An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 141: Monday, August 12th, 2013
Full Goose Shelter to Frye Notch Lean-to = 16 miles
Full Goose Shelter to Frye Notch Lean-to = 16 miles
Miles to date: 1,925
The AT. Come for the thumping; stay for the camaraderie.
Someone spilled a barrel of laughs last night. Most laughs came at me. Some from me. We were playing Show & Tell. After I pulled out my gear Captain Planet pulled out his camera.
Someone spilled a barrel of laughs last night. Most laughs came at me. Some from me. We were playing Show & Tell. After I pulled out my gear Captain Planet pulled out his camera.
“I’ve never seen anyone carry so little, yet so many plastic bags,” he said. “Are you building something?”
We’ve all witnessed its undoings, but the humble plastic bag is one of man’s most outstanding inventions. Especially when it comes to backcountry travel or clogging the digestive tracts of various wildlife. It keeps other man-made stuff dry; it keeps it separated; it weighs nothing (even dozens!); it’s robust (‘til it busts); it can double as a vapor liner/sock protector in the deep mud; and, as I can affirm, it makes for a damn good pillow when wadded up with other bags. Such a headrest is preferable to a toilet paper roll.
We’ve all witnessed its undoings, but the humble plastic bag is one of man’s most outstanding inventions. Especially when it comes to backcountry travel or clogging the digestive tracts of various wildlife. It keeps other man-made stuff dry; it keeps it separated; it weighs nothing (even dozens!); it’s robust (‘til it busts); it can double as a vapor liner/sock protector in the deep mud; and, as I can affirm, it makes for a damn good pillow when wadded up with other bags. Such a headrest is preferable to a toilet paper roll.
So laugh away, you softy spenders, with your ineffectual pack-rain-covers, your costly cuben-fiber stuff-sacks, your battery-operated sleeping bag warmers, and your heavy, prickle-prone inflatable pillows and mattresses. I’m not going to be swept along on the tides of fashion. I’m sticking with plastic. And to it.
I acknowledged I was towing too many. But I didn’t want to toss them. They could come is handy. The ol’ Just-n-Case, that weighty philosophy that’s murdered many a thru-hike dream. (If I brought a contrivance for every contingency, I’d hardly be able to move.) Luckily, the bags truly did weigh nothing. And they gave shape to an otherwise amorphous pile piggybacking my spine.
Often I cram my sleeping bag in my backpack without its stuff-sack, so that it fills space and helps give the pack some form, making for a better fit as I hike on. Hike on, hike off, the hiker. But the sleeping bag gets wet doing this, since over the course of the day my sudoriferous back soaks through my “water-proof” pack. (The ‘proof’ of water-proof packs proves differently.) The plastic bags, on the other hand, keep the sleeping bag dry. Function, friends, function. By the way, isn’t proof a weird-sounding word?
Often I cram my sleeping bag in my backpack without its stuff-sack, so that it fills space and helps give the pack some form, making for a better fit as I hike on. Hike on, hike off, the hiker. But the sleeping bag gets wet doing this, since over the course of the day my sudoriferous back soaks through my “water-proof” pack. (The ‘proof’ of water-proof packs proves differently.) The plastic bags, on the other hand, keep the sleeping bag dry. Function, friends, function. By the way, isn’t proof a weird-sounding word?
Today we were awakened by a big, ol’ jet airliner. It was miles overhead, but we heard it. There’s no escaping the aluminum bird, not even at the edge of the map. Even the wildest, most virginesque of lands fall prey to pollution above. Jets, satellites, drones and other, less visible pollution(1). This sucker, a two-hundred ton* Boeing 747 (*weight does not include passengers!), was headed all points east. Europe. Its passengers were seated in the air, likely en route to their own version of adventure. Or their version of business. No doubt something more adventurous than the AT, but less business-like.
Our business meant skedaddling. The platforms were surprising comfy--flat, dry and wide, with room to roam; usually, trying to sleep on wood means not sleeping, or what I call wake-boarding--and it was a serious undertaking to upright ourselves. Gravity’s gravitas. But the temptation to mainline Maine was too much to decline. What’s the point of temptation if it’s not something to give into? We were up and at it--A.T. it--before long. Appalachian application. Business as usual.
Lately, the trail’s been a litany of links between boggy stretches and exposed peaks. It was only slightly different today. Hangman, Captain and I soon separated, after finding our own paces. Their pace was fast. My pace was blistering. Slow, but blistering. The path picks the pace, and the steeper stuff induces separation more quickly than the levelheaded land. Maine, we could determine with a great degree of accuracy, was not going to be any easier than the states south of it. Maybe tougher. The south-bounders weren’t feigning. (Nor were they south-bounders. South-scrapers, maybe.) Still, there was no option but to scrape on. Onward, legs! Mush!
We were drowned in light, reveling in the radiance, for it was another threat-less day. Have the clouds paced themselves correctly? Had they given up? Had they run out of juice? Since it is free, freer than we, we could hope, for hope is always free. But we knew not to: unless there was some kind of miracle in the making, we knew what to expect. This expectation is wet and rhymes with Maine. (Hint: it starts with the letter R.) This hiking season, 2013, such a lesson had long since been imparted, and the rains rarely parted. The AT: where water grows on trees! If the vegetation didn’t always vex, and there weren’t so many damn ladders, an umbrella on the AT would have been--would be--a good idea.
A better idea, as Jeff the ex-felon says, is to do the sunnier Pacific Crest Trail (again). It’s the place we each go when we dream. (The AT is Business Class; the PCT is First Class. We concede that although the AT may be the granddaddy of them all, the PCT is the grand master.) (Or, as Felon puts it: “The AT is disfigured. If hardship is your jam, the AT wins.”) Few trails compare to the PCT. Few trails should be compared. Inimitable.
Deluge or drought? Pick your poison.
Sure enough, it wasn’t long before a bank of clouds began to nudge in. A big bank, insured and bonded, looking to levy yet another penalty. But there would be no rain on our parade, and the clouds only wished to pursue the jumbo jets eastward, erasing their contrails as they went (and came).
Just as the word interesting is, contrails are an interesting concept. Appearing ephemerally, they aren’t that way at all. The exhaust of a jet, crystallized or otherwise, is one of humankind’s most destructive inventions, lasting in one form or another for a long while, helping to destroy not just the air we depend on, but also the protective layer that everything on this planet has grown to depend on.
Thoreau’s premonition, a quotation I’ve already used...
Thoreau’s premonition, a quotation I’ve already used...
“Thank God men cannot fly, and lay waste the sky as well as the earth.”
I’ve known a few folks who have vowed never to sky-blaze again, and for nearly a decade, I too went on an air-strike. Long story short: just as it was when those planes had struck those big, ugly buildings on that fateful morning of September 11th, 2001, so too had they struck a deep, resonating chord.
Eventually though, I realized I was missing out on much of what I wanted to experience in life. Flying was the only practical solution in reaching those dreams. (To air is human.) It’s tricky to walk across oceans, and seasickness always sets in when I attempt to sail or row anywhere. So, like so many others, I now leave a pretty damaging set of footprints wherever I go, when I go by air. Weird thought, that--that our most damaging “footprints” are laid down when we are in the air. But true it is: we burn a lot of carbon in seeing the world. (Cars too leave larger footprints than feet do.)
Anyway, depressing departure aside, I was doing anything but flying now. Whereas the last two days I was the one doing the catching and passing, today I was doing the dropping. Dropping off.
No matter, I’d reassemble with the others at every scenic spot, which is to say more often than not. They’d brake to enjoy another break, enabling me to catch before I’d break. It was disgusting to see them sitting there so relaxed and cheerful. They didn’t seem to have even the slightest notion of what thru-hiking’s all about.
Then came the trail’s most notorious stretch. The topnotch notch. Our guidebooks described it as the…
“Most difficult or fun mile of the AT...”
“Make way through jumbled pit of boulders.”
A little over a mile long, Mahoosuc Notch is exactly that: a jumbled pit. A pile of rocks. The ultimate obscenity.
Huge boulders, some the size of a house, all unforgivingly hard, sat atop one another in a mess that seemed to be the work of a mad architect. Or it looked as though an atomic bomb had annihilated the area. And there, through it all and into its lurid maw, heads the magnanimous Appalachian Trail. Through, under, over. White blazes, those ubiquitous evil-doing orientation aids, direct the weak-minded which route to take. Spelunk, contort, clamber. MUST. OBEY. ORDERS. Surrender, unconditionally! There is No Exit.
It’d become necessary to repeatedly remove the pack to shimmy through yet another tight tunnel. Then you’d have to reach back and pull it through behind you, careful not to rip it or some skin.
Huge boulders, some the size of a house, all unforgivingly hard, sat atop one another in a mess that seemed to be the work of a mad architect. Or it looked as though an atomic bomb had annihilated the area. And there, through it all and into its lurid maw, heads the magnanimous Appalachian Trail. Through, under, over. White blazes, those ubiquitous evil-doing orientation aids, direct the weak-minded which route to take. Spelunk, contort, clamber. MUST. OBEY. ORDERS. Surrender, unconditionally! There is No Exit.
It’d become necessary to repeatedly remove the pack to shimmy through yet another tight tunnel. Then you’d have to reach back and pull it through behind you, careful not to rip it or some skin.
“Claustrophobics need not apply!” cursed Hangman.
“Make this fuckery stop!” cursed I. (It is hard to suffer peacefully.)
“This is cool!” cursed an unperturbed Captain Planet.
“If I die here, be sure my mom knows I died doin’ somethin’ I hated,” added Hangman.
Time moved like molasses. (Insert expletives here.)
 |
| Hangman coming down from the gallows and hanging tough |
Quick complaint #1,264. Notoriety is the AT’s chief boast, then trees, then hills. It is not a beautiful trail for most its length. It is the act of backpacking that keeps one occupied, not beauty; the goal of getting somewhere else. Anywhere else.
Getting anywhere meant more slowness. The next mile or so was straight up the Mahoosuc Arm. It’s called that because arms are needed to scale it, but this is nothing new. Without arms, one could not hike the Appalachian Trail. How many times have I said this? Am I reminding myself not to be dragooned to ever come back?
Disfigured, all right.
Disfigured, all right.
The scenery was well-done. It made it necessary to stop, to lap it all up. Disregard my previous rant! Impressive views impose immobility and tranquility, or they’re not impressive--that is they do not leave an impression. Such views are not just something to glance at, or to pass by. They demand penetration and immersion, to ignite one’s (pardon the platitude here) spirit, to leave their mark. What good is hiking the AT without stopping?
A short while later we reached--and stopped at--the Speck Pond Shelter where a most surprising of surprises materialized from the woods. It was heading southward.
A short while later we reached--and stopped at--the Speck Pond Shelter where a most surprising of surprises materialized from the woods. It was heading southward.
“Emperor?”
“Yeah, who’s that?”
“It’s Funnybone!”
“Damn Funnybone, you’ve got a real beard going! An al-Qaida beard!”
I felt like a proud mom. Kvelling, ego swelling.
“It’s taken a while. I had to go through a lot of growing pains, but I dig it now. It’s like having a machine gun on my face.”
Neither of us knew what that meant.
I hadn’t seen Chris for some four months, when I was twenty years younger. Once decorous, he too now looked nice and scraggly, scruffy and stained. Rugged and real. His own chin mess going, like Grizzly Adams. But he confided he was more of a Teddy Bear Adams; the trail had done a number on him. He’d been forced, by injury, to flip-flop. He was now working his way southward, so the March of the Penguin could continue. He’d missed some valuable, nagging trail mileage and would have otherwise incurred winter up in these parts had he not made such an administrative decision. He’d retreated to Minnesota to allow his body to mend, before returning to the trail on its top end.
I felt like a proud mom. Kvelling, ego swelling.
“It’s taken a while. I had to go through a lot of growing pains, but I dig it now. It’s like having a machine gun on my face.”
Neither of us knew what that meant.
 |
| Emperor |
“The trail has a way of humbling you. Just when things are going great, you’re dealt a setback. But by the same token, whenever you’re down, along comes a little trail magic or an easy stretch to lift you back up.”
I agreed with the first half of that thought.
It’s funny how so many of us glamorize a thru-hike of the AT, when it is anything but glamorous. No, the AT is a battle won in the trenches, day in, day out. And the trenches aren’t just trenches; they’re hills and mountains and ridges and bogs and...
It was grand seeing Chris once more. It’s likely for the last time ever. The last time we saw one another was when that most miserable of ice storms hit, back in early April after we’d entered North Carolina. It was also good to see he kept the trailname I gave him! We snapped at one another (with our cameras) and laughed as thru-hikers do--wholeheartedly. Trail life is the good life.
The two of us would then man-hug, aka bear-hug, before going our separate ways, him with much hiking hardship ahead, and me with, well, much hiking hardship ahead. Our good looks hadn’t spared us a single hardship; the AT does not discriminate.
But after a relatively placid climb, the trail north headed downward toward Grafton Notch, the first road crossing in forty miles. The longest roadless stretch of the AT. The descent was steep and dangerous, its margins for error, anorexic. A fall would’ve resulted in reconstructive surgery at best or, at worst, in a condition inconsistent with life, as Search and Rescue crews say. The most successful surgeries are those made by appointment, so I was especially cautious, grabbing tree branches and whatever else was within reach. I never put my life in my feet’s hands.
Dare I say I was happy after Grafton...that I was heading back uphill? Strike me down for saying it, but at least on the climbs the risk of death (or any other condition inconsistent with life) is minimized. A lung explosion or a burst heart valve would be instantaneous and painless; a fall downhill, when bone meets stone, and all bets are off. Any sane ATer would choose death over pain.
By nighttime three of us upwardly mobile types--Captain Planet, Hangman and I--reached the Frye Notch Lean-to. We staked our claim in a clearing nearby and dined on locally-grown blueberries. Extremely locally-grown, as in a few feet away. We felt filthy-stinkin’-rich, or two out of the three, anyhow.
After an unimaginative dinner and the usual tasks of teeth and turd, we laid back and took pride in what we’d accomplished on the day. A cannabis haze billowed. It was a huge afternoon of hiking, rife with risk and reward. Our current gift--the Earthly-annual Perseid meteor shower. As Captain and I sat back in stoned silence, watching the shooting stars, Hangman interrupted us.
After an unimaginative dinner and the usual tasks of teeth and turd, we laid back and took pride in what we’d accomplished on the day. A cannabis haze billowed. It was a huge afternoon of hiking, rife with risk and reward. Our current gift--the Earthly-annual Perseid meteor shower. As Captain and I sat back in stoned silence, watching the shooting stars, Hangman interrupted us.
“Whudayuh ‘spose the plural of lean-to is?” he wondered aloud. “Leans-to? Lean-tos? Lean-ti? Lean-tae? Lean-toes?”
Hours, and we could not come up with an answer.
“I have no idea,” I finally replied. “But isn’t proof a weird word?”
"Frequency"note 1: Including more and more communication-related airwaves with each passing year: UHF, VHF, VLF, ULF, CB, TV, AM, FM, radar, shortwave, cellular lines, microwave relays, WiFi, GPS, Ham radio, unknown military communication, smoke signals, and so on, few of which existed just a hundred years ago. No wonder I fall victim to headaches with routine frequency (particularly when Justin Bieber is on the airwaves).
“I have no idea,” I finally replied. “But isn’t proof a weird word?”
"Frequency"note 1: Including more and more communication-related airwaves with each passing year: UHF, VHF, VLF, ULF, CB, TV, AM, FM, radar, shortwave, cellular lines, microwave relays, WiFi, GPS, Ham radio, unknown military communication, smoke signals, and so on, few of which existed just a hundred years ago. No wonder I fall victim to headaches with routine frequency (particularly when Justin Bieber is on the airwaves).
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