A Limp in the Woods (Day 158)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 158: Thursday, August 29th, 2013
Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to to Potaywadjo Spring Lean-to = 12 miles
Miles to date: 2,138

SPF 95

I hadn’t been asked the entire trip. I suppose it was time.

Don’t you ever get bored?

“No,” I replied flatly, earnestly.

The dictionary characterizes boredom as the state of being bored. But that boring definition hardly tells its meaning. Psychologists more accurately define it as “the aversive experience of wanting, yet being unable, to engage in satisfying activity.”

The simple act of walking, peculiarly enough, is anything but boring. Especially in untamed Maine, where Nature should always be spelled with a capital N, as Waldo would have it. The N word, as we outer-city types say. Do I ever get bored? Sure I do. With that question, even when it’s asked once. In Nature, that which does not thrill us only makes us stranger.

And it’ll assure me that you and I remain strangers.

It was a huge white logger sitting in a huge white truck who stopped me, at Jo-Mary Road. A sticker on the truck’s rear window told me it was a Dodge Ram, or so I deduced. (It read: ‘Dodge the dad; Ram the daughter.’ Mature.) Anyway, the driver asked about trail tediousness, along with scads of other questions, including the usual battery…

     Where’d ya start?

     Where are ya from?

     How do ya afford it?

     How’d ya afford the time off work? (“This is work.”)

     Do ya carry a piece? (“Nah, I carry the whole thing.”)

     Seen any bears? (“Does a bear shit in the woods?”)

     Many women do the trail? (“Not enough.”)

And so on…

“Has it been challenging?” he asked.

“Not in the least bit,” I responded. “Only in the most bit.”

He didn’t laugh.

My new favorite, though…

“What’s been the hardest part?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” I replied, “the part between Georgia and Maine, including Georgia and Maine.”

I was taken aback when the forty-ish year-old guy ultimately asked, “has the experience been what you expected?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said it was beyond any expectations I’d harbored. I wasn’t lying; I didn’t have any expectations going in. Expectations have destroyed many an AT dream; it is good not to pack any.

He then asked a couple more thought-provokers...

Did the trip change me? If so, how? Am I a different man?

I couldn’t think if it had, at least not if it had within the skin.

“I don’t know yet...” I replied. I really didn’t. Maybe I wouldn’t ever know. Or maybe the change is beyond recognition. Too subtle to tell.

“...but I don’t think I hike in hopes of changing. I hike because it’s who I am.”

     He seemed to understand.

I’d like to think these long walks have made me a better individual--more understanding, patient, accepting, respectful, mindful--but I’m not sure that that’s the case. They’ve destroyed my already-low tolerance for crowds and industry and noise and sprawl and humanity in general. These walks, these escapes, have ruined my patience for automobile gridlock, and for the predictable, inevitable lines at the post office and at the supermarket. And there’s little good about that. 

I worry I might snap one day, or revert to being a full-time night owl. (Incidentally, aren’t owls nocturnal, making the term night owl redundant?) Sadly, anymore, I can scarcely survive in a town bigger than those lining this trail. And Small-Town America (RIP) isn’t exactly my cup of tea. (Never mind that tea has always been hard to find in Small-Town America.) Rural folk in the US, though largely kind and sincere and giving, aren’t typically open-minded or intelligent or eager for adventure. See how kind I am? No, these long walks don’t always improve us.   

Jo-Mary Road sat a few miles into my daily exercise, so I sat down on it and inhaled a late breakfast. The clouds and rain had moved on, as had those I slept with beside last night. It’s partly the shelter mice that have me eating elsewhere lately, ‘cause there’s little doubt that I’d rather sit my skinny ass down on a muddy, pockmarked road, than share with them. Or fend them off. You see, despite a similar outward appearance, shelter mice aren’t like normal mice. They may be of a similar size, but these are professional mice. A force to be reckoned with. They’re vicious, with retractable three-inch fangs and razor-sharp tails, tails with stingers at their end. And these professional mice are quick for confrontation. They have even been known to hold hikers hostage, at gunpoint, until their stomachs are satisfied. When hikers resist or attempt to mediate, as they sometimes do, you can imagine the resultant bloodshed. Bloodshed, blood shelter. Again, it is best to eat elsewhere, in peace.

Then again, if inquiring minds await at every road crossing, maybe it’s also best to avoid eating near them. We hikers shit in the woods; we ought to eat in them!

SPF 95

Beyond the slender Jo-Mary Road and the lumberjack interview I met up with Sinner yet again. Turns out he hadn’t been speeding forward like I’d thought. He was in the same sort of hurry I was--none whatsoever. More than just a thru-hike, we each desired a thorough hike. A serried thicket of thin lodgepole pines (pinus contorta, not to be confused with penis contortae) enveloped us. Nature’s sunblock, SPF 95. We walked at a snail’s pace, in unison, and I’d asked him if he ever got bored on the trail. He responded with, “fuck yes! But not nearly as bored as I would be off the trail. Or working.”

“The AT doesn’t count as work?” I asked.

“Never.”

“It’s sure as hell fooled me.”

“How about you?” he asked. “Do you ever get bored?”

“I suppose I might if I wasn’t always so tired.”

We walked on, under the canopy and under the sun, and underneath a couple of quarrelsome squirrels. One of the squirrels fell right in front of us. To the ground. From fifty feet above the ground. It lay stunned for a second, presumably surprised and embarrassed by its plunge, before shaking itself off and resuming its squirrelly duties. Sinner and I forgot we were supposed to be bored, and so we set out to enjoy another nice day. What else was there to do?

There were just over fifty miles of trail left--gulp!--and we felt good about our chances of averting any significant interval of wicked weather, as the locals call it. The wicked weather they speak of was still many months off, but last night’s rain was wicked enough for we thin-skinned non-Maine residents. We thought of the hikers yet to reach the state, or those who haven’t even reached New Hampshire or Vermont and were glad we weren’t them. Suckers!

Though it’s not entirely official, the trail’s checkered flag--Baxter State Park--closes on October 15th each year. Sooner, if socked-in with snow, or snowed-in with socks. If a hiker had left Springer Mountain the same day as I had--March 25th, 2013--but could only manage an average of ten miles a day--without any rest days--he’d miss the cut-off by a fortnight, and he’d fail in his quest to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. Ten miles a day, by the way, ain’t child’s play.

As a result of this number-crunching, time-crunched candidates--the old or the slow or the feeble or the over-eager--begin their mission earlier, to get a jump on their goal. But then comes the increased likelihood of a serious storm, similar to the one we were subjected to this spring. When it happens, that likelihood is anything but likable(1). The gist is this: hiking the AT is work. I don’t care what that grinner Sinner says.

A fellow backpacker

Working our way along the sandy shore of the sparkling Jo-Mary Lake, we drifted apart. Near the Antlers Campsite and its two-seater shitter, I stopped for a dunk--in the lake--after toe-testing the temperature. Tolerable. A scour would be nice.

Years ago I’d been a strong swimmer; here now I worried I might go the way of the Titanic, so I kept close to the shore, about ankle-deep. Each time I reentered the lake schools of small, uneducated fish fed on the dead skin shedding from my toes. Uneducated? Sure, why not. These are animals that poo and pee in the same public place they swim! Anyway, the water was chilly but soothing, and it helped remove at least the top few layers of grime encasing my being. It would take a flame-thrower or an acid tank to remove the rest, neither of which was on hand.

I thought of camping beside the lake--“location, location, location,” as a city-strapped real estate agent would say--but there was still plenty of daylight and the natation only served to rejuvenate. Besides, it would’ve been a sin to stay just a single night on such lovely littoral landscape. So it was I’d put it in my past and perambulate another hour, ending up at a mid-sized lean-to, with a full-sized name I could never pronounce. It is, all in all, a native name and I am not a native. I’m just passing through.

"Foot"note 1: Except for those of us who love winter hiking, anyway. But then again there's always been a problem with winter hiking, since--follow closely here--it tends to take place in winter.

A Limp Through Life

He died early; I don’t blame him. 

We don’t always realize the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

When I was in my formative years (they’re all formative years), around the age of ten or twelve, my parents split (split up; split town; split for good). I went into a long-lasting funk. Then I went crying to friends. Aside from the woods, I had nowhere else to turn. In those days counselors were nonexistent. My friends’ parents were also divorced or divorcing, so I knew they’d understand and empathize. The two friends that got me were Todd Dangerfield and Stevie Sherwood, precocious neighborhood kids who wore torn jeans long before they were considered fashionable. These two helped keep the ‘hood in neighborhood. “We’ll all be all right,” Stevie would say to me, hand on my shoulder. “Each day is ours.”

     “Each day is ours.”

I treasure that moment.

One day, when Stevie knew I was hurting inside, he invited me to go water-skiing on Folsom Lake, a huge expanse of backed-up water not far from where we lived, at the base of the Sierra Nevada. He figured doing something else would help me think of something else. His dad and older brother were going, so they could teach me the rope, so to speak. I had moved elsewhere and used it as an excuse, but the truth was I was terrified of new endeavors, so I opted out. In a way I’m glad I did. In a way, I’ll always regret not having gone. Perhaps I could’ve done something.

It was a seizure that took him, and a large part of me. His first seizure ever would be his last. The coroner later said it hadn’t been a severe episode, but it was enough to send him over the edge of the boat and into the water. He drowned. Stevie had always been a joker, and his dad thought he was simply screwing around. When I heard the horrific news, I fell further into despair. I didn’t attend his funeral. I feared I’d never recover. I never have. My life had no meaning. All of life had no meaning.

     But.

Meaningless though life may be, I vowed then to make each day a bit more meaningful, in his honor. To celebrate the beauty of life...our one and only, our precious/precarious time, our limitless opportunity, our potential. That’s the effect the death of a young friend will have when you’ve remained distraught over it your whole life. Whole life, indeed: his premature demise and its effect have made my life whole, my life complete--I’ve accomplished far more than I’d ever dreamed, at times even a sense of inner peace--and for that I’ll always cherish the memory of Stevie, even as the memory fades.

My sister named her child after Stevie, even though she wasn’t as close to him as I’d been. She and I aren’t all that close, unfortunately, but I’ve always been beholden toward her for such a kindhearted deed. I figured if I ever had a child, I would have named him--or her--Stevie. I’ve not had a child, and I fear that that good fortune has come and gone. I fear more so, however, that our memories fade. All we’re left with is the life we lead, until it fades.

Until then, each day is ours.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sun shall rise

The sun shall set

in between

Is what we get

The sun shall set

The sun shall rise

in between

...another prize

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 hasn’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 hiker named Two-Toned Albatross (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 bludgeon torturesome silence. Why am I afraid of shared silence? Do I feel I’m being judged? But then Sinner showed up, as would Raven, an older thru-hiker from Reno. Minutes later another hiker swooped in. He too went by Raven(1), forming a kind unkindness. Three birds, one stone-r. 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 till now. As ravens do, they got on fine, cackling away the day. Albatross dovetailed with the two. Unkindness is a misnomer.

About that. There are some queer animal group names. But of course they had nothing to do with it. So we can’t blame a bale of turtles, or a murder of crows, or a kaleidoscope of butterflies, or a flamboyance of flamingos, or a bloat of hippopotamuses, or a cackle of hyenas, or a fluther of jellyfish, or a parliament of owls. The animals don’t even know their species! How stupid must they be?!

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 because of the fracas that is the Internet, that place humans go to misbehave (and find animal group names), 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. We don’t stop walking.

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.

What concerns me is the shell shock after the end of a long hike. 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 gathering 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 sweaty midsection, but it’s coagulating again here near its backside. 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’ve become almost clinical in my calorie tabulations between resupplies, nailing it with a high degree of precision. (That is to say I’d walk into town unencumbered by food weight.) But here now I pondered leaving 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.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 161)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 161: Sunday, September 1st, 2013
Abol Bridge to Birches Campground and back = 10 miles (+ 10 miles!)

(AT) Miles to date: 2,181

Out and Back

Yet another wacky, warped dream last night. I was hooked via a series of wires to a polygraph machine--a lie detector. A faceless clock hung from each of the four cinder-block walls, while a faceless man began asking me a barrage of questions for a crime I did not commit, or did not recall committing. That part of the dream escaped me. One question I remember vividly was rather simple: “Have you enjoyed your experience on the Appalachian Trail?” The clocks ticked in perfect synchronicity.

“Yes,” I said, resolutely. The polygraph vibrated frantically, sounding a succession of alarms.

I retracted my reply: “Oops. I meant no.”

Again the machine beeped furiously, before smoke began to billow out of it.

“I mean, I don’t know. Can I answer this one later? Ten years later?”

The faceless man said nothing.

I awoke to the smell of smoke. It was emanating from a nearby campfire.

~~~~~~~~~~

There were just fifteen miles of Appalachian Trail remaining, discounting the mandatory handful of miles back down the final hurrah. Knowing I wasn’t up for a twenty-miler, let alone such an epic one, I decided on a shorter stroll. I’d end up venturing ten miles over docile terrain up to the Birches Campsite, where the earth tilts skyward toward Katahdin’s summit. A vertical horizon I didn’t care to come to grips with. Grips being the operative word.

From the Birches Campground the scheme was to hitch to the happening hamlet of Millinocket but by way of Abol Bridge, where I was to stash the all-too-heavy supplies. Tomorrow’s forecast calls for a hundred percent chance of rain, which is about ninety-eight percent too chancy for my liking. I want light at the end of this tunnel; light skies, light load. And so I figure I’ll be better off relaxing in town, assuming a ride would come my way on this sunny Sunday, this first of September. Mama K can wait. Will wait.

     Maybe.

I’d camped with Jeff the Felon. We decided for a spot next to the potholed bridge crossing the Penobscot River. We did this to spare ourselves what the local campsite was gouging the rich (ill-advised) folks for, some ten or twelve smackers. For a dirt patch and generator noise! In the early hours it had rained a fair amount, fair or unfair, but by the time we awoke it was a fairly stellar day. Slugs slithered all over our tents and when it came time to flick them off, each tent shone with a silvery-gray spackling that only the most dastardly of downpours would remove. No matter. Extra waterproofing.

After spanning the bridge and snapping photos of Katahdin--eleven feet shy of a mile high--I ate some snacks, re-sorted my pack (hiding my sleeping bag and tent in the area, so I wouldn’t have to haul their bulk for the day, as broached above), and was off. Off, not like a prom dress; off like month-old milk. Rancid, not rapid. I’m well past due for a scour of a shower. Or a dunk to rid the funk. 

The route would end up as scenic and irenic as any I’d moseyed in Maine. I was walking on the happy side of life, socializing with myself as I went. Yeah, I could easily live in Maine, hard as winter might be... At first the path paralleled the icy blue waters of the Penobscot River, then eventually the icy white waters of Nesowadnehunk Stream, before touring Big Niagara Falls. Then it passed the Little Niagara Falls. Neither are the biggest of Niagara Falls, those well south and west of here. Nonetheless: picturesque beyond expectation. Pleasure beyond measure. But since this was still the AT it was all upstream, naturally. Can’t have things too easy.

At the second set of falls I waved at a middle-aged French-Canadian couple. I could tell they were French-Canadian ‘cause they waved back in French-Canadian. They waved me over (in French-Canadian) and asked if I wouldn’t mind taking their picture. “I wouldn’t mind,” I assured them. I didn’t know it, but they’d be the very pair to give me a lift into town later, on the last exit to nowhere. I was glad I could repay the favor ahead of time. The vibe we put out to the world is the one we receive, I believe. My default vibe needs continual readjustment, no question, but I was reminded later that positivity works positively. Outlook affects outcome.

Once I’d reached the Birches Campground, I checked into its ranger station, by jotting my name on a tattered register. I didn’t tally the exact sum, but hundreds of soon-to-be-through thru-hikers had come before me; hundreds of hikers were still somewhere behind, blundering blissfully. Others I knew completed their hikes in the last week. Backstreet finished two weeks ago. My plan, I wrote (as is required), was to top out or tap out tomorrow. (I affixed a fat asterisk. The ol’ T-B-D. To be determined. I was determined not to try for the summit if tomorrow’s chance of rain remained pegged at 100%.) It was still a perfectly sunny day as I sat there at the modest outpost, without even a whisper of a cloud, so I didn’t want to rule the attempt out. I’m ready to stand, or sit, atop Katahdin.

Just five piddly miles remain! (Albeit a high five.) Few things can stop me from summitting now…

*I get injured overnight, masturbating

*I get murdered overnight, masturbating

*I get hit by a (falling) tree, masturbating

*I get hit by a meteorite, masturbating

*I get struck by lightning, masturbating

*I get bitten by a venomous snake or venomous mouse, masturbating

*I get stamped by a moose or large insect, masturbating

*I fall into a bog and cannot extricate myself, masturbating

Am I confident these things won’t happen? No, I am not. The Appalachian Trail does nothing to raise your confidence. Even after all but five miles of it. One way or another, thy will be done.

After engaging in some brainless banter with other hikers--some summitting earlier (high fives all around), some waiting to summit (high fives all around)--I returned to Abol Bridge, the same way whence I came. I jogged most the ten miles back, to the point my feet drew blood. I was able to catch the aforementioned ride into town as soon as I arrived. I was hoping for a real meal and maybe even a roof over my head overnight, so I wasn’t about to pass up the chance when the French-Canadian pair pulled over. I had just collected my tent and sleeping bag but hadn’t even stuck my thumb up. I will now though, giving this glorious day one huge thumb’s up. (This being the AT, it’s a green thumb, naturally.)

A Limp in the Woods...or not (Day 162)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 162: Monday, September 2nd, 2013
Millinocket Zero Day = 0 miles
Miles to date: 2,181

Millinocket: Don’t Knock It!

Granted, it is Monday, the deadest of days in any tourist trap, but it’s a holiday for frick sake! Millinocket might as well get it over with and take its own life. A long-laid parade; city-wide suicide. It is, by far, the most depressed and depressing of sectors paralleling the AT. I suggest, for their help (i.e., put it back on the map), the following town slogan: Millinocket: Don’t Knock It! A more germane slogan would be: Millinocket: Don’t Bother Knockin.’

Few outsiders bother. Millinocket’s no tourist trap; the streets were devoid of traffic and any sign of a pulse. It was so quiet it felt like a library--a library when closed. ‘OUT OF BUSINESS’ signs hung crookedly inside every shop; each owner had long since departed. Dearly departed. Dust gathers. Huge, lonely houses--each once a home--had been evacuated and left unattended, for vandals and vagrants to take over. Last night, I’d acted as the latter, sleeping in an abandoned dwelling. Why not? The house was enormous--four-storied, four thousand square feet--and had been empty for eons. Its ‘FOR SALE’ sign out front was discolored and coated in rust, marking the passing of time. My kind of place. Home for a night.

The scene reminded me of the Tuareg proverb. Houses are the graves of the living. (As I like to say, life is what’s happening outside.) But here now no one was alive. Every household was left to die when the loggers left (or were forced to leave), and when the paper mills moved abroad. Cheap labor, neighbor.

There’s talk of a new national park nearby--along with a huge financial contribution, eighty-eight thousand acres have been donated to the feds by Roxanne Quimby, co-founder of Burt’s Bees--but remaining locals are reluctant for the change. They’re unable or unwilling to adapt to changing times. (Can a city win a Darwin Award?) I empathize with this reluctance, but parks are one of the things the federal government does well, minus the constant lack of funding, the excessive road-paving, the dearth of bicycle infrastructure, and so forth. At this stage though, it’s easy to see Millinocket needs reinvention, if it is to survive. “It is not,” said Darwin, “the strongest…that survives, nor the most intelligent; it is the one most adaptable to change.”

There’s one sparkling element in town. The Appalachian Trail Café. Catering to we Roamans and to the residents who wish to see others--to know others exist--it is often packed. Raucous, even. I’d have breakfast then lunch in one long loiter. I returned later for a malted milkshake and some commerce with the locals. Mad respect to Chris Knight, but it’s hard being a hermit.

Its hard to imagine, but Millinocket was once a bustling burg, thanks to a thriving tree-killing industry. But those jobs, and those times, have faded into extinction, and/or shifted elsewhere. Gone the way of the trees. I was surprised to discover that a Discovery Channel show was once filmed here. Called American Loggers, it chronicled the life and times of local lumberjacks. The show breathed its last gasp a couple years ago, after three seasons. The family featured, the Pelletiers, now run a restaurant in town. I’m guessing it’ll follow the show’s footsteps, straight to the grave. AT hikers are the last hope.

The Appalachian Trail Lodge understands as much and is as busy as the café. Both businesses are owned by one gentleman, a leathery-looking sixty year-old named Paul Renaud. Renaud thru-hiked the AT in ‘06 and decided he liked the area enough to relocate. So far he’s survived doing so. Cheap real estate hasn’t hurt his cause. (Below is a photo of the mansion I squatted in. It’s a whopping fifteen thousand dollars {yes, that’s $15,000}, complete with furniture, a detached garage, an expansive work shed and an extensive yard, mowed and all.)

$15,000!

Anyway, it would rain much of the day, bearing witness that yesterday’s forecast--a chance of rain--was today’s truth. Three things cannot be long hidden along the AT: rain, mud, and the truth. This is not a half-truth.

More of the same is expected tomorrow, so it looks like I’ll be hanging on for one more day. Like the few hapless locals I’ve seen. Hanging around, hanging out, hanging on. Any more than one day and I might do a different sort of hanging.

No offense, Millinocket.

A Limp in the Woods...or not (Day 163)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 163: Tuesday, September 3rd, 2013
Millinocket Zero Day (The Sequel) = 0 miles

Miles to date: 2,181

I’m skipping today’s diary, a dereliction of duty. This isn’t because I spent the day skipping. It’s because I didn’t spend it walking. Actually, I have written another lengthy entry, but I wrote it in invisible ink and now I can’t find it.

Cue dancing banana:

PS: Nowhere else in this journal does the following sentence appear, not even here.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 164)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 164: Wednesday, September 4th, 2013
KATAHDIN = 5 miles, then back down
Miles to date: 2,186

Nein mehr weiß lodert

It wasn’t pretty, but it was beautiful.

Done.

Relieved of duties. 

It’s in the books. (Or in this blog.)

At last. 

My last journal entry. 

And then a vow of silence. 

But first, the part prior...

~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve served my sentence in Millinocket. Today’s the day. I am released, and I am relieved. I’d wished to wipe clean this most onerous of odysseys the day before yesterday, Labor Day. It seemed rightly suitable to finish an Appalachian Trail thru-hike on such a day(1). But then the weather won, as it would again yesterday--as it forever does. And who gives a hoot about any such official designation, when the calendar itself is completely arbitrary?! Every day on the AT is Labor Day. Capital L, capital D.

Capitalizing on an early start--‘twas damn near dark-early when the encephalon cells began to clank and clash--I was easily able to secure a ride from town back to Baxter State Park, a distance of about twenty-eight miles. Easily able, because I shelled out for the shuttle that the AT Lodge offered, in their ten-seater beater. 

I asked the van driver if he’d drive there in reverse, so instead of me having to pay, he’d owe me the money. He didn’t take the suggestion seriously. Oh well, for a fairly fair sum, I was back where I belonged: anywhere but Millinocket. Another day there and I would’ve paid for prison admission. Three hots and a cot. Shawshank Preemption.

Back at the Birches Campsite, tantalizingly close to this toll road’s long-targeted exit ramp, I’d meet up with a German thru-hiker named Restless Cowboy. Male, thin-ish, grin-ish, thirty-ish. 3.72% Neanderthal. The two of us decided, with nary an utterance, to tackle the mountain collectively. We weren’t a big collection but we did just that, pausing persistently to lasso our breath, only to take in another breath-taking view whilst doing so. Respiration, perspiration, inspiration. Pant, pour, roar.

Even by AT standards--a vertical yardstick--the mountain’s a monster. A big bruiser. It’s as though every day’s walk leading to it is but a shakedown. 2,181 miles of groundwork. Katahdin the killer, it is a minefield of a mountain. Labor Day #164.

As it’d been with countless peaks to the south, one does not hike Katahdin. Walk-in appointments are not allowed. The hiker must clamber, employing body parts other than the feet to continue forth, to continue north, as per the master plan. Hands, butt, knees, elbows, back. Only near the summit do things mellow, and the hiker can safely return to his feet. Safely, of course, depends on conditions. The winds can lash and lacerate up hither. On the AT you earn every mile. No one is an AT thru-hiker; they are each an AT survivor.

We stopped and slurped some liquid at yet another majestic mountaintop leak, Thoreau Spring, before continuing forth. No filtering or chemical doctoring required. “Only one mile left,” I said to my latest and last hiking partner. “Two thousand one hundred and eighty five down!” Our feet hovered a foot off the ground; it was the first time we hadn’t felt them in months.

“Now was a good time, wasn’t it?” smiled Restless Cowboy, his English on par with my German. “It was,” I replied. “It always was, now and then.”

And then, just like that, there were no more white blazes in sight. Nein mehr weiß lodert! The experiment was a success. (You hike one Appalachian Trail, you’ve hiked ‘em all.) I felt a great sense of…relief.

The summit was bleak, windswept, and repellent. It also had unnourishing air. But it was oh so seductive. Multitudes of mountaineers loitered and reconnoitered. It was rush hour and very much a rush. Just as it’d been with the uncontrolled exuberance during the first weeks of this odyssey, the exhilaration here was palpable. The views were endlessly tremendous, a panorama junkie’s paradise. The wind wailed, enlivening the experience. A true summit. Fueled by the gusts, a fleet of pretty serious-looking clouds came and went as though behind schedule, but it was a relatively diplomatic day otherwise, given the peak’s proud history of hellish hardship. Most everyone was on his or her feet, but a few were on their backsides seeking shelter, set to stay a while. No one was going to die on this day, not here, not now.

The planning hadn’t been mastered as I’d hoped three days ago--for that picture perfect peak day, a day above and beyond reproach (mainly above). But the trail has long since learned us that it and the conditions enveloping it are the ones in control, not those of us passing through. You hike the trail on its terms. We picayune little beings are only visitors, blessed beyond belief, striving to survive its worst, whilst awaiting its best. Individually, collectively. 

The AT always wins of course, for it is indifferent(2). And hikers aren’t just the visiting team--we’re also the perpetual underdog. But every so often the underdog prevails, as we dozen hikers here had. We didn’t win by completing the AT; we won by having the opportunity to step foot on it. The jubilation persisted. A moment of catharsis struck. I barked wildly. Others wept.

Restless Cowboy looked my way, as we hunkered down behind some knee-high, lichen-coated boulders and divvied up the last of our remaining snacks. We were waiting for some of the horde to abort their jubilee, so that we could get some decent pictures alongside the deteriorating, defaced summit sign, without the droves milling about behind it. We both felt when summits are shared by so many they tend to carry less significance. One more reason never to attempt that human conveyor belt called Everest.

“Das vas sweetly bitter, yah?” he asked, smiling. Restless is a smiley type. Quiet and contemplative (still waters run deep, even in Germany apparently), but constantly smiling. I hadn’t known him but a few hours and already I liked him. Our paths had crossed as far back as Virginia, but we never had the chance to speak. I wished we had, but at the time his brother (who returned to Deutschland due to visa constraints) was with him, and I was with Backstreet and bunch.

“The snack?” Weird, I thought, this doesn’t taste bitter at all. We were chowing on cheese and crackers. Neither bitter, nor sweet.

“No, I mean finishing das trail.”

“Oh, for sure” I answered, “it is sweetly bitter,” failing to emend his English. And although the Appalachian Trail is a hard trail to love, I meant what I said: it was bittersweet. When my morale was in the lost-and-found, the path always helped me find it. Always.

I went on. “It’s funny, but for the longest time I wanted nothing more than to be off this goddamn path--leaving this trail will be like leaving an abusive relationship--but now that it’s time, I almost hate having to go.”

“And do you have to?”

“Not really. But I’m ready. Besides, there could be no better place to launch, up here.”

“Ending on a high note,” Restless smiled. “I believe in happy endings. But I think I’d’ve enjoyed das trail a lot more if I knew I was going to survive it.”

“Well. All’s well that ends well,” I replied, cheesily. I was too tired for any kind of emotional valediction. 

The ruck would disperse and when there were just the two of us remaining we took our customary summit shots. Neither of us cared to pose much--it felt somewhat strange to stand there and act cheesy, saying cheese. Sweetly bitter, indeed. It had been a heck of a trek, full of tough times, and strange and wonderful occurrences, and strangers-cum-friends. Restless summed it up nicely, in an unexpected twang of slang, when he said, “das hike was a trip.” This hike was a trip.

We paid our final respects, turned our backs on the mound, and began going down for the last time, a victory lap of sorts. It was good timing; a storm of menacing intent was brewing. If there was a better way to end a 2,200-mile walk than by not stopping, I couldn’t think of it.

Long live the AT!

So long trail. So very long.

A Photo Finish

"Fool's"note 1: I enjoy Labor Day 365 days a year, except on Leap Years, when I enjoy it 366 days. I should've started this parade on Fool's Day.

"Foot"note 2: If there's anything the trail--and indeed Mother Earth--teaches you when you're out that much closer to it, it's its indifference toward us. Along with these three 'its' in a row, I share this indifference. In a fight between you and the world, bet on the world.