An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 149: Tuesday, August 20th, 2013
Horns Pond Lean-tos to Flagstaff Lake = 13 miles
Miles to date: 2,016
Day 149: Tuesday, August 20th, 2013
Horns Pond Lean-tos to Flagstaff Lake = 13 miles
Miles to date: 2,016
The Alaska of the East
“‘I think,’ said Christopher Robin, ‘that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan’t have so much to carry.‘”
“‘I think,’ said Christopher Robin, ‘that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan’t have so much to carry.‘”
Graced with a memory suggestive of a sieve(1) I cannot recollect whether I’ve mentioned this already--long trails erode/corrode the capacity to recall just as trail nutrition corrodes the body--but now that this odyssey is almost over--OMG!--I thought I’d offer a little something about my tactics of hiking a long trail like the AT. (There are no long trails like the AT.)
In a nutshell: There are none. One step leads to the next. Take ‘em. See where they lead.
But one thing I do tend to do (“do tend to do”…say that five times fast) is increase my mileage as my supplies dwindle and my pack weight decreases, that is if the terrain ahead collaborates. (More often than not the terrain departing a town is the most difficult to deal with, not just because the backpacker is fully laden with new supplies, but because trail towns tend to be sandwiched between large mountains or ridges, and one must first climb in order to take flight.)
Because backpack weight is a personal archenemy, and because the higher-mileage days tend to be easier on my cadaver--due to the emptier (lighter) load--I always ease into each new section of a long-distance/thru hike. I’m an ectomorph, a stick figure, a brittle twig, not a tree trunk. So if I’m about to set out for, say, a seventy-five-mile stretch between resupply points, one that I expect (or hope) ought to take five days, the mileage tends to unfurl like this:
Day 1: 10 miles (sample loaded pack weight to start the day: 24lbs) (day after restocking: least favorite day on trail!)
Day 2: 13 miles (sample loaded pack weight to start the day: 21lbs)
Day 3: 15 miles (sample loaded pack weight to start the day: 18lbs)
Day 4: 17 miles (sample loaded pack weight to start the day: 15lbs)
Day 5: 20 miles (sample loaded pack weight to start the day: 12lbs) (day before restocking: favorite day on trail!)
All else equal--as in water weight and terrain--the twenty-miler/twelve-pounder takes a comparable amount of time and is less strenuous on me than the ten-miler/twenty-four-pounder. Unscientific, for sure, but historically verifiable.
Some correlated pithy thoughts:
1: A lighter body incurs less stress.
2: The bigger they are, the harder they fall…and the harder they climb.
3: Mass is a pain in the ass; stuff weighs in many ways (physically and emotionally).
Some correlated pithy thoughts:
1: A lighter body incurs less stress.
2: The bigger they are, the harder they fall…and the harder they climb.
3: Mass is a pain in the ass; stuff weighs in many ways (physically and emotionally).
Furthermore, breaking away from town is not just challenging because of the weight, or due to the tilted terrain, but because it means having to pry ourselves from the incomparable amenities of our modern world. Namely hot water and cold beer. In the mountains there are no beer springs and we are forced to live off of nothing but food and water. And so, as fatigue and grime and thirst accumulate during a thru-hike, towns are known to become SSDs. Super Suction Devices. Hiker vacuums. Yet they do little to suck away the pain.
Although the above mileage example looks to jump up quickly, the diminishing pack weight allows for it, even encourages it, and it makes far more sense than five straight fifteen-milers would. Recall the silly saw:
(Quick science lesson: weight and expenditure are intertwined--as weight goes up, so does expenditure. Moreover, expenditure is not only measured by mileage, but also by increased injury risk. More moreover, increased mileage also increases injury risk. Sometimes, backpacking can take us too far.)
My pack loses nearly three pounds daily between resupply points. Most this is food mass, with a small amount of stove fuel and any pus or skin or blood I lose en route. Water weight is entirely contingent upon a given stretch of terrain--whether there’s water ahead--but I carry as little as possible since the stuff is heavy and they haven’t figured out a way to dehydrate it yet. They, those bastards! But boy, when they do, I’m thinking we’ll see backpacking really take off!
Future backpacking invention: a small, lightweight, battery-operated device--an AWG: atmospheric water generator--that collects drinkable moisture from the air and traps it in a storage container, BPA-free, of course. Laugh now, but it will happen eventually. Advances in technology aren’t all bad, and they are bound to happen in time. Humans believe they need them. Extravagance is the mother of invention.
Anyway, before my train of thought derails, onto today and the Maine Attraction…
Every ounce counts in large amounts!
(Quick science lesson: weight and expenditure are intertwined--as weight goes up, so does expenditure. Moreover, expenditure is not only measured by mileage, but also by increased injury risk. More moreover, increased mileage also increases injury risk. Sometimes, backpacking can take us too far.)
My pack loses nearly three pounds daily between resupply points. Most this is food mass, with a small amount of stove fuel and any pus or skin or blood I lose en route. Water weight is entirely contingent upon a given stretch of terrain--whether there’s water ahead--but I carry as little as possible since the stuff is heavy and they haven’t figured out a way to dehydrate it yet. They, those bastards! But boy, when they do, I’m thinking we’ll see backpacking really take off!
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Anyway, before my train of thought derails, onto today and the Maine Attraction…
Lately, the AT doesn’t seem like a different trail, but rather the same trail in a different era. The halcyon days of yore! Its surroundings are untouched and isolated. Maine, I’ve come to discover in just ninety-nine miles, is The Alaska of the East. Nature gone wild. Expansive. Real. Beautiful beyond belief. Rugged beyond comprehension. Beautiful and beastly: the combination has knocked my senses senseless.
And although it hasn’t been the case in my case yet, one can tell that it is a harsh place, leaving few prisoners (e.g., Geraldine Largay/Jessie Hoover). Mountains and ocean, most of which is closer to the North Pole than to the equator. The state sits in the crosshairs of the Arctic and the Atlantic (and in the crosshairs of many a camera lens). I fear to think of winter here; it shivers me timbers doing so. Give me the desert, give me peace.
And although it hasn’t been the case in my case yet, one can tell that it is a harsh place, leaving few prisoners (e.g., Geraldine Largay/Jessie Hoover). Mountains and ocean, most of which is closer to the North Pole than to the equator. The state sits in the crosshairs of the Arctic and the Atlantic (and in the crosshairs of many a camera lens). I fear to think of winter here; it shivers me timbers doing so. Give me the desert, give me peace.
The US’s 23rd state is nicknamed the Pine Tree State (possessing more than seventeen million acres of untouched forest) and plays host to all sorts: loggers, tree-huggers, artists, writers, fishermen, boaters/sailors, hikers, snowmobilers, skiers, and even some office workers, though I have yet to cross paths with any of the latter. But my favorite type of Mainer(2), of whom I share a deep propinquity, a close kinship, is the loner. The recluse. The hermit.
There’s one in particular who’s built almost a legendary status, the North Pond Hermit. The story is this: for nearly THREE DECADES scores of cabin owners had noticed their cabins being busted into when they returned to them each spring, with food and other supplies missing. It was the work not of a bear or Bigfoot but of the notorious North Pond Hermit. For twenty-seven years he remained alone and unseen (not unlike Bigfoot).
Until this year, anyway.
In April Christopher Knight, 47, was finally apprehended and sent to jail for his wrongdoings, an estimated one-thousand break-ins. He confessed it all began in 1986, the year of the Chernobyl fiasco and the space shuttle explosion (the first one; he knew not of the second), when he drove into the bowels of Maine and abandoned his car with its keys in it, continuing off-piste, on foot. He did so much in the manner of Forest Gump--for no particular reason. He’d had a happy upbringing and really didn’t detest people. No girl or broken heart compelled him. He just walked and camped, eventually losing track of days and weeks and months and years. No one ever reported him as missing.
When he first started drifting through the woods, Knight decided he’d attempt to hunt and fish and trap and forage--to live off the land. But the land wasn’t so edible. Nor was the water. No matter how hard he tried, neither would provide--humans had long since depleted the “resources”--and so his hunger led him south, to more pastoral land near the towns of Rome and Smithfield, where he resorted to a life of crime.
For twenty-seven years, crime paid.
He stole anything and everything that would help his survival and a few items (Game Boys, books and such) purely for entertainment. He lived off of marshmallows, candy, booze, frozen goods, canned goods, and whatever else he could glom. He’d travel only at night and would retrace his steps back to his cloistered encampment, careful not to leave footprints, frequently heading out during snowstorms. He never even lit a campfire, for fear the smoke would give him away. He buried all waste and left little (surface) trace.
For twenty-seven years, crime paid.
He stole anything and everything that would help his survival and a few items (Game Boys, books and such) purely for entertainment. He lived off of marshmallows, candy, booze, frozen goods, canned goods, and whatever else he could glom. He’d travel only at night and would retrace his steps back to his cloistered encampment, careful not to leave footprints, frequently heading out during snowstorms. He never even lit a campfire, for fear the smoke would give him away. He buried all waste and left little (surface) trace.
But technology would catch up to the times. Cabin owners started installing concealed surveillance cameras, security lights, silent alarms, and whatnot. Which is exactly how Knight would end up in front of more cameras and eventually in jail, where he’s now forced to deal with some of humanity’s worst--law enforcement, namely--along with cramped conditions and a total and complete lack of freedom.
Thinking about the lone wolf as I strode into the day, I felt for him, sitting in the stew. Had he wanted to, the poor guy could very well have survived along the AT during that time, year after year, what with all the trail angels and the unlimited handouts, not to mention all the hiker boxes and discarded food. If only he had known. He might’ve even made a friend or two, had he wanted. I’d have tried, I’m sure. We’re just about the same age and seem to share a similar mindset. Unlike wild animals, the crowd are best kept at a safe distance.
Why I initially thought of the isolato, I can’t recall. No particular reason, I guess. Lonely, rugged Maine evokes lonely, rugged thoughts. What would he have done later on, as he grew old, if he hadn’t been caught? How long would he have continued in the woods? Had he any run-ins with wildlife? Had he seen Bigfoot?
It wasn’t lonely for me now though. I had Sinner the grinner and Goat and Klutz nearby.
Sinner is a unique case. First of all he’s fat. If not fat, round-ish. He also sweats lavishly, as though he’s trying to drown himself, or drown the trail. Worst of all, he smokes two packs of filter-less cigarettes a day and countless joints! But I’ll give him this: whenever he reaches the top of a large hill, he always waits for me. He’s every bit the hiker Goat is, despite the less intimidating build.
Sometimes I hear him breathing and cussing, but he continues outpacing me, stretching the distance ’twixt us. Of all hikers I’ve met, I just don’t see it in him. Emperor, Fatty, Mountain Goat, Gator, Backstreet, Bulldog, Klutz, Tugboat, Chickadee…sure. But Sinner, no way. And so my ego kicks in and I get competitive! And still he gains real estate! Too bad too. Blessed with a mind like compost, he shares a similar mindset.
Sinner is a unique case. First of all he’s fat. If not fat, round-ish. He also sweats lavishly, as though he’s trying to drown himself, or drown the trail. Worst of all, he smokes two packs of filter-less cigarettes a day and countless joints! But I’ll give him this: whenever he reaches the top of a large hill, he always waits for me. He’s every bit the hiker Goat is, despite the less intimidating build.
Sometimes I hear him breathing and cussing, but he continues outpacing me, stretching the distance ’twixt us. Of all hikers I’ve met, I just don’t see it in him. Emperor, Fatty, Mountain Goat, Gator, Backstreet, Bulldog, Klutz, Tugboat, Chickadee…sure. But Sinner, no way. And so my ego kicks in and I get competitive! And still he gains real estate! Too bad too. Blessed with a mind like compost, he shares a similar mindset.
Gaining real estate at my own defeated rate, I did my best not to plunder every blueberry bush. I’m an addict, I admit. An addict too for the scenery. The thru-hiker needs to be.
We’d all reunite atop Bigelow Mountain, an hour-forty after scaling South Horn right out of the gate. At 4,145 feet, Bigelow be big, not low. Or AT big, anyway. The last of the treeless/shrubless summits until that lovely lodestar Katahdin. Special K. The peak, Big B, was full of wind (on this day) and scenery (on this day) and magnificence (every day). The beauty was so entirely overwhelming we balked at blinking. For all our untold effort (told about again and again), the trail was rewarding us continually now. Sure, we cussed going up the mountain, but we sang praise atop it. The cycle continues, it seems. Since Georgia. But, as they say: No pain, no Maine.
“If I’d’ve invented the AT,” offered Mountain Goat, bright orange shit shovel dangling from his pack, “I’d have skipped everything south of Vermont.”
“I’d’ve placed it in the Sierra,” I replied.
“I’d’ve built it to circle a saloon,” said Sinner. “Or maybe a salon.”
After two thousand miles, the same ol’ inane absurdity applies.
“I’d’ve built it to circle a saloon,” said Sinner. “Or maybe a salon.”
After two thousand miles, the same ol’ inane absurdity applies.
Eventually the chatter came to a stop and we departed the summit and its battering wind, trying to tune out the Magnetic Murmur of the Blueberry and its ever-present battle cry, falling short most the time. A battle all right, but diarrhea could never topple free food. Within a short time we reached Avery Mountain, named for one Myron Avery, the man who truly gave birth to the Appalachian Trail. I’ll spare you the history lesson, since this entry is already bordering on novel-like proportions and since Google or Wikipedia is always within a few clicks. Don’t be lazy. We’re out here trudging; this is the least you could do, you indolent schmuck! (Lazy is as lazy does not do. L-a-z-y, you ain’t got no alibi!)
“Remote for detachment, narrow for chosen company, winding for leisure, lonely for contemplation, the trail beckons not merely north and south but upward to the body, mind and soul of man.”
~Myron Avery
By mid to late afternoon we were spread all over the map. I had to fertilize (squirtilize?) more shrubbery (note to future hikers: though they may be smaller, be sure to pick your blueberries close to the trail!), while the others each continued their own rhythm. Their rhythm: stride-stride-stride-stride (ad infinitum). My rhythm, soporific despite going mostly downhill: stride-------------stride-------------rest-------------catch-------------breath-------------sigh-------------rub quadriceps-------------wipe sweat-------------gaze-------------smile-------------stride.
The smiling is what makes it all worthwhile. Blessed are the tenacious. Have will, will travel.
We’d do more smiling when we regrouped yet again. No surprises, really. Goat and Klutz are my two favorite people I’ve met on this adventure. And though it surprises me, I must be one of theirs, since they’re often the ones lingering. This time they waited near Little Bigelow Mountain (elev: 3,010 feet), alongside Sinner. Views and dropped jaws prevailed yet again. Vast vistas, overlooking eternity. And not only 360-degrees, but spherical. Not globular in the usual sense, but globe-ular. Up, down, all around. Surrounded by space, unrestricted by time. We basked, as part-time hikers do. Why hike, after all, if you cannot bask?
Later still, we found ourselves at the pebbled shore of one of the massive lakes upon which our eyes had earlier feasted, Flagstaff Lake.
It’s more of a coast than a shore. A pageantry of light and reflection invades our vision. Three little birds sit and sing on the shore, thinking shore thoughts. Home.
We laid our bed-mats down, assembled some driftwood and constructed a trim, businesslike fire. In time we’d be huddled next to the living, breathing dragon beneath a rising full moon, or damn-near full anyway. A campfire is always warmer with friends around.
There’s not a boat on the lake. A trio of bald eagles wheel and swoop overhead, screeching melodically as night nears. Their nest sits across the lake from us, slightly cater-cornered. Of all my years sleeping underneath the heavens, this may be the most heavenly. We are not beneath heaven; we are in it. We are not beneath the Creator; we are on it. The waves doing their laps will soon lapse me into the Otherworld. Grandiose though the Otherworld might be, ‘tis nowhere near as dreamy as this one.
There’s not a boat on the lake. A trio of bald eagles wheel and swoop overhead, screeching melodically as night nears. Their nest sits across the lake from us, slightly cater-cornered. Of all my years sleeping underneath the heavens, this may be the most heavenly. We are not beneath heaven; we are in it. We are not beneath the Creator; we are on it. The waves doing their laps will soon lapse me into the Otherworld. Grandiose though the Otherworld might be, ‘tis nowhere near as dreamy as this one.
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| Clowning around on an empty Flagstaff Lake |
"Forget-me-note" 1: Didn't I mention this in yesterday's journal? I had thought of opening with: "With a memory reminiscent of a sieve"…but I ponder now, can a poor memory be reminiscent of something? How would we reminisce with a poor memory? If only I could remember…
"Foot"note 2: Besides the nubile nymphomaniac (nympho-Maine-iac), that is.
"Foot"note 2: Besides the nubile nymphomaniac (nympho-Maine-iac), that is.
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