A Limp in the Woods (Day 118)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 118: Saturday, July 20th, 2013
Spruce Peak Shelter to Bromley Mtn = 6 miles
Miles to date: 1,651

All Thumbs

Last night, as if on cue, lightning moved in when headlamps went out. It illuminated the sky in a sequence of violent strikes. Lightning doesn’t know it’s being violent--that’s another of man’s inane interpretations--it just does what it does: hurl hundreds of thousands of volts onto and into an unsuspecting world. Violently. Sleep didn’t stand a prayer, but prayer was aplenty. Or my version of it, anyway. There are no atheists in an electrical storm.

The storm passed--they always seem to--and I awoke dreaming of Danish pastries, Spanish omelets, French toast, Belgian waffles, English muffins, Swiss cheese, Canadian bacon, Polish sausage (not Vienna sausage), Turkish coffee, and Argentinian women with Brazilian wax jobs. Alas, none of it could come to me--or, in the case of the Argentine, atop me--for I was in the culturally-cracked monoculture known as USA, on the Appalachian Trail. Trail culture ain’t real culture, unless we’re talking bacterial cultures, like the kind found in Greek yogurt or a pair of well-worn hiking socks. Good eats are hard to come by on the AT, unless they’re brung. I’ve not brung. Yet another day, force-feeding mush, trailmix and Honey Bun lumps. I detest daybreak; it’s going to break me.

The fledglings had disappeared by the time Bearbell and I cracked our shells. The European peon said the two didn’t understand the basic equation: late nights = late mornings. One could infer Chickadee was chasing Tugboat as more than just a hiking partner. Yay for her! He’s a ducky dude, with Beckham good looks. One of the only clean-cuts out here. He’s clued-in, responsible, driven, upstanding, and without reproach. I hate when a young man ends up like that.

Yesterday’s reflection off of Stratton Pond’s glassy surface assured me I was not clean-cut. Indeed, my whiskers are coming along admirably, all the way down my leathery neck and up toward my cavernous eye sockets. I’d be able to see things even more clearly today, when we dropped into Manchester Center (pop: 4,400). A restroom mirror showed the progress: a full-fledged beard! I was getting my mountain man on. At last! No wonder Bearbell and I had difficulty inveigling a ride!

The hitch (and the hitch in securing a hitch) occurred a little more than an hour after we started walking. Chickadee and Tugboat were waiting for us at the highway, a surprisingly busy State Highway 11/30. (One gets the feeling Vermont’s secondary highways don’t see much use.) In spite of having our meal ticket Chickadee with us, and in spite of the commotion, no cars would stop. “It’z zat zang on your face,” Bearbell said to me. “My fur?” I responded. “I hope so.”

If you were to perform a legitimate study on thru-hike hitchhiking, the answers wouldn’t be all that astonishing. Disregarding more men thru-hike and hitchhike, men get picked up less often; women more often. Smoking hot women get picked up even more frequently (for they are never forced to wait) (they’re also never seen hitching). Bearded men, fewer times yet; bearded women, even less often. And so on.

Smokers see fewer opportunities, though this hinges on what they’re smoking. (Again, if she’s smoking hot, she’ll get a ride.) Smilers enhance their chance. Those with a blood-stained machete or chainsaw--especially if wearing a hockey mask--probably never get rides. He--they’re always male--would be better off walking to town, depending on the weight of said chainsaw. Those hitching with pets boost their prospects, unless the pet happens to be a wildebeest. (“Sorry Fighto, ya gotta stay home. Be kind to the pug.”)

Then there’s the whole headache of knowing who--or what--to accept a ride from, assuming anyone stops. That’s a whole ‘nuther pickle. Desperation dissolves the disquietude--hunger, weather related worries, murderous mosquitoes, so on. In this vein I’ve gladly welcomed lifts from even the most suspicious of characters.

Once, I straddled the back of a café racer while the throttle-happy kamikaze pilot nose-dove from Mount Bachelor toward Bend (Oregon). We were going 130mph. Banzai! He said his steed was having engine trouble, or he’d’ve been doing 150. (Only motorcyclists can understand why dogs stick their heads out car windows.) It was the fastest I’d ever gone on land, although we were airborne much the ride. My pack’s straps whipped my face the whole way.

Because I was squeezing his insides out, my driver yelled, “Relax, goddammit! There’s no sense in both of us being terrified.” I should’ve known to decline the ride after he’d asked if I was an organ donor. THE MOTORCYCLE DIDN’T EVEN HAVE SEATBELTS! But it was a pleasure cruise compared to the mosquitoes.

I’ve ridden in Fed-Ex trucks, on a forklift (just back on Day 108), in ambulances, in patrol cars, and on the back of a flatbed truck (as retold in this book). Then there was the time in the Chilean Andes, when I caught a lift in the back of a suspension-less farm truck with cattle, sheep and pigs. It was piloted by a viejo ciego hombre who couldn’t reach the brake pedal--not that it worked.

Another time, I was thumbing to or from a trail somewhere. I stood for hours. No one stopped. Finally, a white van rolled up. “Hop in,” the driver said. I did, gladly. As we pulled away, I thanked him for stopping. “No one would give me a ride; they must all think I’m a serial killer.” The guy laughed, “Now what are the odds of that?! Two serial killers in the same van!” I don’t remember laughing.

I’ve even seized boat and raft rides and, long ago, a ride in a crop-duster. A joyride, goggles and all. The plane was smaller than most cars; I think it was made by Mattel. Although there’ve been some breakdowns during some of the (car) journeys--mechanical wrecks and rattle-boxes are likelier to offer rides than are fancy automobiles--I got where I was going each time. Here now I forget where that was. I always forget where I’m going, but I know it isn’t here. 

This time, north. Toward the magnetic pole and its magnetic pull.

Finally, after we’d closed in on death, a car pulled over. Chickadee was the roadside attraction of course; she’s got a look that can stop traffic, and she dresses in a manner not normally befitting a long-distance hiker. Short shorts, sports bra, revealing tank top. She’s got flowing hair and is thin, tan, toned, clean, and smiles a lot. She doesn’t sweat; she glistens. This is why people notice her. She’s smoking hot, you might say. I do. For these reasons we stood behind her.

It was a woman in a rustbucket who’d stopped. She probably worried for Chickadee, being surrounded by three serial killer lookers. I shouldn’t have been wearing the hockey mask.

Frenchie and I were forced to sit roadside for another half-hour; there was only enough room in the car for two. I blame Bearbell’s bulky backpack. When he and I finally procured a ride, we were especially grateful. It was hot, humid, and time for an escape. Our driver’s Prius was festooned with all the important weekend toys: camping gear; golf clubs; Frisbees; a bike; a dog; a skateboard; a hockey mask (but no chainsaw); a case of Long Trail Ale; and a timeworn guitar.

I sat in back with the dog, a black lab named Black Labbath, who treated my beard like ancestry. Dogs treat you differently when they know you’re one of them. Like most people, I like dogs more than I like most people.

“You play?” I asked, pointing to the guitar.

“Not really,” he replied, “but that don’t stop me.”

“And the golf clubs?”

“Not really,” he replied, “but that don’t stop me.”

We were in town in eight minutes, pleased to praise our driver for the help. The place was steamier yet, given the lower elevation. And so it was we made use of all facilities: faucets, shade, seats, air-conditioned bookstores, and ice cream parlors. Although it was nearly noon and the sun shone uninterrupted, we felt like deer in front of high beams. People were teeming, children were screaming. “It must be a weekend,” Frenchie offered, gleaming. The guy loves chaos.

As we strode to the mercantile we happened upon an EMS. EMS is Eastern Mountain Sports, an outdoor gear retailer that had, at one time, spread across the US, only to succumb to the power of REI and its endless lines of opulent yuppy consumers. I was surprised EMS continued to exist at all, but here they were. And there we were. More excited to sift through new, unsoiled gear than to load up on victuals, we entered. It had a hanging weight scale, for hikers to check or compare their loads. Chickadee was weighing her pack when we barged in. She smiled at us in her shy way. Thirty pounds, devoid of food and water. Shockingly, Bearbell’s behemoth was lighter than Chickadee’s. It tipped the scales at twenty-eight pounds, also without food and water. Tanks!

I hung mine and waited for the scale’s needle to settle. On a scale of one to a hundred, it didn’t budge much. Eight pounds even. I told the others I could not survive carrying their loads. And what were they carrying?! Did they know it’s no longer 1975? The store manager said the average pack weight for NOBOs is seventeen pounds, sans expendables. “You’re less than half average,” he said with a cheeky grin, before turning to assist a real customer. Bearbell said it more succinctly. “You suck.”

Manchester Center was clean and orderly; its citizens and visitors, pretentious. I loathe plastic people! Everywhere we went, uppity uptight types stared and glared. It was as though they’d never seen backpackers. No wonder I don’t trust cities. Including EMS, the shops targeted and catered to these haughty fleshy robots, those in possession of more money than sense (or kindness), putting up with hikers as the city’s inopportune placement demands. Signs advertised that customers are welcome, but we could tell we weren’t included in that group. The place didn’t depend on ATers like other parishes. The touristy types ruled. Simple economics.

Chickadee and Chuckadee recharging in Manchester Center’s center

Despite all this, Bearbell and I laid waste to the entire afternoon. We people-watched and visited junktique shops. We refilled packs and bellies both, before deciding--what next? Bearbell chose to stay a night, whilst I, a tried-and-true cheapskate, opted to skate out of town with Tugboat and Chickadee. Before we even reached the city limits we’d catch a ride with a homeless-looking lady named Lisa. “I’m not homeless,” she offered out of the blue, as if she’d read our minds. “I live in my van.” It was a nice van. Once. Two hundred and seventy-five thousand miles later, not so much.

“Rough-housing,” Tugboat whispered my way. I replied, “Can a homeless person rough-house?”

As we sat listening to the extroverted, mustached lady, I began to daydream. I couldn’t but think how, when you’ve been slogging along the trail for days on end, you yearn for town and all that it offers (e.g., beer, burgers, beds, bathing). But then, when you’ve been a while, whether it’s a welcoming place, or whether it’s Manchester Center, you crave much of what it doesn’t offer. Peace, authenticity, breathing room.

In almost every town I’ve wanted nothing more than to be back on the trail, usually without delay. It’s always high time to hit the high country; I’m too feral for urban life. Life makes sense in the woods. It is tranquil, beautiful, authentic. Industrialized civilization, not so. Humanity’s a hassle. But we were thankful for the help of strangers and made sure our getaway driver knew so before we parted. Chickadee alluded to the fact it’s always the poorest of people who lend a hand. “Yep,” we replied.

Back on the (tranquil, beautiful, authentic) trail, right where we’d left it, we’d labor a few miles in the Hapgood State Forest before blue sky began fading to black. It was ALL uphill, and as steep as the sides of a capitalized A. At one point the AT led us straight up a ski run called the Run-Around 1. It peaked out atop the 3,260-foot Bromley Mountain. We reassembled there in a ski patrol hut. The joint was empty and open to hikers, and it put to shame all but a few trailside shelters. The views were exceptional and the sunset magical. The hut’s electricity had been cut for the season, but dozens of tealight candles had been left behind. Candlelight casts a warmer light, and the three of us felt like the richest three humanoids on Earth. For a while we felt like the only three humans on Earth. It was a nice feeling.

But then a gaggle of thirty-year-olds appeared in their Jeeps. It seemed like a Jeep ad--they were all good-looking and had driven straight up a beginner’s blue ski run. We began to worry. All for naught; one of them, a handsome hunk with a man bun, worked for the ski area and had access to the summit and its space-age-looking ski lift. Tugboat and Chickadee strolled over to say hi. They’d end up hanging out for much of the evening.

I opted out. It’s no fault of theirs, but I hate good-looking people. I also had an appointment with my write-brain and this mad itch for jotting everything in this here clumsy journal, Planet Earth Edition. I had another appointment following that, with the backside of my eyelids. When my compañeros returned, they were in good spirits (having swigged good spirits).

The two brought me a brew, which should help my latter appointment. That first appointment requires something stronger--a hallucinogenic?--if it’s to be helped. “I can’t help you lucubrate,” said the suds. “But I can help you hibernate. And I’ll help you tinkle.”(1) If the need to tinkle arises I hope to awake in time. And I hope I can come up with a better word to end this here entry than tinkle.

"Foot"note 1: Did he, a grown man, really just use the word 'tinkle'?