An Introduction (or: What I Know of Me so Far)

The name matters not, but they call me Funnybone. (If they call at all.) A willing prisoner of an insatiable appetite for escapism, I’m a man (he/him/they/she/her/tree) out of step with his time, an analog relic in a digital world, living a vow of voluntary minimalism and simplicity in an unduly complex, human-centric Orwellian landscape--whatever all that means.

I’m half Czech (the top half) and 100% ugly. A remorsefully divorced soloist. (I wasn’t the man I vowed to be.) I’m terminally and reluctantly single, forever decathecting from others. A tri-polar anomic, living out of a backpack. (It’s tight inside one.) I sleep where I can, hoping to see what I can before my shell’s expiration date. An only child…with four siblings. Damaged goods. A proud underachiever/idler and prouder tax evader. A has-been athlete dealing with sport’s afterlife. A poor elitist.  An aspiring rock star. An off-duty Americano, with no formal education. An incurable overthinker with no OFF switch. A lost soul, and maybe a lost cause. Never been counted in a census; I’m a nobody and nobody cares.

This dusty corner of the World Wide Cobweb shall be my log crossing the Appalachian Trail, a sort-of adventure scrapbook. Pabulum, mental masturbation, brain flatulence. Oh, yeah: I’ve decided to exchange society’s serious nonsense for a lighter-hearted nonsense; I’ve decided to have a go at the AT. I’m full of bad ideas.

Having survived abortion, I was handed down the recycled, real-world name of Charles, free man. It’s a lame name, but it was forced upon me by people much bigger than me at the time. I was dubbed Funnybone in the early aughts, on the Best Crest. That was my maiden long-haul hike, a decade before Wild began to pummel the path; it pays to be early. I loved trail life--there’s time enough to observe the details--and I’ve been nature drunk and high ever since. (Your first thru-hike lasts the rest of your life. And one great hike deserves another. Everything in moderation, except walking.) I tolerated the moniker enough to keep it. If it matters, THIS is how ‘twas bestowed.

If it continues to matter, I’ve kept a couple of online accounts of previous travel adventures. They can be found here:

• HERE is an account of my boggy slog along the Pennine Way in England, in late 2012. (I’m an incurable Anglophile.)
• HERE is my journal from my second thru-hike of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail. (I’ll try anything twice.) It is the most read account on trailjournals.com, which never ceases to surprise me. The 2006 trip is still fresh in mind, making me realize just how rapidly the years roll by.

One aim on the AT, besides extracting as much life as possible and not merely checking the trail off--failure’s an option--is to record the journey. And keep it all under one roof. This’ll be that roof, holes and all. The Eeyore within assures me no one gives a donkey’s ass about what I’ve to say--just as I tend not to--that blogs are prosaic and technologically primitive compared to that yearbook for life, that noisy, irksome social experience called Facebook. Ultimately I write and roam for one jackass, ideally to get to know him better. It is here I can look back, when, or if, the time comes.

Funnybone / Chuckie V Veylupek

Currently Colorado-confined (living at a friend’s, because it’s super free)

Divided States of Americuh

Pi Day (a shout out to E.A.!), 2013

PS: I’m not the final authority on anything I write during this trip. Nor am I responsible for it.

A Bit About This Blog (A Warning for Wimps)

In years past I have earned much criticism for my writing. This makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But in reading old censure, and in ending my introductory entry with a word of caution, I’ve decided to spell out further warnings for those requiring them. Sally forth, intrepid traveler.

A Bit About This Blog…

1: May be unsuitable for some (or all) viewers. May be unsuitable to any (or all) listeners, in the event Funnybone posts any audio or music he writes en route. Enter at your own risk. Wear your big kid pants. Ask your doctor if Funnybone is right for you.

2: Except in the instance above Funnybone mostly never refers to himself in the third person.

3: Don’t take anything I say seriously, nor what my alter-egos express; we don’t. (We’re merely nearly sincerely.) Mileage may differ, timing may differ, I may differ. I have strong, semi-educated opinions and express them often, but I do not necessarily agree with ‘em.

4: This is not a tale of personal growth, except when I mention my boner.

5: Since we all despise salespeople, there are no pitches or purveyors or ads or affiliate links here. I’m not trying to sell anyone anything.

6: Blogger does not yet offer their services in Braille, so I’d like to apologize in advance to any blind readers. Again, I may post an audio entry or two, if I don’t become nauseated hearing my recorded voice.

6.2 (10K) Since this is to be a journal about a long walk, I will likely employ the use of many "foot"notes (note the bottom of this post). I tend also to post relevant and irrelevant links along the way.

7: I had written some pre-hike entries, only to remove all but one or two; they added nothing to the narrative, or what I hope becomes the narrative. Although I almost believe in nothing--a part-time nihilist; note the license plate--it’s best to have something to write.

8: You’ll learn I suffer from authoritis. I fire loads of ammo. Blanks, mostly. I expect to on this walk as well, if the legs last. Last, legs.

9: Note: this is a Kardashian-free website. I will not accept their family name into this blog. If you are a Kartrashycan, I am truly sorry.

10: Past journals taught me; I no longer post reader comments(1). I generally don’t like what people have to say, particularly unkind or uneducated folk, of whom Earth knows no dearth. I apologize to kind commenters (if any) who deem it an inconvenience, but be assured: it’s nothing like the inconvenience these long trails are. 

Thank you. Does anybody have any questions?

My spud-boy plates and soon-to-expire registration

"Foot"note 1: If you’d like to reach me, to express, for example, your outrage, I’m afraid (but not that afraid) you will have to do so by smoke signal.

The AT's Many States

2,186 miles of what now?

The Appalachian Trail slices through fourteen states, along with a few others I currently know of:

• State of Deep Fatigue
• State of Confusion
• State of Awe

I hope to go through each of these states; I have the maps. (Incidentally, these places are all capitalized not for effect--capitalization is generally a no-no when in bullet form--but because they are indeed places, not emotions.)  

The State of Fatigue is expected; no long backpacking trip can transpire without it. And although I was once an endurance athlete, paid to do really dumb things--money for nothing--it’s been during these long treks I’ve reached the deepest fatigue canyons I have ever experienced. Maybe it’s because sleep is never all that deep--think cold, bumpy ground, with big, sharp-toothed animals lurking under the umbrage of darkness--or maybe it’s because of the lousy diet. Or maybe it’s because of the behemoth upon thy back. In any case, the hiker befriends fatigue, or the state will likely be the last one the hiker reaches, prior to ending the hike. Or his life.

Confusion is also figured upon; no one in his or her right mind would choose to wear a backpack for twenty-two hundred miles. These are confused individuals to begin.

States the AT incurs...

Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine.

Other states the trail will incur (and/or induce)...

• Contempt
• Suffering
• Paranoia
• Flux
• Hostility
• Doubt
• Anger
• Grief
• Disgust
• Sadness
• Homesickness
• Loneliness
• Anxiety/Fear
• Boredom
• Hunger (this is a guarantee)
• Hysteria
• Depression
• Aggression
• Horror
• Embarrassment
• Frustration
• Mindlessness

Of course, they’re not all negative states; there will likely be states of...

• Ecstasy
• Surprise
• Affection
• Love (Lust)
• Pleasure
• Hope
• Compassion
• Euphoria
• Gratitude
• Interest
• Forgiveness
• Pride
• Sympathy

One thing’s for sure. I will try my best not to go through the following states...

• Hatred
• Guilt
• Regret
• Remorse
• Shame
• Pity
• Envy
• Ambivalence

The AT is a metaphor for life itself; I suspect I’ll experience all these states and more, shoehorning more life, more emotion, into the next handful of months than some folks do during their lifetimes. The Appalachian Trail: Hallowed Be Thy Name. Time for a long walk.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 1)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 1: Monday, March 25th (or January 84th) 2013
The Approach Trail = 8-ish miles
(AT) Miles to Date: .25

The Approach (the Pre-Amble) / Two Feet per Mile

“Hello spare time!” ~Funnybone

The Grand Départ of a long (I hope!) journey

Seldom do I find myself apprehensive when I think of going for a walk, but this was no ordinary walk. This was the famed Appalachian Trail, a two thousand-plus mile test-tube filled with self-inflicted torture and, as I’d soon come to discover, learning. Developmental learning. No other hike I’d done--and I’d done a few--had me prepared for such a Herculean task.

“Hail to the trail!” I muttered through trembling lips. And so it begins. The walk finally supersedes the talk.

Whereabouts positioned me and my friend Ruth at 34°37’36”N 84°11’37”W, in Amicalola Falls State Park atop the 3,782-foot summit of Springer Mountain, thirty or forty miles north of the megalopolis that is Atlanta. Georgia. The state, not the country.

For us, it’s an alien land. For Ruth, backpacking is a novel affair. A month ago she found herself in the presence of a terrible idea. “Hike the Appalachian Trail?” she repeated. “Sounds stupid. Sign me up!” But she’s learned--every grown-up who hikes is happier. “I normally walk by car,” she jokes. A high-functioning cuddler, recovering academic and avowed--although selective--nymphomaniac,* she’s signed up for a week of commute-by-boot. Me? I hope to remain trail-tied for months, a continuous form of backpack bondage. (Hope, here, is a form of mental illness.) We answer this booty boot call this by choice; we are not mentally ill. Not entirely.

* She doesn’t even mind me saying so, proving the point.

We made it to this most mundane of woodsy places (even on a clear day Springer Mountain ain’t postcard property) in one piece apiece, though the effort in doing so was anything but a cakewalk. We walked the eight-mile Approach Trail, as it’s called, and I now know: the forecast calls for the probability of pain. For the next half year. Gulp.

Springer!

My shoe of choice (two, in fact): Wal-Mart specials

The approach to the indistinct summit is not required to earn thru-hiker accolades; it’s not officially part of the Appalachian Trail. It’s purely preamble. Most hiker hopefuls are escorted up by gas guzzler, to a short distance from Springer. We didn’t do this. It wasn’t because we preferred to avoid polluting or paying. We walked because it doesn’t matter what a strip of dirt is named; if it exists, I want to be on it. If it provides sublimity and serenity, as the approach trail does, it’s all the better. You frequently hear about the last hurrah, but you seldom hear about the first hurrah. This was it.

Our strip of dirt was a strip of snow. Creaking snow. The frozen stuff had blown in all day; the higher we went, the more things began to take it up, flake it up, a notch. It felt as though it was January 84th, not March 25th, like were inside a violently-shaken snow globe. Because of the muddiness, the steepness, and the tripping wind, every step was an ordeal. The Appalachian Trail ought to come with a warning. (“If I go, there will be trouble.”) Not a word was heard, but Ruth and I wondered what we got ourselves into, despite the sublimity and serenity. If there was supposed to be a sense of belonging going on, it didn’t belong to us.

But we’re here now, at the start of the world’s grandest footpath, as excited as we are cold. Ready to join the classless society known as thru-hikers. Through with society, thru-hiking. Beat by beat, verse by verse.

The wind is scything. With windchill, it’s subzero. It’s kicking up additional snow, so picture-time and journal-keeping are ephemeral affairs. It’s cold enough to crack teeth; ours chatter out of control. Subzero can be sublime, but we need to get to shelter. The trail’s first of many three-sided shelters is just a quarter-mile up-trail. If there’s room, we’ll make it our digs for the night. 

Ruth moved on. I stood still, immobilized by the vastness of the task ahead. Long is the way. Take a step, I told my legs.

~~~~~

Turns out there wasn’t any space in the shelter. A gaggle of college-aged kids were jammed together in a heap of humanity so tight and tangled it appeared they’d been stitched together. They were farting, smoking and joking. For us this was no joking matter. The howling wind hacked through our clothes like an invisible ice axe. We asked, despite our inherent aversion to crowdedness, if they’d make some room.

Appalachian Trail shelters operate on a first-come, first-serve basis; we already knew the answer. But we had to try. It was funny to be in such a situation; I’d originally avowed to avoid shelters; I’m a germaphobe, a claustrophobe, a sociophobe, and a mouse-o-phobe. But given the realities of storms, it was not a wise (pre)decision. In a resounding manner the kids replied, “HELL YEAH MAN! THE MORE, THE MERRIER!” If that’s what marijuana does to kids’ brains, I’m all for it. Ruth and I were soon claustrophobically content, adding to the aroma.

As the others had, we eschewed etiquette and pitched our sarcophagus in the shelter. Tent time is the right time. Ours is the size of a refrigerator (though oftentimes colder). We settled into our sleeping bags--along with our electronic devices and the water filter, so they wouldn’t freeze and be damaged; the damage will come when we roll over atop them. We ate dinner and, once our digits were operative, wrote in our journals. “Hello spare time!” I scribbled. “Here goes nothing. Boot camp begins.”

🥾 The next five or six months would allow me all the time in the world to do nothing. I smiled at the thought and continued to jot…

“It’s 2,186 miles to trail’s end @ two feet per mile! All that separated us from today’s frozen tundra was our half-inch soles. Ruth has boots worthy of the job, while I don my typical el-cheap-o Wally-World shoes. I hope to get four hundred miles out of the pair, but at sixteen bucks, the task might be a bit of an ask.”

“We’ll see. It’s one foot after the other, each taking me two feet closer to trail’s end. I shouldn’t be thinking that far in advance; there’re millions of strides between here and trail’s end. Millions! Millions I hope to take, millions I hope to make. Each step is a small victory of sorts. Some are gonna come harder than others...”

I paused. “I wonder how today’s’ll compare...”

I paused again.

Relentless forward progress! Let the good times stroll...

“The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot.”

~Werner Herzog

“My feet is my only carriage...”

~Bob Marley

A Limp in the Woods (Day 2)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 2: Tuesday, March 26th, 2013
Springer Mountain Shelter to a mile Past Hawk Mountain Shelter = 9 miles

The Appalachian Trail? “It’ll be fun,” they said.

Today is the first day of the rest of my hike; I hope each of those to follow, if they follow, continue to be. Upon waking, I wasn’t so sure of the rest of my hike. The notion implies an amount of time or distance. Both seem dubious now. The rest of my hike might just mean a slog toward the next road crossing. A number of prospective thru-hikers have already been traumatized by trail. They’ve abandoned their hikes for a later start date. I cannot blame them.

The address and direction for the next half year

I’m stiff as a fossil and sore to the touch. Ergo, no go; I refuse to touch myself. Nor will I let anyone else, though that depends on what she looks like. And where she touches. The usual delayed onset muscle soreness--aka: DOMS--didn’t get the memo that it was supposed to be delayed. (Muscular damage has a way of procrastinating before showing up; late to the party, but the life of it upon arrival.) My body feels like one unanimous knot, all muscles in accord, in a cord. The muscles aren’t alone; other bodily parts are equally as afflicted. These include, but aren’t limited to: skin, organs, fingernails and eyebrows. This, after just one day of hiking. I’m currently on an all-painkiller diet. All for knot!

Before stepping on it, it’s easy to romanticize and idealize the AT. After stepping on it, it’s easy not to.

And so it was well nigh midday when Ruth and I hit the ground crawling. The thought-shots ended, as did the mental warm-up; it was time to mosey toward Maine (i.e., South Canada). Destination Elsewhere.

Bailout shelter

We had been awakened by our breath, but not in the presumed sense. There was no snoring or noise whatsoever. Nor was there any rancidity, since we both flossed, brushed, and gargled last night, as we’d long ago been conditioned to do, through mental-parental-dental control. What had happened was the condensation crystallized inside our tent, forming frozen slivers. These mini daggers fell onto our faces and back into our mouths each time one of our shelter mates bumped into our sagging nylon refuge. Recycled respiration! Another first for Ruth. Old news for me I fear, and not the most welcoming way to wake. 

I remember sometime in the early hours, shivering to no end, I’d thought of unwrapping my toilet paper roll. I was going to wrap myself in the stuff, mummified style, for the added warmth (with the obvious benefit of absorbing any bodily leaks I might incur). But no. I just struggled and snuggled. Some nights are longer than others.

It snowed through the night. It was falling intermittently as we slipped away (in the literal sense) from the shelter. Neither of us are graceful skiers or skaters. We knew we didn’t have to climb as much as yesterday, but I knew: fatigue only snowballs when backpacking. Injury impends where snow or ice or fatigue are found.

I had ‘nose-cicles’ as long as these

But the day wasn’t too bad! The snow fell as it had yesterday, but usually only in a half-hearted manner. It felt as though the storm was going to lose its grip before we were. I smiled when Ruth tried catching snowflakes with her tongue. We’re all just kids, only most adults seem to have forgotten it.

Shoulders slumping under the weight of our packs, we each settled into our rhythm, regrouping every half-mile. Ruth worried that because she’s out of shape I might be bent out of shape. “I don’t want to be a Baby Ruth.” 

I assured her the only thing bending me out of shape was the backpack. The evidence shows.

Neither of us are in a rush, but because I have an easier time on the hills than she does, I pull ahead every time the trail starts upward. So far the trail has largely slanted upward.

I don’t mind the stop-n-go, but at thirty degrees, the temperature dictated how long I could stay still. I’d start to shiver with each stop, and within seconds. Ruth is unindoctrinated to long-distance backpacking in any kind of weather, and although I wasn’t in any hurry, I required constant effort to stay warm. I wasn’t born with ice in my veins. Or maybe I was.

     Enter the push-up!

Push-ups are not a strength of mine, since they require strength and, well, strength isn’t my strength. But that’s why they kept me warm, despite the decreasing quantity each time I dropped to the ground, from four in a row to none in a row. I lost count how many I’d done in all, but it was at least six or seven. I hoped my sweat glands might freeze and clog, trapping that much more heat.

The first week or two of a long-distance hike is a hardening period of sorts and I figured the extra exercise would only do some good. Unused muscles begin to atrophy during a long hike and I’m only going to get thinner and thinner as time rolls on. So, regardless of the conditions, it’s worth the extra work. Of course, history shows I only ever perform the extra exercise when chilled and waiting.

Walking on I was forced to alternate between using hiking poles and going without, tucking them under my armpits. Even with mittens and plastic dog poo bags inside the mittens, my hands were too cold to be exposed. (I’d’ve welcomed warm dog poo.) Inborn Raynaud’s added to the effect. Relief arrived only when I’d tuck my hands down my pants while walking. I did this a lot, letting my nose run like a watercolor in the rain. Right down my lips and chin. Hiking in winter is pretty, and not so pretty.

When we neared the Hawk Mountain Shelter we’d hoped there’d be room for our type. Nope; there wasn’t room for any type. We moseyed a mile past, pitching the tent on a bed of dead leaves, after we’d cleared the snow. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. It’ll do is a common camping term.

A Limp in the Woods (Day 3)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 3: Wednesday, March 27th, 2013
A mile past Hawk Mountain Shelter to Justus Creek = 6 miles

(AT) Miles to date: 15

Trial Trail by Flamethrower

Upon waking Ruth and I decided to go back to sleep. Words weren’t involved; it just happened. This conscious/unconscious process repeated itself till we altered our tactics and woke up for good. Good is relative, but on the AT, nearly every day means waking up for good. Or so we’ve been told. I could just as easily become the first to thru-sleep the Appalachian Trail.

As we tore down camp and settled into the new day, I tried to get my brain back into this writing ritual. It’d been a a few months since I’d observed or listened or recorded; the writer’s bump on my middle finger had atrophied. Although writing about walking a long trail isn’t all that exciting, since walking a long trail isn’t all that exciting, I want to make it a habit. (Reading about walking is less exciting yet.) I have my reasons; I just can’t remember them.

Despite striving for style and laughs, I don’t write for an audience. But I like to have something to write about when writing this foot-print, that way, when I pick up ye olde trail journals, I have something to read when reading. It’s those journals containing stories and terrible attempts at humor I enjoy most. And so I try to create a life full of stories. Unfortunately, life seems to do whatever it wants. Even when hiking.

And that’s the intriguing thing, or intriguing to me, anyhow. Why does someone set out to walk all day, every day? If there’s no excitement, and little potential for a story, well then, what’s the point? I’ll get to that in the next five or six months, I suppose.

Excitement may be too strong a word. No one in his or her right mind, assuming they have one, would walk all day for excitement. I’m not sure we’d walk all day even to seek excitement. So why should reading about the act be any more thrilling? It’s hard to hike vicariously. I know myself well enough now that I do live vicariously through my past. Aging does that to many of us.

I could try to describe the rocks or the trees or the trail itself, but few authors could make these things captivate, and I ain’t one of them. What kind of person reads about a rock and gets their rocks off? (My apologies to all you geologists. Geology rocks, but geography is where it’s at.)

Just as it is with living it, we sometimes keep track of the story with no idea of its conclusion or even the direction it’s headed. And that, to me, is precisely the point. And how I found myself here.

Verbal hogwash aside, it’s time for a rundown of today’s walk, or a walkdown of it.

As this entry suggests from the start, wind, snow and frigid temperatures assured me sleep would not come in its hoped form, but rather in a series of short naps surrounded by lots of tossing and turning--rotisserie sleeping. Plus, Ruth snores. Ceaselessly. A complete snorchestra.

But all was good when we awoke for the final time, to an undisturbed azure sky, gloriously free from clouds. As it seems, when the clouds lift, so too does our spirits. The problem was we were dehydrated and in need of replenishment. Ruth was suffering a meltdown much of the morning and I too, though to a lesser degree. (The temperature was also a lesser degree, but never mind that.)

Another downed sapling; we left it where we found it

Our usual upbeat-ness was downtrodden and our pace was anemic, if not lifeless. The climb from Horse Gap up Sassafras Mountain was the steepest stretch yet, almost laughably so (“We’re starting to get you, AT.”), and there was no water to be found. The white rain had melted into the mud and our spit wasn’t enough. A stupid, stupid mistake.

We were spared our agony at Cooper Gap, where a fellow named Captain Guts of Peoria, IL met us and a few other hikers with cans of soda and hotdogs, the latter of which we passed on, the former of which we gladly took part in. Root beer is a slice of heaven when you’re thirsty, even in winter.

Captain Guts (on the left)

Captain Guts was born with a distortion pedal in his vocal cords. And his voice was unnecessarily loud. He had taken a crack at thru-hiking the AT, twice in the past two years, but the trail got the better of him both times. There’s a lot of better of him, as you can see above. This year he chose to play trail angel, providing others with trail magic(1). We were the beneficiaries. Our timing could not have been bested. Predictably, our moods followed our blood sugar levels.

After the pause, Ruth and I groveled along valiantly. I was proud of her; the girl can rally. By six p.m. we’d walked six miles. We made it to Justus Creek, where six of us have dropped anchor. (“It’s Justus six,” someone joked.) There’s a rangy guy named Chris, from my birth nation of Minnesota; a comely Canadian triathlete named Jenna; an ex-Marine mountaineer named Justin, from Chicago; and a thirty-something year-old fellow named Scott, from Carolina’s northern half, Tar Heel heaven. It’s dirt heel heaven here, although bear tracks dot the area. (“I guess it’s not Justus six!”) Most the imprints are the size of a human hand, but with claws. Untrimmed claws. We’d socialize till clawing temperatures forced us to take cover under covers.

"Foot"note 1: Trail magic is an act or acts of kindness, often in the form of drinks or food. It can be a load of laundry done for the hiker, or a home-stay, or a ride down from the mountains. The term was conceived by long-distance hikers to describe an unexpected occurrence that lifts a hiker's spirits (or blood sugar) and inspires awe or gratitude. The real magic, however, is found on the trail. Not in a drink cooler. You wouldn't always know this though; so many young hikers consider the trail an inconvenient truth, strung between places to party or take advantage of others. Thru-hiking is the only form of magic I believe in.

A Walk in the Woods (Day 4)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 4: Thursday, March 28th, 2013
Justus Creek to Henry Gap = 9 miles
(AT) Miles to date: 24

An Appalachian a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

I must have slept swimmingly last night; this morning I awoke in a pool of drool. I think it was my drool, but I can’t be sure. 

Sleeping can be difficult when camping. The ground is rarely the right texture--too hard or too soft. Lumpy and lopsided. Jagged and gelid. Wet and gooey. There are also threats in the woods that might not just disrupt sleep, but life--threats that may or may not exist, but keep you from deep sleep all the same. When camping far from the societal safety net, senses convince you everything is a grizzly bear. I’ve yelled WHO GOES THERE?! (in a deep, manly voice) because a pine cone once fell near my tent.

So each time I’m afforded the opportunity to face another day (and give the day my some), I’m relieved. It means I wasn’t maimed. It means no trees (or pine cones) fell atop the tent. It means I didn’t drown in drool, mine or anyone else’s.

Despite my drooling slumber, no rejuvenation was had. Just as it’s been for three days, today’s hiking tended toward the difficult. There was one hilly obstacle after the other: Ramrock Mountain, Woody Gap, Big Cedar Mountain, and ultimately Henry Gap. It was a fine day to be afield, but I might’ve been better off not sleeping and instead just have chipped away throughout the night. Night hiking is more stimulating than the daytime stuff.

Ruth at our first paved road!

‘Chipping away’ is not why I’m hiking the AT. (Although I couldn’t help noticing that, barring catastrophe, we’d pass the twenty-two mile mark today, denoting the one-percent point of the trail. It’s good to occupy the mind out here, if even with lowly numbers.) I don’t care if I hike the trail in its entirety, so long as I enjoy what hiking I do. Making mileage or making good time is not the aim; having a good time is. So far, with Ruth’s companionship, I’ve accomplished just that. Hedonism at its hardest.

The thru-hiking life isn’t free from strife, but the pluses outweigh the minuses. Although it feel like our backpacks outweigh both the pluses and the minuses, Ruth and I are happy knowing that, to this point, the pluses have more than offset the minuses. It furnishes hope that no matter the challenges ahead, it’ll all be worth it. We shall see.

~~~~~~~~~~

We were the first to leave our group camp spot. This was unexpected, because we both value and appreciate sleep and were in no rush to disrupt comfort. The trail’s been anything except comfortable so far, so you take luxury when you can get it, or Ruth and I do anyway. Yet here we were, walking earlier than anyone in our group.

Yesterday was a shorter day, but we felt its effects and the effects of days leading to it. For the first time we’d see gaggles of hikers and soon fell into step with Alex, a young thru-hike hopeful. “Can I work in with you?” he asked, as though we were working out. (I suppose we were.)

Al seems a bright kid, but he hikes barefooted, shoes dangling from his pack like Christmas ornaments. We figured he ran out of toilet paper and was forced to donate his socks to the cause. But just as we were about to ask, he said he had some bad blisters. “My feet are FUBAR, and my shoes are only helpin’ to aggravate.” We’d leapfrog one another a few times, passing him in the rougher rockier stretches as he tip-toed along, before he’d pass during our repose.

One of the rest spots, atop an exposed ridge overlooking the world on Ramrock Mountain, was as beautiful as they come. We could just about make out the curvature of the planet.

There were three others there, each as mesmerized by the vastness of it all as we were. We’d been socked in by tenebrific trees for three days, with just a keyhole view of the world. This was a reminder why the AT is known as the Green Tunnel. (Appalachia: Land of the Smothered Sun. Even radar cannot locate the AT.) No one was going to pass on this. One guy joked it was a chance for our bodies to manufacture some all-important vitamin D. You know you’re on the Appalachian Trail when you worry about vitamin D deficiency.

When dark descended, we pitched the home near Henry Gap. Alex was entrenched nearby. We were on official wilderness land, as designated by that magnanimous act of Congress, but we were only a few feet from private land, as designated by a pair of old rusty signs. ‘TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT; SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN,’ one read. The other stated that ‘PRAYER IS THE BEST WAY TO MEET GOD; TRESPASSING IS THE FASTEST.’ Friendly folks. Now I know where to go if a Code Brown rears its steamy head.