An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 77: Sunday, June 9th, 2013
Pine Grove Furnace Park to Whiskey Spring Road = 14-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,111
It’s been a glorious couple of days: new-fangled friendships, complimentary meals courtesy of the Keefer Family and the Class of ‘83, and bearable weather, courtesy of whoever controls such matters. There’ve been no ticks, no hicks, no trail tricks, and no trail mix...ups.
Day 77: Sunday, June 9th, 2013
Pine Grove Furnace Park to Whiskey Spring Road = 14-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,111
Half Gallon Challenge / Sorry, We’re Open
“This is not who I am.”
~Backstreet, eating a half-gallon of ice cream
“An ice cream eating contest is just the first half of a crapping contest.”
~Gator
“Ice cream’s warmer on the way out.”
~Rock Steady
It’s been a glorious couple of days: new-fangled friendships, complimentary meals courtesy of the Keefer Family and the Class of ‘83, and bearable weather, courtesy of whoever controls such matters. There’ve been no ticks, no hicks, no trail tricks, and no trail mix...ups.
Today our good fortunes continued. We five awoke later than normal, which is normally late, and we loitered ‘til it was time to give the legen-dairy Half Gallon Challenge a crack. Ice cream may not be the breakfast of champions, but it does the job for champion thru-hikers and losers alike. I act as spokesperson for the latter group.
The shop at the state park is small and pricey. The ice cream in the shop is small and pricey. The store sold a no-name brand called Hersheys,* which may share the same name as the candy conglomerate, but is in fact unrelated. They sell no other brand. Flavors were few and sizes were either 1.5 quarts or a pint. Both sizes need purchasing for a true half-gallon, though the store rewards anyone who ingests the quart and a half container.
The shop at the state park is small and pricey. The ice cream in the shop is small and pricey. The store sold a no-name brand called Hersheys,* which may share the same name as the candy conglomerate, but is in fact unrelated. They sell no other brand. Flavors were few and sizes were either 1.5 quarts or a pint. Both sizes need purchasing for a true half-gallon, though the store rewards anyone who ingests the quart and a half container.
*ASTERISK: To call this Hersheys stuff ice cream is to flatter it. It is “frozen dairy dessert,” which means anything goes (in). As we’d soon discover, the gunk tasted like frozen foam. Like frozen antifreeze.
The place rakes in TEN BUCKS every time a stooge walks in and proclaims he or she is ready to give it a shot. The cashier doesn’t care if you’ve walked from Springer Mountain or Mount Katahdin or from the curb out front. Like any good business, they’ll sell to anyone. No shirt. No shoes. No worries.
The ingredient list on every flavor, even the unassuming vanilla looker, was book length. (Chapters included: corny syrup; hydrogenated motor oil; wrong-whey; the gums [carob bean, guar, tara, bubble]; natural flavors; artificial flavors/colors; polysorbate-87 [yum!]; mono- and quadglycerides; mechanically separated meat; rubber; antifreeze [for added color]; and so on. I think milk and cream were also in there, but I can’t be sure.) We knew from the get-go: this stuff was, to drop it gently, shitola. Soft serve shite.
The place rakes in TEN BUCKS every time a stooge walks in and proclaims he or she is ready to give it a shot. The cashier doesn’t care if you’ve walked from Springer Mountain or Mount Katahdin or from the curb out front. Like any good business, they’ll sell to anyone. No shirt. No shoes. No worries.
The ingredient list on every flavor, even the unassuming vanilla looker, was book length. (Chapters included: corny syrup; hydrogenated motor oil; wrong-whey; the gums [carob bean, guar, tara, bubble]; natural flavors; artificial flavors/colors; polysorbate-87 [yum!]; mono- and quadglycerides; mechanically separated meat; rubber; antifreeze [for added color]; and so on. I think milk and cream were also in there, but I can’t be sure.) We knew from the get-go: this stuff was, to drop it gently, shitola. Soft serve shite.
Which is why we bought some!
Mr. Steady was in a hurry to complete the trail; he had just four months of work vacation, after years of slaving away to accrue it. Trail blazing yielded to road building. “But moments like this aren’t always available,” we assured him. “You can only be halfway done with something once. And a half-assed effort always beats a no-assed effort.”
I thought it best to go with the rocky road, to venerate this rocky state, but instead chose Green Mighty Mint Chip, to honor the Green Tunnel. The carton was probably safer to eat than the jejune lagoon inside it.
For the next however many minutes Gator, Backstreet, Rock Steady and I sat and abused ourselves, laying waste to one vile spoonful after the other. Sporkful, in my case, though at one point I grabbed a handful of dessert, for an intended laugh. (That laugh was intended, but it wasn’t attended.) In time, the task, tasteless in more ways than one, turned tedious. Then torturous. This was comfort food’s evil sibling, discomfort food. TK and Goat wisely opted not to take part. They sat beside us Cro-Magnon men and spectated, appreciative for, and of, their good judgment.
When done--we were each triumphant, if that’s the right term--we re-entered the cramped store. Country-western sputtered from a set of mismatching speakers. Country music--the sound of cancer. (Rap--the sound of dysentery.)
I thought it best to go with the rocky road, to venerate this rocky state, but instead chose Green Mighty Mint Chip, to honor the Green Tunnel. The carton was probably safer to eat than the jejune lagoon inside it.
For the next however many minutes Gator, Backstreet, Rock Steady and I sat and abused ourselves, laying waste to one vile spoonful after the other. Sporkful, in my case, though at one point I grabbed a handful of dessert, for an intended laugh. (That laugh was intended, but it wasn’t attended.) In time, the task, tasteless in more ways than one, turned tedious. Then torturous. This was comfort food’s evil sibling, discomfort food. TK and Goat wisely opted not to take part. They sat beside us Cro-Magnon men and spectated, appreciative for, and of, their good judgment.
When done--we were each triumphant, if that’s the right term--we re-entered the cramped store. Country-western sputtered from a set of mismatching speakers. Country music--the sound of cancer. (Rap--the sound of dysentery.)
Music is as important to me as silence is, but contemporary country is one of my hate languages. “Is there a volume lower than mute?” I asked the cashier. Backstreet told me I don’t give country music enough credit. He said it worked wonders. “I was once wheelchair-bound and country music inspired me to get up out of that chair and turn the radio off.” Gator added, “I love how country music takes me to another place. Because I leave when I hear it.”
“I don't like country music, but I don’t mean to denigrate those who do.
And for the people who like country music, denigrate means ‘put down’.” ~Bob Newhart
A sampling of my hate languages…
1: Country music
2: People (or more concisely: the masses)
3: Subhumans (i.e., children)
4: Mosquitoes (all 3,500 species, and any others)
5: Winter (where Nordic skiing isn’t easily accessible)
6: Me (though not always)
7: News (especially on US television)
8: Bad ice cream
There are others.
~~~~~
The clerk gave us each an emblazoned wooden spoon honoring the despicable deed. She told us we were “only thirty-six minutes behind the record.”
“Yeah, I replied, “had I only been nine lousy seconds quicker in the hundred-meter dash, you’d be looking at the world record holder.”
We, of sound mind and body, resented the record-holder; he didn’t have to suffer as long as we had. The cashier also mentioned that there’ve been countless hikers who’ve ingested a full gallon, to prove their…well, no one knows what exactly they proved. Turns out we weren’t all that dimwitted! We felt better about ourselves. But terrible.
The AT is awash with absurd traditions and challenges like this. (As if the trail weren’t challenging enough. Then again, challenge is to AT thru-hikers as blood is to sharks.) Off the top of my oblonged head, I can think of five: the not-so-popular ritual of carrying a stone from Springer to Katahdin (or vice-versa); the Four State Challenge; the ritual of mooning the cog railway on Mount Washington (which I’m sure I’ll do, if the time comes); the annual Hike Naked Day, which by tradition falls on summer solstice, and which, by tradition, I do not take part in; and the time-honored Half-Gallon Challenge. Let’s not forget the most obvious tradition: trailnames themselves. There are other traditions and challenges I’m forgetting, but to come up with them right now is, well, too challenging.
After the gluttony on the bounty, we waddled to the AT museum, eager to ingest some trail history. Rock Steady was already pouring it on toward Boiling Springs. The rest of us were in no hurry to go anywhere, except maybe the restroom.
“Yeah, I replied, “had I only been nine lousy seconds quicker in the hundred-meter dash, you’d be looking at the world record holder.”
 |
| To the victors go the spoils |
The AT is awash with absurd traditions and challenges like this. (As if the trail weren’t challenging enough. Then again, challenge is to AT thru-hikers as blood is to sharks.) Off the top of my oblonged head, I can think of five: the not-so-popular ritual of carrying a stone from Springer to Katahdin (or vice-versa); the Four State Challenge; the ritual of mooning the cog railway on Mount Washington (which I’m sure I’ll do, if the time comes); the annual Hike Naked Day, which by tradition falls on summer solstice, and which, by tradition, I do not take part in; and the time-honored Half-Gallon Challenge. Let’s not forget the most obvious tradition: trailnames themselves. There are other traditions and challenges I’m forgetting, but to come up with them right now is, well, too challenging.
After the gluttony on the bounty, we waddled to the AT museum, eager to ingest some trail history. Rock Steady was already pouring it on toward Boiling Springs. The rest of us were in no hurry to go anywhere, except maybe the restroom.
Historically, history’s been my weak suit. But I found the AT’s times-gone-by completely engrossing. I won’t delve into it here (again), since Google and Wikipedia offer more comprehensive accounts. Plus, historians keep changing history, and anyone who knows anything about it firsthand is usually dead.
As we browsed the museum’s artifacts, I bumped into Bruce, a soft-spoken graying man with an enviable horseshoe mustache. A different Bruce than the one I met at the museum yesterday. This Bruce lived nearby and frequently swung by the museum to help out or meet the current crop of thru-hikers. It was tough prying words from him, but I’d come to find that he was a Triple Crowner.
If I haven’t mentioned it, the Triple Crown is the US’s three longest trails: right field--the AT; left field--the PCT; and center field, the CDT--the Continental Divide Trail. Bruce, trailname Ishmael, has backpacked ‘em all--the AT in ‘96, the PCT in ‘99, and the CDT in ‘02. He preferred the PCT, but “liked ‘em all,” as any good hiker would.
As we browsed the museum’s artifacts, I bumped into Bruce, a soft-spoken graying man with an enviable horseshoe mustache. A different Bruce than the one I met at the museum yesterday. This Bruce lived nearby and frequently swung by the museum to help out or meet the current crop of thru-hikers. It was tough prying words from him, but I’d come to find that he was a Triple Crowner.
If I haven’t mentioned it, the Triple Crown is the US’s three longest trails: right field--the AT; left field--the PCT; and center field, the CDT--the Continental Divide Trail. Bruce, trailname Ishmael, has backpacked ‘em all--the AT in ‘96, the PCT in ‘99, and the CDT in ‘02. He preferred the PCT, but “liked ‘em all,” as any good hiker would.
It was evident that Bruce was the peaceful warrior type, out to gain a better understanding of himself, others, and the world around him. He reminded me of Gator and didn’t seem driven to the dirt by demons, as I perpetually was. He wasn’t taking flight; he was in pursuit. Whereas my adventures are mostly an effort of escaping self-torment and conditions of the mind--silent screaming or “quiet desperation” as Thoreau called it--his are a labor of love and enlightenment and inner tranquility. He is kindhearted with a velvety voice, but prefers to listen. Two ears, one mouth.
It came as no surprise that Ishmael asked if we needed a place for the night. We did, I said. I warned him there’d be a basketball team’s worth of us, “but no coach, towel boy or cheerleaders, nor a team captain.” He didn’t vacillate. Make the fourteen miles to Whiskey Spring Road by nightfall and he, his wife Susan, and his boy Riley would put us up--and possibly put up with us. We could escape the underworld, the overstory.
It came as no surprise that Ishmael asked if we needed a place for the night. We did, I said. I warned him there’d be a basketball team’s worth of us, “but no coach, towel boy or cheerleaders, nor a team captain.” He didn’t vacillate. Make the fourteen miles to Whiskey Spring Road by nightfall and he, his wife Susan, and his boy Riley would put us up--and possibly put up with us. We could escape the underworld, the overstory.
I told the others after exiting the museum. We decided to give it a go. The forecast looked b-l-e-a-k (with stress on leak). A roof would be held in high regard if the nightmare were to come true. Dreams and nightmares teeter on the AT’s seesaw daily. It’s hard to know which weighs heavier.
The forecast (as seems typical when on the AT):
100% chance of downpours with hurricane-force gusts throughout the day. Temperatures will top out at 42-degrees un-Fair-enheit, but most the day will be colder. Fog will be pervasive, despite the wind. Lightning is guaranteed throughout the day, as are (meteor) showers, mudslides and tornadoes, each in biblical proportions. A cyclone is also due to strike the Appalachians, as is an earthquake and a tsunami. Flooding and forest fires are imminent. Stay indoors!
The rest of the day was just that: seeking Whiskey Spring Road, where perfectly-aged whiskey flows from a natural spring(1). Malt or grain, I can’t say. The walking was benign and beautiful, but for a spell through the redoubted rock maze, which was as problematic as it sounds. I joked to the others that the AT is not always a trail of tears, since it’s not often a trail. “And pain isn’t always temporary.” This time they smiled. The labyrinth was just a bunch of scrambling around, in and/or over car-sized rocks. One would guess that it was thrown in to make the stretch more memorable. Or less forgettable, anyway.
Just as well, I thought. I should be punished after the ice cream antics. The regret was severe. And deserved. When we got to the road I was appointed team captain and told to call Bruce, since I knew him best after the five-minute chitchat he and I shared. I pulled out my phone--dead weight for most this journey--and gave him a buzz. My fingers were sticky with melted ice cream. Within twenty minutes Bruce pulled up in his truck and we were civilized once more. In civilization(2), we bought the fixings for dinner--all green and recently alive and therefore wholesome and healthy, to alleviate our guilt. Bruce must host hikers regularly, for the salad bowl we used was the size of your average NASA satellite dish.
The forecast (as seems typical when on the AT):
100% chance of downpours with hurricane-force gusts throughout the day. Temperatures will top out at 42-degrees un-Fair-enheit, but most the day will be colder. Fog will be pervasive, despite the wind. Lightning is guaranteed throughout the day, as are (meteor) showers, mudslides and tornadoes, each in biblical proportions. A cyclone is also due to strike the Appalachians, as is an earthquake and a tsunami. Flooding and forest fires are imminent. Stay indoors!
The rest of the day was just that: seeking Whiskey Spring Road, where perfectly-aged whiskey flows from a natural spring(1). Malt or grain, I can’t say. The walking was benign and beautiful, but for a spell through the redoubted rock maze, which was as problematic as it sounds. I joked to the others that the AT is not always a trail of tears, since it’s not often a trail. “And pain isn’t always temporary.” This time they smiled. The labyrinth was just a bunch of scrambling around, in and/or over car-sized rocks. One would guess that it was thrown in to make the stretch more memorable. Or less forgettable, anyway.
Just as well, I thought. I should be punished after the ice cream antics. The regret was severe. And deserved. When we got to the road I was appointed team captain and told to call Bruce, since I knew him best after the five-minute chitchat he and I shared. I pulled out my phone--dead weight for most this journey--and gave him a buzz. My fingers were sticky with melted ice cream. Within twenty minutes Bruce pulled up in his truck and we were civilized once more. In civilization(2), we bought the fixings for dinner--all green and recently alive and therefore wholesome and healthy, to alleviate our guilt. Bruce must host hikers regularly, for the salad bowl we used was the size of your average NASA satellite dish.
"Foot"note 1: Not really. In fact, water wasn't even flowing out of the spring, the first dry one in 1,111 miles.
"Foot"note 2: Or what locals call Mechanicsburg.
"Foot"note 2: Or what locals call Mechanicsburg.
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