A Limp in the Woods...or not (Day 121)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 121: Tuesday, July 23rd, 2013
Rutland, Vermont Zero Day = 0 miles
Miles to date: 1,680

 Work to eat, eat to live, live to hike, hike to work!

It wasn’t the case last night, but normally I avoid camping near water. For one, mosquitoes tend to assemble next door to it, laying their eggs and assaulting any and all warm-blooded animals found trespassing. Cold-blooded ones (like me) too. For two, the moisture content of the air surrounding bodies of water (whether they’re moving bodies or, um, anchored) is elevated, adding to condensation concerns. For three, the noise of moving water tends to drown out all other sounds, including that large bear lurking just out of eyesight--the one sharpening his claws on nearby trees, before he pushes said trees out of his way, the same way leading your way. Finally, for four, I frequently forget where I am when I rise for my nightly pee, and in the past I’ve somnambulated straight down muddy embankments, slipping into the Liquidy Alert, flailing downstream in anything but a dream. Sorry sucka: life ain’t but a dream! Best to sleep high and dry, but high and dry aren’t AT adjectives.

     Anyway.

Last night, according to Chickadee’s computer-phone-information-access-er, the forecast called for a thirty percent chance of rain. As it always seems to unfurl, yesterday’s thirty percent chance became today’s one hundred percent reality. (Chance is always a reality(1).) As such, the two of us voted for a No-Hike Day and thus hitchhiked our way into nearby Rutland (pop: 17,300), where we checked into the Yellow Deli Hiker Hostel. Or maybe it was the Yellow Belly Hiker Hostel. There (at either place) we would both partake in a work-for-stay “program” in which a couple hours of labor enabled us each a warm dry place for the night.

Work to eat, eat to live, live to hike, hike to work!

Work in my case meant being handed a paintbrush and a bucket of what I presumed was lead-based paint, and I promptly went to work slathering up old (lead-based) pipes in a soon-to-be bunkroom, where future hikers could stay and admire my, um, efforts. That di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni fellow would cringe, no doubt. My shoulders soon grew weary of the task--only the legs are hardened to labor nowadays--and, every few minutes, I was forced to lay off the work before I was laid off. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic.

Tugboat had made it here last night and joined me, helping shoulder some of the burden. He was surprised Chickadee and I were able to catch a ride in the rain.

“Pity probably took hold,” I replied, while massaging some life back into one of my arms.

“Locals know about the trail,” intervened the proprietor, a thrummy-faced young man who thru-hiked the AT a few years prior. “And it never hurts to have a beautiful girl with you.”

After the paint inhalation, the day was ours to kill. It’d end up a lifeless day, a colossal waste--the way I like ‘em. I sat in Main Street Park and dedicated myself to watching the shadows shift from one side of the trees to the other. I gave myself a haircut with the micro scissors on my pseudo Swiss Army knife, a tedious task. Then I would catch up on my scribbling and my Scrabble-ing, playing the game with whomever cared to lose.

"Foot"note 1: And reality is always somewhat chancy.