A Limp in the Woods (Day 110)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 110: Friday, July 12th, 2013
Shaker Campsite to Upper Goose Pond = 10 miles
Miles to date: 1,545

Gay All the Way

Forgive me, for it is late and I am drugged, drunk, and dizzy. And dumb. As it is with my thoughts, the Earth is spinning more rapidly, and somewhat randomly. It’s a wiggly world, said Devo, and I get it. I’ve only ever tried scribing while beneath the influence thrice before. Maybe more, if I recall incorrectly. Maybe the influence will help, maybe it won’t. As we pacifists say, bomb’s away. Alcohol is the original social media influencer.

First things first, or thereabouts. Regarding these bite-sized terrors, these bloodsucking bass-turds...

How to tell if mosquitoes are plotting to kill you:
A) If they are female, they are
B) If they pierce, they are female
C) If they swarm, they pierce
D) If they’re alive, they swarm

Male mosquitoes do not machinate. They do not pierce skin. They do not kill. They swarm, but harbor no hostilities. They feed on nectar and stalk the females, hoping for action. There are more than three and a half thousand species of mosquitoes; all follow these rules. Females hunt blood; males hunt females. They know no higher calling. Females act this way not because they wish to cause harm--man’s the only beast who cares to cause hurt--but to ensure their offspring’s survival, and that of their species. The soupy succulent plasma they funnel from us and other animals is reorganized into protection and food for the three hundred eggs they lay, half of which hatch to become females.

I love all life forms, even, to a degree, humans. (Without humans we might not be here!) But mosquitoes are descendants of the devil. They’re one of the few critters I care to kill, along with ticks, manic flies, gnats, and myself. I don’t just aspire to slaughter the infernal pests; I go out of my way to do it, putting the laughter in slaughter. Mosquitoes are one of my five hate languages.

No other creature causes such conduct. If a puma, bear or any other large furry--or finned--animal were to attack, I’d let them. Assist, not resist. That they exist aids biodiversity; you and I do not. Their struggle to survive is tough enough; if I could facilitate in any way, I will. But airborne pests, no. They must deal with the hand they’ve dealt!

The mass of mosquitoes don’t seem threatened by we who aim to kill. (It’s believed they’ve killed comparable numbers of humans as we’ve killed them.) Our forces are few; the battlefield is theirs. Bats don’t eat enough mosquitoes; it’s a misconception that bats feed mostly on mozzies, but batty biologists tell us the bloodsuckers comprise just one percent of their diet. Dragonflies and fish are the mosquito’s worst foes, but they too don’t control the battlefield. Mosquitoes fly. Few fish do. And dragonflies are outnumbered greatly; they’re also another of Spaceship Earth’s many imperiled passengers, evaporating into that monochromatic chasm known as OBLIVION, thanks in part to pesticides and automobile grills.

The best offense is full-tilt DEFCON--defense. Chemicals, clothing, timing. Headnets, permethrin, lighter colors, B vitamins, garlic, raingear, DEET, rain and wind. Although these things don’t deter or defeat these subversive skeeters, they help us survive them. We beg for better weapons--flame throwers, atomic bombs, mini drone fighters--but there is nothing practical. And so we pray for wind. And winter.

Or to be elsewhere. (Where else? Elsewhere!)



Headed there, Bearbell and I left Shaker Campsite before the others. We hoped we’d get a jump on the mosquitoes and the heat. And for a while we beat them both. Well, we didn’t, but the climate did. It was cooler, and nary a cloud obstructed the sun. Zephyrs also helped. The perfect day for a walk.

An abrupt pitch up Baldy Mountain woke us for good. We enjoyed a break at its breezy apex, trading nosh we’d each grown sick of. I offered the Frenchman some Honey Buns. He handed me some beef-like jerky. Salt and protein is all I crave now (along with sex and a reprieve from the bugs, but never mind that) and I hereby vow to alter my intake to include the two. I feel more animalistic when I gnaw at something sinewy, certainly when compared to eating frosted Honey Buns. And, as we ATers know, feeling like an animal is the whole point of being out here.

Out here the starches are much required, regardless of how disgusting they may be. To invigorate and to keep the moods in check. But my poor teeth have paid a price for the years of activity. I’m one of the few I’ve met who flosses and brushes as he hikes, but it’s not enough. I need a dental hygienist to join me. A brunette with blue eyes.

Repetition deadens the tastebuds. Bearbell and I thanked each other for the swap and carried on. He was already fitter than he was just a couple days ago; I fell into step behind him. Although flagging, I kept pace. He is amusing company and worth the extra effort. The issue was that he always seemed to disrupt momentum just when we settled into an ideal rhythm. 

“Hey, check zis out Funny-bonez,” he’d say, looking at nothing in particular. (A nondescript rock, for example.) I prefer to walk and then stop and get off my feet, to recuperate the right way, not this walk-stop-walk-stop-walk-stop technique. Rhythm is everything in long-distance hiking, and Frenchie’s and mine rarely mesh. His beat is a weird jazz swing, mine a 4/4 slow rock.

Aside from a few food fares, not many of our personal preferences harmonize. To wit: the women he finds arresting I find worth arresting. Booked on looks. The bears he fears I wish to witness (and wrestle). The weather he considers discouragingly hot, I consider crisp and revitalizing. His gear is nothing like mine. He uses deodorant! And so on. But none of it matters. We’re friends, if not long-lost brothers. The word for friends in French: copains. Co-pains!

After descending the peak we crossed paths with another southbounder, Lucifer the Musafir. The traveling devil. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie. Neck tie, not zip tie. He wore nothing else. Just electric boots and an invisible (but obvious) flying Freek Flag. Queer until proven straight. Another of this well-trod trail’s characters, along with the chap who tugged a tuba; the famed barefooted sisters (note: if you ever want to barefoot the AT you’ve got some big shoes to fill; these chicks wrote two bestsellers about their journeys); the hardcore blind guys; and too many others to mention.

(“Are you a northbounder?” someone once asked one of the blind guys. He replied, “I don’t know.”)

I have a good faith policy toward wing-nuts and the unstable. I’m all for streaking, even long-distance streaking. But this was bonkers. If he were a horse, I wouldn’t buy him. I worried for the women who’d walk his way. I thought of telling him he might benefit from a checkup, but then thought better of it. Weirdos are more likely to be violent than non-weirdos. Who can say who’s truly insane?

I’ve said it before, but it bears rebroadcast: the AT is the world’s longest freak show. A veritable who’s who of oddballs, outsiders, societal castoffs, holdouts, thinkers, nonthinkers, and rabble rousers. There are aliens among us. We’re living in a big cuckoo clock. Stand up for the stupid and crazy, said Walt. Keep it crazy, said someone else. An entire tome could be written about ‘em: ODD DENIZENS of the DIRT!

We and Mondo Weirdo parted ways. It didn’t take long. Thru-hikers know: standing is harder than hiking. I turned back and glanced as I advanced, lest he lurch. Or poop. For once, Bearbell said nothing.

Late and we hadn’t made it far, but far enough. Ten miles. We’d taken too many breaks, yet not enough. Never enough. After a half-mile side-trip we pulled into Upper Goose Pond and the wooden two-storied bungalow adorning its gorgeous shores. A faint buzz from Interstate 90 could be discerned, but otherwise we’d found near-silent solace. One-by-one, sometimes two-by-two, hikers strode in, slaying the silence. Just as well. It was a fine fold of folk--Tugboat, Fatty, Chickadee, et al--and fatigue toned us all down.

For fun, the Frenchman and I glided onto the placid pond. The pond was more lake-like than pond-like; in the east they misconstrue the two. (Nor did we see any upper geese.) We were in the USS Funnybone, an unstable vessel kept specifically for intrepid seamen and hikers. The canoe was daubed with an AT symbol and all, but was one paddle short of a pair. This left my co-pain none too happy. “Paddle faster,” I said. “So the mosquitoes can’t keep up.” 

You don’t row a canoe, this much be true

But he rowed while I rode, our two-man crew

The slippery movement atop the water felt invitingly effortless (particularly for me). We’d fritter another few hours--the day’s theme, the day’s dream. When the bugs got to be too much, we’d collapse to the side of our craft, plunging to safety on the other side of the pond’s surface. Starboard or port, ‘twas nice to abort. “If it’s needed, be sure to throw me a line,” I said to Bearbell. “I’ll be sure it iz a funny line,” the human exclamation point replied. With Bearbell, it’s always one-liners.

By nightfall, after the Upstaters arrived, a mob of eight gathered around the cabin’s dock. We’d share life and laughter and Jim Beam’s worst. Copains all, we swigged from the same bottle, sucking the liquor and the marrow from life. The whiskey stopped the mosquitoes dead in their tracks; the more pickled we got, the more it worked. I was indebted and inebriated. When the bonhomous Coolie McJetPack stumbled in with banged-up guitar, we turned the wooden dock in a sounding board, breaking into a succession of florid passages that’d last deep into the night. Some covers (e.g., The Flight of the Conchords), some originals. All organic. 

So much for toned down. Someone even drummed up some bravura and strummed--and sang--a defective but undiluted recital of my own band’s biggest near-miss: Gay All the Way…

You can’t be gay when your wife is away
You’ve got to be gay all the way
You can’t be gay for a free BJ
You’ve got to be gay all the way...

The gist of which ends with the line: “Don’t do anything half-assed; do everything full-assed.”(1)

The AT. Full ass living, indeed. Now is the time to live, wrote Everett Ruess. Never do anything unless you can do it wholeheartedly!

Music is medicine. Music is magic. I’d never thought I could enjoy The Perfect Evening without a sextet of sexy women crowding around, but I’d been proven wrong yet again. This was it, no doubt, and I hated the experience to end, even if it came to a conclusion I cannot fully recall. A bottle of rum now does its laps, as I begin to lapse.

Fade to gray.

"Foot"note 1: Sound advice / electro sexiness by Bunkum. (All songs written by drugs.) How good are our tunes? Let’s just say neighbors liked ‘em so much they threw bricks through our windows just to hear ‘em better. Odd, ‘cause if there’s one word we had to use to depict our music it is this: “loud.” We jammed with the subtlety of machine gun fire. But we’d make up for it by hitting the wrong notes, often at the wrong time. If you try hard enough you can find a song or two of ours stuck somewhere to the World Wide Webbing, though the tapes may have since self-destructed, like those in Mission Impossible. For now all you’ve got are those I throw together out here, as per ‘Elsewhere’ above. (A shout out to the other Juliard-trained mutants in Bunkum: Mike Tamony; Jeff Nixon; Matt Lambert; and the tone-deaf Eric Bjorgum. Still fingering thirty years on.)