A Limp in the Woods (Day 92)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 92: Monday, June 24th, 2013
Mashipacong Shelter to Wit’s End Tavern = 16-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,342

High Point State Park

Something’s wrong. With me. Those who know me know this. But this time it’s something else. Luckily, it’s nothing serious, this latest lurgy. (Other ailments are serious, but they’ll remain confidential.) It’s that I’m enjoying myself more each day. The trail’s flatter, lower layout aids symptoms, but most of what’s going on is independent of the terrain. At least the terrain outside. If you’d asked me a month ago if I was enjoying the AT--if I’d found my home on the trail--I’d have cried. But here now, I am enjoying the trail. New Jersey’s woodlands are altogether fetching. Who’d’ve thunk? Haters and hedonistic hikers take heed: the AT will grow on you.

The day began as per habit. I pulled my socks on, cautioned my feet they were entering at their own risk, then started boiling Jersey’s finest H2O, straight from the Earth’s darkened, moist innards. Then, after destroying that holy water with another powdered brewed awakening, it was poop time. Then began the walking and I was pooped. This is the way most mornings. The warm liquids flow in, the warm liquids flow out. Trail life is routine.

(Incidentally, I advise against mixing instant coffee with instant oatmeal. I thought I was being efficient, but it is horrible and I didn’t make nearly enough.)

The morning crispness would vanish like vapor. The mercury soon simmered at 90-degrees. Humidity seemed to hover at 90%. It wasn’t even 9am. It made for reprehensible conditions for all life forms, except mosquitoes. They were particularly animated in such conditions, maybe even livid. Because of sodden conditions last fall, their egg-nesting habitat increased, and they were now painting the town--and our skin--red. We had to run down the trail. Running’s never a cozy assignment with wide loads in tow.

The ticks, not to be outdone, also appeared to relish the furnace. It was necessary at times to stop to do a tick-check--here, there, under those sweaty things, and everywhere else. I relaxed when I checked out clean. Or free from ticks, anyway. We smiled when a tubby turkey crossed the path ahead; turkeys dine on the arachnids. This gobbler looked to gobble ticks aplenty. Ugly though (we think) they may be, the world could do with more turkeys and opossums and bats. 

A few hours in we neared New Jersey’s tallest point (1,803-feet) in the aptly-named High Point State Park. A shimmering lake, now a recreational facility, attracted our attention, so Backstreet, Gator, Tiny Klutz, Goat and I took the side-trip for a dip. The twenty-acre Lake Marcia may be spring-fed, but it felt pee-fed; the bathtub was as tepid as the air. It was off-putting, but offered an opportunity to escape the mosquitoes for a spell. A great oil stain encircled us and kept them at bay. Fish began floating to the surface.

Nah. We were the least noxious beachgoers. The most organic. Perfumes, deodorants, makeup, cigarette smoke, lighter fluid fumes and other man-crud polluted air and water. A little sweat and dirt and dead skin would do the lake no harm. We were sure to keep our heads above the surface, for fear a brain-eating amoeba might enter an ear canal or nostril. I once had such a brain-eating amoeba, but it starved to death.

After the semi-submersion, we waited in line at the neighboring concession stand. We stood alongside more fat kids than one should be allowed to rub against. Skin jiggled everywhere. Much of it was reddened to a crisp. Bubbly preteen girls wore their skimpy bikinis proudly. Later in life they’d no doubt learn to carry not just the extra weight, but also plenty of shame. We hoped for some food, but calling it that was to flatter it. Whatever it was it went down well, as did dessert, some ersatz ice cream. Each of our bills was tremendous. The detritus we created, equally so. 

There is no garbage pick-up at the park. Not a wastebasket in sight. Visitors are required to cart out what they bring in, but bags are on hand if forgotten. Most tourists comply, but it was easy to see not everyone had. Jetsam lined the shore. A generous motorist offered to take our paper plates and dessert containers, unprovoked. If she littered it later, if only at a landfill, it was not our problem. We thanked her and directed our worries elsewhere. Out of sight, out of mind.

Eventually the devil found work for our idle feet. My sole-mates and I left the crowds to fend for themselves. We descended from the high point and sat out an electrical storm in a wooded basin. We were surrounded by old growth--the loveliest antiques aren’t found in shops--hoping the elderly tree we sheltered under wouldn’t be struck or suddenly give out. The thunder’s quaking rumble knocked a dead branch down just yards from us, so we double-checked the scene above. The storm lasted all of ten minutes and we were on our way once again, inching closer toward day’s end.

Day’s end brought us to Wits End, a bar/man-park beside a bare Highway 284 in little ol’ Unionville, NY, just beyond the Jersey state line. Mountain Goat wanted to watch game six of the Stanley Cup Finals, while the rest of us wanted to get off our feet, and maybe off our rockers. The bartender, a thin brunette named Michelle with a thick Jersey intonation and disproportionately large breasts, swiped my attention, but I believe Goat’s guys lost. Game and series.

I wanted something sugary so I asked Michelle: “Can you make me a Zombie?”

“You’re hiking the AT,” she replied. “Aren’t you already a zombie?”