Ferry once before, with my family. I couldn't have been very old at the time. My memories of it are minimal, to say the least. Still, I remembered enough to know when we were getting close.
Our adrenaline, and the anticipation of actually making it into town, kept us at a terrific pace that morning. We hardly slowed when we reached the bridge across the Shenandoah. Okay, so we slowed a little, but only enough to take some celebratory pictures.
We soon started bumping into all sorts of younger kids and families and people out with tour groups. Many of whom glared at us with wrinkled noses, as though to say, "Who are all these homeless people marching through our historical site?" I gleefully ignored them, and led our parade down into the city itself. If I hadn't been so excited, I would have remembered to whistle or sing "John Brown's Body." Alas.
Oddly, we came into the city from the opposite direction as I had expected. At first I was puzzled that everything seemed backwards. I envisioned crossing the bridge and ending up immediately in the city proper, not on the bluffes behind it. But no matter. Once we had descended into the town itself, everything was more or less how I remembered it.
We hadn't been wandering around for too long before we saw some familiar green and blue backpacks propped by the entrance to a cafe. Peering down into the outdoor dining area, whom do we see eating breakfast? Redwing and Lil Dipper! Naturally.
It wouldn't be my last heartfelt reunion with long lost friends on my adventure, but it may have been the warmest and most serendipitous and exciting. None of us had any idea that we would see each other there in town. We had hoped to, but hadn't been foolish enough to outright expect it. Yet there we were.
Caveman, Bandito and I of course pestered Redwing and Lil Dipper for news on their various ailments, and needled them mercilessly for having skipped such a small section of the trail. They told us that they were all better, thanks, and then politely informed us that we could go to hell. C'est la vie.
Our good humor and spirit carried us to the Amtrak station, where I was to catch my train into Washington D.C., and there somehow catch another train into Baltimore, where I'd be meeting Liz, Megan's little sister. By now it was beyond any of them to chide me for or talk me out of abandoning them. They'd had their chance to lobby me to stay, but had let it pass, long ago. And so we were left with only a few short moments to say goodbye and bask in each other's company.
Except the train was late. Invariably. First ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour. The others were not so keen to wait around all day with me, and I understood. Bandito had a package to pick up at the post office. Redwing and Lil Dipper were meeting P-Nut somewhere after he returned from Walmart with knee braces and compression sleeves. Oh, P-Nut. I hadn't a chance to say goodbye to him either.
Bandito mentioned that his mother might have sent him cookies or brownies in his maildrop. Which was an intriguing enough idea for the rest of us to urge him to run to pick it up before my train came. If he could, maybe we could share them. One last treat as a final hurrah. And so Bandito dashed off.
And then a whistle blew in the distance. Before we could see it, we could hear and then feel the telltale rumble of the train approaching. Panicked, I called Bandito, and tried to get him to come back, but it was too late. He was too far away, and my train was pulling into the station.
At least Caveman, Redwing, and Lil Dipper were there. I was torn between the sadness of missing them and the rest of their adventure and my own excitement about getting back into civilization, if ever so briefly. And then the Amtrak conductor was a monumental jerk to me, and almost didn't let me on the train, but I'd rather not dwell on that.
I waved to my friends, got on the train, and was off. Did I wave? Or did I hug them goodbye? Were we hugging friends? If not, why not? Maybe Redwing and Lil Dipper were recently showered, while I still smelled and resembled a rank, festering corpse. So that would explain our certain lack of intimacy. And of course Caveman and I were way too manly for hugs. Or maybe if we had hugged, we never would've escaped each other's arms. I felt confused, disappointed, and melancholy. But no matter. I put it from my mind, looked out the window, and tried only to think of tomorrow, and the next day.
I had come so far in only two months. Who knows where I would be in even the next few hours?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Chapter 75: 1,000 Miles and Rising
Imagine climbing into your car just outside of City Hall in New York City, driving north along Centre St. to Canal St., turning left, then taking the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, getting on Interstate 80 and heading west. Seventeen hours and a thousand miles later, you'll find yourself in front of the University of Iowa College of Dentistry in Iowa City, Iowa. At this point – and I sincerely hope that you had the common sense on this hypothetical journey to at least stop a couple times for coffee, donuts, and to use the bathroom – you'll probably be exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, and a smelly, horrific mess.1
The experience of walking a thousand miles is surprisingly similar. True, it takes approximately two months instead of slightly less than a day, but you'll end up in the same place. And you'll still be exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, and a smelly, horrific mess.2
But Caveman, Bandito and I had quite a ways to go – exactly 16.2 miles – before we would figure all of that out. And we still had to contend with the "roller coaster," a sprawling, soggy section of pointless ups and downs that stretched from the Rod Hollow Shelter practically all the way to the West Virginia border. A rather antagonistic warning sign announced our arrival by boastfully declaring, "Beware! You are about to enter the Roller Coaster! Which last saw trail maintenance in 1967! Basically, you're gonna die. So turn back now. No, really."
And yes, it was that complicated a sign, obviously written in very small print. And we all found it hilarious. Nature cautioned us not to take it too lightly, however, and we would have done well to heed her wisdom.
Unnervingly, a large portion of the "roller coaster" had recently been burnt out in a forest fire. Where my handbook advertised "ant mounds along A.T.," we found only the ashen hulks of trees dotting a dusty, gray, almost lunar landscape devoid of vegetation or life. But then we were out of it, and descending another five hundred feet or so down the side of a perilous ravine.
And then we were climbing another six hundred feet, and finally reaching the side trail to the Bears Den Hostel. A magnificent stone building with bunks for twenty-six, a refrigerator with ice cream and soda for sale, and an overflowing hiker's box—basically a garbage bin that hiker's can raid for supplies or leave their unwanted supplies behind in for others to take—the Bears Den was a welcome respite from the morning's drudgery. I bought three sodas for myself, and then two more for Caveman and Bandito. Because I am a nice guy. I also pilfered a plastic trowel from the hiker box. All the better for digging catholes with.
Nature and Hobbes joined us outside, and we all sat around relaxing, eating lunch. I tried not to think about Redwing, Lil Dipper, or P-Nut, and how much more fun we'd all be having if they were there. I especially tried not to think about the fact that I likely wouldn't see any of them again after tomorrow. Of course, that meant I could think of little else. The pain was too great. I tried to stay in the present, to enjoy these last few moments with my remaining trail family, such as it was. Bandito, Nature, Hobbes, and Caveman. And me. Drinking sodas in the sun.
I wished we could have stayed there forever. But we were only seven miles away from the thousand mile marker. We had to move on. And, despite a particularly nasty flare-up of monkey butt3, we made pretty good time, bolstered by Caveman's seemingly bottomless supply of Excedrin and several rousing choruses of The Proclaimer's "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)."
And then we were there! One thousand miles!
Of course, we had no idea we were there, because there weren't any signs, and we were miles from the nearest landmark, but that didn't matter. Oh, and by we I mean me, because I had run ahead of Caveman and Bandito on a blistering caffeine high. But that doesn't matter, either. Anyway, I waited for them roughly around where I thought the thousand mile point was, and we had a raucous celebration.
"Caveman! Bandito!"
"M.C.!"
"One thousand miles!"
"I know!"
"I can't believe it!"
And we whooped for joy and high-fived each other. And then it sank in. And we realized we had five more miles to go.
"The Proclaimers better be giving a surprise concert in Harpers Ferry tomorrow," said Caveman bitterly as we continued on.
I agreed, but kept it to myself.
Only 1,179 miles to go.
1. And, no offense to Iowa, severely depressed. Iowa City is a far cry from the bustling happeningness of the Financial District and Chinatown, after all.4
2. And depressed, too.
3. Chafage.
4. Okay, so that's not strictly true, or fair. There are a number of Chinese, Indian, Thai, and even Vietnamese restaurants in and around Iowa City. And those are the only attractions of the Financial District and Chinatown, right?
The experience of walking a thousand miles is surprisingly similar. True, it takes approximately two months instead of slightly less than a day, but you'll end up in the same place. And you'll still be exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, and a smelly, horrific mess.2
But Caveman, Bandito and I had quite a ways to go – exactly 16.2 miles – before we would figure all of that out. And we still had to contend with the "roller coaster," a sprawling, soggy section of pointless ups and downs that stretched from the Rod Hollow Shelter practically all the way to the West Virginia border. A rather antagonistic warning sign announced our arrival by boastfully declaring, "Beware! You are about to enter the Roller Coaster! Which last saw trail maintenance in 1967! Basically, you're gonna die. So turn back now. No, really."
And yes, it was that complicated a sign, obviously written in very small print. And we all found it hilarious. Nature cautioned us not to take it too lightly, however, and we would have done well to heed her wisdom.
Unnervingly, a large portion of the "roller coaster" had recently been burnt out in a forest fire. Where my handbook advertised "ant mounds along A.T.," we found only the ashen hulks of trees dotting a dusty, gray, almost lunar landscape devoid of vegetation or life. But then we were out of it, and descending another five hundred feet or so down the side of a perilous ravine.
And then we were climbing another six hundred feet, and finally reaching the side trail to the Bears Den Hostel. A magnificent stone building with bunks for twenty-six, a refrigerator with ice cream and soda for sale, and an overflowing hiker's box—basically a garbage bin that hiker's can raid for supplies or leave their unwanted supplies behind in for others to take—the Bears Den was a welcome respite from the morning's drudgery. I bought three sodas for myself, and then two more for Caveman and Bandito. Because I am a nice guy. I also pilfered a plastic trowel from the hiker box. All the better for digging catholes with.
Nature and Hobbes joined us outside, and we all sat around relaxing, eating lunch. I tried not to think about Redwing, Lil Dipper, or P-Nut, and how much more fun we'd all be having if they were there. I especially tried not to think about the fact that I likely wouldn't see any of them again after tomorrow. Of course, that meant I could think of little else. The pain was too great. I tried to stay in the present, to enjoy these last few moments with my remaining trail family, such as it was. Bandito, Nature, Hobbes, and Caveman. And me. Drinking sodas in the sun.
I wished we could have stayed there forever. But we were only seven miles away from the thousand mile marker. We had to move on. And, despite a particularly nasty flare-up of monkey butt3, we made pretty good time, bolstered by Caveman's seemingly bottomless supply of Excedrin and several rousing choruses of The Proclaimer's "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)."
And then we were there! One thousand miles!
Of course, we had no idea we were there, because there weren't any signs, and we were miles from the nearest landmark, but that didn't matter. Oh, and by we I mean me, because I had run ahead of Caveman and Bandito on a blistering caffeine high. But that doesn't matter, either. Anyway, I waited for them roughly around where I thought the thousand mile point was, and we had a raucous celebration.
"Caveman! Bandito!"
"M.C.!"
"One thousand miles!"
"I know!"
"I can't believe it!"
And we whooped for joy and high-fived each other. And then it sank in. And we realized we had five more miles to go.
"The Proclaimers better be giving a surprise concert in Harpers Ferry tomorrow," said Caveman bitterly as we continued on.
I agreed, but kept it to myself.
Only 1,179 miles to go.
1. And, no offense to Iowa, severely depressed. Iowa City is a far cry from the bustling happeningness of the Financial District and Chinatown, after all.4
2. And depressed, too.
3. Chafage.
4. Okay, so that's not strictly true, or fair. There are a number of Chinese, Indian, Thai, and even Vietnamese restaurants in and around Iowa City. And those are the only attractions of the Financial District and Chinatown, right?
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Chapter 74: Return of the Present Tense
Gravel crunches underneath my boots as I cross some railroad tracks, heading towards the road at Manassas Gap. My ass still hurts from when I slipped off the end of a bog bridge and landed on my tailbone yesterday afternoon. I wince involuntarily when I think about it. I try not to think about it.
The area I'm walking through is steeped in Civil War history. I occasionally pass the overgrown ruins of a stone redoubt, the crumbling remains of a hastily-built wall even now only partially obscured by the encroaching vegetation. I picture the soldiers crouching behind it in terror, scrambling for cover in a hail or rifle fire. Or maybe lying in wait to ambush the unsuspecting enemy. Or maybe just biding their time during an interminable stalemate for days, weeks, or months of frustration and boredom. Who knows which side used them, or to what ends. And yet, as quickly as they were built – and as useful as they may have been – here they lie, just as soon forgotten.
But I digress. It's a beautiful day. The sun is out. The air around me is warm and thick. Dust particles dance in the sunbeams filtering down through the canopy. And I'm not even paying attention to the trail in front of me, but letting my mind wander.
And I'm floating up through the trees, above the clouds, above the mountains, and speeding off, far away.
I wonder where you are, who you're with, what you're doing. Whether you're happy. Probably not. I can only imagine your deep and intractable melancholy, and I try not to blame myself. That would be too easy and self-serving. I worry that you don't have anyone you can rely on to pick you up when you're down. And my heart aches. I wish could be there for you in so many ways, but I can't. For one thing, I might as well be on another continent. I'm lost in the woods, surrounded by a green haze and the teeming cacophony of spring. Maybe I'm selfish, too. Maybe I'm enjoying myself too much. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not around.
And then I'm ripped from my reverie as I walk past a side trail to Dick's Dome Shelter. I giggle. And remember something.
"Highcock Knob? I thought that's what they called wherever I put my tent up for the night," I said derisively. And Caveman and Lil Dipper had laughed. But not Redwing. She was too ladylike. And not Bandito, because he disapproved of all my ribald humor, or just held me to a higher standard.
"Is that the best you can do?" I can hear him saying. "A joke about your– you know, just after all that self-indulgent rambling about some unnamed woman?"
"Shut up, Bandito," I hiss. "You're always breaking into my narrative."
"Only when it's terrible," he avows. "I mean, when it's justified."
"How dare you."
"Who were you writing about, anyway?"
"Shut up."
The rest of the day passes similarly.
I'm taking a break in an open meadow when Caveman arrives. We hike the rest of the day together. My boots get soaked when we're crossing a flooded stream. There's no bridge. It's ridiculous!
I have the temerity to jokingly tell Caveman, "This is how Maine will be, only infinitely worse."
I look forward to buying new boots, and to the hell that will be Maine. But mostly new boots. I hate my boots.
We arrive at the Rod Hollow Shelter. The shelter itself is a dump, but there are some nice tent pads nearby. Wanting to avoid the obnoxious snorers who will inevitably show up, I decide to tent. Right across from a section hiker who will snore incredibly loudly. Hobbes will laugh at me for my blunder.
Hobbes never makes any mistakes. I loathe and envy Hobbes. I am weak and pathetic, a lamentable excuse for a human being.
We eat dinner. I enjoy my first quart of unfiltered water, courtesy of the shelter's pristine spring. The water source is literally a pipe popping out of the ground. There's an older guy there at the shelter – Red Ranger or something – who's thru-hiked before, and he claims the water is safe to drink. And then he treats his with iodine tablets. But if he says it's safe, why wouldn't it be safe? So I drink it straight. And do not end up catching giardia. Although that would have been funny.
Just before nightfall we hear Bandito jubilantly singing "The Star Spangled Banner." He may or may not have finally learned the words. He stumbles up to the shelter, truly ecstatic to see us. Nature's just behind him. Apparently they have done twenty-eight miles to catch up. We congratulate them on their accomplishment, then bond over our mutual complaints about the deplorable trail conditions.
And then we go to sleep.
Tomorrow, we will cross the 1,000 mile mark.
And I'm floating up through the trees, above the clouds, above the mountains, and speeding off, far away.
I wonder where you are, who you're with, what you're doing. Whether you're happy. Probably not. I can only imagine your deep and intractable melancholy, and I try not to blame myself. That would be too easy and self-serving. I worry that you don't have anyone you can rely on to pick you up when you're down. And my heart aches. I wish could be there for you in so many ways, but I can't. For one thing, I might as well be on another continent. I'm lost in the woods, surrounded by a green haze and the teeming cacophony of spring. Maybe I'm selfish, too. Maybe I'm enjoying myself too much. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not around.
And then I'm ripped from my reverie as I walk past a side trail to Dick's Dome Shelter. I giggle. And remember something.
"Highcock Knob? I thought that's what they called wherever I put my tent up for the night," I said derisively. And Caveman and Lil Dipper had laughed. But not Redwing. She was too ladylike. And not Bandito, because he disapproved of all my ribald humor, or just held me to a higher standard.
"Is that the best you can do?" I can hear him saying. "A joke about your– you know, just after all that self-indulgent rambling about some unnamed woman?"
"Shut up, Bandito," I hiss. "You're always breaking into my narrative."
"Only when it's terrible," he avows. "I mean, when it's justified."
"How dare you."
"Who were you writing about, anyway?"
"Shut up."
The rest of the day passes similarly.
I'm taking a break in an open meadow when Caveman arrives. We hike the rest of the day together. My boots get soaked when we're crossing a flooded stream. There's no bridge. It's ridiculous!
I have the temerity to jokingly tell Caveman, "This is how Maine will be, only infinitely worse."
I look forward to buying new boots, and to the hell that will be Maine. But mostly new boots. I hate my boots.
We arrive at the Rod Hollow Shelter. The shelter itself is a dump, but there are some nice tent pads nearby. Wanting to avoid the obnoxious snorers who will inevitably show up, I decide to tent. Right across from a section hiker who will snore incredibly loudly. Hobbes will laugh at me for my blunder.
Hobbes never makes any mistakes. I loathe and envy Hobbes. I am weak and pathetic, a lamentable excuse for a human being.
We eat dinner. I enjoy my first quart of unfiltered water, courtesy of the shelter's pristine spring. The water source is literally a pipe popping out of the ground. There's an older guy there at the shelter – Red Ranger or something – who's thru-hiked before, and he claims the water is safe to drink. And then he treats his with iodine tablets. But if he says it's safe, why wouldn't it be safe? So I drink it straight. And do not end up catching giardia. Although that would have been funny.
Just before nightfall we hear Bandito jubilantly singing "The Star Spangled Banner." He may or may not have finally learned the words. He stumbles up to the shelter, truly ecstatic to see us. Nature's just behind him. Apparently they have done twenty-eight miles to catch up. We congratulate them on their accomplishment, then bond over our mutual complaints about the deplorable trail conditions.
And then we go to sleep.
Tomorrow, we will cross the 1,000 mile mark.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Chapter 73: A Purposeful Hallucination
The 544-mile Sydney to Melbourne Ultramarathon – held annually from 1983 till 1991 – was, in its time, one of the most challenging if least heralded footraces in the world.
The inaugural event was won by Cliff Young, perhaps the unlikeliest competitor imaginable. A farmer by trade – and not exactly in his athletic peak, either, at the tender age of 61 – Cliff's strategy was breathtakingly simple if equally unorthodox. Instead of running for sixteen hours, sleeping for six, carbo-loading, and then doing it all again like everyone else, Cliff walked. For five days and fifteen hours. Straight. Without sleeping.
The average walking speed of a human adult is three miles per hour. Cliff Young managed a little over four. He lagged behind the leaders for nine tenths of the race, then passed them all during the final night before finishing a staggering ten full hours ahead of his nearest opponent. Has there ever been a more appropriate or literal personification of the tortoise versus the hare story in human history? Rhetorical question. This was, most assuredly, a triumph of stamina over speed.
Professional athletes – and, indeed, people in all walks of life – have long used such "purposeful hallucinations" to motivate them through tasks great and small. How many times has the phrase "nobody believed in us" been uttered in defiance in the winning team's locker room after a close, hard-fought victory? And how many times has it been true? Most athletes relish the opportunity to use any sign of disrespect – real or imagined – as fuel for their competitive fires. However, these "purposeful hallucinations" are not relevant only in the world of sports.
For instance, take the character of Fox Mulder from the TV show The X-Files. Mulder believes that aliens abducted his little sister – and that there is a sinister government conspiracy to deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate his investigation into the matter – and steadfastly refuses to believe all evidence to the contrary, even when it is presented to him by his level-headed partner, Dana Scully. Because to give up on this dream – to give up on the notion that aliens exist and that the truth is out there – would be to give up hope of ever seeing his sister again. And it is that foolish hope upon which has driven his every action in life. His every choice has been predicated upon it. To admit that aliens weren't real, and that there was no conspiracy, would be to admit that his life's work – his life – was a sham. Empty and meaningless.
The inaugural event was won by Cliff Young, perhaps the unlikeliest competitor imaginable. A farmer by trade – and not exactly in his athletic peak, either, at the tender age of 61 – Cliff's strategy was breathtakingly simple if equally unorthodox. Instead of running for sixteen hours, sleeping for six, carbo-loading, and then doing it all again like everyone else, Cliff walked. For five days and fifteen hours. Straight. Without sleeping.
The average walking speed of a human adult is three miles per hour. Cliff Young managed a little over four. He lagged behind the leaders for nine tenths of the race, then passed them all during the final night before finishing a staggering ten full hours ahead of his nearest opponent. Has there ever been a more appropriate or literal personification of the tortoise versus the hare story in human history? Rhetorical question. This was, most assuredly, a triumph of stamina over speed.
Or maybe it was psychology. Cliff would admit later to having been motivated by lucid hallucinations that a storm was coming, and that he had to round up his sheep before it hit. He wasn't driven by the promise of prize money or athletic glory; there was no finish line to him, just his farm, imperiled.
Professional athletes – and, indeed, people in all walks of life – have long used such "purposeful hallucinations" to motivate them through tasks great and small. How many times has the phrase "nobody believed in us" been uttered in defiance in the winning team's locker room after a close, hard-fought victory? And how many times has it been true? Most athletes relish the opportunity to use any sign of disrespect – real or imagined – as fuel for their competitive fires. However, these "purposeful hallucinations" are not relevant only in the world of sports.
For instance, take the character of Fox Mulder from the TV show The X-Files. Mulder believes that aliens abducted his little sister – and that there is a sinister government conspiracy to deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate his investigation into the matter – and steadfastly refuses to believe all evidence to the contrary, even when it is presented to him by his level-headed partner, Dana Scully. Because to give up on this dream – to give up on the notion that aliens exist and that the truth is out there – would be to give up hope of ever seeing his sister again. And it is that foolish hope upon which has driven his every action in life. His every choice has been predicated upon it. To admit that aliens weren't real, and that there was no conspiracy, would be to admit that his life's work – his life – was a sham. Empty and meaningless.
Another, more tangible and perhaps timely example of a "purposeful hallucination" could be my ambition to adapt this journal into a book, get it published, and thereby become a famous best-selling author. With a lucrative side career as a motivation speaker and underwear model. I need to believe all that is possible, or else I might lose hope and never finish.
One last concrete example without delving into the controversial or the absurd: when I rode my bike on the Farmington Canal Path in high school, I used to imagine I'd pass the girl I liked along the way, or that she'd be waiting for me at the end. Somehow, I fooled myself into believing – truly believing – that not only would she find my bike-riding talents sexy, but that, well, she'd find my bike-riding talents sexy. And also that she lived or worked nearby, and so might easily see me or hear me, and would be sorely tempted to run out to me every time I passed.
One last concrete example without delving into the controversial or the absurd: when I rode my bike on the Farmington Canal Path in high school, I used to imagine I'd pass the girl I liked along the way, or that she'd be waiting for me at the end. Somehow, I fooled myself into believing – truly believing – that not only would she find my bike-riding talents sexy, but that, well, she'd find my bike-riding talents sexy. And also that she lived or worked nearby, and so might easily see me or hear me, and would be sorely tempted to run out to me every time I passed.
Of course, I would later find out that she lived nowhere near the trail, but in a completely different part of town. And that she wouldn't have ran out to me even if she had. No matter how many sickeningly saccharine poems I e-mailed her, or flirtatious notes I typed out to her on our graphing calculators in math class. Plus she already had a boyfriend. In college. Who presumably could drive a car, which is a much sexier skill than knowing how to ride a bike. But I digress. My point here isn't that teenagers, or teenage boys – and me, in particular – are stupid, pitiable little animals, or that vaguely stalker-ish behavior is wrong and doesn't work. No, my point here is that this blatant fantasy kept me going.
I never would have gone so far or pushed myself as hard if not for that idea, that fleeting daydream that she'd be there, waiting for me at the end.
On the trail, we would invent silly goals for ourselves like this all the time. I often found myself thinking, I have to get to X before Y in order for Z to happen, or I need to finish by A or else B and C won't be able to drive up to meet me. Sometimes it might have been, If we make it to such and such a place, and so and so is there, we'll get trail magic! And for the most part, like for Cliff Young, this practice worked, even if our fantasies were so rarely rewarded.
But on this day, they were. After saying goodbye to Shenandoah National Park – and Nature and Bandito, who took a side trail to a hostel – Caveman, Hobbes and myself rolled into the Jim and Molly Denton Shelter to find a family already camped there, out for the weekend. And they had s'mores, which they insisted on sharing with us as we all huddled around the fire in the damp and cold of the night.
On the trail, we would invent silly goals for ourselves like this all the time. I often found myself thinking, I have to get to X before Y in order for Z to happen, or I need to finish by A or else B and C won't be able to drive up to meet me. Sometimes it might have been, If we make it to such and such a place, and so and so is there, we'll get trail magic! And for the most part, like for Cliff Young, this practice worked, even if our fantasies were so rarely rewarded.
But on this day, they were. After saying goodbye to Shenandoah National Park – and Nature and Bandito, who took a side trail to a hostel – Caveman, Hobbes and myself rolled into the Jim and Molly Denton Shelter to find a family already camped there, out for the weekend. And they had s'mores, which they insisted on sharing with us as we all huddled around the fire in the damp and cold of the night.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Chapter 72: Magic Brownies
We said goodbye to the girls with a minimum of fuss and fanfare the next morning, and promised to see them again in Harpers Ferry.
P-Nut ditched us immediately afterwards, to hitch back to the trail on his own. He said something vaguely justifiable about it being "easier for one person to get a ride than three." He was probably right. Besides, I could hardly begrudge him his ambitions, particularly since my own would be calling me away from the trail in just a few short days.
Caveman and I wandered around Luray for a while, searching in vain for a place to eat breakfast. The trouble was, most of the restaurants in town weren't yet open. We eventually gave up, and started trying to find a ride back to the trail.
There are many strategies involved in hitchhiking, all of which have disadvantages. If you try to be funny or show a little skin, most motorists will probably think you're a crazy rapist or serial killer, and so will avoid you like the plague. On the other hand, if you don't do anything out of the ordinary to distinguish yourself, most motorists will just think you're lazy, and also a serial rapist or murderer. And – unfortunately for everybody involved – a surprisingly high number of those who do pull over to pick up hitchhikers are also rapists and murderers. It's just a bad scene.
We ended up getting a ride back to the trail from the unlikeliest person. A section hiker, as a matter of fact. Driving a classic Mercedes-Benz. An E-Class sedan from the early 70s with 280,000 miles on it. Not exactly the type of car we'd expect to pick us up. Precisely the opposite.
The day passed in a sullen haze. Maybe we were hungover from the previous day's excitement, or maybe we were just missed our friends. However, any melancholia we were feeling was quickly abated by the sudden reappearance of Bandito, Hobbes, Nature, and the entire crew of smelly, burping, farting, snoring section hikers.
We had just settled in at Gravel Spring Hut to watch the rain when Nature arrived.
"Nature!" I waved. "Hi!"
"M.C.!" she cried, "I've been looking for you!"
Although I was overjoyed to see her, I somehow failed to get out of my sleeping bag to welcome her in.
"I brought you something from Trail Days," she said. "A treat!"
I was so taken aback, I forgot to ask her how Trail Days actually had been. "What is it?"
"A brownie," she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "A special brownie."
"Oh," I said, confused. Then, getting it, "Oh!"
"I thought we'd share it before Bandito got here," she said.
"Good idea!" I nodded. "I love these things."
I do. Brownies are awesome.
"Caveman?" Nature proffered a piece to him.
"I can't," he demurred, amused. "I promised my wife I wouldn't do that without her."
Poor Caveman. Whipped. Nature and I shrugged, then scarfed down the brownie.
Hobbes arrived too late to partake, but was very jealous.
"It was delicious," I told him. "I'm telling you this not to engender envy and resentment, but so you can live vicariously through me."
"Yeah, right," he scoffed, as though he found the mere suggestion offensive.
Caveman had hiked out some cans of Budweiser from town. Come to think of it, so had I. In fact, we may have had a can or two for lunch. We had more then. It was completely necessary.
The shelter was filling up with the obnoxious, farting, burping groaning section hikers with whom we'd been stuck for the past three days. Then Bandito arrived, and slid in next to me. I was extremely intoxicated by this time.
"Are you okay?" he asked me.
"Why? Am I looking at you funny? I'm sorry!" I blurted. "I mean, I'm a little drunk. Caveman had beer and he gave me some and it's all his fault."
"You're acting funny."
"I am not."
I looked over at Nature and giggled. She giggled. Poor Nature, the only woman in the shelter. The obnoxious section hikers – who were all men in case you couldn't tell – were being particularly hard on her. Not that they were bullying her, or teasing her, or even trying to talk to her much. Although they may have been. I just don't think she had the patience for them in the same way Redwing and Lil Dipper apparently had. We were very glad to be, well, whatever it was that we were.
I looked over at Caveman and Hobbes across the shelter and laughed. It was like we were privy to a joke that nobody else understood. They just shook their heads and rolled their eyes.
Bandito filled me in on all that I had missed. How he'd spent the whole day in Waynesboro reading Harry Potter. How something else and this and that. I wanted to listen to him, honest, but I found myself increasingly absorbed by the dancing yellow and blue lights in a rain puddle just outside the shelter.
People were coming and going in the night, their headlamps flashing. The wind and the rain dimpled the puddle's surface, making the reflected lights dance and twinkle, as though to a seductive melody only I could hear. I felt a tingling sensation through my arms and fingertips, down my back, to my toes. I suddenly had the urge to urinate, but found it nearly impossible to stand up straight. So I fell over.
"You're really acting weird," said Bandito, worried.
I smiled at him. "I'm fine."
He was my long lost, incredibly innocent little brother. I had to protect him from the harsh realities of the world, and myself, at least until he was mature enough to handle the— at least until he was older. But who knows how long that would take? Years, probably! And I didn't have that much time, or the patience. It wasn't worth fretting over.
And then I was peeing, and it was glorious.
"I don't believe you," said Hobbes, when I returned and explained to him what was going on. "You're really feeling all that?"
"Uh, yeah," I said, with a self-satisfied smirk.
"I hate you," said Hobbes.
"I'll write about it," I said. "Maybe then you'll believe me?"
"No. That's a stupid idea. Don't do that!"
But I did. In the shelter log. Not that I have any memory of it:
"High?"
"Drunk, Bandito! He meant drunk! I'm drunk! I had too much Budweiser! Never drink, Bandito. Alcohol is a poison that should never be consumed by anyone."
"Hey, I don't plan on it. Not until I turn one hundred."
"... Okay, Bandito."
"M.C.?" Nature grinned up at me. "This was the perfect night to do this."
I knew what she meant.
I never slept better.
Oh, and the secret to special brownies? The recipe, duh! Here it is:
P-Nut ditched us immediately afterwards, to hitch back to the trail on his own. He said something vaguely justifiable about it being "easier for one person to get a ride than three." He was probably right. Besides, I could hardly begrudge him his ambitions, particularly since my own would be calling me away from the trail in just a few short days.
Caveman and I wandered around Luray for a while, searching in vain for a place to eat breakfast. The trouble was, most of the restaurants in town weren't yet open. We eventually gave up, and started trying to find a ride back to the trail.
There are many strategies involved in hitchhiking, all of which have disadvantages. If you try to be funny or show a little skin, most motorists will probably think you're a crazy rapist or serial killer, and so will avoid you like the plague. On the other hand, if you don't do anything out of the ordinary to distinguish yourself, most motorists will just think you're lazy, and also a serial rapist or murderer. And – unfortunately for everybody involved – a surprisingly high number of those who do pull over to pick up hitchhikers are also rapists and murderers. It's just a bad scene.
We ended up getting a ride back to the trail from the unlikeliest person. A section hiker, as a matter of fact. Driving a classic Mercedes-Benz. An E-Class sedan from the early 70s with 280,000 miles on it. Not exactly the type of car we'd expect to pick us up. Precisely the opposite.
The day passed in a sullen haze. Maybe we were hungover from the previous day's excitement, or maybe we were just missed our friends. However, any melancholia we were feeling was quickly abated by the sudden reappearance of Bandito, Hobbes, Nature, and the entire crew of smelly, burping, farting, snoring section hikers.
We had just settled in at Gravel Spring Hut to watch the rain when Nature arrived.
"Nature!" I waved. "Hi!"
"M.C.!" she cried, "I've been looking for you!"
Although I was overjoyed to see her, I somehow failed to get out of my sleeping bag to welcome her in.
"I brought you something from Trail Days," she said. "A treat!"
I was so taken aback, I forgot to ask her how Trail Days actually had been. "What is it?"
"A brownie," she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "A special brownie."
"Oh," I said, confused. Then, getting it, "Oh!"
"I thought we'd share it before Bandito got here," she said.
"Good idea!" I nodded. "I love these things."
I do. Brownies are awesome.
"Caveman?" Nature proffered a piece to him.
"I can't," he demurred, amused. "I promised my wife I wouldn't do that without her."
Poor Caveman. Whipped. Nature and I shrugged, then scarfed down the brownie.
Hobbes arrived too late to partake, but was very jealous.
"It was delicious," I told him. "I'm telling you this not to engender envy and resentment, but so you can live vicariously through me."
"Yeah, right," he scoffed, as though he found the mere suggestion offensive.
Caveman had hiked out some cans of Budweiser from town. Come to think of it, so had I. In fact, we may have had a can or two for lunch. We had more then. It was completely necessary.
The shelter was filling up with the obnoxious, farting, burping groaning section hikers with whom we'd been stuck for the past three days. Then Bandito arrived, and slid in next to me. I was extremely intoxicated by this time.
"Are you okay?" he asked me.
"Why? Am I looking at you funny? I'm sorry!" I blurted. "I mean, I'm a little drunk. Caveman had beer and he gave me some and it's all his fault."
"You're acting funny."
"I am not."
I looked over at Nature and giggled. She giggled. Poor Nature, the only woman in the shelter. The obnoxious section hikers – who were all men in case you couldn't tell – were being particularly hard on her. Not that they were bullying her, or teasing her, or even trying to talk to her much. Although they may have been. I just don't think she had the patience for them in the same way Redwing and Lil Dipper apparently had. We were very glad to be, well, whatever it was that we were.
I looked over at Caveman and Hobbes across the shelter and laughed. It was like we were privy to a joke that nobody else understood. They just shook their heads and rolled their eyes.
Bandito filled me in on all that I had missed. How he'd spent the whole day in Waynesboro reading Harry Potter. How something else and this and that. I wanted to listen to him, honest, but I found myself increasingly absorbed by the dancing yellow and blue lights in a rain puddle just outside the shelter.
People were coming and going in the night, their headlamps flashing. The wind and the rain dimpled the puddle's surface, making the reflected lights dance and twinkle, as though to a seductive melody only I could hear. I felt a tingling sensation through my arms and fingertips, down my back, to my toes. I suddenly had the urge to urinate, but found it nearly impossible to stand up straight. So I fell over.
"You're really acting weird," said Bandito, worried.
I smiled at him. "I'm fine."
He was my long lost, incredibly innocent little brother. I had to protect him from the harsh realities of the world, and myself, at least until he was mature enough to handle the— at least until he was older. But who knows how long that would take? Years, probably! And I didn't have that much time, or the patience. It wasn't worth fretting over.
And then I was peeing, and it was glorious.
"I don't believe you," said Hobbes, when I returned and explained to him what was going on. "You're really feeling all that?"
"Uh, yeah," I said, with a self-satisfied smirk.
"I hate you," said Hobbes.
"I'll write about it," I said. "Maybe then you'll believe me?"
"No. That's a stupid idea. Don't do that!"
But I did. In the shelter log. Not that I have any memory of it:
I sit here in my sleeping bag, surrounded by bothersome beasts grunting and farting and furrowing their way unwanted into my consciousness. I ignore them, but stay completely absorbed by the dancing blue and orange lights in the rain puddle before me. And then probably something alliterative, poetic, and deep, describing what I already said above. The point of all this being: don't do drugs."Yeah, that makes you sound like you're really high," said Hobbes, reading what I wrote.
-Major Chafage
PS. Thanks for the brownie, Nature!
"High?"
"Drunk, Bandito! He meant drunk! I'm drunk! I had too much Budweiser! Never drink, Bandito. Alcohol is a poison that should never be consumed by anyone."
"Hey, I don't plan on it. Not until I turn one hundred."
"... Okay, Bandito."
"M.C.?" Nature grinned up at me. "This was the perfect night to do this."
I knew what she meant.
I never slept better.
Oh, and the secret to special brownies? The recipe, duh! Here it is:
Major Chafage's Special Brownies
3/4 cup butter
1/3 cup cocoa powder
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups sugar
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips
Fleur de sel, for sprinkling.
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease a 9-by-13-inch baking pan.
2. Put the butter in a pan. Put the pan on the stove. Light the burner you have the pan on. Melt that butter. Mix in the unsweetened chocolate. Stir that concoction until it's all melted and mixed together.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together the cocoa powder and 2/3 cup water until smooth. Add the butter/unsweetened chocolate mix and whisk. Add the eggs and vanilla, and continue to whisk until combined. Add the sugar, mixing until fully incorporated. Using a spatula, fold in the flour and salt until just combined. Fold in the bittersweet chocolate chips.
4. Pour that delicious batter into the prepared pan and smooth with a spatula. Sprinkle with fleur de sel, then give yourself a smug pat on the back like the pretentious jerk that you are, because not only do you know what fleur de sel is, you own some, and you know how to use it. Which means you're either a professional chef, a self-important jerk, or you read the New York Times. Which probably means you're a self-important jerk. But try not to get too hung up about that.
5. Bake until firm, or about 15 to 30 minutes. Let that pan cool before cutting into squares. Then try not to eat them all at once.
Yield: Murder by Chocolate
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)