A Limp in the Woods (Day 126)

An Appalachian Trail Tale Tail
Day 126: Sunday, July 28th, 2013
Highway 12 (VT) to Hanover, New Hampshire = 23 miles
Miles to date: 1,744

Chlorophyll Overkill

If you haven’t heard of monkey butt, I’ll acquaint you. Sometimes referred to as clown mouth or cranky crack or wild ass rash, monkey butt is a rear-end rash that can befall the long-distance backpacker, particularly the male long-distance backpacker, whose hindquarters tends to be hairier than the female’s, though this depends on the individual. The ass-ault is sometimes confused with hemorrhoids, and even the most proficient proctologist is unskilled in its inscrutable ways. Humidity, heat, airflow (or the paucity thereof), salty sweat, hygiene (or the paucity thereof), clothing choice (go commando, gents), swelling, nutrition (or the paucity thereof) and uninterrupted flatulence all affect matters. As does the itching. Only the bitching does not.

I bring this up because I’m now, for the record, forced to forge forth while fanning the ol’ fanny. That is, I have to spread my cheeks apart as I walk. The butt of the joke. As if the AT wasn’t tough enough. (We men joke that “the Appalachian Trail is the closest a male will ever come to knowing what it’s like to give birth.”)

I’ve collapsed my poles and secured them to my pack, where they protrude to the point of snagging any plant life I pass. (The AT is all plant life, though there’s ample fungus among us.) I was forced into this so that I would have the use of my hands, so that my cheeks don’t continue being cheeky. More evidence, your Honor, that the AT could not be accomplished without the use of arms.

Moses parted oceans. I part butt cheeks.

The task proves I’ve grown over-reliant upon hiking poles. Anymore I can hardly walk without the four-prong approach. I constantly trip or lose balance on the most infinitesimal of obstacles: pebbles, grass roots, dust, atoms. I’d fallen twice this morning, but had no problem letting go of my kiester to protect less padded parts. There’s an anatomical order of precedence applied during traumatic times. Ass, last. Although I’ve long since walked my ass off, it still possesses more padding than my skull. They’ve each got an equivalent amount of hair however, now that my beard has begun to finally (and finely) bulk up.

Aside from the travails and tribulations of Side B, and what feels like a blown valve, the day was divine. Fall’s creeping toward us as we creep north. Cooler temps allow an easier crack at things, but for the butt. Why it’s acting up now and not back in the vulgar, stifling swampland of New Jersey, I can’t say. Even during great lengths of repetitiveness, the human body ain’t always predictable.

An unshod Chickadee

Thanks to the crispier evenings, the busted tent zipper is becoming less of an issue. With each passing day, the mosquitoes seem to be giving up ground. I’m assured this won’t be the case in the low-lying segments of Maine. This might be reason enough to slow down and let winter set in. Drilled to death? Or chilled to death? Hard to say. We don’t all get to choose our death.

I awoke and began walking relatively early, soon learning of the derrière discomfort. Chickadee joined me--in walking, not in derrière distress--and each time I stopped to wipe away any sweaty secretions (lovely, I know), she went on ahead. I limited the whining to myself; I doubted the twenty-one year-old would relate. Or I hoped she wouldn’t. And if she could, I didn’t care to know. I kept quiet and walked well behind her, with cheeks in hand. Hands.

Despite our dilemmas--because of blisters, Chickadee would walk barefooted part of the day--the two of us clearly came equipped with some oomph. We walked twenty-three miles by day’s end, finishing long before dark. Yesterday’s Partial Zero had to have helped. We’d leave behind the last of Vermont’s panoramas and pop open our thirteenth state: New Hampshire. “Thirteen-fourteenths the way done!” we exclaimed excitedly, knowing the cruelest crucible lies ahead--the business end of the trail. A NOBO AT hike is the opposite of a mullet--party in the front, business in the backend.

ATers often proclaim, “the trail doesn’t really begin until New Hampshire,” both in terms of beauty and brutality. “Up ‘til then,” Daypack once said, “it’s all just research.” New Humpshire, fairest of ‘em all. I recall one veteran hiker telling me, back in the trail’s cellar(1): “When you reach The Whites, you’re about halfway done.” It’s a false, of course--whether measured by distance or thru-hike time--but it’s cue enough to remind us to be prepared for continued adversity. Yay!

Still, we’re told the trade-off is worth it--the chthonic Green Tunnel is often devoid of roof or walls in New Hampshire and Maine. The great grove becomes a pellucid treasure trove, and the phantom sun reappears. A huge-gantic skylight.

Like all who hike, I do so to leave roofs and walls behind. How many sunrises and sunsets do we miss because of walls? We trade it all for comfort; it’s nice to be inside. Here on the AT--chlorophyll overkill--it’s just taken a while to escape! The forest had been as dark as a cave. It felt like a noose. But now it’s the path’s seductive grip clasping tighter than ever. The emotional crescendo continues.

PS: More about today tomorrow. Twenty-three miles: weariness wins.

"Foot"note 1: New Jersey, where 'mother' is half a word. (And I don’t mean 'Mother Nature'!)