An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 90: Saturday, June 22nd, 2013
(New Joy-sey) Backpacker Site to near Rattlesnake Mountain = 17 miles
Miles to date: 1,311
I’ve written about topics aplenty on this trip, but one subject stands out. Walking.
Day 90: Saturday, June 22nd, 2013
(New Joy-sey) Backpacker Site to near Rattlesnake Mountain = 17 miles
Miles to date: 1,311
Volunteers
I’ve written about topics aplenty on this trip, but one subject stands out. Walking.
Just how much someone can write about the seemingly simple act is a matter of debate, but I once read a book called, grippingly enough, The History of Walking. It had more than three hundred and thirty small-print pages. (Not one mentioned jaywalking.) The author didn’t rely on large print like I do when endeavoring to fill space. (Writing is the act of taking up space; it rarely improves upon the emptiness preceding it, though this is contingent upon the author’s skills.) Bigger words, unnecessarily long passages and larger font all assist in the matter, as do ALL CAPS. When all else fails, insert more illustrations.
Walking is habitually taken for granted in human society, at least in prosperous countries where the automobile runs supreme. And relatively few of us walk for enjoyment; it has devolved into a means to get to the car, and not much more. Maybe to the bathroom or the fridge during halftime.
They say the average American--and most Americans do seem average--walks just over five thousand steps daily (according to this study). That’s roughly a mile, if those strides are purposeful. This is far more striding than I’d expected, and certainly more than that chub-a-lub proclaimed at the start of Chapter 11 in A Walk in the Woods. But it is not nearly enough to engender even the slightest semblance of fitness or well-being. Let’s hope for their sake these average Americans are instead doing loads of StairMaster, cycling, swimming and rowing (et al), but by the looks of things, it’s improbable.
Ours is an exceedingly large population of exceedingly large inhabitants. Exercise--even an act as wonderful as walking--ain’t high on the national or personal agenda. It falls after sleep, work, TV, video games, time spent perusing the Internet and, of course, eating. We don’t spend a lot of time eating, but we eat a lot. Too hurried to enjoy it, or perhaps too embarrassed to be seen shoving more shit down our gullets. For a country that spends more on health than any other, it’s easy to see it’s not working.
I was raised to scorn fat people. My father looked at obesity (or even a little extra weight) as a lack of self-esteem, as pure sloth, as a lack of willpower. “Fat fucks,” the old man would bark, “have no self worth. We should thus return the favor! ‘Full-figured,’ cry the women! Ha! More like full-dis-figured.”
My dad is a smoker and an irreparable alcoholic, oddly enough. A real asshole too, as you can envision. The disciplinarian may have thought he was raising his kids, but all he was really doing was lowering us. Or trying to.
For what it’s worth, I have nothing against fat people; I wouldn’t want anything of mine against them. I find fat jokes largely funny.
Of course, a traverse of the Appalachian Trail is so much more than legging it. It’s not just a walk in the woods--and certainly no walk in the park, as previously stated--but rather, what with all the highs and lows, literally and figuratively, a good metaphor for life itself. But I refuse to label it a tonic or a “trip of a lifetime,” like so many others do. (Isn’t death the trip of a lifetime?) I hope for numerous different trips in this lifetime, and the next one too.
But back to this one...
Spoiling myself, I started the day with a pepper-upper. Backstreet brought the java back for me from Wal-Mart, along with some edibles, the fresh kicks, and a pair of hideous orange argyle socks. How’d he know the look I was after? A backable bloke, that Backstreet. Kind dudes are my kind of dudes. I don’t always imbibe the caffeinated crap, or stimulants of any sort, but out here it’s nice to pretend I’m camping and not thru-hiking. The warm liquid also allows me to excavate my system before moving on, so I’m able to rove unobstructed, save for the legion of trail obstacles.
Walking is habitually taken for granted in human society, at least in prosperous countries where the automobile runs supreme. And relatively few of us walk for enjoyment; it has devolved into a means to get to the car, and not much more. Maybe to the bathroom or the fridge during halftime.
They say the average American--and most Americans do seem average--walks just over five thousand steps daily (according to this study). That’s roughly a mile, if those strides are purposeful. This is far more striding than I’d expected, and certainly more than that chub-a-lub proclaimed at the start of Chapter 11 in A Walk in the Woods. But it is not nearly enough to engender even the slightest semblance of fitness or well-being. Let’s hope for their sake these average Americans are instead doing loads of StairMaster, cycling, swimming and rowing (et al), but by the looks of things, it’s improbable.
“Now there are more overweight people in America than average-weight people.
So overweight people are now average.”
~Jay Leno (himself overweight)
Ours is an exceedingly large population of exceedingly large inhabitants. Exercise--even an act as wonderful as walking--ain’t high on the national or personal agenda. It falls after sleep, work, TV, video games, time spent perusing the Internet and, of course, eating. We don’t spend a lot of time eating, but we eat a lot. Too hurried to enjoy it, or perhaps too embarrassed to be seen shoving more shit down our gullets. For a country that spends more on health than any other, it’s easy to see it’s not working.
I was raised to scorn fat people. My father looked at obesity (or even a little extra weight) as a lack of self-esteem, as pure sloth, as a lack of willpower. “Fat fucks,” the old man would bark, “have no self worth. We should thus return the favor! ‘Full-figured,’ cry the women! Ha! More like full-dis-figured.”
My dad is a smoker and an irreparable alcoholic, oddly enough. A real asshole too, as you can envision. The disciplinarian may have thought he was raising his kids, but all he was really doing was lowering us. Or trying to.
For what it’s worth, I have nothing against fat people; I wouldn’t want anything of mine against them. I find fat jokes largely funny.
But back to this one...
 |
| New shoes, socks and shaved left leg (tick study) |
Thankfully, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine all elongate the trail again. After all, one should stretch following hard exercise. Spread those wings a skosh. Vermont is a hundred and fifty miles. New Hampshire, one hundred and sixty-one miles. And Maine is two hundred and eight-one miles, nearly thirteen percent of the AT. These three states are also alleged to be the most picturesque on path, the rainbow at the end of the tunnel. Almost everything between now and then is just stuffing in this turkey.
And then, after all is done (and much has been said), comes the grim business of re-entry.
“Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking;
You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.”
~Cindy Ross
Ross is right. The struggle is real. You’re gone a long time, and you return a different person. In my case, I’ve never fully made it back. That first thru-hike cursed me for life. The curse of Chuckie.
Such a curse knows no cure. No, not for the thru-hike junkie. Bitten by the bug forever bugs one.
Dammit dude, why are you doing this to yourself?! You know all thru-hikes end! Not all travel is circular!
An hour into the day’s penance, near a spot in the trail near a tree--near many trees--we met up with another ATC Ridgerunner, our fourth such trail employee so far. Apart from these green-collars (as I call ‘em) all others we’ve met working on the trail have been volunteers. We always thank volunteers copiously, as is our duty; without volunteers the Appalachian Trail would not exist. (This, I’ll admit, is a wonderfully attractive notion. But I think it’s worth keeping the AT around, if for no other reason than as a torture chamber for those like me attempting to perform some emotional housecleaning.)
Thanking the Good Samaritans we’ve met is never enough, but it’s all we can do. We have nothing else to offer. And would they really want any of it? Would you like some Pop Tart crumble?
Inquiring minds wanted to know, so I asked the Ridgerunner how much the Conservancy was paying him.
“None of your business,” he explained.
Anyway, we were about to chuck our banana peels into the woods, but decided to wait till the young man left. We feared he’d hand a reprimand. I’ve never figured fruit leftovers as pollution, especially in a soggy compost pile like the Appalachians. But orange peels seem unnaturally imperishable, so I always toss them far from the trail or entomb them deep within the Earth’s crust, at least an inch. But banana peels--they decay like poop.
(Humans are the only trash on Earth. Cities, automobiles, the ever-gnashing jaws of industry…what difference is it if a road--the ultimate model of destruction--is lined with plastic bags or beer cans or compostables? When traveling by asphalt--on foot or bike or by car--I always litter. Keeping road crew prisoners busy(1). Two wrongs don’t make a right, but this is my right, just as it is for the developers to do their littering, as they continue the prostitution of this nation’s very essence, and the cannibalism of its soul.)
The fruit was especially nice. We’re starting to see more trailside produce, in the form of blueberries. These delectable little nuggets slow progress every time we stumble upon them, just as it had with the ripened mulberry trees. No wonder New Jersey is reputed to host as many as three bears per square mile along the AT(2). Thems a lot of bears. Thems a lot of berries.
When we finally quit gathering and gorging, we walked a short distance to Sunfish Pond. The forty-four acre pool sits within the Worthington State Forest. It’s the southernmost glacial tarn on the trail. (Tarn is one of those words I’ve never gotten used to--not unlike gotten; each time I hear it I’m reminded of a southerner saying: “What in tarnation?”) Sunfish is the first true body of water the trail’s skirted, one not held back by cement. New Jersey was already impressing. We pondered a dip, until we dipped our toes in. Summer may be in the air, but it sure in tarnation ain’t reached the water yet.
One full eternity later, after we’d crossed the rounded, jumbled summit of Kittatinny Mountain and the Catfish Lookout Tower, my cohorts and I came to an arm-powered water pump next to an empty Blue Mountain Lakes Road. The effort it took to pump was hardly worth it, as water was in no short supply along the trail; we rarely went two hours without another safe source appearing. But the novelty of having to work for it was too much to pass up. There was little doubt our arms could use the workout.
The blast of water that came out of the pump, after what seemed like a few futile efforts (pump fakes!) knocked our water bottles over and off their cement perch. Both arms were required: one to pump and one to hold the container in place. Had we been carrying heavier pales, like they did in the olden days, we’d have been fine. We weren’t.
“None of your business,” he explained.
Anyway, we were about to chuck our banana peels into the woods, but decided to wait till the young man left. We feared he’d hand a reprimand. I’ve never figured fruit leftovers as pollution, especially in a soggy compost pile like the Appalachians. But orange peels seem unnaturally imperishable, so I always toss them far from the trail or entomb them deep within the Earth’s crust, at least an inch. But banana peels--they decay like poop.
(Humans are the only trash on Earth. Cities, automobiles, the ever-gnashing jaws of industry…what difference is it if a road--the ultimate model of destruction--is lined with plastic bags or beer cans or compostables? When traveling by asphalt--on foot or bike or by car--I always litter. Keeping road crew prisoners busy(1). Two wrongs don’t make a right, but this is my right, just as it is for the developers to do their littering, as they continue the prostitution of this nation’s very essence, and the cannibalism of its soul.)
The fruit was especially nice. We’re starting to see more trailside produce, in the form of blueberries. These delectable little nuggets slow progress every time we stumble upon them, just as it had with the ripened mulberry trees. No wonder New Jersey is reputed to host as many as three bears per square mile along the AT(2). Thems a lot of bears. Thems a lot of berries.
When we finally quit gathering and gorging, we walked a short distance to Sunfish Pond. The forty-four acre pool sits within the Worthington State Forest. It’s the southernmost glacial tarn on the trail. (Tarn is one of those words I’ve never gotten used to--not unlike gotten; each time I hear it I’m reminded of a southerner saying: “What in tarnation?”) Sunfish is the first true body of water the trail’s skirted, one not held back by cement. New Jersey was already impressing. We pondered a dip, until we dipped our toes in. Summer may be in the air, but it sure in tarnation ain’t reached the water yet.
One full eternity later, after we’d crossed the rounded, jumbled summit of Kittatinny Mountain and the Catfish Lookout Tower, my cohorts and I came to an arm-powered water pump next to an empty Blue Mountain Lakes Road. The effort it took to pump was hardly worth it, as water was in no short supply along the trail; we rarely went two hours without another safe source appearing. But the novelty of having to work for it was too much to pass up. There was little doubt our arms could use the workout.
 |
| Will Pump For H2O: Backstreet gathering the goods |
My spineless collapsible bottles were especially difficult to discipline, but Backstreet had my back. He heaved, I held. Good guy, him. The effort required him to pour water over his head immediately after, so we pumped the brakes, broke the cycle, and walked on.
Late in the day, after spans of featureless lands, we found a suitable campsite for the five of us. Befitting, because we were bushed and the ground was where it was supposed to be--beneath us, not in front of us, as it habitually is on the AT. The local landscape was level and free of debris. Backstreet would snore no matter where he bedded, but I’m higher-maintenance than my associate travel agents. I require perfectly flat terrain if sleep is to be assured. (Sleep’s seldom assured, whether there’s a bunch of rocks or a bunk or even a bed beneath me.) I am a sleep-position-tactician, but I’m finding that as the long-term fatigue accrues, the right spot is easier and easier to locate. Fatigue can be a great sleeping pill.
"Filth"note 1: I adopted a stretch of road during my sporting days, mostly for marketing purposes.
"Bear"note 1: Neighboring states--New York and Pennsylvania--have about three square miles of habitat per bear. Biologists, those few scientists we should adore, reckon that such an area can meet the caloric needs of a bear, whereas in NJ the bruins are forced into feeding on hikers and their Honey Buns (though not their bear claws).
Late in the day, after spans of featureless lands, we found a suitable campsite for the five of us. Befitting, because we were bushed and the ground was where it was supposed to be--beneath us, not in front of us, as it habitually is on the AT. The local landscape was level and free of debris. Backstreet would snore no matter where he bedded, but I’m higher-maintenance than my associate travel agents. I require perfectly flat terrain if sleep is to be assured. (Sleep’s seldom assured, whether there’s a bunch of rocks or a bunk or even a bed beneath me.) I am a sleep-position-tactician, but I’m finding that as the long-term fatigue accrues, the right spot is easier and easier to locate. Fatigue can be a great sleeping pill.
"Filth"note 1: I adopted a stretch of road during my sporting days, mostly for marketing purposes.
"Bear"note 1: Neighboring states--New York and Pennsylvania--have about three square miles of habitat per bear. Biologists, those few scientists we should adore, reckon that such an area can meet the caloric needs of a bear, whereas in NJ the bruins are forced into feeding on hikers and their Honey Buns (though not their bear claws).
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