A Limp in the Woods (Day 145)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 145: Friday, August 16th, 2013
Little Swift River Pond to Piazza Rock Lean-to = 6 miles

Miles to date: 1,967

Of Moose and Men

Before I do anything else, before I scrawl anything else, before I think anything else, I must mention the moose we made eyes with late yesterday. ‘Twas a gangly teenager, possibly male, possibly female. Definitely one of the two. I didn’t speak of him/her/it yesterday since I’d already penned the day’s report. Plus, I was preoccupied with pooping, because of the earlier blueberry mania.

Anyway. No big deal, I’d encountered the imposing beasts before, right? Right. On countless instances throughout the west: Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho (the Mississippi of the west), Washington, B.C., etc. Face to furry face, arm’s length. I also knew that no one escapes Maine without meeting a moose. (Moose was Thoreau’s last word.)

But I’d never seen one catapult into a lake from a ten-foot-high ledge. Nor had I seen one dive for aquatic plant life, let alone swim. Hangman, Wanderlust and I gawked incredulously, jaws agape. We’d just returned from a canoe outing (a previous someone, likely someone from the Maine Appalachian Trail Club, had kindly left the boat lakeside, free for hikers to use at their leisure, our leisure) when the episode occurred.

As our eyes and jaws continued to gape, we joked that in a million years mooses (meese?) will probably evolve into large duck-platypus-beaver-like critters, with webbed feet and a paddle-like tail. Maybe even gills and a furry fin or two. That’s not to imply that this one was a poor swimmer--‘twas not--only that his species will get more and more proficient in the water. If, for no other reasons, to avoid the manly men who hunt the beast for “sport” (who’s the real beast?) and the onslaught of ticks. This poor sucker was covered head to hoof (or whatever it is meese call feet) with opportunistic land leeches. We felt his pain.

I was fortunate my camera was at the ready. It’s usually got impotent batteries or is locked away somewhere inaccessible when astonishing incidents arise, like that time that enormous metallic spacecraft landed next to my flappy tent and an army of incomprehensibly attractive alien women from Planet YerAnus attacked me, breasts and tentacles and all. At least I think they were women.

Here now I clicked away while trying not to mar the moment. To be IN it, not just to attempt to capture it and preserve it for subsequent regurgitation. But the digital renditions would all end up darker than what our watery, analog eyes had seen. Dark sky; dark lake; dark animal; dark results. Still, for the first time on this trip, I felt as though I was truly in the wild. And what a wild feeling!

Today’d end up a little less naturalized and a little more civilized, with a half-day excursion into nearby Rangeley (pop: 1,165-ish, not including meese). It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing. Hangman and Wanderlust needed to hitch into town to restock their dwindling supplies, and as we stepped across the 45th parallel and onto Highway 4, I figured why not join ‘em?. I could not come up with a suitable answer, but went anyway. In the end it was a grand decision since Rangeley is as wonderful a town as I’d seen yet along the AT, a new contender for Best of Show.

The parish is sandwiched on an isthmus between two large bodies of water--Rangeley Lake (think ocean) and Haley “Pond” (think lake)--and was seemingly preserved in a time capsule. Of course, being 2013, it plays host to all kinds of industrial tourism. Overtourism. During the big chill it’s snowmobiles and skiers. This time of year it’s mostly boaters. 

It was a Friday again already, just a week after the last one, and it was relatively toasty, so boaters were out in boatloads. We’d see only two ATers in town, a long-haired stoner-looking NOBO male named Big Red (who only Wanderlust had seen before; and whose stank was livelier than he was) and a slow-moving SOBO who no one had seen before (or would again). Captain Planet must’ve bypassed this bypass. He’d hinted he might see us here. Perhaps he has.

No worries, we enjoyed our time in spite of his absence. Supplying, snacking, sightseeing. We visited an outfitters, Alpine Shop of Rangeley, and asked the proprietor why more hikers didn’t come into town.

“Oh, believe me, they do. You just picked a perfect time.”

He made it sound as though hikers weren’t welcome, but everywhere we went, townsfolk treated us like nobility. Easy hitch in, easy hitch out(1), and not a hitch between.

Back on the trail with nighttime nipping at our heels, we opted not to push our bodies or our luck and lodged at the Piazza Rock Lean-to. We were just two miles north of the highway and a tenth of a mile from the trail’s invisible NINETY-PERCENT-DONE mark. The place is peppered with mouse turds, but clean enough for the woods walker. Certainly clean enough by my measures.

The Piazza also hosts one of the more interesting privies along the trail, if a privy can be considered interesting. There are side-by-side shitters, two heads being better than one. A cribbage board is bolted between ‘em. An anchored coffee tin holds the game pieces. A wooden plaque outside the outhouse tells of its name: YOUR MOVE. I couldn’t persuade anyone into joining me for a game. “Two turds, one stone,” I pleaded.

In light of this I was glad to have picked up a new used book in town, Eat, Pray, Love. I cracked it open--it appeared unread--and warned the guys I’d be out of commission for a while, payback for being dissed. “Finally,” they replied, high-fiving one another. After my return from the Privy Hilton they went to go play cribbage. 

Eat, Pray, Hmmm. I fell asleep before the end of the first chapter. By then I’d decided I’d be donating the book to the shelter in the morning, maybe to its fire ring. Or maybe to the shittin’ shack, though I’d hate to depreciate the privy’s value. Read, Puke, Regret. Five bucks that could’ve gone toward PopTarts.

"Foot"note 1: Because of Hangman's compelling dancing antics, motorists must have assumed he was convulsing. I was convulsing watching him. Meanwhile, Big Red stood there as a statue collecting dust. But he was the first to hop in the pick-up that picked us up, the douche.