An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 97: Saturday, June 29th, 2013
Allis Trail junction area to Mile 1386-ish = 14-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,386
Day 97: Saturday, June 29th, 2013
Allis Trail junction area to Mile 1386-ish = 14-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,386
Lemon Squeezer
There are two campfire types in which the ligneous meets the igneous: The White Man and The Indian. Smokey Bear, that fruity-looking fire suppression representative, would throw a hissy around either, but especially the former.
The White Man Fire is a needlessly large conflagration that quickly depletes all biomass in the area. It alerts anyone within a wide perimeter that a novice outdoorsman with a bite-sized penis--and likely a hatchet, gun, and truck--is camping nearby. An inferno, fueled by testosterone or the demented desire for it. A fire so big it swallows its fuel without tasting it.
The Indian Fire, sometimes called The Natives Fire--what I call friendly fire--is tiny, unpretentious, controlled and warming. It evokes contemplation and consideration, not power and destruction. It’s worth noting that the smoke from either type of fire ALWAYS BLOWS DIRECTLY TOWARD YOU, but The Indian Fire, being tidier, produces less of it.
Last night I stockpiled the necessary kindling and threw together an Indian Fire, to help drive thoughts from my migraine. And to keep the bugs at bay. Except for an endless echelon of kamikaze moths, it worked. (Like Cpl. Tillman, moths know no friendly fire.) If anything, the birch bark burned too enthusiastically; it lit up the night like a flame-thrower. I had to squint, abetting the headache. But when the firestorm chilled, so did my throbbing noggin. Hurting heads are fickle.
Forefootnote(1): “Only YOU can prevent forest fires!” Smokey cautioned us youngins, back when I built fires using only two sticks. (Okay, okay: two sticks and some crumpled Sunday newspapers, and a gallon or two of gasoline, and a box and a half of strike-anywhere matches.) Smokey’d rudely point his furry finger and bestow too much responsibility on a half-baked twelve year-old. Seems ol’ Smokey had been inhaling a little too much smoke, neglecting to recall that a high percent of fires around where I grew up, the sun-kissed Sierra, were an ACT OF GOD, generated by lightning. Smokey and God need to settle matters once and for all, leaving you and me out of it.
Speaking of me--and why wouldn’t I? I’m my favorite subject--this morning I awoke with a full tank of gusto, raring to attack the day, or let it assail me. It mattered not. At some point in the night, long after the Indian Fire had flown the coop, my migraine had migrated elsewhere.
A mug of the last cheap drug doubled as insurance against another, simultaneously holding down its duty as pipe cleaner. Doo-ty. It’s just generic instant coffee--savorless flavorlessness--but I brew it thick and spirited and piping hot. The mug itself, my titanium C-cup, is dented, blackened by soot, has baked-on sap, and is otherwise unsightly--an ugly mug that’s seen much use. But it is capacious, allowing for enough coff-syrup to ward off all except the ensuing bladder splatter. Migraines don’t stand a chance.
The aim now was to scrape back up to the others (defying Rule #9 revealed on Day 36--spend time alone). I didn’t know how much ground they’d covered yesterday, but I hoped it wasn’t much. The trail’s been an outright riot in their company. My cheeks and my abdomen ache as much as my feet, from the myriad of mirth. The abdomen ache is a good ache, not my usual belly-aching.
It was equally as important, however, to subdue any unbridled brio. To listen to the body in which I’m presently encased! I’ve neglected it. The human organism shouldn’t always operate on a schedule set by the mind, or by those around us, particularly when they’re younger and fitter; only by its own wonderful, weird workings. Sure, it can be persuaded to abide by a plan, but just the same: we must tune inward and listen in, then rectify or fine-tune those plans. Tune in, fine-tune. (I penned something of a similar ilk back on Day 50--that I require a warm-up to keep this stuff up.)
No question, I need to better focus on my body’s requirements--including limiting the Honey Buns I’m force-feeding it. Still, I was cognizant that it’d be difficult to do so--the body tends only to whisper, till it’s too late, when it screams--just as it would be difficult to laugh alone. (Only the deranged do that.) As such, I tore down my tent and tore out with intent.
I never caught.
No question, I need to better focus on my body’s requirements--including limiting the Honey Buns I’m force-feeding it. Still, I was cognizant that it’d be difficult to do so--the body tends only to whisper, till it’s too late, when it screams--just as it would be difficult to laugh alone. (Only the deranged do that.) As such, I tore down my tent and tore out with intent.
I never caught.
For most the day I loped and languished and laughed alone, eventually entering a swarming Harriman State Park--not to be confused with Hairy Man State Park. There I took a side-trip to a lake-sized Island Pond. The pond looked fishy. A sloshed fisherman of Irish descent hadn’t caught wind of me (or chose not to) when I stepped by. He kept casting and just about removed the right side of my nose with an airborne fishhook. “First thing I’d’ve caughten all day,” he sighed, gesturing with his hands. I joked to him that no self-respecting fish would be caught with my nose in its jaw.
“Fishful thinkin’ anyway,” he replied, smiling. “They ain’t got that bigga fish in here.”
Lying is fishing’s oldest tradition.
“You an angler?” he asked, filling an uncomfortable noiseless gap. I noticed a small bearbell attached to the end of his fishing rod, in the event he were to snag a bear.
“Nah, more of a straight-liner. Then again, there are no straight lines in Nature; the trail continuously zig-zags.”
“You an angler?” he asked, filling an uncomfortable noiseless gap. I noticed a small bearbell attached to the end of his fishing rod, in the event he were to snag a bear.
“Nah, more of a straight-liner. Then again, there are no straight lines in Nature; the trail continuously zig-zags.”
Cue blank stare. I chose not to tell him I’m afraid of any creature with two eyes.
I served an arrivederci and kept on, wondering why you never see a woman fishing alone. Or why I never. The only answer I could come up with was the ol’ standby me mate Sadler (a friend collector who likes people much more than I do) used to use during our sentence at Shawshank High: nobody knows. (In high school it was cool to call others by their last name.) Here now nobody knows deserved a passing grade.
If only the grades on the AT were as easy to pass.
There was a set of animal tracks up from the shore. What type of animal, well, nobody knows. But they were enormous Bigfoot type of prints, with claws extended and traces of blood embedded in the soil, where each claw had sunken. I knelt and took pictures, but they all came out grainy and blurred, a known effect when photographing what appears to be large hairy man-like primates or their traces. No matter. I know what I saw and I saw it with my own two eyes (and no one else’s, which, let’s face it, would be difficult). I walked on, leery of lurkers.
I served an arrivederci and kept on, wondering why you never see a woman fishing alone. Or why I never. The only answer I could come up with was the ol’ standby me mate Sadler (a friend collector who likes people much more than I do) used to use during our sentence at Shawshank High: nobody knows. (In high school it was cool to call others by their last name.) Here now nobody knows deserved a passing grade.
If only the grades on the AT were as easy to pass.
There was a set of animal tracks up from the shore. What type of animal, well, nobody knows. But they were enormous Bigfoot type of prints, with claws extended and traces of blood embedded in the soil, where each claw had sunken. I knelt and took pictures, but they all came out grainy and blurred, a known effect when photographing what appears to be large hairy man-like primates or their traces. No matter. I know what I saw and I saw it with my own two eyes (and no one else’s, which, let’s face it, would be difficult). I walked on, leery of lurkers.
Animal tracks are like lingerie; the imagination takes hold. I imagined my death and sped up. I love knowing there are animals out here that demote humans a notch on the food chain, but I must confess: I sleep easier knowing most large, toothy animals--grizzly bears, cougars, wolves, saber-tooth tigers--have been wiped out. I hate myself for feeling this way, but I sleep easier.
Not even a minute beyond the mysterious tracks I sashayed up to the Lemon Squeezer, a minuscule slot canyon of sorts, extending mere meters but requiring minutes to shimmy through. A single-file defile. In fact, sideways would be the only way.
Not even a minute beyond the mysterious tracks I sashayed up to the Lemon Squeezer, a minuscule slot canyon of sorts, extending mere meters but requiring minutes to shimmy through. A single-file defile. In fact, sideways would be the only way.
As I started into it I realized it was a case of scraping either the kneecaps or the backpack, or both, so I backed out and tried again, this time holding the pack above my head. It would not have proved too complicated had the granitic gap not come with a bend in it, right where the upper body joins the lower half, right where my bite-sized penis is situated.
A ten-foot-high rock barricade needed to be scaled right after the Squeezer. Yet another Appalachian Trail gimmick. There was more than enough space in the surrounding environs to reroute the trail around--as it appeared previous hikers had--but scheming trail builders clearly wanted to devise a more memorable stretch. Designers recognized that the trees would be easily forgotten and that the views were far (though not far-reaching) and few between. Best to give ‘em hikers sumpin’ ta talk about. And all but a few of us schlemiels fall for it, choosing the road more traveled, the path of greater resistance. Fools, we.
I was still alone (though not still) come late day. The sun goes down, the hike goes on. The sky was becoming a ghoulish blend of black and blue, corresponding with my feet. I’d seen many tourist types--those tireless robotic weekenders--and had run into a few other hikers. There was Coolie McJetPack and his college roommate Ben, himself a goofball like Coolie. And there was a thru-hiker chick named Pfeiffer, which may have been a trail name. (She wasn’t Michelle Pfeiffer.) But for the most part, it was a lonely, tranquil turn of the Earth.
 |
| A free-range kitty near the Lemon Squeezer |
I placed my hermitage in a niche in the vicinity of some trees--imagine that!--with nothing notable nearby. No berry patches, no geological landmarks, no hidden treasures (I assume), and no bears (I hope). Mosquitoes are my only companions. They’re doing their darndest to annoy and destroy, for they are hardwired to harass. The safeguard of my fabric fortress, this nylon asylum, holds the tormentors where they belong, bloody well away from my blood cells. Sorry suckers, this is a solitary confinement cell.
"Foot"note 1: There is no footnote today, only a note of the forefoot.
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