So there I was covered in motor oil (Joel McCollough's signature story opener)

This blog inspired from an entry in a shelter register quoting a paragraph from Hemingway. It did not say what it was but I like it enough to keep thinking about it.
Temperatures dropped steeply with the coming hurricane Danny which left many hikers unprepared for cold in August. In town the following day, most of the talk was taking place at the outfitters about the cold night spend. This is a romanticized version of my night.    

 -________________________________________________________________________-

There was no real alternative to bearing the elements for the evening so he marched on under the turbulent gray sky and past the cool breeze whisping in the air. At the shelter, the couple with the shy dog reorganized their possessions on one side, talked, ate in silence, smoked a cigarette, made plans and asked questions while all he though of reminded him of the cold night ahead. With the moon rising into the storm he counted miles and weighed options while fully dressed for battle in everything he carried and armored in a silver emergency blanket. The slash of the wind and spill of the mist on his face carried his dreams from color comfort to damp drab.  He awoke in the dark not knowing what else to do but turn his back to the cold to ignore it once more. When it was clear the shivering would not allow his sleep to come he pulled out the last reserve Handy Warmer and held it with tenderness. For a moment in the constant crinkle of wind abutting against plastic, his heart was warm and loved and he forgot about the cold and fell again to the night. If he'd slept until dawn a victory would have been his but the smell of cold on his nose made his eyes tear and in somber silence he emerged from the covers to give life to the deadened limbs. Ferociously awaiting the break of day in the impenetrable dark, he knew he was beaten. With thoughts of the  sunrise leading him off the mountain he struggled with the moisture condensating on the plastic covers, wetting his socks, contorting his body into an ever smaller ball of goose bump flesh. In the last hours of the night he concentrated the warmth he had left and perhaps his exhaustion pulled his eyelids closed because there was nothing else to be done. The morning would come no sooner than when he had given in.          

A readjustment now and then

What a crazy time of reajustment! The change is incredible from 2 months ago. In June, the weather was barely warm and the bugs nearly inexistent. The past week has made me endure the weather and all it's surprises like I never could have expected. The sun and humidity brought by the hurricane Bill drenched me in sweat as though the rain cloud was over my head. My shoes were flooded and I had to be careful with heat exhaustion, dehydration and my water intake. The humidity wrung every bit of moisture from my body, I was boderline cramping, stiffening up and buckling at the knees. I am not built for the hot weather...did you know I was born in a snow storm on a blustery January day in Montreal?

Worst are the Mosquitos I have encountered since entering Massachusetts; nothing more than Massquitos so far. They riddle me with their bumps and turn my arms, legs and back into the Braille writings of their fiendish hunger and violent itch. South bound (SoBo) hikers read upon my bumpy flesh the toils of stopping to get water or tying a shoes while pricks pierce my t-shirt and relentless attacks break me. I run through sections in the hopes of warding off some of the pesky insects, douce myself with repellent or wish for the oncoming thunderstorm to pour down more rain drops than they can avoid. None work when the breeding grounds of marsh land and flooded corn fields are straddled between the AT and me. Massquitos still bite in the pouring rain. 

But not all is lost in the constant scratch and sniff of the wilderness. I have found the stories of past friends in the registers at the shelters. Most are coming very close to finishing their adventure hike, some have climbed Katahdin already but all have left a piece of their story for me to find. I learned more about a good man named Moses from an entry he wrote on June 14 about the death of his father, his atheist outlook, the solitude he searched and many subtile things he did not share during our many days of hiking. Among the serious is also the playful daily writings and glimpses of my fellow companions' journey which I imagine from the few lines they scribble on the page before stomping off.

I am now in Dalton Massachusetts where a man named Tom Levardi has opened his home to hikers and all their smelly needs. His house is packed, we sleep on the floors where the couches have been filled and yet he does not ask nor accept anything for his graciousness. Tomorrow he will bring a few of us 30 miles north where we can slack pack south back to his house (leave the packs at the house in order to hike faster and further). It should be a great day to hike, especially 35lbs lighter. Also, Mosquitos are behaving and the cool nights craddle me to sleep.

Back on the road again

Here is a mid hike inventory check. The before and after pictures tell the story of my gear evolution. It's probably hard to tell but the before picture was taken from a chair so I could get the whole carpet while the after picture is about 1/3 of the carpet. I also have about 4 days worth of food as opposed to none. It must mean I am ready to go.

It's been about 2 months since I got off and I have been doing some work painting and re-working double hung windows. It was a great to spend some time working on a project and focusing solely on daily a task. Not much different from hiking but with more amenities and ice cream.

Now I have a clear path to the finish, I am yearning for accomplishment, if only to get back to the "usual grind". Not that I want to work 5 days a week with 2 weeks vacation and get stuck in the 2 day weekend chasm. I guess I should start playing those scratch off tickets with leprechauns to win 2k a month for the rest of my life in order to uphold this vagabond lifestyle. And besides the grass is always greener on the other side.

I will be taking the train from NYC to the border of Connecticut where I will have about 900 miles to go. I am anxious and excited to start again. The summer will come to a close, the foliage will multicolor with the cold autumn sweeping in. The hikes will get harder again but with the climbs will come breath taking vistas. I even have a new compact pillow (my one luxury item besides music) so even cold, hard nights are appealing...at least until the novelty wears off. I'll also have my phone so call me up so I can answer from the top of mountain. Talk to you then!

A Maker's Mark of 30 miles

Part 2

Off i was again on the trail heading north, a small town stop at Boiling Springs PA keeping me focused and on pace. Although I was growing tired as the day went on I was determined to make the 30 mile mark. I decided to stop for dinner so I would be able to continue through the night, if needed, to finish.

Dusk was closing in when I arrived to the charming little town of Hot Springs where the trail passed right through town, around a pristine man made pond full of fish with a gazebo on the side until reaching the AT Conservancy. I took a little break looking at the pamphlets, weighing my pack (a cool 34lbs) and talking to Dancing Wolf who was a SOBO (south bound). We decided to have a beer at the restaurant/bar across the street for our general sanity and because it's about the simple pleasures opportunity gives you.

The restaurant was upscale for the small town with dark wood, a terrible carpet and old timers at the dinner tables drinking mediocre wine at high prices. We dropped out bags on the side of the building and went straight to the bar but Dancing Wolf was told he was not allowed in the establishment with the cut off T-shirt he had on. I was in my muddy gaiters, stinky clothes but passed the requisite dress code so ordered a beer and shot of bourbon only to be told there was a 1 drink at a time per person limit. Obviously, this place was trying to keep the fine dining appeal and I understood completely but could not hold in my immediate approval of Dancing Wolf's alternate shirt when he walked in with a tie dye peace symbol. Ends up the bartender was really cool, had worked in DC, took care of us, chatted when he had the chance and introduced us to a regular whom we ended talking to for quite a while. He was indeed as classy as the establishment he represented.

Now, I could attempt to recall the conversations we had with Tom the snake expert who collected American Indian artifacts and coached the Hershey Bears years ago or the how the regular we were introduced to (who's name I forget) was a divorce(eh) whose daughter was the hostess etc etc. The point is I had a great time talking with all the fine folks who were there; the 3 pilots even showed up. I inadvertently waited out a thunderstorm while sipping on my 3rd Maker's Mark and Ginger. Everything was working out well.

Although I did have beers a few times on the trail I never got drunk; having a beer was like eating all the things you missed, a craving for the taste of things unavailable. Well, on this night I was drunk and enjoyed every minute of it. The bar closed at midnight, Dancing Wolf and I walked out laughing the whole way about nothing in particular. Since he was Sobo and I was Nobo we parted ways with a drunken slap in the face as though we had a long standing childhood friendship that allowed for such intimate and violent contact. Dancing Wolf headed to the gazebo for the night and I headed up the road to find the trail but I doubt I will ever hear from him even though I passed on my info and he said he would email. Passing friendships on the AT are momentous and minute.

At this point most would have given up on making the 30 mile mark but I was still ready to continue the 8 miles needed. The rain had passed, my mind was made up, my legs fueled with Maker's Mark so I started into the night with headlamp lighting the way into the woods and fields of PA. I sang and stumbled my way through the wet leaves and high grass until my shoes had soaked up all they could. I was now squishing past the cow pastures and crossed the PA turnpike in the dead of the night losing track of how far I had to go to break the 30mi mark. So I hiked some more until I got to a foot bridge near Carlisle PA.

This was were I was going to stop for the night no matter if I had accomplished my goal or not. I was exhausted, the Maker's Mark fueled drive had worn off and the rain was beginning to start up again. Although I knew I should put up a proper camp, change out of my hiking clothes, brush my teeth or, at least, take off my shoes I simply put my ground pad down and layed down with my sleeping bag.

The few hours of sleep I got were torture. I was never comfortable, cold and wet, tossing and turning, down right miserable. I could have changed all this easily but did not have the energy to devote to the effort. The morning was worse. My feet were completely shriveled and white with pain. All I wanted was a shower, a nice breakfast and a couch to lay on. What I had was a dirty little strip of land between 2 large roads with trucks roaring past, a booming headache and little else to ease my achy breaky self. Even the realization that I had made the 30 mile mark gave me little comfort.

It took me hours to get moving again. All my gear was wet and strewn around the trail. Luckily I only had 10 miles to go until I would get picked up in Duncannon. The day was tough and I was ready to call it quits at every step. Still I persevered and told myself this was part of the good, the bad and the ugly of trail life. It makes for a good story but I learned an important lesson that day: Hiking and drinking don't mix.

Tales of the Toothless- an email worth sharing

I have encountered some fine folks with quirks all their own worth telling stories about...most with teeth though.

One guy that came to mind was named Captain because of a his feathered low brim cap and long white beard. He had a funny way of talking as though every sentence was pulled from a bag with the slow croaking intonation of an old man in a rocking chair pulling the corn cob pipe from his lips, then waiting, and finally starting; except the captain smoked small cigars. He was from New Orleans and had that uncanny calm, jovial atmosphere of a southern gentleman at Mardis Gras about him which added to the absolute silliness of his speaking. The man had hiked the Appalachian Trail for the past 16 years or so, making sure to mark off every section on the map. His 2 weeks in the Shennandoah's would mark off the last bits of Virginia and, on the day I met him, was also to be his last day on the trail until next year when he would take on another 14 day adventure. He carried nothing sparingly in the old external frame back pack and wore boots which were completely reconstructed with duct tape because they had fallen apart a few days back after many years of service. His stove was the heavy coleman propane type standing 10inches high, 6 inches in diameter and weighing at least 4 pounds.
He joked he had a jet pack and needed only to hit the button to fly off.

Although I can't remember the specific silliness of this man, I can say he was as kind and warm hearted as I have ever met. He offered to dry off my socks with his propane stove but the open flame on wool made me consider having wet socks to having none. We were getting to be as close as hikers can get in a cramped shelter of 5 while being pinned in by the rain. A few newly graduated Pitt Alumni came down the hill then(and this is probably the reason I thought of this story) so I recalled a few 'souf Oakland fo' life' hangouts while they told me the new spot in place. The newly grads filled their water and headed back up the hill to camp so we continued chit chatting until the sun when down and the rain fell again.
He was quite a character. In the morning he was packed and ready to go before anyone else even though he had only to hike to the parking lot a mile away to wait for his girlfriend or wife to pick him up. He had 3 cigars left so could wait until noon at least. I never got a picture of him, never knew his given name, nor what he did for a living. Couldn't tell you if he had kids, a family to love or a dog by his side at home but I'd be happy to see on the streets or mountain trail again to talk for talking's sake.

Those are the times I like best. But looking back may romanticize or idealize the memory of it. Maybe that's what makes it so nice to remember.

A Maker's Mark of 30 miles

Part 1

I have had trouble with the last few entries of the blog because I find it hard to write about all the things that happen and go through my head while on the trail without making a novel out of it. Seems to me the compression of all these experiences in a few short paragraphs takes away from immediate experiences and convolutes what I want to portray. So in the hopes turning over a new blogging leaf and, perhaps, even finding my voice, more noteworthy daily occurrences will be at the forefront. I’d like to thank a friend and luminous blogger in their own rite for the gchat discussion about the subject whose own experiences can be found at http://faildatedc.blogspot.com/.

With that said, I’d like to tell the tale of my 31.2 mile day. It is the most miles I have been able to log in a 24hr period and a very eventful day. Although I had been doing some big miles throughout the Shennys (Shenandoah’s), I had only reached 29 miles so breaking the 30 mark was a hefty feat I wanted to reach before hitting rocky and mountainous terrain past PA but also because I knew I would get off the trail again soon and possibly “get soft”.

As you can imagine the preparation for an endurance challenge of this sort takes planning and preparation. There are some who are able to hike throughout the day without stopping for lunch or long rest times, they eat gorp and snacks all day, stop only to refill and drink on the go without slowing down for hours on end. There are even stories circulating about doing 50 miles a day (Fasttrack) or holding a steady 30+ miles per day (James, he like to hike barechested) but I am not one of that sort. I like to cook an extra batch of rice, tuna and fajita seasoning the night before, make some burritos for the long day ahead and organize my thoughts to be mentally prepared for the physical onslaught I am about to bring on. So, on this particular night of preparation, I found myself alone in the shelter which was probably because the Half Gallon (of ice cream) Challenge was only a few miles away and most everyone pushed ahead to gorge. Newly lactose intolerant from lack of dairy on the trail, I did not consider putting myself in digestive peril, enough said.
My day began early after a thunderous night of rain which woke me to disco lightning and boombastic bass; these are the nights, and there have been many, where you are thankful to have a roof over your head. Walking down the trail was made tricky because of the late night downpour which left all the overgrown bushes and shrubs hanging in the path and soaking my pant legs as I passed by so I put my trekking poles out in front to knock down any major accumulation. After a short time I was walking on a paved road again, a common occurrence since getting out of the larger national forests of the south.
I came to a farm which had been recently converted to a hostel but held much more history and transformation than I could have imagined. This Park/Campground used to be known as Pine Grove Furnace where there once stood a large mining kiln for production of iron ore, an intricate bi-lateral maze of railroad tracks, a large workforce and a plain view of the southern countryside…more precisely, a lookout point from the barn to safeguard the underground railroad. Although I did not see it, those who stayed at the hostel and with whom I hiked with that day, told me of the hidden rooms by the furnace, small trap doors leading underground, and the history of this unassuming barn.
I had caught up to a new friend named Stuff Sac at Pine Grove who was also attempting to do a 34 mile day so we hiked along for a time telling stories, passing the ½ way mark of the AT and describing other hikers we had met along the way. Stuff Sac was a skinny lad but one that did not stop, so before long he pressed on while I had lunch. I would not see him until I arrived at the Doyle 2 days later where he told me he was able to keep his 3mph pace and make his designated shelter by nightfall. In contrast, I would barely break my marker and it was well into the night.
During lunch, a group of 3 older gents passed by who were friendly enough to chat for a second although the skies were looming with dark clouds and bad intentions. They all worked either as pilots of air tower controllers and 1 had married the sister of another. No matter. I would see them again and they were good fellas.
After they left and I had eaten my pre-made burrito, I got to my feet slowly and caught the glimpse of a 4 leaf clover. I picked it and looked for more. There was another not too far away. I have had some pretty “lucky” days on the trail where my records held to 6 four leaf clovers but this proved to be a drop in the bucket at the end of the rainbow. I was able to find 8 and had to tell myself to stop looking down because every time I did all the regular 3 leaf clovers were a blanket with 4 leaf clovers popping out of them. I swear I could see them clearly, 5 feet away; it was incredible. Of course the beauty of this is I have no idea how much time I spent looking for the clovers. I may have thought they were everywhere but I did move around the humungous patch quite a bit.
All good things must come to an end. I suited up, found another clover as I was leaving and left in on the little rock steps I had had lunch on. It was past noon, the sky was still gray, I was not even half way done.