A Limp in the Woods (Day 151)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 151: Thursday, August 22nd, 2013
Pierce Pond Lean-to to Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to = 18 miles
Miles to date: 2,049

A Ferry Tale

It is early but warming quickly, unexpectedly, welcomingly. As I reflect and genuflect beneath a one-tone sky, pure azure, I realize my eyes aren’t fixed or fixated on the ending of this journey. They’re fixed on the feeling of that finale. I’m close to closing in on closure. There are times I can hardly wait for the sensation; in those times I hike too quickly. When I recognize the behavior I slow down. I loiter and reconnoiter. To slurp it all in, and slurp it all up. Why hurry anywhere, especially from here? I may never be this way again. What will land’s end provide that the trail cannot? What will society provide?

“Piano, piano!” an Italian cycling coach of mine used to yell. Relax, slow down! Literally: step-by-step. Perfect for the AT. Luigi himself wasn’t so relaxed, especially when he caught me using a Sharpie to write GEN in front of the ITALIA bumper sticker on his Fiat.

I’d wake raring to hike once more. It seems all bad patches are behind us now. And it appears I might actually be able to handle those ahead, no matter how imposing or pernicious. We may have passed this Right of Passage. Or, as Sinner has said: “We might beat this bitch!” (In truth, it’s a Privilege of Passage, not a right. Nor a rite. And one must EARN the right, in step-by-step manner, millions of times over. Naturally, the trail is indifferent. It dishes tons of crap, and it doesn’t give a crap.)

Before attempting to find out if our luck would continue I should proffer at least a compendious rendering of yesterday. Not to tell a story that doesn’t exist--there are days like this on trail and yesterday was another--but to record it, to continue to commit these syns, to commit to these syns, so I can someday reread it to my sad lonesome self, when I’m living beneath that railroad bridge where the swallows make their mud huts.

We covered fifteen miles here in the place of worship that is Maine. We being TK, Goat and Sinner (who measures his mileage in Maui Wowie smoked, and whose unedited fervor I had by now grown rather fond of). Although Sinner is built more for comfort than for speed--more laugh than lope, more jocular than jock--the Massachusetts inhabitant hiked ahead most the day. We wouldn’t see much of him. Before pulling ahead he told us he planned to up sticks to Bakersfield post-hike. Just as Goat and TK were hoping to move west, so too was he.

“Bakersfield, huh?” I replied. “Sorry about that.” 

Bakersfield ain’t Bend, where Goat and TK are bent on relocating. The former is known as the Colon of California, and California is that state with an extinct critter on its flag. The town is anything but stately; it’s in dire need of a colonoscopy and possible surgical removal. Even the skies there are a mess--it rains dung and toxicity. I know this because I resided close to it. Too close for comfort--about three hundred miles north. In the soul of the state, the Sierra.

“But,” I assured him, “an escape hatch from the bowels ain’t far. Ranges, rivers, redwoods…” He’d be fine even without the getaway, I assured him, lying through my coffee-stained teeth. No one’s fine in Bakersfield. But it beats Massachusetts.

Goat and I were engaged in our usual folly as we stamped our mark on the day, or while it stamped its mark on us. When my Brother Nature sped off to the fore, pedal to the floor, TK and I kicked thoughts around like garbage. “I mean, think about it,” I mused. “Spoons are just tiny bowls with handles.” 

“And about that term shit-eating grin: would’ya really be grinning if you were eating shit?!” 

“And’ja ever notice that those who share your point of view are smarter than others?”

TK asked if I ever worried I might be someone else’s imaginary friend.

Weighty profundities, usually only accessible to those with too much time on their hands feet.

Beneath those feet miles passed, and we never even noticed their effect, if they had one. The terrain was comparatively horizontal, and we’d pierce a ton of incredible scenery (if scenery can be measured in mass), ending near the Pierce Pond Lean-to, where we leaned into our sleep positions.

It was at Pierce Pond where thru-hiker Paul Bernhardt (trail cognomen: Parkside) crossed over the rainbow bridge last year. He’d hiked twenty miles, then cramped and drowned in the pond’s icy water. He was just twenty. His mom wrote a wonderful précis of his life here. Looking out at the big, dark pond last night, I thought about him and about Inchworm and wiped away a tear. Rugged Maine.

Paul Bernhardt, aka Parkside, during last year's thru-hike

Back to today. It began after the nightly stupor. We traded said stupor for the daily doze, soporific striding the mountains of America. Eager though my mind was, it was tough convincing the body to follow suit. But just a stroll from where we slept breakfast awaited, at the Harrison Camp Cabin. I grinded into gear. Pancakes, eggs, sausage, juice, and coffee enough to power the space shuttle. I offered extra so that I might rinse at the cabin, but the proprietor declined my riches. He forced me to shower. It was my first since Gorham, NH, a sybaritic experience to be savored. The hot water was indescribably magnificent. The waste water, toxic.

Other thru-hikers milled about (Crush, Ice T, Jeff the Felon, Goat/TK, et cetera) and by the time we reached the Kennebec River, there was a backpackers’ army waiting to cross. “SHOTGUN!” I yelled.

ATers connect the trail by traversing the waterway. It’s a relaxed river, but just rapid enough, just deep enough, and just slimy enough on its bumpy bottom to strike alarm. The passage is made with help from a fourteen-foot canoe and its riverman captain, Captain Morgan. The ride is free--two passengers at a time, along for the cruise. Well, somewhat of a cruise--hikers have to help paddle. This is modern America, so a liability waiver must first be signed. (Most Americans think canoes are a form of volcanoes.) Waive the waiver, must wade ‘er. Lawyers lurk even within the woods.

I scribbled with an unpracticed hand, “The undersigned solemnly vows not to sue if he drowns or is masticated by a megalodon.”

The watery white blaze

The helmsman, Klutz and Goat

Drowning was possible for a bouquet of reasons. For one, the river was made of water, and nobody drowns in dry river beds, last I looked. Two, it’s happened here; more on that below. Also, it’d been a spell since I tried my hand (or other body parts) at swimming. That was back in Nuclear Lake, in NY. Plus, I had no personal Personal Floatation Device--no body fat. Bones and gristle do not float. Not in stew, not in rivers.

Finally, although I wasn’t concerned about my load, I fretted over sharing the vessel with someone lugging a titanic pack. Boats regularly go down when laden too ponderously; we see it in the news all the time. Usually it’s just lowly refugees. (I cheer when billionaire’s yachts sink.) But sometimes it’s a couple of lowly land-locked hikers. Crush joined me in the skiff, which relaxed me--his pack was more buoyant than mine. We were further pleased since the crossing meant we’d be off our feet for a few minutes. If only the entire AT was as pleasant.

Sadly, the long-time canoe captain joined the ranks of the deceased in March this year, not via submersion, but in his sleep. Steve Longley, aka The Ferryman, was just fifty-five. He had guided nineteen thousand AT hikers across the waterway since 1986. The son of a former Maine Governor, Longley ferried a couple hundred hikers that first year (no waiver required) but more each year, as trail popularity grew. The Appalachian Trail Conference, as it was known then, offered Longley the job after Alice Ferrence, a prospective thru-er, drowned attempting to cross the river the year prior, in front of her husband.

What’s with these drownings?

Frightening though it could be, the seventy-five yard voyage was the most relaxing stretch of AT I’d encountered. I pray (or my method of it) a footbridge is never built. (While I’m in the wishy mood, I pray too that the AT will one day be entirely accessible by boat. Oh, to float by boat and spare the feet from being meat!) It took a half-hour with the waivers and the wait. The canoe, which I hereby propose the ATC call The S.S. STEVE LONGLEY, was equipped with paddles, PFDs and a single white blaze painted on its upward-facing bottom, so the hiker doesn’t get lost. Drug or alcohol consumption is (also) looked down upon, as is walking while on board. Rock the boat and you’ll be tossed overboard, after removal of life vest.

After the crossing, the lot of us disembarked in Caratunk. With sixty-nine residents, it is one of the tiniest towns along the trail. To call it a town is to flatter it. It’s more of a collection of buildings--some well-kept houses, a microscopic post office, and not much else. But it was there, in the outer world, where Jeff the ex-felon and I relaxed on an inviting lawn under the single-minded sere of the sun, beneath the insufficient cover of hats, visors, bandannas and borrowed sunscreen. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind the trailname I’ve given him: Felon.

The sunscreen was borrowed from the PO hiker box, along with some Q-tips. I used those to clean my ear canals, removing a decomposing possum and enough gunk to fill a wax museum. An affable resident with an English accent encouraged hikers to make use of his sod. “Or you can sod off.” Felon and I sodded on. And on. And on.

The others had all disappeared. It was time eventually to tend to our daily devotions. Enough discussing our adventures! Let us live them! No sense courting disaster when you can walk straight into it!

But disaster would not strike. Rather it was a reasonably routine day, over reasonably routine terrain, under, however, reasonably routine-less skies. Blue, hot, heavy, bizarre. Bizarre because Maine has mainly been free from rain. Will our good fortunes continue? We know not. We’ll worry about it then, if then arrives. Now is always enough to concern yourself with when on the AT, no matter when when is.

I like Jeff. Another gingery type like Sinner, he walked my pace. Or I his. He moves just as gingerly as his hair color. Light on his feet, with an enlightened mind. When I first met him back in ye ol’ Hampshire, he wasn’t afraid to share his story in a candid, if not blunt, manner. 

He said he’d made mistakes. Many mistakes. (“I abused drugs,” he confided. “Poor things,” I joked, “what’d they ever do to you?”) He told me discovering these long trails saved his life. Last year, he hiked the PCT. This year, the AT. Next, the CDT. An addict, all right. The trails give him purpose. Purpose is what he previously lacked. “I still lack it,” I replied. No joking this time.

“Not now you don’t.”

He was right. Plenty of purpose, one step at a time. The steps don’t just happen. Sure, long trails never seem to serve up an epiphany, an A-ha! moment, but they do act as efficacious psychotherapy. If you’re on the AT, you have business being on the AT.

Eventually the conversation would turn less poignant and spin toward wildlife, and how little we’d seen. “I have yet to see a moose, dammit,” the recidivist sighed. “Have you?”

When I told him I watched one launch, dive, and swim just a week ago, he grew more angered. “Hangman told me about that, you lucky fuckers. What the hell? Seems everyone’s seen one.”

“You’ll get your chance. They say there’re more moose in Maine than there are people.”

Later on, near an agreeably-named Pleasant Pond, a cavalcade of suspicious clouds started crowding in. And then then happened: it began to rain. No pleasantries; just a sudden and lasting downpour. But it cooled things off and rinsed the sticky, smelly sunscreen off, and we were grateful. Jeff stopped to don his raingear and for “a quick piss.” 

Sure enough, as he was taking care of his kidneys, I’d walk within a few feet of the largest moose I’d ever seen, a veritable Moosetadon. I could almost extend my skinny arms and stroke the behemoth as I strode by. Sensing that disaster would strike, I hurried on, tiptoeing as quickly as tiptoeing allows. 

Oddly, the beast didn’t see or hear me. (I’m not sure if it smelled me; odds were favorable.) Moose can sleep standing; it must’ve been the case here. When Jeff caught, I decided not to share the experience. I’d see if he mentioned it. He never did, the unlucky bastard. I clamped down on my tongue.

Late and we separated again. Rain will do that. Our evenly-matched gait was now off-kilter and Jeff pulled ahead. I’m always the slower of the two, it seems. Any two. In time I’d cross paths with a southbound hiker dressed in a one-piece wrestling suit, draped in USA paraphernalia. It wasn’t the flashy, gaudy kind of garment that a pro wrestler might wear, but the kind a real wrestler would, with USA embossed here and there. He looked out of place, to put it kindly. I had to know.

“I’m hiking the AT in part to honor my twin brother who died last year, and to raise awareness of wrestling being pulled from the Olympics,” he responded. His name was Jeffrey Fleming. I was surrounded by Jeffs!

I told him I was aware of the wrestling news ever since it came to light. I found it an abomination, given the sport’s long Olympic history; it was an original competition. And though there are dozens of swimming events (hence Michael Phelp’s amassing of medals), less popular sports are left to dry out, regardless of heritage. When I told him I’d made the ’88 team as an alternate, he just about fainted. The Olympics were his Holy Grail, my Katahdin.

Owing to the showers, we’d go our separate ways prematurely. I’d smile a while, thinking of what others might think of him, dressed as he was. A skin-tight singlet and a loud, proud flag: SAVE OLYMPIC WRESTLING. 

(I plucked the image below from the ‘net. Though Jeff remains flashily dressed, this outfit is tame compared to what he wore when we met. My little Fisher-Price camera was acting up at the time.)

Jeffrey Fleming

Come night I bellyflopped into the Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to. Felon and Sinner were firmly entrenched. They were smiling and reading the shelter register. The rain came in multiple orgasms: came, went, came again. There was no jealously on our part, just supper, sleep and a good deal of gas-passing, if gas-passing can be a good deal. I was doing so much of it it became a raw deal. For both me and the felonious fellers.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 152)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 152: Friday, August 23rd, 2013
Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to to near the Piscataquis River = 16 miles
Miles to date: 2,065

Of Dragons and Dragonflies

A FOREWORD...

Last night I learned something. Felon and Sinner snore. Like congested fire-breathing dragons in a battle to the breath. I got up, strode timorously into the tempestuous night, and pitched my pariah’s pad, Rancho Costa Plenty, at a safe distance from the racket. Roughly a mile. Even then I employed earplugs. Two in each ear and one in the hindquarters. No sound in or out.

~~~~~~~~~~

A PREFACE...

By dawn my earplugs unplugged. A droning dragonfly woke me. In years past I’ve been roused by bears, bison, bobcats, deer, cattle, humans, horses, dogs, frogs, hogs, llamas, goats, alpacas, martens, donkeys, monkeys, marmots, mosquitoes, moose, mice (many mice!), chipmunks, skunks, squirrels, raccoons, roosters, pikas, possums, porcupines, sheep(1), flies, foxes, ticks, a turtle, morning turtleheads (many turtleheads!), spiders, snakes, birds, lizards, coyotes, elk, kangaroos, scorpions, javelinas, three French hens, two turtle doves and a pair of parted partridges in a pair of pear trees. It was the dragonfly’s turn. Dragonfly: two-thirds dragon, one-third fly, full on mad.

The poor mosquito murderer was confined to the tent foyer, the voluminous veranda (also amatively referred to as guest quarters). She appeared unable or unwilling to dislodge herself by aiming downward. There an extensive opening would allow her absolute autonomy and the chance at colliding with an automobile windshield, had she only decided to dive-bomb, kamikaze style. Instead, she insisted on using her four-inch wingspan to continuous fly upward into the inescapable nylon roof, bombinating the entire time. Animals are dumb. I’d never plan a prison break with one.

It was the longest I’ve been close to the magical monster. With the help of 2.5x magnification readers, I observed her in detail. And in awe. Thin mesh was all that separated us, so we could examine one another in wonderment. Or wonderment in my case; sheer terror in hers. Her wings were highly effective, with minimal movement needed to sustain flight; her head was almost entirely eyeballs. She could rotate that head on a swivel and in all directions, like a bobble-head doll whose springy neck had been stretched. I looked into those bulging eyes and could see--could feel--the panic. Losing life. Can’t. Go. Much. Longer. Don’t just watch me die. Help!

Loathe to inflict or watch any suffering other than that of mosquitoes, I peeled the duct-taped netting and opened the Velcroed vestibule. The buzzing ceased when the dragonfly flew for freedom. (Isn’t this why anything flies?) Free too, and free to, I went back to sleep, darkness long gone. Some female dragonflies fake their death to avoid mating with unwanted males. I wasn’t faking mine.

AN INTRODUCTION...

It was just this side of ten o’clock when I woke a second time. It may have been that side. Whatever the side, I was on the verge of action. Moxie Bald stared down on me. The sun, straight overhead, also stared down, but was smothered by sheets of sullen gray. Not even the slightest tinge of guilt could find my mind. I’d learned long ago that rest is a critical component of hauling a backpack long distances, and that sleep is the only quality recovery/modality within reach of the trail. There are no (free) hot springs on the AT, and no natural salt baths. I hold out hope I’ll meet a masseuse on one of these hikes--preferably a blue-eyed brunette--but it hasn’t happened, and I recognize the likelihood is anything but likely. Sleep is it. (And sleep is where I can recover and dream about her.)

THE NARRATIVE...(and a “cliff note”)

Erect(2) and walking, I was at first alone, as far as human companionship goes. All the other players abounded. Wrens, ravens, grouse, buzzards circling like undertakers, deer, blueberries, the breeze, the trail…they all kept me company. And, in the case of the trail, occupied. One stretch atop a granite slab involved--necessitated--full focus. The path skirted a vegetated void for fifty-plus yards, where a wiggle to the right could end so very wrong; a shortcut to the morgue. There was little separating step and misstep. “Fall,” I warned myself, “and you’ll end up in a treetop. If lucky.” (That which does not kill you…can paralyze you.)

Stay Left!

I stopped and peed off the rim, onto the pines waiting patiently below, marking the territory I love. I then shot a load. Of pictures. I could hear others taking shots in the distance. I shoot to capture an animal on film (virtually); these anthropocentric types shoot to end a life. Bullets raped the silence. These killers live in hopes of bagging an animal. An even more repellent word hunters like to use: harvest, as in harvesting an animal. They call it sport. I’m not sure what the hunted call it, those speechless, stupid sorts.

(Visitors take note! City side or countryside, the US is a war zone. The nation has a serious firearms obsession. A howling mania. Wear orange. Or a bullet-proof vest. Especially near schools. [“…today in health class we’re going to learn to treat gunshot wounds.”] We can buy only one box of Sudafed at a time, but as many guns as we’d like.)

I wonder how hunting conforms to the Leave No Trace hymn. (He who wonders may be lost.) Fear not! There shall be no hunting dissertation forthcoming! I get that blood hunters help land conservation efforts in the US--yet snivel about license fees!--and for that we should be appreciative. (Let’s be clear here: hunters and trappers are interested only in protecting their opportunities to kill, not in conservation.) I too can think of reasons to own a gun--to blast TVs and computers, for example. I also support the right to arm bears! But men, well. Real men don’t need guns.

Let beings be, said Herr Heidegger. Be true to the earth, said a more popular German. Contempt for animal life leads to contempt for human life, said Ed. I must say that when I meet consumptive outdoorsmen--ATVers, dirt-bikers and those who kill for sport--and they traduce tree-huggers, as they seem wont to do, I remind them that without the original tree-hugger and his spawn-off, The Sierra Club, there’d likely be no public hunting grounds. Maybe tiny tracts. My allegiance will always be with the wilderness and the animals that who inhabit it, with the exception of the bipedal tool-making types.

One with Nature--not just one in Nature--I soon caught the early birds. Now three with Nature, we were walking through--within--vast tracts of wilderness, a part of it, not apart from it. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku or forest bathing, an immersion in wild surroundings. Eco-therapy. Nature nurturing. The Japanese say to bathe still, but we find serenity in movement.

Often I could make out others on exposed granitic slabs well ahead--sometimes an hour or more ahead. Other times I could detect hikers an equal distance back. I am sure to stop to see the path not solely from my direction of travel, but also from the southbounder’s vantage--and from a child’s perspective: with eyes full of wonder and curiosity and joy. It requires no work, thankfully.

Lunchtime. I sat with Team TK, pondering nothing. The eating was thought-provoking enough. It’s work, constantly having to shove calories in, just to maintain mass. Forget maintaining energy. Ever so enervated, I vow now never to swallow another Honey Bun. I shall soon (within two weeks, it looks), be cleaning my intake to the point of purity. From putrefying to purifying. Funnybone lays off the bone. Gone goes the multi-ingredient Frankenfood, the bleached grains, the animal flesh, the animal byproducts. All cold turkey. It’s odd that after walking through two thousand miles of them, I crave plants.

More glory as we kept on through the master cathedral. Edible plants, ground-dwelling birds, branch-dwelling birds (and their dozens of ariose dialects), rambunctious rabbits, chirpy chipmunks, lively breezes. Rain felt imminent, appeared incipient, but there’d be no such incident. Clouds circled and swooped, but seldom socked us. When socked in, we followed our shoes and the ubiquitous white blazes. Blazes we’re often painted on rock now, smearing the sublime scene. Strangely, the solitary painted path would lead us our separate ways; there are many ways to go one way. The paint, in the end, led us each into nighttime, quitting time.

After listening to a glaring non-hiker at the Horseshoe Canyon Lean-to, prudence said to serve me an eviction notice, pronto. I abided and skulked on, exhausted. I felt like I was leaving a potential crime scene. The questionable character had offered no disarming smile and lacked an instinct for fun. He seemed to want me dead, for reasons he didn’t make clear. No other hikertrash were around. None alive, anyhow. This was Stranger Danger, through and through.

These crackheads come out of the woodwork anytime a road impinges a shelter, as it did here; an access called Perkins Road wasn’t far (enough) away. I reckon it takes ten trail miles to quash the non-hiker bipedal threat, but you can never be sure; people can do amazing things on drugs! This rando was a breathing anti-camping advertisement. Sometimes I wish I carried bear spray. Just in case.

We’ve all met trail angels. Some of us get to meet trail gremlins. They walk among us. It seems my dream in Day 98’s writeup was more than a premonition.

This was a shady gremlin, an umbré hombre. A skitzoid. Twitchy as a rattlesnake tail, an Elmo Blatch. Built like a brick privy, built for prison. Big blade on hip (rhymes with spaghetti), cotton flannel on top, brusque mannerisms on tap. A chained wallet--disgusting things. Oversized canvas military bag! Fully-loaded! 

By the time I finished forging a signature in the shelter’s register, he was heating his Dinty Moore stew (in its BPA-lined can) with a portable blowtorch. A steel tank was attached to the torch, one of those dusky green Coleman jobbers that no backpacker in his right mind would carry, ever.

I couldn’t say if it was drugs or what. I hoped it was drugs. (It may have been chemical weapons.) But Inbred Jed was so addled he could only knock near reality’s door. “The fuckin’ Illuminati,” the Manson-looking parolee had lamented. (Out here the term fully-loaded applies in more ways than one--Tales from the Narc-side.) Other vocalizations were tinged with an equal degree of lunacy, which meth-mouth made no effort to conceal. 

“The AT is staggering,*” a pal told me before my hike. “Just don’t carry cash.” He also said he was glad he finished the path. “I don’t ever have to hike it again.” 

(*I’m not sure which sense of staggering he meant, now that I’ve completed much of the trail.)

Forever a bladerunner, I hustled cat-like to put distance between me and the malefactor, this person-of-interest (as police would deem him). I don’t think the police would ever capture my killer, just as Scott Lilly’s killer hasn’t been caught. I thought of many things as I galloped--“Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity”--but what stuck in my head the most was the Mitch Hedberg line: “If someone robbed me, they’d only be practicing.” I carry nothing worth stealing, but my life depends on it.

Oh, well. I’d rather sleep among animal friends than with human strangers.

I’m now parked along the waterline of the two-fathoms-deep Piscataquis River, sequestered on an eroding embankment in the sticks. Protection from detection. A hillbilly hideaway, a rube retreat, a cubbyhole I’ll bear with. Neighboring coyotes yip theatrically. A thousand spider eyes reflect my headlamp’s beam; they look like droplets of water, only the water moves when I do. Gulp.

I hear murmuring, haunting voices whenever I camp near running liquid. I also hear large toothy animals snapping sticks as they circle my tent. Is my mind playing tricks? Or are old spirits telling me something? Why do I enjoy camping? Will daylight ever come?

I cannot pronounce this river’s name. Piss-cat-a-key? I’ll simplify and call it the P River, not to be confused with the Pee River. As a conscientious outdoorsman, I know not to pee anywhere near a natural water source. Unless I’m swimming in it.

"Foot"note 1: No lambs however. The Silence of the Lambs?

"Foot"note 2: Morning wood in the woods.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 153)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 153: Saturday, August 24th, 2013
Near the Piscataquis River to Leeman Brook Lean-to = 9 miles
Miles to date: 2,074

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Property

“What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’ Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine’?”
~Friedrich Nietzsche

“I have always been unsatisfied with life as most people live it.
Always I want to live more intensely and richly.”
~Everett Ruess

“So many lives to live; a lone lifetime.” 

~Funnybone

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Though I can’t be certain, I’m pretty sure that lately I’ve been sleeping solidly, because I wake up wholly stiff each morn. Solid and stiff, stiffy and all.

Few things enrich and cleanse the soul like having the AT kick the living daylights out of you on the regular, but it leaves the body an absolute wreck. Or it leaves my body an absolute wreck. If I were a car, I’d be considered ‘totaled.’ Straight to the salvage yard.

These nubile, agile twenty-somethings just don’t understand how hard this goddamn trail is! (We aged folks are also agile: fr-agile.) I wish upon these spasmodic youngsters the chance to hike the AT again when they’re twice their age. Not strictly to be spiteful, though mostly, but also because I can’t think of a better life. May we older hikers hope they learn to carry this experience and others like it for the rest of their lives.

May they remain at odds with the human world! May their lives be extraordinary! May they be a ruler of life, and not a slave, to quote Whitman. May the forest be with them! May they continue to honor and take ownership of their time, and live like freedom matters.

But no. They’ll likely squander it all, letting go the gumption, succumbing to the pressures of prosperity, submitting themselves to The Establishment. Constricting their lives to the dimensions of The Machine. They’ll turn “responsible,” comfortable (hence slothful; hence laughably fat), economically stable/secure, yet in debt and enslaved, depressed and medicated. Trapped by the trappings and living falsely. Working to assure their future by relinquishing what’s now. (Today is my priority, always.)

They’ll then start buying, to fill a void. Gushing over the glitter. Aiming for quality of life, a lone paycheck from ruin. Happiness will come from the money they don’t yet have. They’ll speak of the abstraction of adventure highly, reminiscing nostalgically about the year they seized the day, but it won’t much play into their rote day-after-day lives.

No, they’ll repeat each day ad nauseam, straight to the point of monotony, held captive by bills, belongings and taxes whilst being persuaded to probe for tax “breaks,” so the government can continue to manage and manipulate the way they live. They’ll slouch at their desks or in their cars, obey their lobotomized electronically-addicted children (their screenagers), drink themselves silly, and drop much dough on their cookie-cutter home (then fret over its upkeep and keeping up...with the Jonses).

They’ll then fill that grave of the living, that golden cage, with more costly crap that’ll only gather dust, while straying on their spendthrift spouse, to instill some much-needed stimulation and excitement, to try to dull the pain and tedium of life on the daily. Work up the ladder, earn the corner office. Cornered. Worst of all, perhaps playing the victim. That’s how they’ll live out their years, proletariat prisoners to--and of--possessions. Paycheck to paycheck, living the dream. Such a fate: fatal. Thems the odds. Odd, indeed.

Oh, the façade that is the “American Dream,” that hoary monolith from a bygone era. (And my worst nightmare.)

When I think of a banausic, robotic existence like this (as the video portrays), I’m reminded of the germane line by Robert Wilson: “On a planet that increasingly resembles one huge maximum security prison, the only intelligent choice is to plan a jail break.” Rage against the machine!

Some dope rhymes...

And this is why 

we start to cry

the minute we are born...

It is but life, 

so full of strife,

that makes us want to mourn

So the question remains 

amid such pains:

What is it all worth?

The answer is clear: 

that you are here!

A life to give yourself birth

And there it is. What gives our lives meaning isn’t the possessions or the status or the security or the comfort we acquire, but the hardship we overcome, the lessons we gather, the joy we spread, and the memories we accumulate. Life’s better when you follow your heart. We are our choices. Screw comfort! Screw security! Comfort and security do not make for quality of life!

Aesop’s famed fable...

Discouraged after an unsuccessful day of hunting, a hungry wolf came upon a well-fed mastiff. The wolf could see that the dog was having a better time of it than he, so he inquired what the dog had to do to stay so well-fed.
“Very little,” said the dog. “Just drive away thieves, guard the house, show fondness to the master, be submissive to the rest of the family and you’re well-fed and warmly lodged.”
The wolf thought this over carefully. He risked his own life almost daily, was forced to stay out in the worst of weather and was never assured of his next meal. He thought he would give the dog’s way of living a crack.
But, as they were walking along together, the wolf noticed the dog’s neck, where his hair had been worn thin. He asked what this was. The dog replied it was nothing, “just where my collar and chain rub.”
The wolf stopped dead in his tracks. “Chain?” he inquired. “You mean you’re not free to roam where you wish?”
“No,” said the dog, “but what does that mean?”
“Much,” replied the wolf, as he trotted away...
“Much.”

As I’d penned way back when, although I may be close to the average AT thru-hiker age, there are but few forty-somethings on trail; I’ve met maybe five. Most my age are nowhere near the trails. They’re chiseling away at work, at career, spending and paying, organizing and reorganizing their stuff and their finances, waiting for their turn at life: retirement, when they’ll be too old and tired and toxic and chubby and injury-prone and senile to do much, or care much. We see the result of it out here. These retirees are hurting, if they’re still(1) on the trail. Most I’ve met…aren’t. Their life’s all-important AT adventure passed them by. And so I wish upon the twenty-somethings that they learn something from these older, unwise farts. Specifically: What. Not. To. Do. Work will not set you free!

(Think hard, kids: “owning” a home in the US means being in debt/enslaved for thirty to forty years, more than half your adult life! Don’t just take advantage of your youth; take advantage of your life. It is nothing short of a gift but one that expires all too soon. You are your life’s primary architect.)

Alexander Supertramp's note to a pal (P. 56-57 Into the Wild)

Perspiring all too soon, I was bumbling along in my usual languid style (stylish, given the nature of this nature trail) when I came upon another moose in a small trailside pond filled with lily pads and decaying plants. Not “came upon” as in ejaculated upon, because that would be altogether sick and somewhat freaky (Le Freak say Chuck…and anyone else who came upon such an act), but rather happened upon. The moose was being eaten alive by mosquitoes and ticks, who also happened upon him. I’d never seen so many ticks on an animal and I wondered what her fate would end up. Tick food.

Of course, the ticks deserve a chance at success and had every right to do what they were doing. But as a fellow mammal, I could empathize only with my fury friend. A goofy looker no doubt, but a unique one. I snapped photos, did an immediate and thorough self tick-check--it had been some time--and moseyed, combing imaginary ticks from my matted hair.

When they weren’t covered in slimy sphagnum moss, a series of elevated boardwalks allowed for easy striding. No roots, no mud, no problem. But when I stepped upon another row of boards, one of them--a 2” x 6” my height--came hurtling toward my face. I lunged to the side to avoid impact, only to land in a waist-deep bog. It took five minutes to extricate myself, and to retrieve a lost shoe and my remaining hiking pole. The dank mire tried its damndest to suck the life from me, thus the time suck. No doubt it would be the slowest stretch of the entire AT. Thankfully, no one happened upon me.

Brunch was served near another of the several stream fords (each usually shin to knee-deep, but sometimes crotch deep, which was helpful if only to remedy the offensive effluvium), about a mile and a half shy of Maine State Highway 15, the last highway of the hike, leading to the last town en route. Peanuts, cheese, raisins, fruit roll-up, some scavenged blueberries and some crystallized honey atop it all. Delish!

At the highway, I sat beside some empty beer cans, innumerable cigarette butts and a discarded, desiccated condom, when Mountain Goat and TK soon appeared. I thought the young lovers had been ahead of me, but no. Leap-frogging a Mountain Goat is not easy, but it does happen from time to time.

“I thought you guys would be in Monson by now.”

“And we thought you were long gone. Hey, we’re heading into Greenville instead of Monson. It’s a longer hitch, like ten miles or so, but it’s a much cheaper resupply, they say. Wanna join us?”

An easy answer. What is ‘yes’ Alex?

After an easy hitch, we lunched (again, in my case) in town at The Black Frog looking out over another of Maine’s huge bodies of water, Moosehead Lake. Moosehead, in fact, is Maine’s largest body of fresh water. Or so our vacuous server told us, a cheerless, chubby chick with a forged smile plastered to her face (and enough makeup on that face to frighten even the most made-up of clowns). We inhaled our greasy gross meals (fries, fries, and more fries) and then strolled around town for a closer gander. We liked what we saw. There wasn’t much not to like, because there wasn’t much.

After the wander-round, we hit up the neighborhood grocer, who stood ready to relieve of us of our dollars as we readied ourselves for the longest grocery-store-less stretch on the entire trail: The Hundred-Mile Wilderness. The Hundred-Mile Wilderness is the trail’s most remote stretch. Make it through that, and there’d be just sixteen measly miles left. My heart fluttered in anticipation. We ended up buying so much that there was no way it was all going to fit into our packs. (We’d each used a push-cart to shop, a cardinal sin.) I ended up carrying two triple-reinforced bags, one in each hand, as we returned to the highway to thumb our noses at civilization, and to thumb our way from it.

Half my shopping supplies

The Hundred-Mile Wilderness is not true wilderness, per se. It is owned by various logging companies that have granted rights for the trail to pass through, after pressure by government agencies. But it mattered not to us; it still demanded preparation, as a sternly worded sign would soon warn. Our hitch was fruitful, even though I had to sit scrunched in the very back of a microscopic Jeep, with our driver’s beautiful baby girl of about eighteen months. Black babies, I realized right then, are cuter than their white counterparts.

Then she pooped.

As bad as we smelled, this lap-sized munchkin outperformed us. We were impressed. I shook her hand and kept making kooky faces, much to her delight. Delilah’s delight.

We thanked our driver, Delilah’s dad, and returned to the underbrush, but not before some obligatory repacking. And not before Goat and TK offered (er, ordered) that they take a photo of my bag-carrying antics. I managed to squeeze one of the two grocery bags inside my pack, but still, carrying a stick in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other, and at least thirty more empty baggies in my backpack’s side pockets, I must’ve looked something special. Something Special Ed. We bid adieu to the highway, the last one we’d witness, and walked into the logged wild.

 

Goat and the estimable Klutz estimated a week to trail’s end. Seven short days. Half a fortnight. I held no notion of estimation, no final countdown(2), just enough food to remain at least twice as long, if necessary. I sought a pleasure cruise, with a nonstop eating orgy right up to the time I reached Baxter State Park. The park was donated in 1931 by Percival Baxter, Maine’s governor from 1921-24. It was to be, in his words, “kept wild forever.” Near there, in a less wild Abol Bridge, I could buy a few snacks or snag a ride back to civilization if need be, before the final push up Katahdin, which sits in the park’s heart. Until then, no hurries, even though it meant we’d soon be going our independent ways.

I started in on my cheddar popcorn, quickly polishing the bag by the time we made it to the Leeman Brook Lean-to, a few miles past the road. Nine hundred and thirty calories into my bloodstream; seven ounces subtracted from my cargo-load. Not a single kernel had hit the ground, though half of them were concealed somewhere deep inside my beard, as I’d discover later, when mice began attacking it. Beards: the original food storage system. The Flavor Saver! The mouse magnet.

"Foot"note 1: Still, as in if they've remained on the trail, not if they are motionless (which many older hikers appear to be).

"Foot"note 2: I'm going to reach Katahdin on time, no matter how long it takes!

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-stepped Little Wilson Falls, Goat and Klutz caught. They’d soon forge to the fore, giggling 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 know though. Did we exchange email addresses? How would I ever reach them again, if I couldn’t do so soon? Would I ever see or smell them again?

More thru-hikers came and went, most of whom I’d never seen or smelled before. (There’d been a backlog of backpackers in Monson, 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 wish to speed through 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 time, he shot me a steely stare and testily sped away. It seemed 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 trail 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 some 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 right after the CDT!”

He offered 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, awaited them at a trailhead ahead. We’d cross a set of railroad tracks (wilderness!) and ease into exchange. 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 a glance. I blamed my struggles on my backpack. Backpacks ruin backpacking.

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 long 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 once was. 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. I’ve pissed people off with it.”

Light on his feet, mi 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 counted on when I’m 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. I was mildly surprised when I saw there was still space available. The place appeared even more spacious than it was; someone had jokingly hung a large mirror inside--I could see myself hanging around a while. This, despite the mirror clearly being an unreliable one, based on its performance. Anyway, there was room enough for me and my plastic bag collection. I began unpacking. La Bella Durmiente del Bosque was in attendance, so I pulled out my earplugs and cautioned the others about the impending storm. “Storm?” they asked. “We hadn’t heard.”

“You will,” I replied. “You will.”

Sleeping Beauty sounded 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.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 155)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 155: Monday, August 26th, 2013
Long Pond Stream Lean-to to Chairback Gap Lean-to = 11 miles

Miles to date: 2,097

Day 155: In which our subject finds himself tired and cranky, as has been the case the hundred and fifty-four days prior.

~~~~~~~~~~

There were just one hundred miles separating those of us in the Long Pond Stream Lean-to and Mount Katahdin, the path’s last great problem. The Appalachian Trail goes cold after that, unless one wishes to continue onto Canada. (The trail goes cold, all right.) There, the hiker can resume on the International Appalachian Trail, a corridor mostly in theory and name, not in actuality. The others sprung up early and sped back into the enchanted forest, impatient to reach that end. I might’ve joined them, but couldn’t find the shelter’s door.

Sleeping Beauty slept tight and snored all right, all night, but his sleeker version (Sleeping Beauty 2.1) snores nothing like his previous rotund self (Sleeping Beauty 1.0). More positive trail-related change, and the guy probably doesn’t even realize it. The mirror doesn’t share everything.

Continuing back to last night, one of our lean-to roommates informed us that the forecast called for clear skies for the unforeseeable future. Good news indeed. I argued that because the future is unforeseeable and not in fact news--yet--and because no one can accurately predict much of anything about it, said forecast was anything but clear. Still, we all agreed we’d accept it or whatever else alternative came our way. Little would stop us now--and it’d have to be big.

It was clear when I finally got going, but one can never tell just how clear, what with all the trees in the way. Long-range vantages in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness are maybe a hundred feet, both ahead and overhead. The rain arrived in minutes. The forecast was now downcast--and downpour. Things went downhill quickly. The rain was so powerful it knocked needles off their branches. Hiking is not supposed to be punishment.

A typical forecast wherever I am

It’d end up a head-down day, up and over the slickened Barren Ledges and over the rockslide that is Barren Mountain. Past logging operations (wilderness!) and past the point of requiring two knee operations. (One operation destroys things, one fixes things.)

I’d finish breakfast at the Cloud Pond Lean-to, before tackling more bog, more log, more fog and more slog. First there was Fourth Mountain, then Third Mountain, then finally enough of mountains. Yep, a thru-hike of the AT is not a continuous sequence of Hallmark cards. It is no tampon ad. There are no fluffy bunnies or bouncy puppies to cuddle with, and there are few Sound of Music hillsides swathed in wildflowers on which to rollick or picnic. The AT is a test of you as a person, on top of a test of you as a thru-hiker. Oh how I cry mercy! This has been the toughest challenge I’ve ever...

     Ah, never mind.

The hills may be alive, but I’m dead. And dead men do not moan. (When you’re prone to moan, all you’re really doing is placing yourself at the top of the list of things that annoy you. Chin Music knows what I mean.)

I’m currently cozy inside the Chairback Gap Lean-to, alongside Coolie McJetPack (“long time no see!”) and an older chap named Pat-agonia (“long time never see!”). All others remained out of their heads and were well ahead. Thankfully, there’s no shortage of entertainment with these two, nor with the Backpacker Magazines laying about, but more about that come morning; I’ve endured enough punishment for one day. Time now for nothing. And I never moan about nothing.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 156)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 156: Tuesday, August 27th, 2013
Chairback Gap Lean-to to Logan Brook Lean-to = 18 miles (58,457 steps)
Miles to date: 2,115

The End is Nigh (and it is high)

As threatened in previous foot-print, I’m going to unload some additional thoughts about Backpacker Magazine. Where to begin? Should I swear that much?

If you’ve never seen the Panglossian glossy or poked behind its anodyne covers, regard yourself privileged. This, be you a backpacker, a Green Bay Packer, or a fudge packer. It is, like many other periodicals, made mostly of advertisements. Lousy ones, often irrelevant. Over the years ads have hawked anything from lingerie (no, really) to off-road motorcycles, yacht cruises and gas guzzlers. (“Get a new car for your spouse!” one ad read, to which I respond, “It’s a great trade!”) 

It gets worse: the ads are sometimes broken up by less substantial substance, what the magazine’s editor terms, “articles,” made of “writing.” But you wouldn’t know this by reading. Okay, okay. At times a decent article will appear within its pages, but it’ll likely be years before another good one does. Most articles include over-sized, overhauled photographs, or drawings or cartoons or diagrams done by “artists” from the nearest available preschool.

When non-doctored photos appear, if they appear, they’re usually of models. Paid, pedicured people. Young, good-looking lumbersexual men and women acting the part. It’s obvious they’re not the authentic thing; they’re too sterile and well-dressed and devoid of bodily or facial hair. And of blisters (a tell-tale sign). These models are always togged out in the latest, greatest attire, and equipped with the latest, greatest gear (like, for example, an SUV parked on the beach!), gear which bona-fide backpackers generally don’t fret over. (No, real ‘packers use and abuse their gear to its death, opting for more hiking adventures over the work necessary to constantly buy new schwag.) Having a Jeep full of outdoor gear doesn’t make you a backpacker or an adventurer!

Of the many mass-produced backpackers I’ve met during backcountry excursions, only three have appeared in the magazine. Two-thirds of them were clean and good-looking, with the notable exception of Jennifer Pharr Davis, whose photos were heavily filtered. But I was happy to see her mug in there, even though she’s known mostly for not carrying a backpack.

If the rag were committed to backpackers and not just to advertisers,* it wouldn’t rely on such cleanliness. 

(* Backpacker sometimes gifts subscriptions, to inflate subscriber numbers, so its staff can secure additional advertiser$. Advertisers won’t queue if readers are few.)

If it were true to those who do, Backpacker would show backpacking at its worst--at its truest. It’d showcase the headcases: the grimy thru-hikers and the obsessed section hikers. It would expose mud-caked overnighters learning to launch snot-rockets. It’d feature fucked-up feet, and sunburnt guys with food stuck in their beards. There’d be bloody evidence of nipple chafing, and pictures of women seared with scars, up and down their hairy legs. Scars are tattoos with better stories--better stories than Backpacker has ever published.

For full accuracy the magazine would include the occasional Scratch-n-Sniff photo, so aspirant outdoorsmen and women could catch wind of what it means to be a hiker, one who hasn’t showered for weeks. Scratch-n-Sniff to smell here ➡️ (Scratch at the feet, the pits, the nether bits, or the backpack itself, often the most malodorous element.)

What rankles me most about the monthly, and so many others like it, those with their sights and sales set on the outdoors, are the blatant proclamations:

“Hidden Havens!”
“Unknown Gems!”
“SECRET Getaways!”

“Undisclosed Spots Disclosed!”
“Backcountry Refuges: Plotted, Mapped & GPS’d!”

...and so on.

I’ve touched on this before, but by publicizing these pristine places, the tabloid has made them less pristine--they’ve unhidden them and helped in their eradication. (The original definition of pristine is: belonging to the earliest period or state; ORIGINAL, not spotless. Nature will never be spotless, thankfully.) Anyone who gives a damn about protecting a place would either keep his or her trap shut, or lie about its whereabouts, or maybe rename them to something nonexistent and/or fictitious. Mary Austin took such a tactic in The Land of Little Rain, within which she never places names on places: “I am in no mind to direct you to delectable places toward which you will hold yourself less tenderly than I.” That was back in 1903.

In this, she was ahead of her time and far wiser than these magazine editors and authors, who are the furthest thing from Nature lovers. I prefer four-wheelers, ATVers and advertisers to magazine editors who advertise and recycle such excrement. You’re not going to find much value or peace in a place if found through a magazine. Maps are a superior means; they encourage you to find your own inspiration.

But I’ve never given the publication much thought; all its issues are a non-issue. I may flip through it at the library or in a shelter--as I had last night--but I’ll more often move on to better rags, like Wart Removal Weekly or Constipation Elation. Indeed, I read to be educated, enlightened, entertained and inspired. Backpacker falls flat on all fronts. I can vow, however, that the namby-pamby magazine does make for good fire-starter, though it’s not nearly as effective as the old standby: oily white birch bark. (Kudos to Goat for teaching me the latter!)

      Enough ragging on rags.

Onto today’s report, where I hereby open myself up to any and all literary (or non-literary) excoriation...

~~~~~~~~~~

For the longest time Katahdin had played hard to get. But no more! THE END IS NIGH! The end is in sight! The large dangling karrot draws nearer!

My first glimpses of Special K came near the end of the day, above the thigh-high krummholz, near the summit of White Cap Mountain. There are other places I’ve already passed where the hulking flattop could be distinguished, but I knew not where to look or what bearing to seize. There are a great many great mountains in Maine and it’s not easy to decipher which is which. Until today, anyway.

Though it had been blocked from view by trees, low-lying clouds and other peaks, and though it had been more of a case of If you see K, it was easy now to see that K stands alone. It has no satellite peaks. Above the trail, above all. It is regal and imposing, standing thousands of feet above the surrounding floor, making it the single boldest geological statement of the entire Appalachian range. It faces the hiker like a dare. I broke into an unadulterated dance-like gesticulation. Near rhythmic convulsion. Then I broke dance and walked on.

Prior to that magical moment, I’d slogged in silent solitude. Or mostly silent. Even before witnessing the wall, I couldn’t stop myself from shattering the serenity by singing; it was that kind of day. A gay gambol, as they’d say in ye olden day. A bitchin’ day, as they’d say today. Light blue skies, dark blue blueberries, gentle breezes, and vistas to holler for. I’d left Pat-agonia early on and Coolie a little later, skylarking at my own hit-or-miss rhythm. And today’s rhythm was a wonderful hit. I even felt light on my feet. Almost.

When I moseyed with Coolie, it was easy to see he was anxious to finish. A sense of urgency oozed out his pores. (I understand the urgency; as Yogi Berra used to say, “it gets late early.”) But he was equally worried about whatever life would toss him afterward, if anything. Each time he thought ahead, he slowed.

Just prior to his hike he’d completed college with an accounting degree (from a private NYC school I’d predictably never heard of). Then began the grim procedure of applying for various accounting jobs, jobs you can be assured I’d never land, since I’d never apply. The newly-minted grad got respectable grades in college, but failed to make the grade at every interview. That’s when he came upon the Appalachian Trail (though not literally, because that would be sick).

“My life makes sense on the trail,” he says.

Trail life is simple, yet indisputably multifaceted; it is rewarding, yet exceedingly taxing. (Anyone can account for these taxes.) And now that our hikes were approaching conclusion, we were both fearful of facing that which lay beyond. We tried to convince ourselves that the self-styled real world awaited with open arms, but we both knew it was our legs that provided us the greatest joy, as they had for more than five months. We agreed that if we hated the quote-unquote real world, that nutty place so addicted to speed, we could always run right back out of it. Or walk.

The AT would always be there, and our feet could get us to it. (Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?) And though it’s no longer the bastion of tranquility that it had been a couple of decades ago, the path beats smothering our souls in the clamor of culture/the culture of clamor. A necessary escape route, if only for sanity purposes. Untouched open landscape is, after all, our origin, and it possesses a much stronger claim to reality.

“I feel more at home here than anywhere,” said the big city boy.
“Then why the hurry?” I asked. “Impatience is a city emotion. Save it for there.”
“‘Cause I want to see how this hike turns out!”

“Coolie, Coolie, Coolie. When the goal is to be done, myopia sits shotgun! You’ll miss the trees for the forest!”
“But,” he replied, “I’ve got to do what’s wrong for me.”

I sang him an old song of mine...

♫ You can go fast
Or you can make it last
Slow's the way to go
If you enjoy the show... ♫

The song is about steamy, salacious coitus, but can be applied to hiking, as most things can. There’s not enough time to be in a hurry.

Despite his being a rich kid, I like Coolie(1). He’s hardheaded (ala his Harpers Ferry pack overhaul obstinacy) and equally aloof, but I’ll remember him as the dude who packed nonstop smiles. Whenever I think of his duct-taped guitar, with its dings and dents and legions of lesions, I’ll hear him playing and singing, and I know I’ll smile. Even years from now, as these footprints and these backpack diaries--this foot-print--becomes a lifetime ago.

Without knowing it, the Chicagoan has persuaded me to dedicate more of myself toward learning the instrument, even toward learning to play the instrument. I look forward to it. It’s hard to carry a piano on trail, though it wouldn’t astound me if an off-key trail dweller someday attempts it; maybe Tuba-Man can up things a notch.

Just after midday, after the twenty-one hundred mile mark, we neared a side trail to “The Grand Canyon of the East,” the Gulf Hagas--a deep, narrow gorge with impressive waterfalls. Why the AT doesn’t dive into it, who knows. For a trail that doesn’t miss much of anything, this is its biggest neglect. Hikers should sue for negligence! My guess is that the avoidance has to do with the gorge’s potential peril or with the logging companies who own the land, but I don’t know. I don’t know a lot, this is nothing knew.

Normally a waterfall chaser, I stuck to the AT, bypassing the ditch. I ditched Coolie and worked my way toward the Carl A Newhall Lean-to, presumably named after one Carl A Newhall, a man I knew only by name. I assumed he was a man; he may have been a woman with a man’s name. Lunch was another dentist’s nightmare, though I’m sure my dentist will be pleased. (He’s money-hungry: “Do you want your teeth whitened?” “How much does it cost?” “$200,” he replied. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll just get a tan.”) Thankfully, my teeth will all fall out someday, and I won’t need his help.

Beyond the cramped shelter (cramped in size and cramped by surrounding woodland, but itself empty), I’d scale a steep Gulf Hagas Mountain, followed slowly by West Peak, then Hay Mountain, then, eventually, White Cap Mountain. There I could see Katahdin. The Pay-Per-View price was lofty--my heart hammered hard all day, a frantic fast-twitch fiber--but the recompense was worthy. From seven hundred and eighteen feet in elevation to three thousand six hundred and fifty feet, leaving my feet dead beat. A gain of nearly three thousand feet; a detriment to two of ‘em.

Near night I’d emerged at the Logan Brook Lean-to, named after a guy named Logan Brook, or maybe after a girl named Brook Logan. One can never be sure. The lean-to was teeming with unknowns. Unknown, not unfriendly. Still, I decided to traipse on, so I could pass gas in peace and not burden the bunch. Bacteria is disassembling my innards. Tear gas, they’d cry. My headlamp is on the blink--figuratively and factually--but a small sign next to the creek where I’m camped warns me to KINDLE NO FIRES. I would not see the sign until my tidy fire illuminated the area. Oh, well, what’s done is done. The blaze should help to burn off these lingering, excess (and excessive) greenhouse gases.

~~~~~~~~~~

PS: A while back I told Ruth, this hike’s Central Command Unit, not to bother shipping the last of the guidebook maps. I’d decided, by hook or by crook, I would welcome whatever the path served. (Trail Rule #1.) I’ve been walking “blind” since and I must say, I prefer it--not knowing precisely what’s ahead. 

Well, besides Katahdin. It’s impossible now to not know it’s there, and I like that.

"Foot"note 1: It is my default setting to hate rich kids. May they take their silver spoons and dig their graves! But I guess I shouldn't knock the silver spooners; I now have a titanium spoon that's every bit as expensive. Functional too, as I continue digging my grave.