A Limp in the Woods (Day 109)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 109: Thursday, July 11th, 2013
Tom Leonard Shelter to Shaker Campsite = 11 miles
Miles to date: 1,535

Monsquito!

They say it’s not what you know but who you know. I don’t know who they are, so I’m sticking with what I know. It ain’t much, but it’s all I got. One thing I know is that Connecticut portion’s of the AT is already missed. Sorely missed. The trail there was so well-mannered it was like walking in a state of reverie. Atop Cloud Six, at a minimum. Massachusetts, at least to this point…not so much. Then again, if it ain’t brutal, it ain’t the AT. A path of wrath(1). You Connecticutters need to get with the program!

Our daily program started early, for we are programmed like robots. “Jacques” is as much the sleeper as I. He’s practiced and proficient, steady and sound. (Lots of sound.) Unfortunately, the incessant screech of the mosquitoes and the murmur of the cicadas roused us before the sun had begun to stage its daily comeback, or what we hoped would be its daily comeback. We’ve got problems if the sun grows lackadaisical.

In a tacit vote of dissent, we went back to sleep. We are inadequate action figures. Even for Bearbell, who’s walked a piddling five hundred miles, fatigue levels have reached a zenith. In my case they’d been loitering around that zenith for months. The bugs couldn’t compete. It was 11:20 when we deftly departed the rickety rooftop.

“We could’ve been ten milez up ze trail if we’d woken up when we first woke up,” Bearbell sighed.

“But we didn’t wake up,” I pointed out. “I’m still not sure I have.”

We’d somnambulate, logy and limp. But we were grateful we weren’t ten miles up ze trail. It was too nice a day to be on our way. Or to be halfway elsewhere. Timing is everything in hiking, and fatigue, although foiling, improves our chances of being in the right place at the right time. (Timing isn’t everything; nothing is everything.)

That exhaustion can help a hiker is counterintuitive. But we’re that much closer to Nature when we move at its pace--slowly--which exhaustion usually assures. It allows us to delve deeper into the details. It makes the trail longer, and it makes the trail experience last longer. The likelihood of missing out on things--scenery, events--increases when we feel good and move quicker. It’s bad enough that the thru-hiker’s hymn, his very essence, is to be elsewhere always, but it’s made worse when whizzing along. Sometimes, elsewhere is no better than the here now.

Heading elsewhere, into the Berkshire Mountains, we’d eventually arrive at Benedict Pond. As we stood there, an insistent invite had befallen us. Répondez s'il vous plait. ‘Twas an invite both Frenchie and I could comprehend, regardless of language; there was no barrier, verbal or otherwise. “We needz more time tu du nothing,” Bearbell said. He’s hard not to like.

The water was cool and refreshing and even a shade clean. For the next few hours we weren’t going anywhere. Sunlight was unremitting, and the mosquitoes had slacked off. We were sure to stick it to those sticking around, those who could handle the heat, for fear they’d speedily mate and form a breed of monster mosquito, the MONSQUITO! Justifiable homicide, any such blood bath. Saving warm-blooded life, one bloodsucking vampire at a time.

Cold-blooded life also thrived at our little lake shore property. A pair of garter snakes basked a foot from the lapping waves, tangling themselves in a pre-mating ritual. Maybe they weren’t garter snakes--garter belt snakes?--and maybe it wasn’t pre-mating; I’m no herpetologist. (Despite a raging case of herpes.) I’m not much of anything, but I now knew something I hadn’t before.

I’d never witnessed ophidians mating. I didn’t revel in disturbing their tender interlude in this Year of the Snake, but I was too intrigued to leave them be, beleaguered by curiosity. Too entwined to care, they were unperturbed by my noseying around. I stood back with camera in hand, watching them wriggle around from a safe distance. Snake pornography. Bearbell continued to wriggle around in the water. I wanted to call him over but thought better of it. Some things aren’t best shared.

Family portrait

After the reptilian pageant, I rinsed my threads, then donned most of them. Rain-wear was the least toxic of my bug repellents, and if I kept it wet as I walked, things weren’t too bad. Despite the ninety-degree heat. Bearbell swore he’d melt in such a get-up, but admitted he still carried too much weight on his being, with or without the pack. “Just gives me zanother five hundredz miles!”

It became late in the day earlier than usual. We’d make just a handful more miles, catching Fatty as we went. She’d passed us during our lengthy loll and was now napping on an elevated wooden walkway. We snuck up to surprise her. Or attempted to. Frenchie’s heavy-handed footsteps sent a reverberation ten yards ahead and she awoke. Smiling as ever. As it had been earlier, it was good to see her; it’d been more than a month. The three of us united and whittled away what remained of the day.

We’re currently housed at the Shaker Campsite, after a short-lived death of a descent to it. It’s Frenchie/Bearbell/Nicholas, oops, Jacques and me and a trio of entertaining young guys from upstate New York, near Rochester way, out for a few weeks. (Fatty fled.) Melodious kids, the lot. Harmonica, flute, bongos. Great voices too. If McJetPack and his travel-sized guitar would only catch back up, we’d have ourselves a bona fide band. I’m not sure if I’ve broached it before, but I play a mean kazoo. No, really.

"Foot"note 1: And in my case: A Trail of Wail. 109 days in, and I'm still processing how tough this path is.