An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 157: Wednesday, August 28th, 2013
Logan Brook Lean-to area to Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to = 11 miles
Miles to date: 2,126
Another clear day. Sedate, borderline great. I bowed to the weather gods, even though they’re right up there with all other godzillas: nonexistent. Provide proof, say we atheists!
“Who are YOU to demand proof?!” state the believers, those wishful thinkers (or non-thinkers(1)).
“A nonbeliever,” I say, “but one who vows to believe--and preach--when shown proof.”
“Proof is all around,” they say.
“Proof of what?” I say.
“Proof of God.”
“Prove it.”
And on it goes. An overused argument. Banal. Mildewed.
A witness of worth, a witness of Earth, I always tell those preaching my way that I called on said father-figure once, only to get a busy signal. “I quit buzzing after that.”
Anyway. I shan’t harp on the ogre; after all, why would anyone criticize an organism not proven to exist?
Every day that remains this way is one fewer to worry about. There’s little doubt that unsportsmanlike weather must be coming and I, for one, am not going to stick around to see it. All the same, I’m fine waiting things out for the right day. We’ve all seen pictures of those crazies finishing their elongated hikes in foggy, icy, miserable weather, but I refuse to summit Katahdin on anything except an absolutely beautiful day. As I define the concept (keep in mind--and this has been proven--that I’m a softy. A Sheila as an Aussie might say)...
Perhaps my Man Card should be revoked, but I prefer things easy(2). And soft and cuddly and cute, but never mind all that or I might be pegged a pussy. (Not me, no; I’ve got the nether parts of a Ken doll!) Strangely enough, there are still a number of thru-hikers who think that thru-hiking is a man’s endeavor, a manly endeavor. You can probably guess their gender. (Hint: rhymes with fail and starts with the letter M.) But guys, the future is feminine.
Day 157: Wednesday, August 28th, 2013
Logan Brook Lean-to area to Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to = 11 miles
Miles to date: 2,126
Apes of God
Another clear day. Sedate, borderline great. I bowed to the weather gods, even though they’re right up there with all other godzillas: nonexistent. Provide proof, say we atheists!
“Who are YOU to demand proof?!” state the believers, those wishful thinkers (or non-thinkers(1)).
“A nonbeliever,” I say, “but one who vows to believe--and preach--when shown proof.”
“Proof is all around,” they say.
“Proof of what?” I say.
“Proof of God.”
“Prove it.”
And on it goes. An overused argument. Banal. Mildewed.
A witness of worth, a witness of Earth, I always tell those preaching my way that I called on said father-figure once, only to get a busy signal. “I quit buzzing after that.”
Anyway. I shan’t harp on the ogre; after all, why would anyone criticize an organism not proven to exist?
~~~~~~~~~~
Every day that remains this way is one fewer to worry about. There’s little doubt that unsportsmanlike weather must be coming and I, for one, am not going to stick around to see it. All the same, I’m fine waiting things out for the right day. We’ve all seen pictures of those crazies finishing their elongated hikes in foggy, icy, miserable weather, but I refuse to summit Katahdin on anything except an absolutely beautiful day. As I define the concept (keep in mind--and this has been proven--that I’m a softy. A Sheila as an Aussie might say)...
- Free from threats
- Not too cold
- Not too hot
- Not too windy
- Cerulean skies
- Few clouds, if any
- Daylight
- I’m there to experience it
Perhaps my Man Card should be revoked, but I prefer things easy(2). And soft and cuddly and cute, but never mind all that or I might be pegged a pussy. (Not me, no; I’ve got the nether parts of a Ken doll!) Strangely enough, there are still a number of thru-hikers who think that thru-hiking is a man’s endeavor, a manly endeavor. You can probably guess their gender. (Hint: rhymes with fail and starts with the letter M.) But guys, the future is feminine.
Naturally, I’m happy to see more women hit the trails. Not just because I’m hard up (though mostly so; it might bolster odds of a snog every few years), but because I wish for everyone to experience the joys these long trails yield. Regardless of gender, race, age, belief, or sexuality (or lack of). But then if everyone knew, the trails might get too crowded, so never mind. We’ll stick with “the AT is brutal” theme. Best to stay safe and stay home. (Except for you libidinous ladies!)
Heading into the day I immediately felt yesterday’s mileage--all eighteen mileages; five miles beyond the daily average, providing me no ammunition in arguing that others should slow down and enjoy the last leg of this journey. I eased up on the throttle.
The throttle had been eased up on enough already, but I wanted to be sure to avoid pushing matters this far into the adventure, for injury sake. Injuries also throttle. There’ve been hikers knocked off the trail after having made it into Maine; I didn’t care to add my name to the inventory. I’m not sure I’d ever return to the AT, even for unfinished business.
A couple hours in, at the East Branch Lean-to, which overlooks the suitably-labeled Pleasant River--the same river that carved out the Gulf Hagas--I broke my fast, after skipping the meal upon waking. Sometimes it’s easiest to wake and walk, without force-feeding more junk food beforehand.
A couple hours in, at the East Branch Lean-to, which overlooks the suitably-labeled Pleasant River--the same river that carved out the Gulf Hagas--I broke my fast, after skipping the meal upon waking. Sometimes it’s easiest to wake and walk, without force-feeding more junk food beforehand.
I’ve decided to go cook-less the rest of this walk, sparing just enough denatured alcohol to warm some water for coffee, or to start a fire each night. I love to cook, except on days ending with Y. On a flame, even the crudest of meals takes time and effort. And outside of the walking, I am lazy. I am lazy, yet much of my walking comes lazily. (They say nothing is impossible, but I’m proof it is.)
With the exception of a bump called Little Boardman Mountain (gain knob: seven hundred feet), the terrain to the north was mannerly and mellow. I wouldn’t know this until I walked into it, since I was sans guidebook. A phalanx of resolute hikers would appear from the rear and then disappear, hurtling toward…not here. One-way traffic, they were remarkably similar in appearance, so much so they were almost a collective cliché:
Similarity > singularity.
With the exception of a bump called Little Boardman Mountain (gain knob: seven hundred feet), the terrain to the north was mannerly and mellow. I wouldn’t know this until I walked into it, since I was sans guidebook. A phalanx of resolute hikers would appear from the rear and then disappear, hurtling toward…not here. One-way traffic, they were remarkably similar in appearance, so much so they were almost a collective cliché:
- Male (the outdoors appear sexist!)
- White (the outdoors appear racist!)
- Young (the outdoors appear ageist!)
- Middle class (based on their gear)
- Hirsute
- Mangy (Be the mange you wish to see in the world.)
Similarity > singularity.
They were remarkably similar is mannerisms:
They were remarkably similar in scent:
I knew not one of them, but they were each smiling and laughing; normal behavior if you ask me.
Expectedly, each of them also looked extremely fit. Whether they looked it, they were it. No one stumbles twenty-one hundred miles without stumbling upon fitness. No one.
An hour or two from any NOBO ahead, I realized I required rest. And caloric restoration. The realization struck the instance my legs buckled and struck the ground. I squirmed out from under my pack and leaned back against a warm rock, its form perfectly suited for the deed: dormancy. All that was missing was a cup-holder.
- OCD (the trail was an obstacle to overcome, an achievement, not a happening)
They were remarkably similar in scent:
- Indescribably nocent
I knew not one of them, but they were each smiling and laughing; normal behavior if you ask me.
Expectedly, each of them also looked extremely fit. Whether they looked it, they were it. No one stumbles twenty-one hundred miles without stumbling upon fitness. No one.
An hour or two from any NOBO ahead, I realized I required rest. And caloric restoration. The realization struck the instance my legs buckled and struck the ground. I squirmed out from under my pack and leaned back against a warm rock, its form perfectly suited for the deed: dormancy. All that was missing was a cup-holder.
Lunch had begun when a chipmunk appeared from nowhere. There was nothing but miles of lonely land in all directions--a Big, Beautiful Empty--yet somehow this bugger knew precisely where food was. And how to get it.
The beggar began the run-of-the-mill run-around, looking cute and innocent and helpless, in hopes a morsel might get tossed its way. I grabbed a golf-ball-sized rock and hurled it in its direction, knowing I’d miss. And miss I did. The panhandler scurried to the dornick to test its tastiness. Without getting up, I gathered another stone, this one nearer to baseball-sized. Again I chucked it. Again I missed.
After a third fling-and-miss, I figured rather than continuing to escalate the violence, I’d be better off teaching the chipmunk the old-fashioned way: with words. Employing them, I explained I was only trying to help, “for I am a friend to animals large and small.”
I got up to pee and explained he or she would be much better off if he or she learned to be suspicious of mankind--that he or she should avoid human interaction and live the way Nature intended. He or she listened intently, scratching at his or her genitalia in rapid-fire fashion.
“But this is how Nature intended me to be,” the vegan replied, licking the salts from the tree trunk I’d just peed on.
“I am hard-wired and know nothing but obedience to instinct and survival. Like you, I have a limited education. Unlike you, I do not have the luxury of walking simply for walking sake. I cannot go out and play each day. I am hungry and there is much to tend to, and much to worry about. You may not know it, but there are rats in this forest, along with other disgusting, disease-ridden rodents.”
The animals are as human as you and I.
“But this is how Nature intended me to be,” the vegan replied, licking the salts from the tree trunk I’d just peed on.
“I am hard-wired and know nothing but obedience to instinct and survival. Like you, I have a limited education. Unlike you, I do not have the luxury of walking simply for walking sake. I cannot go out and play each day. I am hungry and there is much to tend to, and much to worry about. You may not know it, but there are rats in this forest, along with other disgusting, disease-ridden rodents.”
The animals are as human as you and I.
I sat back down, and remained silent.
As it invariably goes, I’d be the one to learn from the interaction. So I shotput the last accessible rock, a bowling-ball-sized behemoth, into the woods, before gifting the rest of my trail-mix to the squirrel. He or she didn’t offer thanks, what with the yawning communication gulf between us, but I knew better than to expect it.
As it invariably goes, I’d be the one to learn from the interaction. So I shotput the last accessible rock, a bowling-ball-sized behemoth, into the woods, before gifting the rest of my trail-mix to the squirrel. He or she didn’t offer thanks, what with the yawning communication gulf between us, but I knew better than to expect it.
I had not the patience to sit through another lesson. This was a thru-hike, and there were places to be(3). I got up, patted and thanked the anatomically-correct back-support rock for being there, and scurried on, scratching my genitalia as I went.
It’d end up an everyday kind of day until late afternoon, when an impulsive, impatient downpour introduced itself. Lightning joined suit. Thunder tracked it. FLASH-BOOM-REPEAT! The trail remodeled itself--terra not-so-firma. Wildlife shrewdly sought shelter. A large squirrel draped its tail over its back. I was fortunate to find myself within spitting distance of the Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to, though ‘spitting distance’ was inestimable what with all the rain. I jogged the mile to it, backpack bouncing the whole way. I dove in, alone.
Naked as the day I was shaken from the test tube, I began drying off with my trusty towel: a bandana. Within minutes the namesake falls in front of the small shelter evolved from a mellifluous trickle to a full-on cascade, gushing noisily with a brown frothy mess that bore a resemblance to water. I hurried to gather some liquid before it got any uglier or thicker, then rung my bandana out and toweled myself off a second time.
After getting dressed and catching up on some journaling and register reading, I settled beneath my potpourri-scented sleeping bag. (Its label reads: DRY CLEAN ONLY, meaning it’s dirty.) That’s when the long-haired, middle-aged male StarChild showed. Then came a young couple from NYC, Clever Girl and Dumptruck, both haloed by hippy headbands. Next, a tall, twenty-year old gal from Maine appeared: Pippin, looking unfazed by the storm. Northbounders all.
It’d end up an everyday kind of day until late afternoon, when an impulsive, impatient downpour introduced itself. Lightning joined suit. Thunder tracked it. FLASH-BOOM-REPEAT! The trail remodeled itself--terra not-so-firma. Wildlife shrewdly sought shelter. A large squirrel draped its tail over its back. I was fortunate to find myself within spitting distance of the Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to, though ‘spitting distance’ was inestimable what with all the rain. I jogged the mile to it, backpack bouncing the whole way. I dove in, alone.
Naked as the day I was shaken from the test tube, I began drying off with my trusty towel: a bandana. Within minutes the namesake falls in front of the small shelter evolved from a mellifluous trickle to a full-on cascade, gushing noisily with a brown frothy mess that bore a resemblance to water. I hurried to gather some liquid before it got any uglier or thicker, then rung my bandana out and toweled myself off a second time.
After getting dressed and catching up on some journaling and register reading, I settled beneath my potpourri-scented sleeping bag. (Its label reads: DRY CLEAN ONLY, meaning it’s dirty.) That’s when the long-haired, middle-aged male StarChild showed. Then came a young couple from NYC, Clever Girl and Dumptruck, both haloed by hippy headbands. Next, a tall, twenty-year old gal from Maine appeared: Pippin, looking unfazed by the storm. Northbounders all.
We’d get on swimmingly, like long-lost friends. Eventually another of our pigpen-pals pulled in, Felon. He was soaked to the core but smiling. After some wishy-washy-ness, he opted to slosh on. He used that strange logic that he was already as wet as he could be. As he departed our one-night stand he said he still hadn’t seen Bullwinkle. There remained sixty miles in which to do so, though neither of us could envision a moose standing anywhere along Katahdin’s steep approach. Moose aren’t moronic mountaineers.
"End"note 1: 'God' is the easy way out of thinking; belief is the death of intelligence. Like most ATers, we apes of God, I prefer things challenging. And anyway, whether a divine intelligence exists has no effect on this simian's existence. I truly believe that belief in God undermines belief in Earth. How could we be loyal to the Earth if our truest loyalty lay to an inanimate image beyond?
"Foot"note 2: Ignore the end note above!
"Foot"note 3: And I couldn't be there unless I were to go there.
