A Limp in the Woods (Day 160+)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 160: Saturday, August 31st, 2013
Rainbow Stream Lean-to to Abol Bridge = 15-ish miles
Miles to date: 2,171

First, a little about yesterday; then a little about the day after yesterday...

Yesterday, Day 159 (August 30th, 2013):
Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to to Rainbow Stream Lean-to = 18 miles
Miles to date: 2,156

Come on in! The water's fine!

There hadn’t been much by way of trail magic in Maine, at least not of the man-made stripe. But then I reached Nahmakanta Lake. A former thru-hiker named Two-Toned Albatross (AT Class of ’99) was shoveling out all types of tasty dishes. I was alone and felt uneasy about sitting there in the woods with just the two of us. My truest semblance, the inner shy guy, blabbed to avoid torturesome silence. But then Sinner showed up, as would an older male thru-hiker from Reno named Raven. A few minutes later another hiker, a younger male, would land. He too went by Raven(1), forming a kind unkindness. Corvus corax with featherweight packs.

The four of us scarfed enough to put any athlete or army to shame, even the Sali-vation Army. Two-Toned had prepared the most resplendent spread any of us had seen since the one at Craig Creek, way back in Virginia at mile 682, light years ago. Remarkably, the two Ravens hadn’t known each other ‘til now. As ravens do, they got on fine, cackling away the day. Albatross dovetailed with the two. Unkindness is a misnomer.

Two-Toned Albatross and part of his large largess

Later, still fueled by Albatross’s munificence and the tubs of chili, I met another avian-ascribed hiker, he of the named-by-self set, Freebird. A trustfunded graying ex-pro windsurfer from Maui, he and I knew one another. This was mostly on the fracas that is the Internet, that place humans go to misbehave, though we’d once met in person (or whatever I am) at an assembly of PCT devotees. I figured it possible to run into a familiar face; chronic thrubies (like us) are bound to bump into one another later or sooner.

Dubbed Dave Osborn--Super Dave--in real life, Freebird was sliding toward the South Pole without hiking poles. He U-turned to join me as I wobbled north. For whatever reason, I was quite lugubrious when we spoke. Probably because our conversations revolved around past relationships. Those with others. Freebird can laugh, but we shied from it. When he began the God-laud I hightailed it, after a hug. He turned back south. I turned back inward. God doesn’t solve a thing, I told myself as I marched madly, pounding the ground into God’s domain--oblivion. I don’t trust those who trust God. I’ve never been one to fall for the message in the bottle.

I’d put the kibosh on my solo stampede at the Rainbow Stream Lean-to, just fifteen line-of-sight miles--as the raven flies--from Katahdin. Roughly thirty miles as the raven hops. A few others were already roosting there: the two jabbering Ravens, Sinner, and a few unfamiliar faces--faces that would have remained unfamiliar even if they hadn’t been swallowed by hair. All told, a good day, had it not been for the melancholic girl frolic. My heart is flimsy.

~~~~~~~~~~   

The day after yesterday, Day 160:
Hereby titled: Re-entry Re-enters the Realm

“I want to be done,” he said as he sped. (‘He’ shall remain nameless, ‘cause he could just as well be me.)

“Why?” I asked.

“So I can get off this damn trail!”

“Then why don’t you step off now?”

“Because of the goal.”

“What goal?

“To complete my hike.

“You can complete it here.”

“But not all of it.”

“So you do want to walk all of it? Yet get off it? How does that work?”

I get those doing the hustle. The AT is mercilessly long, brutally undulating, and tremendously--insultingly--difficult to walk. It takes some hurry to be a thru-hiker. (I’m reminded of Goethe’s guidance: “Do not hurry; do not rest.”) At some point along the way almost everyone reaches a breaking point. Their will is paralyzed; they simply want to be done. The statistics attest to it. Most often it’s a psychological barrier, as proven by the tempo and agility of these hastened hikers. Lively and lissome, they are plenty capable of continuing on physically, but they’re done, even when they’re not. Disabled, dead and done for, they envision themselves elsewhere, a whereabouts comfortable and immobile.

The shell shock soon after the end a long hike is what always concerns me. I call it PDSD: Post Dramatic Stress Disorder. The Appalachian Trail experience is simply spectacular; life outside it seldom supplies the spectacular. If ever. 

In my case, day-to-day existence is neither simple nor spectacular. First, boredom kicks in. What else can replace the trail’s entertainment value? Its daily sense of accomplishment? Its chance for camaraderie? Its abundant natural wonder? What else could allow you such a grand opportunity to, as Mr. Marley might say, emancipate yourself from mental slavery? 

Then, after the immediate and initial ennui upon hike’s end, a sense of overwhelming begins to overtake, more so than even the one at the start of a long journey. Whereas the latter is filled with absolute excitement of the unknown, the former is little more than a complete letdown. I soon feel pinched-in, and begin to impugn all that American society stands for.

Does its perks benefit me enough to stick within? Can I cope with the crowding, the clamor, the jostling, the traffic, the news reports, the advertising, the rampant consumerism and materialism? The greed, the depressing wastefulness, the bureaucracy, the pollution, the over-the-top politics, the venal politicians and their ecological illiteracy? The racism, the sexism, the global-view ignorance, the blind patriotism/social narcissism/American exceptionalism? The apathy, the anger, the religious drivel, the selfishness, the technomania, the superciliousness, the hypocrisy, the façade of status and “making or leaving your mark,” the prejudice, the insincerity, the impatience, the violence, the bullshit?

I’ve survived it all before, but I’m less and less inclined to--or less and less tolerant--as I experience life on my own terms more and more. I flee that corroded, corralled world for five or six months and upon return it seems everything has only devolved and gotten worse. Or maybe nothing’s changed. Only I have. In any event, it’s overwhelming, all right. Or, shall I say, it’s overwhelming, all wrong.

Might I flip around at Katahdin and start south? What if I just continued apace? Kept going? Lived this strange, estranged life for some time? The Appalachian Trail, redux.

I fear that the mountain--The Mountain--is not too far from my breaking point. Although it’s primarily the physical concerns, um, concerning me, I’m also well aware I could not live the thru-hiking lifestyle forever, even if the scoliosis and leg-length discrepancy and frail tendons allowed for it. Decades of beating my body and my mind up have caught up. Although it’s obligatory when climbing a mountain that it has to be a round-trip, this has never been the case atop a long trail. One way, all the way.

Today’s trip, thankfully, was atop another gently graded layout. Flat as my ex’s chest, pre boob-job. No more hills stand between those of us here and Katahdin, just Katahdin itself. It is unfathomable, almost impossible, to believe. Hundreds of thousands of feet of climbing and fewer than five thousand remain. It seems a dream.

I’d get going late--surprise, surprise--and dilly-dally more when moving. Observing the details of the natural processes that are all too often a blur. Yes! Life in slow-mo. One passing hiker joked that moss was beginning to grow on my south-side, my backside. I hadn’t seen so many hikers in the line of duty since Georgia. The herd thins itself out in the trail’s midsection, but it seems to be coagulating again here near its end. Or maybe I’m the only one in the vicinity without the Puritan walk ethic, the only one not doing thirty-mile days.

Brunch was dished-up at the Rainbow Lake Campsite, about four miles into the day. Don’s Brother and MolarMan would pass, as would a light rain. Thanks to Two-Toned Albatross’s unparalleled fiesta yesterday, I had more than enough chow in my rucksack. For the past month-ish I’d become almost scientific in my calorie tabulations, nailing it with a large degree of precision between resupplies. (That is to say I’d walk into town unencumbered by food weight.) But here now I pondered leaving some food for others. Few things bother me like having too much. Too much of anything, consumables included.

When late afternoon descended I had grown fed up with trekking through tight weaves of trees and their often shin-high labyrinth of roots, and it was refreshing to come to a clearing. This, even though it was paved, the first asphalt in a hundred and fourteen miles. It was official: I’d bridged the gap between Georgia’s Springer Mountain and Abol Bridge, walking every inch of the way. I celebrated by snapping some pictures of The Mountain and by stopping in at the tiny park store, where I promptly tipped back two liters of neon-colored Cavity-ade.

A few unrecognizable hikers milled about. Some were readying themselves for an attempt at The Mountain in the morn, while others sat slouching with what looked like plans for going nowhere. All of them there were not quite all there, if that makes sense. That is they each possessed that glazed empty stare that only thru-hikers can identify, and identify with(2). I nodded. They stared.

Someone somewhat au fait with the AT might think their gazes were fixed on Georgia--a 2,200-mile stare through the rear view mirror (OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR!)--but I’m afraid not. They were staring...nowhere. Intently. After always looking elsewhere, after always looking ahead, it’s nice not having to look anywhere.

"Feather"note 1: And he wasn't even the same Raven I met way back on Day 28 or 29. Yes, Raven is a trendy trailname. And why wouldn't it be? The avian raven is a maven--magical, mystical, magnificent, marvelous, majestic. Who wouldn't want to be like that?

"Foot"note 2: True, such glazed empty stares could be caused by the usual vulnerary herbs, but it was easy to see that there was more to them than that. For starters, a deep sense of satisfaction that no drug could ever provide.