A Limp in the Woods (Day 136)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 136: Wednesday, August 7th, 2013
Near Mount Jefferson Loop Trail to Pinkham Notch = 12 miles
Miles to date: 1,867

Whipping Global Warming (into shape)

I’ve been keeping score:

     The Appalachian Trail: 1,000,000,004

     Me: 0

A drubbing, but I’d rather be shutout than be a shut-in. Plus, beauty now abounds, a point to point out because it’s worth points.

This newest Hampshire is by far, so far, the AT highlight--the top dog in a long line of muddy mutts. If I were ever forced to trek this trail again--gun to head, knife to throat, or because I’d forgotten how hard it’s been--I’d gallop northward through all the mundane terrain till I got here. 

Mundane terrain? Isn’t that a redundancy? Does not mundane come from that little Latin word for world?

(The mundane drives me insane! The path to this point is like prolonged foreplay; now the real deal begins.)

Perhaps I’d omit those uninspiring, insipid mid-Atlantic states altogether, to avoid their derivative: Low Altitude Sickness. Or maybe I’d start atop Katahdin and work south. Then slow down near here and consider hanging up my hiking shoes for good. Take up residence in one of the nicer shelters.

Now it’s agreed, I’ve not undergone winter in these parts, so that latter thought would be hard to imagine. Goat has said winter gets tough, and he knows about tough; he’s as tough as they come. But every winter, as the months dragged on, he’d succumb more and more to the bottle. It’s no wonder he’s as proficient on the six string as he is; what else is there to do? One can only drink so much.

But it’s not that cold, dark Suicide Season yet. It’s not even autumn. Hard to believe, as hiemal as it’s been. The mercury’s dipping and the days are getting shorter, as is my tolerance. “And all at once,” Wilde wrote, “summer collapsed into fall.”

Sometimes I think I’m good with global warming. This terrestrial ball has always been too cold for this nose-dripping nihilist. (“Thy is freezing.” ~Me 24:7) Running a fever might do the planet some good--help shed the bipedal parasites. I am a great admirer of the end result (as opposed to the intermediate result). So let’s get on with it! Haste the waste, speed the bleed. That way this once-beautiful blue-green ball can do its own thing that much sooner.

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HOW YOU CAN HELP HASTEN GLOBAL WARMING/CLIMATE CHANGE:

•First, do harm. Add to the primary problem: make babies! What could be more fun? Fucking fun! We live in an orgy of unspeakable stupidity; let’s invite more to the party! (An antinatalist, I don’t trust any so-called environmentalist who’s had children.)

•Help your children remove themselves from the world around them through the wonderment of electronica! 

•Persuade others and your double-chinned “representatives” (those poor indoor types) that global warming doesn’t exist!

•Vote for legislators who ignore or don’t believe in climate change! The climate’s always changed!

•Or do as I do and don’t vote at all! Red straw, blue straw, why drink the sickly sweet Kool-Aid?

•Disregard science; have obstinate opinions and faith! Faith is a cure-all! Hope for better! Ignore the experts!

•Do not use renewable energy sources! (Use coal generated power whenever possible!)

•Travel, but only by motor! Fly, drive, boat, etc.! 

•Drive an old beat-up car! Or a partial-zero emission vehicle! The worse the mileage, the greater the effect! BIG cars are better (and, one should add: safer)! As we drive our cars we drive demand.

•Leave the motor running for christssakes!

•Create the need for transport (buy things from afar; sign up for junk mail galore [bonus: it’s free!]; and so on)!

•Throw food out! Let it rot in landfills!

•Eat cattle! Raise cattle! Transport cattle! (Note the added benefit: methane!)

•Use high-exhaust motors (two-stroke preferred): lawn mowers, chainsaws, etc.! Use more fuel!

•Use lots of electricity (air-conditioners, portable heaters, fridges, microwaves, stoves, hair dryers, water heaters, clothes dryers [NEVER, EVER hang-dry your clothing!], vacuums, washing machines, dishwashers, vibrators, and other appliances--the older and more inefficient, the better. Be sure also to use drills, weed-whackers, and other high-wattage devices; be sure to leave light bulbs on, especially higher-wattage incandescent ones, and turn up that water heater! Nobody likes a cold shower!)

•Before everything burns down, be sure to LIGHT FOREST FIRES! The bigger, the better! (Fires not only warm the biosphere, they also emit tons of carbon while assisting in the removal of large tracts of carbon-absorbing plant-life [exposing rock, further warming the planet]. They also create all kinds of mechanical needs for firefighters: planes, helicopters, trucks, chainsaws, and other manly noise-making machines!)

•Take down timber! Deforest! Start a chopping spree! Kill carbon-absorbing plants!

•Pour algae-killing chemicals into water supplies, especially into the ocean!

•Build factories, or create the need for them!

•Eat more meat! Buy lots of palm oil (under its many guises)! Buy frozen foods and canned goods with globally-sourced ingredients!

•Leave pots uncovered when cooking! Do not defrost your fridge or freezer...little differences add up!

•Heat and cool your house! Never replace filters! Do not weatherize your home! Never replace old, inefficient single-glazed windows! Do not dress appropriately!

•Take longer showers! Baths are better yet! The hotter, the better! The bigger the tub, the better! (If you cranked up your water heater, you will not run out of hot water!)

•Smoke! It could help start a fire! It’s not arson if it’s an accident!

•Litter, pollute! Increase your production of waste! Use single-use plastic!

•Never, under any circumstance, recycle (unless, of course, it creates additional transportation needs)!

•Be an American! Be a consumer! Again: buy lots of things, needed or not. Buy them from faraway lands! Import! Be sure purchased goods have lots of plastic safety wrapping!

•When it comes time to die, be cremated! Have a huge service; invite people galore! Have friends (if you have any) spread your ashes far and wide, by driving or flying far and wide!

Share this list! Add to it! Let’s tear this mother down and put wide-bosomed Gaia in the hot seat! Please misbehave responsibly!

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It sucks being part of the most destructive species in Earth’s history. I feel for the wildlife; in today’s world the environmentalist dies a little each day. But the survival of our planet has zilch to do with humans. We can relax about its fate! The Earth’s past and future are mirror images of each other: neither contains humans. We’re a blip on the radar of this globe’s trajectory. A blink of an eye in its long, long lifetime*. (*Deep time, as the geologists say, and there’s more deep time to come.) Although the sad ending will come soon for elephants and polar bears, et al., it’ll come a little less soon for we tool-making type. And much, much less soon for the planet on which we voyage through the cold, black, Cimmerian vacuum of space. Earth has been through worse than humankind and will again. And then again. She’ll reboot. She’s well-built and durable. The show will go on.

Opinion: the sooner we leave this place, the better off all other (surviving) species will be, save for those pathetic domesticated lapdogs, the territorial terrorists. 

I have a terribly view of the future. But like so many others, I mire neutral, as indifferent as Kryste Almighty appears to be. As it is with him or her--or it--I do not bemoan the world’s fate, nor humanity’s. (We may get what we deserve.) What are humans and all our child’s play to this planet? A threat?

We’re a wet fart in the wind, nothing more than compost (resistance is fertile!), too short-lived* to matter. Our little world of adolescent men will die off, and regeneration and speciation will commence. Nature (perhaps with help from artificial intelligence) will exact its revenge; the world will one day resemble its former self. She bats last and carries a big stick; life finds a way. Yay, I say. Let us expedite the process and excuse ourselves.

I am a walking contradiction of course, a paradoxical poop piece, but only then, when this place is sweltering, might my nose quit dripping, and might my must for mitts be put to an end. (Then again, it is easier to wipe one’s nose with socks on his hands.)

*I rightly cringe when someone spews the inane apothegm, “life’s too short.” No, it is not; it is the longest thing we will ever know. Sure, time flies, but you’re the pilot.

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OUR day commenced curiously early, mostly because it was bitter. (There was also some ardor involved, for we were smack dab in the middle of God’s Country and wanted to experience it a while longer.) Sleeping at altitude on an arête is no longer a sensible option, as summer starts to cease (assuming summer ever starts in NH). But then camping in the deep, dark, damp glens is also a no-go; cold air plunges into such crevices and never seems to climb out, the lazy molecules. From here forth I’ll seek middle ground.

We got up from our once-cushy foam pads--now each as thick as a sheet of Kleenex--and packed up pronto, each shouldering our ball and chains, like lambs to the slaughter. We got moving just as promptly, in hopes of generating heat and maybe adding to global warming some more. Warmer bodies = warming of climate, no? I warmed to the thought.

The wind was kicking. The grasses fidgeted. But it was as gorgeous a day as a day can be. What few clouds there were came in peace. They only supplemented the scene. Fleecy, puffy, cottony ones, like the kind painters seem to cherish. The scenery is no less than spectacular in the Presidentials, resplendent in every imaginable (or unimaginable) way. I thought to myself: I won’t remember most the AT, but I won’t forget this.

Our route took us… No, wait. We took it. Anyway, we sped from our perch toward the Madison Spring Hut (AMC: i.e., not really a hut, more like a masonry mansion) and onto Mount Madison, named after another president. It was too early to inquire about a work-for-stay, but we swung in for a time and to look at more females, as the looking had been sparse on the trail. Always is. As it was, the two of us were given free leftovers and ended up sticking around too long, downing bowl after bowl of eggshell pasta drowned in the most divine Alfredo sauce. The scenery inside--racy young women--was also much to our liking. The hours raced by.

We pastafarians were happy to have eaten. Both Captain and I could use some mass. On our bodies, not our backs. My backpack’s hipbelt cannot be cinched any tighter. It’s now only ornamental, draped over my hips like a hula-hoop. I’ve employed padding between belt and waist, in the form of whatever spare laundry I have, but the trick doesn’t do the trick. I am feeding on muscle, I am vanishing. Buzzards begin to battle for airspace. Keep calm and carrion.

The path continued to slant downward, often unjustly. (Filed in federal court: Funnybone v. AT Trail Designers, 2013.) We left the rocky, exposed terrain for the herbary. Sparse at first, plentiful before long. The vultures vaporized. Other wildlife reappeared when the trees did, and it became much quieter thanks to the natural wind-block. The wind wasn’t horrendous, more schizophrenic than static, but without it this would’ve qualified as the perfect day. The sun shone for its entirety, for a second day in a row. Good day sunshine. We were informed by the slew of day hikers that this was “rare in the Presidentials.” We were glad for the rarity. Rare air, rare sun, perfect timing.

Most hikers we met were playing hooky, shirking work to enjoy it here. Peakbaggers and sandbaggers, simultaneously! It made us appreciate the weather and our palmy surroundings that much more. We knew it’s tough to value the latter when it’s raining or snowing. Atop Mount Madison we’d met a mother/daughter team, both adults, who drove up from Boston, to take advantage of the day. “It seems wrong to be indoors on such a beautiful one,” the mom said. Wise workers.

At the Mount Washington Auto Road crossing, at a roomy pullout with a lone auto parked, Captain and I removed our shoes and sat down for a snack. We hoped our legs would recover from all the eccentric loading, a good hope, as most hopes are. The pavement was warm and comfortable and only slightly sloped. (Thru-hiker standards are frightening low.) I could easily have fallen asleep, shoes for pillows. As I tried dozing, a pair of good-looking hikers popped from the woods, heading northbound. They were each wearing a pair of shoes, or roughly one shoe per foot, but had no packs to speak of (or to curse at). Clean, lean smiling machines.

“Oh my god! Dude! Holy crap!”

It was Mountain Goat and Tiny Klutz.

“What the hell?” I asked as we hugged. “I thought you two were a hundred miles ahead by now!”

“We could’ve been,” said the Goat, “but we took a break from the trail at home. At first for just a day. Then another. And another. Well, nine or ten days drifted by and it was time to get back on, or it was never gonna happen. Klutz isn’t sure she wants to. We’re tired.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“We’ve skipped some trail lately, but we’ve hiked all this before. Many times.”

I introduced Captain Planet to the two. We’d walk on, a casual convoy engrossed in repartee and laughs. Captain and Klutz paired up while Goat and I spoke of Backstreet, our punctilious pal. The Floridian was deep into Maine, apparently pleased to be close to done. “Everyone sort of disbanded after you fell off the pace in New York. Gator’s up-trail too, but he’s not in the same sort of hurry.”

“I must’ve been slowing everyone down,” I joked (or not).

Goat and Klutz parked at Pinkham Notch. They were slack-packing. No gear, know cheer. If they were punchless, it didn’t show. Indeed, when the young talk of tired, they have no idea what lay ahead in life! They each had a bouncy step and a smile on their face. We were glad to see one another again. Naturally.

Eventually we’d reach a chaotic scene at Pinkham. We sat outside its visitor’s center, blabbing well into the evening. The normally reticent TK opened up about the trail having worn her down. “Mainly my enthusiasm.”

“My fervor needs a life-preserver.”

I told her I was happy New Hampshire was new to me. Because I’m sure if I’d grown spoiled of its unspoiled splendor, like the two of them had, I too would be as worn. The ridiculous difficulty can only be offset by its sheer magnificence, and if that magnificence is old news, it can only mean bad news. Why tussle when you’ve seen it all before? When you’ve been through it all before? But I, I had some unfinished business remaining, and business was booming.

Goat offered Captain and me a ride to North Conway, but we declined. New Hampshire’s trail layout had made it too easy to escape to civilization every couple of days, as had all the friendly motorists. We worried we too might be snatched by civilization’s tight talons. It was best to soar forth, or so we told the two. They understood. I told them I hoped to see them up-trail and that I’d start signing the trail registers again, so they knew my whereabouts. I asked that they did the same, if they returned to the trail and were to have somehow leapfrogged me. We hugged and went our ways.

After refilling my water--the industrial solvents were palpable; it is a strange thing humans treat their water--I headed the direction whence we came. There’d been a secluded but homey enough camp spot a hundred yards before we reached the hoopla. I could remain cloistered from the cluster. Meanwhile, Captain went about partying with the two cute visitor center cashiers, the ladykiller. Later I’d catch wiff of sinsemilla smoke wafting about, and detect much cachinnation. He was doing brilliantly. Envy might’ve piqued had fatigue not first thrown a knockout punch. Stars loop my head.