An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 96: Friday, June 28th, 2013
Wawayanda Shelter to the Allis Trail junction area = 15 miles
Miles to date: 1,373
Day 96: Friday, June 28th, 2013
Wawayanda Shelter to the Allis Trail junction area = 15 miles
Miles to date: 1,373
The Olden Days
Random thought of the day: back in the olden days (aka “my day”), when the ground wasn’t so hard and camping didn’t call for so much electricity, you’d simply hike and react to whatever came your way. Specifically this meant the weather, but there were also a whole host of other unknowns lurking. Nowadays, with the rampant hand-held technology (see today’s BONUS ENTRY), things have become decidedly different.
Anyone possessing a “smart”phone (i.e., nearly everyone, apart from yours truly and many of those in Africa, Tibet, and Inner [and Outer] Mongolia--places I’d like to be) can check the latest forecast, or see what sort of terrain lay ahead, or where other trail users are. But that’s not what I see them doing. No, they stare into their lit-up screens and the endless echo chambers: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, Snapchat, blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah (times infinity plus three). Basically, they advertise how they’ve found the light on the AT, to anyone who listens.
Of course, as we all know by now: there is very little light to be found on the AT.
Less yet on a screen.
Yes, I realize I’ve already written about all this. Yes, I’ve heard of the silly platitude HYOH. Yes, I understand it(1). (As could anyone [else] with half a brain. Say your own saying, I say.) Yes, I realize I’m typing this daily digest on a screen. Yes, I realize it’s online, or will soon be. Yes, I am a human hypocrite. (Those of us with half a brain understand that hypocrisy is the natural state of the human mind; all things fluctuate.)
But I miss the dark ages, when camping was, as Mr. McManus wrote, a fine and pleasant misery. It put us in the present, and kept us there, right where we should be when outdoors. Smack dab in the middle of it all, doing nothing and wishing we could squeeze more of it into our lives.
Anyway, just as it was yesterday with that cranky codger Chin Music, no one wants to listen to this useless, sententious jeremiad today. Or any other day. Though it won’t change a thing--or anyone, including myself--I personally think (and one could only ever think personally) that there should be a holiday set aside each fortnight solely for the use of whining. A Complainer’s Day, brought to you by the letters F and U. Then again, such a rate of recurrence would likely not get the job done, with such fine subject matter as our government. “Ladies and Gentlemen, today I would like to don my Che beret and air some rants about our kakistocracy here in the US. I’m glad to see many of you came prepared with your cots and sleeping bags…” (Such a speech would prove quite moving, as demonstrated by the number of acolytes moving away from the immediate area.)
Okay, this time for real…
Like all but a few of the ninety-five before it, the day commenced in the usual manner. And it persisted in the usual manner. The only difference was that we were up and walking early, in hopes of getting a jump on the sun and the mosquitoes. Both were ready for our arrival. “Two can play that game!” they replied, with only one of the winged nuisances speaking on behalf of the millions present.
As a riposte, our pace was hastened. This only served to punish us more. Swiping, swatting, swearing, and now sweating. The heat loves snacking on those who expend themselves, as do the bloodsuckers. It was best to admit defeat and let cooler heads prevail. Regrettably, none could be found. The bloodbath ensued.
It was both buggy and muggy, and completely windless. The air sat still and heavy. Not a leaf moved. There was no swaying of grass and no cloud relocation. It felt as though the world had quit spinning and just sat limp, directly in the sun’s cross-hairs, in its crossfire. But maybe it mattered not. All a breeze would’ve done is thrust more predatory humidity our way, and we’d already been impaled by the stuff. We concluded that we’d rather be baked to death, instead of boiled, slow as baking might be.
Slow as we might be, we crawled on.
It was both buggy and muggy, and completely windless. The air sat still and heavy. Not a leaf moved. There was no swaying of grass and no cloud relocation. It felt as though the world had quit spinning and just sat limp, directly in the sun’s cross-hairs, in its crossfire. But maybe it mattered not. All a breeze would’ve done is thrust more predatory humidity our way, and we’d already been impaled by the stuff. We concluded that we’d rather be baked to death, instead of boiled, slow as baking might be.
Slow as we might be, we crawled on.
Completion isn’t the sole aspiration, of course. Enjoyment is the requirement. But sometimes that enduring carrot dangles too far ahead to take pleasure in the pursuit of it. No one hikes as far as we have without incurring tough times and it’s during those times you could use a little self-assurance, like that of a border, arbitrary though it may seem. Today, I’d learn the lesson once more, since I’d been blitzkrieged by another migraine, as well as a complete absence of energy. The 5-hour Energy drink I’d downed earlier lasted just four hours and forty minutes. (Should I sue?)
The headache hit as we began skirting a series of rocky ridges just prior to the border. I fell behind the others, unable and unwilling to endure it. The sun was unhampered and forced an agonizing squint, while each footstep educed a painful reverberation of the brain, with a relentlessness I’d unfortunately known all too well. Broad crevasses lined the route and I had to employ my every faculty just to keep from collapsing into one. Yet I hoped I would. Maybe end the misery. After they waited for me for the umpteenth time, I assured the others I’d be fine. “Maybe I’ll catch you at the hot dog stand up the road, or the ice cream shop just down the way from it. If not, no worries.”
I’d been referring to NY Highway 17A and the businesses just up the way from the trail, Hot Dogs Plus (which was little more than an old trailer acting as a roadside stand, like the one in the ambrosial flick The Station Agent) and the more divine Bellvale Farms Creamery, its dairy farm of which has been around since the early 1800s. I’d made to the quiet highway and then the creamery in once piece, as humans almost always do despite what they may write (“I made it there in nine and a half pieces…”), and rejoiced by dribbling cold hose water over my throbbing noggin, prompted by the others who had already been doing so. We estimated the air temperature to be close to triple digits and the water less than half that. Even without the ice cream, the creamery was no less than an absolute godsend. ‘LOCAL = GOOD’ says the side of the structure, but the creamery would have been good anywhere.
When we returned to the trail, after stopping at the lackluster hot dog stand, I again drifted behind. Drifted makes it sound like it happened slowly. I fell behind. Backwards. Marching to the beat of a different drummer, one who’d died. I hadn’t eaten anything from either joint, for fear I’d taste it in a less flavorsome form when it came back up. So I now had even less energy to go along with the migraine.
I carried on through muted woods at my own geological pace, deciding to bed down prematurely, atop a heap of decaying leaves not far from the Allis Trail junction, the neglected stepchild of trails. I lay here now, scribbling this drivel while praying a massive bolide would collide with my tent, exploding upon impact. A bantam-weight black bear is astir in the vicinity, foraging for edible treasures or perhaps a peaceful place to poo, but DEATH BY BRUIN would drag on too long.
A footnote about that asinine acronym 'HYOH'...
1) It's obvious. Who else's hike are ya gonna hike?***
2) It's redundant. 'Your own' is bad English and overkill. 'Your' is enough. HYH.
3) It's saccharine and all too catchy. Which makes the acronym worse yet.
4) It's redundant yet again. Hike your own hike. Hike your hike. Hike...hike.
5) It's too authoritarian. Do THIS, or suffer the consequences!
6) It's wielded much like the word 'God' is, by those incapable of deeper discussion.
7) I hate it, and what I say goes. Where it goes, nobody knows.
*** In this age many fail to fulfill the HYOH standard; instead, they hike their employer's hike. HYEH!
The single best thought on ‘HYOH’ was written by my fellow trail-mate Rolling Thunder (PCT '06): "By all means hike your own hike--I did. But I also made a point of not reinventing the wheel, by listening to the advice from those who had gone before, adopting the bits that worked, and discarding the bits that didn't. In that sense, I've hiked a bunch of different people's hikes."
A footnote about that asinine acronym 'HYOH'...
1) It's obvious. Who else's hike are ya gonna hike?***
2) It's redundant. 'Your own' is bad English and overkill. 'Your' is enough. HYH.
3) It's saccharine and all too catchy. Which makes the acronym worse yet.
4) It's redundant yet again. Hike your own hike. Hike your hike. Hike...hike.
5) It's too authoritarian. Do THIS, or suffer the consequences!
6) It's wielded much like the word 'God' is, by those incapable of deeper discussion.
7) I hate it, and what I say goes. Where it goes, nobody knows.
*** In this age many fail to fulfill the HYOH standard; instead, they hike their employer's hike. HYEH!
The single best thought on ‘HYOH’ was written by my fellow trail-mate Rolling Thunder (PCT '06): "By all means hike your own hike--I did. But I also made a point of not reinventing the wheel, by listening to the advice from those who had gone before, adopting the bits that worked, and discarding the bits that didn't. In that sense, I've hiked a bunch of different people's hikes."
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