An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 99: Monday, July 1st, 2013
Hemlock Springs Campsite to Graymoor Spiritual Center = 4 miles
Miles to date: 1,406
Day 99: Monday, July 1st, 2013
Hemlock Springs Campsite to Graymoor Spiritual Center = 4 miles
Miles to date: 1,406
“And then there are the times when the wolves are silent and the moon is howling.”
~George Carlin
Upon waking, my mind was motoring...
“Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping…” sang Steve Miller, that ‘70s prophet. 2013 already. July already. Day 99 already. My apprehension expands; this experience will one day end. Where then? What then? A job? Nah, I’m too young to work--a fully grown boy--and life’s far too valuable to fritter on survival, on comfort, on security. Another long trail? Hmmm, maybe. A motorcycle journey? No more being on my feet...a journey from the backside! “Suicide!” say the scaredy cats. And what of suicide? Still too early for that; there’s unfinished play to do. But what does that matter? “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over,” quipped that other vatic bard, Yogi Berra. But when is that? Can we end it? Are we supposed to?
Holy hell, I better get walking. It’s thoughts like these that can change everything. Who said thoughts are meaningless? Who said life is meaningless? And anyway, as far as meaningless experiences go, it’s a good one, no? I think so. Maybe not, I don’t know. Crap. Time to hike...
“Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping…” sang Steve Miller, that ‘70s prophet. 2013 already. July already. Day 99 already. My apprehension expands; this experience will one day end. Where then? What then? A job? Nah, I’m too young to work--a fully grown boy--and life’s far too valuable to fritter on survival, on comfort, on security. Another long trail? Hmmm, maybe. A motorcycle journey? No more being on my feet...a journey from the backside! “Suicide!” say the scaredy cats. And what of suicide? Still too early for that; there’s unfinished play to do. But what does that matter? “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over,” quipped that other vatic bard, Yogi Berra. But when is that? Can we end it? Are we supposed to?
Holy hell, I better get walking. It’s thoughts like these that can change everything. Who said thoughts are meaningless? Who said life is meaningless? And anyway, as far as meaningless experiences go, it’s a good one, no? I think so. Maybe not, I don’t know. Crap. Time to hike...
Pfeiffer and Lentil were long gone. I’d slept late, which for me isn’t late at all, but just right. Late is other people’s interpretation. I walk on a different clock.
Late for what? And anyway, what is late? What is time? What does it all mean? How can we even begin to measure it? A clock? Are you kidding me?! And to think people buy scandalously expensive watches to measure it! Bloody hell. Hike faster. I wish Mountain Goat and gang would wait up; I miss ‘em already, the jerks.
The terrain was mellow, as was the trail. I had to check around the next bend, to see if I was on the right track.
This can’t be the AT. And if it is, why couldn’t they design the whole thing like this? Oh They!...they are always someone else.
Sure enough, another white blaze. There’s no shortage of ‘em, that’s for sure. A hundred and sixty thousand, they say.
Too much white paint. Too many shelters. Too many privies. Too many signs. Too many raised wooden walkways. Too much of everything man-made, including man. Including monotony. Man: the only creature who incurs and endures monotony, the only who suffers from depression. Hard to believe I thought of the AT as an adventure before starting out! What a doofus. I’d hardly call this adventurous. It ain’t even a larkish outing. More like painting-by-numbers or gathering numbers by paint…another pointless pursuit, and a guided one at that! A homogenized hike, an “adventure” just like everyone else’s. Welcome to the AT, aka Zombieland, home of the walking dead. Screw it, it’s good depression medication, I suppose. Man I’m bored! I need gratification and anesthetization from the homogenization of this world…
By 11am a weighty rain reigned, momentarily and mercifully removing me from the storm inside. Although odious weather always gnaws at what little resolve I have--I resolve to have resolve--I prefer the physical tempests over those woeful metaphysical ones. Our worst days are best at showing us our resolve. I’ve resolved that an umbrella would make the AT immeasurably less horrible.
I decided to get a move on and wait things out at the Graymoor Spiritual Center shelter, a mile away, in hopes of an enhanced hiking experience, or so I joked to my right brain. As I drew closer, a large turtle sat motionless on the road leading into the center. A spiritual center for humans, certain death for turtles.
I did the right thing and turned her upside down, setting her atop her built-in umbrella. This way she might wave her little legs rapidly enough to flag down a motorist, or maybe fast enough to right herself. This would help her learn to pass on more preferable genes to downstream generations of terrapins. Or maybe a Mack truck would flatten her and her handicapped genes could not--would not--go on. An evolutionary helping hand.
Relax! I jest.
With characteristic critter-compassion, I carried her to safety, placing her as far as possible from asphalt and its promise of death or serious injury; in the animal world, serious injury is death. I imagine the enlightened souls attending the center would’ve done a similar deed, but one can’t be sure. It’s dubious they’d’ve seen her through their Volvos’ watery windshields, or that they would’ve even wanted to stop, for fear they might get wet or miss their guru’s gathering.
Approaching asylum, I considered convergence--what the turtle’s destiny may have been, had the two of us failed to converge in time and space. It didn’t seem a busy road, maybe one car every few minutes. But if you’ve ever seen turtles sprint, well, you’d know it takes them more than a few minutes to cross a one-lane road; they are contemplative creatures and theirs is a losing battle in our high-paced world. There’s no time to think!
My thoughts raced. They went from wishing to protect ALL turtles--if only I knew how--to settling on the fact that the animal “kingdom” is no kingdom at all, but a rather socialized system. I verbalized this on Day 54, that there is no king in the animal kingdom. Everyone--every one--plays an integral, vital part, even the lowly turtle, whose squished body would live on to nourish and sustain other animals, be they bacteria and worms, or birds and other opportunistic scavengers. Their bodies, in turn, in time, would go on to benefit other critters. Nothing is lost. Life doesn’t die. It’s merely a reshuffling of particles. What a wonderful, mystical cycle, this thing called Life. And death. Everyone depends on everyone else. Mutual aid.
The showers never let up, so I spent the day reading (Catcher in the Rye, still; and I still don’t get it! Is Holden just as lost as I am?) and writing (this). By nightfall more hikers piled in to the pavilion. Chickadee (chick), Tugboat (dude), Misery (dude) and Johnny Walker (not sure) all joined in. Conversations ran the gamut, though they mostly centered on the weather and ultimately our rapidly changing world, and how quickly man is altering--fouling--that world.
With characteristic critter-compassion, I carried her to safety, placing her as far as possible from asphalt and its promise of death or serious injury; in the animal world, serious injury is death. I imagine the enlightened souls attending the center would’ve done a similar deed, but one can’t be sure. It’s dubious they’d’ve seen her through their Volvos’ watery windshields, or that they would’ve even wanted to stop, for fear they might get wet or miss their guru’s gathering.
 |
| Another turtle, this one at the Graymoor pavilion |
My thoughts raced. They went from wishing to protect ALL turtles--if only I knew how--to settling on the fact that the animal “kingdom” is no kingdom at all, but a rather socialized system. I verbalized this on Day 54, that there is no king in the animal kingdom. Everyone--every one--plays an integral, vital part, even the lowly turtle, whose squished body would live on to nourish and sustain other animals, be they bacteria and worms, or birds and other opportunistic scavengers. Their bodies, in turn, in time, would go on to benefit other critters. Nothing is lost. Life doesn’t die. It’s merely a reshuffling of particles. What a wonderful, mystical cycle, this thing called Life. And death. Everyone depends on everyone else. Mutual aid.
The showers never let up, so I spent the day reading (Catcher in the Rye, still; and I still don’t get it! Is Holden just as lost as I am?) and writing (this). By nightfall more hikers piled in to the pavilion. Chickadee (chick), Tugboat (dude), Misery (dude) and Johnny Walker (not sure) all joined in. Conversations ran the gamut, though they mostly centered on the weather and ultimately our rapidly changing world, and how quickly man is altering--fouling--that world.
“Don’t have kids, kids,” said Misery. “The world’s gonna suck.”
The guy is as enthusiastically negative as I. I like him.
The bunch would hit the hay sooner than I, but we were all quick to drop the day. The mosquitoes had uncovered our hiding spot. As usual, they appeared wanting to throw some haymakers. Sometimes, the only way to live to fight another day is to stop the fight. (Fights with others are easy to end; the fight within, not so.)
~~~~~~~~~~
As I lay down and attempt to sleep in this cramped nylon bedroom--roughly the same size as a $4,000-a-month studio in NYC--I’m fighting. I’m thinking about everything and anything, wishing I could, for once, think of nothing. Or, better yet, not think. I’m in the wrong head.
Misery is one shrewd dude. He’s egged my grey matter on, into overdrive. He’s able to turn things off, spiraling straight to slumber, but I’m now forced to dam (and damn) the flood of consciousness that continues rolling onward, ever onward…
(Author's Note: I have inserted pauses and manufactured paragraphs here within; the actual thought process comes without breaks...)
(Author's Note: I have inserted pauses and manufactured paragraphs here within; the actual thought process comes without breaks...)
Funny human world we live in. The system as it stands is broken and beyond repair. Maybe it’ll change, maybe it can’t be changed. One thing’s for sure: voting or signing petitions or sending small donations ain’t gonna do it. Revolt might, but humans, inherently lazy individuals to begin with, don’t care to be inconvenienced. As long as everyone keeps getting a few bones phones tossed their way from time to time, there’ll never be an uprising. Besides, what does it matter if we do make a serious attempt at changing things, at changing the system, the impending Orwellian world? To hell with it! Let it run its course and die its own inevitable death. All things die, after all, including systems and structures. So what if some good land goes with it? That land ain’t going anywhere! At least ‘til a massive meteorite (all rite!) demolishes the Earth, or “our” sun explodes, or the universe implodes. If only they’d hurry! I want to see it in my lifetime!
I don’t give a hoot about future generations any more than our predecessors cared about us, we unborn unknowns. I have no stake in this Earthly outcome; I’ve generated no ugly Chucklings--no progeny or other additions to this here planet.* (*In fact, I’ve subtracted from the world’s population, but never mind that. The fewer, the merrier.) Anyhow, bringing a child into this world without his or her consent seems so unethical. There will be great suffering ahead; why subject someone to it? I bear no responsibility to anyone’s future but my own! I owe the future nothing!
And so, why should I care? Corporations don’t, nor do most fence-sitters...they worship the wrong kind of greenery, they climb the wrong mountains. They’d just as soon run down a turtle. Maybe I’m too insular, but I certainly can’t change things. I can’t even change me!
And another truth, there’s little to fight for, anyhow. In its own sweet time the Earth will rebound, no matter the alterations applied. So let’s help tear everything down, so that man meets his deserved demise that much sooner! A new form of eco-terrorism! Leave the signs, the Volvos, the tractors, the “earthmovers” and the billboards alone…set the forests and farms on fire, buy food from afar, raise your cattle, your sheep, your fat, ugly, entitled children. Run the tap dry, let your gas-guzzler idle. Mine toxic minerals for your phone! Screw it. Screw it all. Everything happens for a reason. Or not. But it happens. And will happen…
Man, I’m hungry; I wish I hadn’t already brushed my teeth...
I don’t give a hoot about future generations any more than our predecessors cared about us, we unborn unknowns. I have no stake in this Earthly outcome; I’ve generated no ugly Chucklings--no progeny or other additions to this here planet.* (*In fact, I’ve subtracted from the world’s population, but never mind that. The fewer, the merrier.) Anyhow, bringing a child into this world without his or her consent seems so unethical. There will be great suffering ahead; why subject someone to it? I bear no responsibility to anyone’s future but my own! I owe the future nothing!
And so, why should I care? Corporations don’t, nor do most fence-sitters...they worship the wrong kind of greenery, they climb the wrong mountains. They’d just as soon run down a turtle. Maybe I’m too insular, but I certainly can’t change things. I can’t even change me!
And another truth, there’s little to fight for, anyhow. In its own sweet time the Earth will rebound, no matter the alterations applied. So let’s help tear everything down, so that man meets his deserved demise that much sooner! A new form of eco-terrorism! Leave the signs, the Volvos, the tractors, the “earthmovers” and the billboards alone…set the forests and farms on fire, buy food from afar, raise your cattle, your sheep, your fat, ugly, entitled children. Run the tap dry, let your gas-guzzler idle. Mine toxic minerals for your phone! Screw it. Screw it all. Everything happens for a reason. Or not. But it happens. And will happen…
Man, I’m hungry; I wish I hadn’t already brushed my teeth...
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