A Limp in the Woods (Day 154)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 154: Sunday, August 25th, 2013
Leeman Brook Lean-to to Long Pond Stream Lean-to = 12 miles

Miles to date: 2,086

The Root(s) of the Problem

Prior to departing the shelter on this day denoting this hike’s five-month mark(1), I grabbed one of the crayons lying about and scribbled, “You’re never too old to color,” proceeding to make an absolute mess of the register page. I did not sign my work. Instead, I picked up a pen and scrawled in a different font, so as not to be caught, “Funnybone schlepped here.” It made me smirk, anyway.

It was dark-early-nippy and I got moving while Goat and Klutz continued their spooning, before the forking began. A panic incursion struck sometime in the wee hours when my bag’s zipper jammed, with my beard stuck in it. The sleeping bag had me in a half-Nelson--I could not escape for a pee, and from that point on, sleep would not even remotely suggest itself. Soaked from sweat, possibly pee, I would eventually squirm out of the straight jacket, a Hairy Houdini. But I could not escape the inside my head (the mind that feeds on itself dies of starvation!), concluding that there was no point in supine pining when I could be coloring and weaving through the colorful environs, feeling the sky glide over the Earth.

I was in high spirits having hoofed it early, as it soon became a scorcher of a day. Like a humid kiln: half humidifier, half fire. I felt like a roasted marshmallow, dropped into that wet fire. I removed my sweaty, saggy shirt and worked on my tan; had it not been for the umbrage of the trees and the marks left by the backpack straps, my pigment might have looked less piggy.

The topography was mostly pancake-esque. It would have made for nice going, except for all the exposed tree roots. In attempt to navigate the obstacle course my feet were seldom set down facing forward. The roots, although dry, were worn to a slippery sheen; they were to be avoided at all costs. Flat though it may be, the Hundred-Mile Wilder-Mess was going to be just as challenging as the rest of the trail. No sirree, no rest for the weary.

The sign of Satan

At the stair-stepping Little Wilson Falls, Goat and Klutz caught back up but would soon forge to the fore, chuckling at the noisy grocery bags in my hands. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see my friends again, but yet when they fled, I said, “I’ll see ya later.” We never really know if that’s true, do we? The suggestion floored me. Did we exchange email addresses? How would I ever reach them again, if I couldn’t do so on foot later today? Would I ever see them again?

More thru-hikers would come and go, most of whom I’d never seen or smelled before. (There’d been a big backlog of backpackers in Monson apparently, too many for the hostel to host.) Those passing were all fit and lean and racing north at warp speed. (Warp speed, because you’d have to be warped to want to “hike” through here so fast; the AT wasn’t intended to be an express lane.) Building steam and worrying about progress and the annihilation of space. Focusing on white blazes rather than the space between them, or around them.

(The only place I like to speed along out here is when using the privies. Achtung! The privy is not the best seat in the house. It is not the place to read! When it comes to #2, the woods are #1!)

One alleged nemophilist said he hoped to finish by Thursday. (I thought today was Thursday.) When I suggested he wear diapers so that physiological responsibilities wouldn’t stop him from making good time, he shot me a steely stare and testily sped away. Everyone around me was suffering from finish line fever. They wanted to wash their hands (and feet) of this trail. They wanted to be done with progress. The AT had morphed into a track meet.

Naturally (or un-naturally), I felt quite the opposite. I continued to apply the brakes, soaking up the sun and soaking my creaky bones in every creek. I haven’t even hatched plans for post-Katahdin yet--no idea how I’m going to get home or where, for that matter, home is--so hurrying only meant having to mull it over, which would only serve to stress. I kicked around turning around at Katahdin, along with the whole idea of walking a while longer, but one peek at the state of my feet and I knew better. I was done when the trail was. I just wasn’t going to race-walk there.

Race-walking opposite of my direction of travel somewhere a mile or two short of the Wilson Valley Lean-to, a young man stopped to say hi and share some mirth about the bags in my hands. His name was Jake--trailname: Don’t Panic--and he had already hiked the 3,000-mile CDT this year and was now tackling the entirety of AT. He’d already completed the AT in ‘09. He’d also already hiked the CDT, and the PCT a couple times. He’s a lifer, only his is life in the fast lane. A bona fide black belt of long-distance hiking.

We’d BS for twenty minutes when I remembered to introduce myself.

“Funnybone? No way!”

He said he’d enjoyed my PCT journal. “Dude, huge fan.” I said that that was fan-tastic. “In this heat I could use a huge fan.” He asked if I was blogging on this hike. I told him I am, but was keeping it private, for privacy reasons. At least for the time being.

“When it was live, there were too many assholes leaving sour comments. I’ll put it back online after the hike, when no one can find me. I should’ve removed commenting altogether. I have thin skin.”

“Well, I’ve got a thick hide, so be sure to put in a few bad words for me. Sincere, hostile stuff. I’ll read it come winter.”

“I will,” I replied. “Like what a nut-job you are for hikin’ the AT straight after doin’ the CDT!”

He laughed an infectious laugh as we began to part ways. “The real nuts are those holed up--held up--in an office right now.”

Who could dispute that?

The dude-interlude re-energized me. I hiked at twice my usual slow pace. Life in the middle lane. Don’t Panic was a subdued but contagious type. We seemed to strike a chord. Instantaneous rapport. He invited me to hike south with him. I invited him to guide me to Katahdin. “Maybe sherpa these frickin’ bags for me!” We traded email addresses, as I wished I had with Goat and TK.

The walking remained a challenge, but I’d catch MolarMan and Don’s Brother. They were slack-packing. Sweet Tooth, MolarMan’s wife, was awaiting them at a trailhead ahead. We’d cross a set of railroad tracks (wilderness!) and break into conversation. Both men looked the fittest I’d seen them; they had no problem setting the pace. Before long I’d have a problem keeping their pace, especially when they glanced by the Wilson Valley lean-to without even a glance. I blamed my struggles on my backpack.

Lunch failed to revitalize--nothing new there--but it helped rid a food bag. Three pounds of food-like substances gone. I was now down to a backpack of edibles and just one bag’s worth, which I managed to strap onto the pack. My twiggy arms could finally unwind. Luckily, water was everywhere in this Bear Grylls mock-wilderness (a mild-erness?), so I didn’t have to lug its sloshing, unstable heft. Drinkables are never fun to carry.

After MolarMan and Don’s Brother met up with Sweet Tooth, I was on my own again for a stint. But only a stint. More hikers came from behind and went, including Sleeping Beauty, who I hadn’t seen since Tennessee or Virginia. “Impressive facial hair,” I offered, before he’d eventually pull ahead. “It’s a beard growing a man!”

“Yours ain’t too shabby either,” he replied. 

“Shabbiness is the goal!”

We laughed--the theme of this elongated dream. Time and a half to laugh. Laughapalooza. Laughfluenza.

“I heard you got Lyme Disease.” (This was not such a laughing matter.)

“Yeah, I had to get off trail and head home for a week and a half. I gotta go back and finish that stretch. I was on some heavy-duty antibiotics and pretty much bedridden.”

Sleeping Beauty

We’d toddle together for an hour, talking of our experiences and, as we had before, of women. Sleeping Beauty was no longer the abdominous chubalub he had been. He now strode with ease, able to throw complete paragraphs and pages of dialect together. Before, he could only speak in rumpled sentences, ala me Tarzan, you Jane. It was great to see the AT had done him well.

“I still snore heavily though. I’ve pissed some people off with it.”

Light on his feet, my ami-go would go on ahead. We had just negotiated the shin-deep Wilber Brook ford. I tried to tally the thru-hikers who’d caught and passed me on this tepid day. Fifteen, sixteen? (I’m not one--or two--to be count on when counting.) It was strange after so many lonely weeks. Maine remained rugged, but the crowds were forming, and forming their pacelines.

I half expected the Long Pond Stream Lean-to to be packed beyond capacity but was mildly surprised when I saw there was still space available. The place appeared more spacious than it was because someone had jokingly hung a large mirror inside--clearly an unreliable one, based on its performance--but there was plenty of room for me and my plastic bag collection. I began unpacking. Sleeping Beauty was in attendance, so I pulled out my earplugs, cautioning the others about the impending storm. “Storm?” they asked. “We hadn’t heard.”

“You will,” I replied. “You will.”

Sleeping Beauty laughed that hearty chortle of his and began apologizing in advance, handing out earplugs.

"Foot"note 1: A month for each finger. A few middle fingers here and there, although lately it's been two resounding thumb's up.