An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 29: Monday, April 22nd, 2013
Clyde Smith Shelter to US Hwy 19E = 23 miles
Miles to date: 391
“Befriend pain and you’ll never be alone.”
This droll proverb comes from AT thru-hikers--the legged forces. It was made mainstream by Born to Run, and by those submissive subhumans--the armed forces. The only original material the military ever comes up with is murder technology--those costly devices concocted to kill.
Throughout this journey I’ve been forced to befriend pain. Like a devoted dog, it won’t leave my side (or my back or my knees or my feet or my shins or my hips or any other part of me). Yep. Pain is an acquired taste. And pain is acquired everywhere on a long trail.
Day 29: Monday, April 22nd, 2013
Clyde Smith Shelter to US Hwy 19E = 23 miles
Miles to date: 391
The Gift of Pain
“Befriend pain and you’ll never be alone.”
This droll proverb comes from AT thru-hikers--the legged forces. It was made mainstream by Born to Run, and by those submissive subhumans--the armed forces. The only original material the military ever comes up with is murder technology--those costly devices concocted to kill.
Throughout this journey I’ve been forced to befriend pain. Like a devoted dog, it won’t leave my side (or my back or my knees or my feet or my shins or my hips or any other part of me). Yep. Pain is an acquired taste. And pain is acquired everywhere on a long trail.
Thus it was I feasted on Advil and sleeping pills last night, so that I might recuperate. (I did not add a laxative to the mix; one ought never ingest laxatives and sleeping pills at the same time…)
I’m pleased to write the cocktail worked! Upon waking, I thought if drugs are the answer to this test, count me in! Better living through poison! I can easily be on the All Painkiller Diet! It’ll liberate me from the liability of lugging large loads!
I’m pleased to write the cocktail worked! Upon waking, I thought if drugs are the answer to this test, count me in! Better living through poison! I can easily be on the All Painkiller Diet! It’ll liberate me from the liability of lugging large loads!
Nah, I’m no advocate of medication. I worry more about my insides than my side (or my back or my knees or my feet or my shins or my hips or any other part of me). I’d never plan to make a pattern of pill-popping. I’d like my liver to continue to deliver.
How come all my body parts so nicely fit together?
All my organs doing their jobs, no help from me!
~ The Crash Test Dummies
I’d slept in the shelter with just two others, Raven and Chainsaw. As I made tracks, the youngsters were still sawing logs, weaving dreams of places less mountainous and more majestic. Or perhaps they were dreaming of women. Few females are found in forests, so males must use the power to contrive, concoct, conjure. Or move city-side.
My guess is 86% of those out here have beards and deep voices. This includes some of the women I’ve met, but most have been men. (Some gender-benders are difficult to identify, but classification means nothing to those in Nature.) That makes the AT an officially appalling place to meet a member of the opposing team, unless you’re female. And aren’t bothered by beards.
It’s not that women don’t revel in thru-hiking--those out here clearly do and are routinely the first to share a smile--it’s just that the activity remains dominated by dudes. This, despite huge percentages of women competing in marathons, triathlons and other organized endurance events. I suspect part of it is because there’s still an underlying macho mentality revolving around long trails, a toxic masculinity of sorts. These type of “men” need to man up (or shut up), but so many guys like to think it’s a man’s world out here, and only a man’s. It only goes to undermine their masculinity when women start showing up and passing them. Their gigantic--masculine--buck-knives start to look even sillier. (In French the word blade is lame.)
Then there’s fear. Outdoor gear manufacturers package fear in their advertising, which doesn’t help matters, for men or women: “A million things could go wrong out there,” says SPOT’s website(1). These fear mongers pitch terror. Terror sells products. What they don’t tell you is that a million things could go right, and these things are a million times more likely. SPOT is just one example of many. Let’s hope they go out of business.
It’s understood a profound fear can exist for women when it comes to being in isolation. (Many men share this.) Although it is tough to find isolation along the AT, there’s definitely a feeling of vulnerability in being alone, away from the safety blanket of society.
Society isn’t really any more secure. For anyone. Going back to the “news” for a second, almost all of what we see (and absorb) is bad news. Rape; murder; women or children gone missing or found dead; deadly auto accidents; senseless crimes; white collar crimes; theft; gang activities; war; terrorism; pollution; silent species extinction; and other thrilling pandemonium. All of it COMING UP SOON! Don’t turn your dial! Wait, who still has a dial?
It’s frantic. Although none of it has ever affected me, it still affects me. So like any sane customer, I walk away from it all.
I’m unsure of others, but I feel safer in the sticks--with the bonus of not having to hear about all those wrenching revelations. Besides, Satan and his roommates would find the AT much too sinister.
I hope more and more women will be attracted to the trails, for they--the trails--offer so much. I identify with fear as well as anyone--I’velived endured most my life with crippling trepidation and anxiety and other homegrown drama and trauma--but I know unless something is done, that action is taken, it never gets any better. One of the truest forms of happiness is in overcoming our fears, in achieving that which lay deep within us(2). I forever remind myself: put your ears next to your soul and listen closely to its whisper, before it’s too late.
Anyhow, enough sobriety for a single journal entry. It’s best to stick to the story of the sticks…
Most today’s hiking directed the northbound hiker southbound. It also veered toward the tough. (Yada, yada, yada; when you dance with the devil, you don’t get to pick the tune.) But it also swerved splendidly, making up for the extended sock-ins inside the Sylvan Subway. Roan Mountain, a gargantuan 6,286-footer, was magical, as were conditions. It seems spring’s moodiness is finally passing in favor of its promise of serenity and lushness. Slow as the going was going, I made sure to take it all in on this Earth Day 2013.
Shouldn’t every day on Earth be Earth Day? This ludicrous day of recognition is nothing more than hype and propaganda. Its celebrations likely lead to more pollution and litter. Hordes of affluent humans feigning concern for their planet while they fill their gas-guzzlers, empty their organically-grown lattes, and stare into their electronic abysses! I say we rename it Earth Alarm Day!
In time I’d be caught (and caught off-guard peeing) by Moxie, a post-grad psych student from an aristocratic Beantown university. She has a few empty weeks on her plate. The twenty-nine year-old is piece-mealing the AT together in true step-by-step style, driving or flying to sections she hasn’t yet walked, as her schedule allows. That’s deep dedication to dirt.
It’s not that women don’t revel in thru-hiking--those out here clearly do and are routinely the first to share a smile--it’s just that the activity remains dominated by dudes. This, despite huge percentages of women competing in marathons, triathlons and other organized endurance events. I suspect part of it is because there’s still an underlying macho mentality revolving around long trails, a toxic masculinity of sorts. These type of “men” need to man up (or shut up), but so many guys like to think it’s a man’s world out here, and only a man’s. It only goes to undermine their masculinity when women start showing up and passing them. Their gigantic--masculine--buck-knives start to look even sillier. (In French the word blade is lame.)
Then there’s fear. Outdoor gear manufacturers package fear in their advertising, which doesn’t help matters, for men or women: “A million things could go wrong out there,” says SPOT’s website(1). These fear mongers pitch terror. Terror sells products. What they don’t tell you is that a million things could go right, and these things are a million times more likely. SPOT is just one example of many. Let’s hope they go out of business.
It’s understood a profound fear can exist for women when it comes to being in isolation. (Many men share this.) Although it is tough to find isolation along the AT, there’s definitely a feeling of vulnerability in being alone, away from the safety blanket of society.
Society isn’t really any more secure. For anyone. Going back to the “news” for a second, almost all of what we see (and absorb) is bad news. Rape; murder; women or children gone missing or found dead; deadly auto accidents; senseless crimes; white collar crimes; theft; gang activities; war; terrorism; pollution; silent species extinction; and other thrilling pandemonium. All of it COMING UP SOON! Don’t turn your dial! Wait, who still has a dial?
It’s frantic. Although none of it has ever affected me, it still affects me. So like any sane customer, I walk away from it all.
I’m unsure of others, but I feel safer in the sticks--with the bonus of not having to hear about all those wrenching revelations. Besides, Satan and his roommates would find the AT much too sinister.
I hope more and more women will be attracted to the trails, for they--the trails--offer so much. I identify with fear as well as anyone--I’ve
Anyhow, enough sobriety for a single journal entry. It’s best to stick to the story of the sticks…
Once upon a time
On a trail long and brutal
Lumbered a limping lad
Whose every stride felt futile
Most today’s hiking directed the northbound hiker southbound. It also veered toward the tough. (Yada, yada, yada; when you dance with the devil, you don’t get to pick the tune.) But it also swerved splendidly, making up for the extended sock-ins inside the Sylvan Subway. Roan Mountain, a gargantuan 6,286-footer, was magical, as were conditions. It seems spring’s moodiness is finally passing in favor of its promise of serenity and lushness. Slow as the going was going, I made sure to take it all in on this Earth Day 2013.
Shouldn’t every day on Earth be Earth Day? This ludicrous day of recognition is nothing more than hype and propaganda. Its celebrations likely lead to more pollution and litter. Hordes of affluent humans feigning concern for their planet while they fill their gas-guzzlers, empty their organically-grown lattes, and stare into their electronic abysses! I say we rename it Earth Alarm Day!
In time I’d be caught (and caught off-guard peeing) by Moxie, a post-grad psych student from an aristocratic Beantown university. She has a few empty weeks on her plate. The twenty-nine year-old is piece-mealing the AT together in true step-by-step style, driving or flying to sections she hasn’t yet walked, as her schedule allows. That’s deep dedication to dirt.
“I come alive on trail,” she said.
“You said it,” I said.
We ambled along and each shared a synopsis of our lives, before diverging. She...forging ahead. Me...forging behind. Trail interactions tend to be fleeting. As quickly as someone appears in your sphere, so too do they exit it. It is, nonetheless, nice to share moments in this manner. Soul reassuring nuggets, they are. I was able to finish peeing later, and only dribbled on myself a little.
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| Moxie and a pair of friends near Roan’s acme |
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| Better Man and Smothers enjoying lunch |
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So far I seem to be making better contact with others than I am with the trail or countryside, despite an intrinsic aversion to things human.
I chose to walk (what I could of) the AT, because I didn’t know it. I wondered if it was worth knowing. I’d been to only a few of the states it traverses, and only--gack!--in cities. I still don’t know the trail. I may never know it. But, like those I meet, it is worth getting to know. It’s not about reaching a finality; it’s about finally reaching out. After all, getting there isn’t half the fun; it’s all the fun.
"FIND"note 1: SPOT is a GPS-based transmitter/receiver. It sends your location to loved ones or, if need be, to emergency personnel, letting them know your whereabouts. In the latter sense it acts as an emergency beacon similar to those a sailor might use. As per this day and age of signing your life away to own or operate anything, a contractual agreement must first be ratified. Then comes the monthly bills.
"Foot"note 2: Happiness is homemade, says the homeless guy!
"FIND"note 1: SPOT is a GPS-based transmitter/receiver. It sends your location to loved ones or, if need be, to emergency personnel, letting them know your whereabouts. In the latter sense it acts as an emergency beacon similar to those a sailor might use. As per this day and age of signing your life away to own or operate anything, a contractual agreement must first be ratified. Then comes the monthly bills.
"Foot"note 2: Happiness is homemade, says the homeless guy!
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