This is the End, my only friend the End.

I have caught a cold and have been staying in my tent for the last 2 days trying to get well. It's not so bad since the weather has been pleasant although there is talk of frost this evening. In any case, I plan on getting back on the trail tomorrow for an anticipated summit on the 12th of October. I am very much looking forward to completing and will be accepting "Congratulatory you made it now feast on this packages" at:

chef Fred Kedzior
general delivery
Millinocket ME 04462
hold for thru hiker 10/16

thanks for reading and your support. This has been a wonderful adventure and life lesson I will never forget.

My Maine Moose

 
    I have reached the last state on the Appalachian trail. Maine is the last and most wild environment we are to encounter during our eventful journey. It boasts the 100 mile wilderness which lets no one out of the grips of nature for nearly a week and mount Katahdin the final summit of a 2,178mile hike. Things have been speeding up only because there is less of "IT". Every step seems to be more meaningful. 
     It's is now clearly autumn and the change of foliage is taking a hold of upper New England. The yellow and bronze is oozing from the trees. Lakes and ponds seem to spring from every mountain top as though we were in a painting. Cool days of sunshine bathe my exhaustive hikes over windy peaks. I must constantly adjust to the changing weather, temperatures and patterns of the land but with it I learn the beauty of nature as it must be.  
   The auburn and gold leaf litter on the trail makes my feet kick up. And when I hit patches of red maples leaves paving a red carpet path as though I were a rock star going into the Grammy's, it seems the streaming sunlight flashing through the trees and gently swaying ferns yearning for my touch are paparazzi and adoring fans. My final walk to the podium approaches and the lime light grows brighter. I try to take my time and rest my head at night thinking of the sights seen and dream of those still to come.          

But I woke with a strange taste in the back of my throat  a few days ago. It was dry and metallic although it did not make it hard to swallow or sore. I had a desire to see a moose for no disernable reason. What had the autumn air in Maine done to me? 
    I rose quickly and packed up for the day. I started a steep climb and drank my water quickly but soon found that a good water source was hard to find. When I reached the ridge line I had no choice but to continue in a semi dehydrated state until I came across a spring.
    During the next hour or so I focused on all the moose tracks left in the mud, moose trails leading in and out of bogs but also all the moose poop on the side of the trail. I became obsessed with finding more tracks, more poop or just getting a glimpse of the brown backside of a moose. Then it hit me; I had gotten MOOSE FEVER! 
    I had been set up! All through New Hampshire the front yards were littered with moose statues. Some of wood, some of metal, others as goofy looking plastic models 10feet tall inviting you to play a game of mini putt. Even the local business establishments were of a moosey affiliation: Mosely bagels, The Moose lodge, Moose over the Moon ice cream shop, etc.
         It only got worse. In Gorham, a town only a few miles from Maine, an artisan makes earings and other jewlery out of the fibrous excrement of the beloved moose. People are wearing moose shit as designer fashion; this is ridiculmoose!   
    My state was getting critical. I needed to see a moose before long for fear of never returning to the civilized world because I had fallen too deeply to the fever and gotten into some moose job dealing with poo or new-age offal cuisine. There was still hope but I needed to act quickly and especially find water to quench the thirst my moosely state had invoked.                
      I continued to march down the trail hoping for a cure or appeasement to my symptoms. Already I had stopped a few times thinking a large rock or stump was masquerading as my moose. Yes, my moose, I was getting possessive and moose rocks were beginning to look at me funny. Oh the guile of these stones to look down at me for mistaking my moose for a cold hard lump. They would never know such adoration. 
     Finally exhausted and now almost deliriously dehydrated, I sat by the side if the trail eating the last granola bar I had left. The fever pitch was upon me and I barely regained my composure before delving into a nearby pile of moosey poopy à la Grizzly Man. Yikes! How far could I let myself go before hitting the point of no return?
   I then lost track of time but it seems I hiked for days in search of moose and water to quench my feverish thirst. Others had seen moose, I was sure of it. They had survived the fever and drank their fill but what should I do differently to soften the blow and get my rightly deserved moose sighting?   
    Nothing. There was nothing to do but go about my usual business. So it came unexpectedly after coming from a small spring with my cantine filled with cold mountain water. He heard me first, my moose, and stirred in the tall brush as I was rounding the corner. I knew at once this was the moment I was waiting for so reached for my camera.  The cure to what ailed me was tromping clumsily through the clearing and into the thicket of branches and shrubs as I pointed the lens to shoot. I would have only gotten a blurry picture of it's backside had he not stopped and turned to look at me. I froze in his uninterested, slightly bottered glance. Eventually, after hours of staring (it could have been that long) I snapped a blurry picture of my Maine moose through trees and leaves with my crappy 8.1 mega pixel compact camera.
    I felt better instantly and came to my senses. Seriously, what's the big deal about moose? They're just big brown cows with antlers!       

The big, bad, beautiful White Mountains

The weather couldn't be more perfect. Since the full moon came on September 4th just about everything has been splendid. I am sitting on top of mt Lafayette enjoying the views and cool breeze some 5250ft from sea level. The climbs get harder but every step is worth it once you reach the top. From here the mountain views are beautiful, the distant ridges fade into lighter hues of blue and clouds nip the top of the higher peaks...many of which I will soon conquer. 
    If I had continued on the original pace I was on before stopping in mid June, the rain would have poured for weeks; at least that is what I have gathered of emails, shelter journals and short conversations with many of the hiking friends I started with.  For many the White mountains are the most anticipated section of the AT for it's above ridge line trails, astounding peaks and huts which allow you to "work for stay" (usually an hour's work after which they feed you and let sleep in the mess hall). I had a large helping of pasta with tomato sausage sauce and garlic bread. Pancakes in the morning. 
     Earlier today while walking to the base of Mt Lafayette, I passed a stunning little brook with water so clear it almost reflected the sun. It passed under the highway and I had the urge to jump in so that is exactly what I did. The water was frigid but invigorating and coming out to lay in the warm sun with the naked breeze drying my raw skin wraped me in a blanket of freedom and completeness. The sound of tires passing over me at 70mph and the trickling of the brook actually meshed for a short time as I was swept away by a cat nap.
Now I am sitting on top of mount Lafayette and I can't get down it's so pretty and peaceful. It's a rare and wonderous sight to take in on such a clear day so I will try to enjoy as much of it as I can.

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.