In a blaze (or, well many blazes- white ones) of rock-ridden, grueling mountainous intensity, the Whites both drained my body and lifted my soul. The hiking was unlike any I have ever experienced, and included many pole-free hands-on rock face climbs. My legs burned as they haven't since Georgia and North Carolina; at times my pack felt as heavy as when I first began to carry it; daily, I broke into full-body sweats from the exertion despite the cool mountain temps. But, in exchange, the White Mountains offered some of the most spectacular scenery to ever stand before my open eyes.
Our entrance into the Whites, via a cumulative 3,800-foot climb up Mount Moosilauke, was graced with a windy but partly sunny day. Though the climb's photo finish had us clinging to the summit marker for fear of being blown off the 4,802-foot top, the valleys below and mountains to the north, south, east and west made the four of us marvel at the splendor surrounding us. Moosilauke would set the tone for a long stretch where, for seemingly the first time, the rewards matched the effort expended through long days, worn muscles and aching joints. Coupled with mostly clear weather for a small stretch, again seemingly for the first time, we laid eyes and boot soles on the astounding Franconia Ridge and the unparalleled Presidential Range. The hiking, as I said, was of an intensity unlike anything I have previously encountered. Much of the time, though, I barely noticed the strain on my body. My attention was instead captured by the incredible open ridge walks at 4,500 to 5,500 feet. Hiking felt like hiking again: at altitude we escaped most of the constant mudslogging that has plagued so many prior days (weeks, months) of this trip. For stretches in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, this thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail fulfilled the romanticized role it originally occupied in my imagination when Teenie and I first conceived of it years ago-- before I did any research, before I read any accounts or understood, even vaguely, the intensity of physical, emotional and mental labor involved in the pursuit of 2,178.3 miles of mountains. The Whites invigorated all of us four remaining Goonies. In perhaps a smaller dose, we experienced the rejuvenative effects of a vacation to the Presidential Range. Even though 'hiking' turned into 'more hiking' or 'harder hiking' in Northern New Hampshire, a positive change still graced the excursion for sure. I certainly felt it.
This all came at a price-- literally, in that suddenly upon entering the Whites, thru-hikers are expected to pay to stay at the same shelters and campsites we have occupied for free since Georgia, and figuratively in that stringent overnight/camping/fire/visitation regulations and crowded trails detract from the idyllic scenery. Of course, I am glad to share the splendor with everyone out to enjoy the trail(s). But, I do regrettably admit that we have adopted some thru-hiker elitism, and take offense (minor in my case, major in the case of Saint and Rusticus) to being placed on the backburner in favor of weekenders with deeper pockets. The Appalachian Mountain Club hut system, for example, allows limited work-for-stay options for thru-hikers, but has no real lodging available for us. The hut patrons understandably take priority over the penniless thru-hikers, but I think we still hold onto this vain resentment at being shoved into a corner (or on top of a bench or dinner table) after having hiked over 1,800 miles when most of those around us simply drove up and opened their wallets. But, I remind myself, in a previous life I too was a dayhiker and a car camper, and when I return to normality I shall probably become one again. It's the American way, though, that money talks-- that it speaks louder even than 1800 miles of actions and certainly louder than words. It reminds me, as I pass through it, of the duality of astounding natural beauty and its inevitable subjugation to tourism; but also that this tourism generates funds which contribute to its sustenance and maintenance and hopefully the preservation of its natural beauty. I wonder, is this the best or only effective method, the cycle of stay-pay-maintain? As with any not-for-profit endeavor, it relies on a precarious balance of funds, trust, generosity, and hope, but still seems to fall victim to laziness and disregard. I myself often pick up wrappers left behind by careless visitors, while I try to observe "Leave No Trace" policies. I hope that for every careless visitor discarding garbage on the trail(s), there is a hiker willing to bend down to pick it up and pack it out. It is a cycle that requires the active participation of all willing, and certainly forms a delicate stasis. Overall, I try to accept the system as part of the learning curve of this journey. I'm glad to be a part of the Whites and the Presidential Range at whatever cost I am able, on my limited hiker budget, to afford. I, am, after all, also a part of the cycle of visitation.
I have written many times about the value of loved ones in relation to my mentality on the trail. My parents, always spectacularly supportive of my endeavors no matter how unusual, have actively participated in our journey throughout. They visited again in North Woodstock, where they generously rented a condo for two nights and we took a Zero Day after climbing Moosilauke. A few days later, my parents drove up the Mount Washington Auto Road and met us at the 6,288-foot summit after we had climbed it. They brought my grandfather as well, and, under rather unusual circumstances, three generations of Wetherbees united atop the tallest mountain in the northeast and the 2nd-highest point on the whole AT. We lunched at the snack bar, enjoying a hazy but decent view. I had some wonderful conversation with my grandfather about books and writing and goals and the trail. I enjoyed the embraces of my parents. Theirs were the only ones I had had in weeks. I hope, friends, that you have been stockpiling hugs for my return, by the way. I'm deprived.
The composition of this entry occurred (occurs; is occurring) at le chateau Roberge in Berlin, NH. Rachelle and Steve have also been amazingly supportive during my quest, showering me with postcards, packages and well-wishes. They have graciously driven north from their apartment to their shared hometown to host the four of us at Steve's parents' house. I think, by this point, it has become horribly (blatantly; annoyingly, even) obvious that what I miss most from my previous/normal/stationary life are my friends. It means an incredible lot to me to spend time with them, both to share my journey and to share in theirs. The momentary escape from the trail does help reestablish some small (small small small) quota of mental stability. But, this far along, it is the return of social and mental stimulation through meaningful conversation that I crave and cherish. I shall return to the AT this afternoon having enjoyed a full day of food and relaxation, but, more importantly, of support and a little spiritual communion. This may possibly have been my last friend or family member visit until the end. It was a great one. Thank you so much, you two.
We have passed the 300-mile-remaining mark, and start today at about 298ish. We will be in Maine tomorrow, and, excepting Mahoosuc Notch and Katahdin, the hardest hiking is behind us. There's light at the end of the green tunnel perhaps, I think. But, then, I just ran into a fellow hiker who, upon entering Maine, fell and dislocated his shoulder and is unable to carry his pack and unable to continue. Game over. It was a reminder that I'm not there yet, and nor is there any guarentee that I will be. But it's looking better and better every day and every mile.
Love to you all.
Bee
xoxo
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
New HampShire. Bienvenue.
The Connecticut River bridge on route 5, which runs between Norwich, Vermont and Hanover, New Hampshire, and represents the state borders, drew an enormous smile from me yesterday. I cannot believe that we are in New Hampshire. I walked along the bridge, smiling stupidly despite the pouring rain. I think that my facial expressions brightened the prospect of the enormous traffic jam, because several people either beeped or waved.
We-- the 'we' for many weeks now comprising only Hermes, Saint, Rusticus and myself-- unanimously decided that the "free camping" option available in the woods adjacent to the Dartmouth soccer fields was a fate too terrible to subject ourselves to, and instead found a motel. This ended up being a spectacular decision (here, my ever-emptying wallet protests), as it rained, poured, deluged, for six hours afterwards. Sigh. It was so gorgeous during the day. I don't understand. Alright, enough about the weather. I'm sick of it.
I spent two hours in the Dartmouth bookstore, which, in terms of trail life, is about as close to euphoria as I come. With a coffee as big as my head, I sat down to continue with my second readthrough of Slaughterhouse-Five. I figured since the parents are coming this weekend to North Woodstock I can get a new book then. I have also decided that despite the weight, it is an integral part of maintenance of my sanity that I carry novels. I already have a spectacularly heavy pack for a female. I might as well tend to my literary needs while I'm at it.
I don't usually include my journal entries here, but this week we got holed up in Rutland, VT, due to Saint's illness, and I had quiet time, which, in its stationary form, is extremely hard to come by. I wrote a bunch of little chunks and thoughts. Since I got up to catch a bus from the motel to Hanover Center to the library for internet usage and my brain isn't working properly, I thought I would use that thought instead of trying to procure one out of this moment of fog. I wrote:
"There's a creamsicle sunset washing itself over what I think are the Adirondacks in New York. The mountains look entirely different from the quiet balcony of a motel at sundown. They are purple and strong and statuesque, but comforting-- like fortress walls viewed from the inside. The conscious choice to repeatedly climb those mountains, however, has cast them in a very different role for me."
I also wrote:
"I sat on the Ramada Limited balcony looking into the sky for some time. I leaned my head against the motel and fell into a space somewhere between meditation and pre-sleep dreams. I wondered what this meant, if it meant that I wasn't happy, or that I was tired, or just that I felt relaxed and had stationary solitude for the first time since being home. Perhaps it was the first sunset in weeks, and the mountains being off in the distance instead of underneath my weary body. But, I transported myself, and did so without intention."
And, end quote.
I made only 2 phone calls in the last 2 1/2 weeks. I was afraid of falling in love with the voices on the other end. I wondered if I had been relying on those voices when I should have been relying on introspection in the face of persistent solitude and struggle and disconnect. I don't think there's a right way. I think each way enhances a different set of challenges to this journey. Though, I do admit that I might be a total looneytune when I get home...instead of just a half-looneytune like usual.
I had a thought the other day also, one so ironic that it made me laugh out loud: When people ask that "What would you do with a million dollars?" question, I usually reply, "I would travel and write."
HA!
That is, of course, exactly what I'm doing right now. I never thought it would be so... uncomfortable. Ah, c'est la vie, no?
Alright, that's all the thinking for today. So scram. Back to work!
p.s. Thanks to Chelle and Steve who continue to be an allstars of life sending packages and goodies and multitudinous postcards and smiles. Thank you guys!!!
We-- the 'we' for many weeks now comprising only Hermes, Saint, Rusticus and myself-- unanimously decided that the "free camping" option available in the woods adjacent to the Dartmouth soccer fields was a fate too terrible to subject ourselves to, and instead found a motel. This ended up being a spectacular decision (here, my ever-emptying wallet protests), as it rained, poured, deluged, for six hours afterwards. Sigh. It was so gorgeous during the day. I don't understand. Alright, enough about the weather. I'm sick of it.
I spent two hours in the Dartmouth bookstore, which, in terms of trail life, is about as close to euphoria as I come. With a coffee as big as my head, I sat down to continue with my second readthrough of Slaughterhouse-Five. I figured since the parents are coming this weekend to North Woodstock I can get a new book then. I have also decided that despite the weight, it is an integral part of maintenance of my sanity that I carry novels. I already have a spectacularly heavy pack for a female. I might as well tend to my literary needs while I'm at it.
I don't usually include my journal entries here, but this week we got holed up in Rutland, VT, due to Saint's illness, and I had quiet time, which, in its stationary form, is extremely hard to come by. I wrote a bunch of little chunks and thoughts. Since I got up to catch a bus from the motel to Hanover Center to the library for internet usage and my brain isn't working properly, I thought I would use that thought instead of trying to procure one out of this moment of fog. I wrote:
"There's a creamsicle sunset washing itself over what I think are the Adirondacks in New York. The mountains look entirely different from the quiet balcony of a motel at sundown. They are purple and strong and statuesque, but comforting-- like fortress walls viewed from the inside. The conscious choice to repeatedly climb those mountains, however, has cast them in a very different role for me."
I also wrote:
"I sat on the Ramada Limited balcony looking into the sky for some time. I leaned my head against the motel and fell into a space somewhere between meditation and pre-sleep dreams. I wondered what this meant, if it meant that I wasn't happy, or that I was tired, or just that I felt relaxed and had stationary solitude for the first time since being home. Perhaps it was the first sunset in weeks, and the mountains being off in the distance instead of underneath my weary body. But, I transported myself, and did so without intention."
And, end quote.
I made only 2 phone calls in the last 2 1/2 weeks. I was afraid of falling in love with the voices on the other end. I wondered if I had been relying on those voices when I should have been relying on introspection in the face of persistent solitude and struggle and disconnect. I don't think there's a right way. I think each way enhances a different set of challenges to this journey. Though, I do admit that I might be a total looneytune when I get home...instead of just a half-looneytune like usual.
I had a thought the other day also, one so ironic that it made me laugh out loud: When people ask that "What would you do with a million dollars?" question, I usually reply, "I would travel and write."
HA!
That is, of course, exactly what I'm doing right now. I never thought it would be so... uncomfortable. Ah, c'est la vie, no?
Alright, that's all the thinking for today. So scram. Back to work!
p.s. Thanks to Chelle and Steve who continue to be an allstars of life sending packages and goodies and multitudinous postcards and smiles. Thank you guys!!!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Vermud
Hi, friends.
I shall have to make it short and sweet, for only 9 minutes remain on my timed public library computer session. Sigh, these stops are wonderful but not at all conducive to verbosity. Or accurate description.
Nonetheless. Despite continuous weather woes, I and Hermes and Saint have progressed to Rutland, Vermont, passed the 500 Miles Remaining mark. It was another milestone worth contemplating. I did.
Earlier this week, we three and Rusticus stopped for some amazing trail magic at the home of our fellow hiker Rainman and his family in Manchester Center, VT. They so generously opened their home, and, after some trail register advertising, allowed a whopping sixty-two thru-hikers to stay in and around it. There were movies, and food, and games, and conversation gallore. People had hitched or driven from as far north as here in Rutland, and as far south as Salisbury, CT. An Enterprise Rent-A-Van provided the assist. It was truly a remarkable event. I saw friends that I have not seen in months, and was completely overjoyed at the temporary reunion. I met tens of hikers who have been behind us the entire trip. I would never have met them otherwise. We slackpacked 18 miles between Manchester and Danby, returned to the Fox residence, and got back on the trail Northbound from Danby afterwards. The whole enterprise impressed everyone involved.
We are looking forward to the Whites, ever looming in the near future of this hike. In bad weather (hmmmm), they are a more than formidable foe. In good, they provide by far the most spectacular hiking of the entire trip. We roll the dice, hold our breaths, and go north. Time's up.
Love to you all on your own trails.
WindUp
I shall have to make it short and sweet, for only 9 minutes remain on my timed public library computer session. Sigh, these stops are wonderful but not at all conducive to verbosity. Or accurate description.
Nonetheless. Despite continuous weather woes, I and Hermes and Saint have progressed to Rutland, Vermont, passed the 500 Miles Remaining mark. It was another milestone worth contemplating. I did.
Earlier this week, we three and Rusticus stopped for some amazing trail magic at the home of our fellow hiker Rainman and his family in Manchester Center, VT. They so generously opened their home, and, after some trail register advertising, allowed a whopping sixty-two thru-hikers to stay in and around it. There were movies, and food, and games, and conversation gallore. People had hitched or driven from as far north as here in Rutland, and as far south as Salisbury, CT. An Enterprise Rent-A-Van provided the assist. It was truly a remarkable event. I saw friends that I have not seen in months, and was completely overjoyed at the temporary reunion. I met tens of hikers who have been behind us the entire trip. I would never have met them otherwise. We slackpacked 18 miles between Manchester and Danby, returned to the Fox residence, and got back on the trail Northbound from Danby afterwards. The whole enterprise impressed everyone involved.
We are looking forward to the Whites, ever looming in the near future of this hike. In bad weather (hmmmm), they are a more than formidable foe. In good, they provide by far the most spectacular hiking of the entire trip. We roll the dice, hold our breaths, and go north. Time's up.
Love to you all on your own trails.
WindUp
Friday, July 17, 2009
HP VI
We have stopped briefly in North Adams, MA, to celebrate the 600 Miles Remaining mark by tracking down a movie theater for Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince. This movie is so freaking important to this expedition. <-- Haha, obscure reference. See my college roommates.
I'm finding the flow again; the sunshine is helping. We climbed Greylock yesterday and lay in the sun for an amount of time proportionate to when we all arrived at its summit: I for 2 1/2 hours, Saint for 3, Hermes for 4. Distant thunder forced us down to the Wilbur Clearing Lean-to, past which I have walked many times on dayhikes in the area. It had been a gorgeous day- one where the climbing clears my mind and I fall back into the pattern of whole-body movements, drops of sweat rolling down my cheekbones and dripping from my chin. The juxtaposition between home and hiking life gave me new eyes with which to look at the trail. Things are so beautifully simplistic out here. We walk; sometimes we rest; we sleep; we pack up camp; we eat; we walk; sometimes we rest. And while my body follows a specific and well-marked route northward, my mind is always free to explore a world of my choosing. It's perfect, and dangerous.
It smelled like pine trees climbing up and down Greylock yesterday. Fantastic.
Love.
WindUp
I'm finding the flow again; the sunshine is helping. We climbed Greylock yesterday and lay in the sun for an amount of time proportionate to when we all arrived at its summit: I for 2 1/2 hours, Saint for 3, Hermes for 4. Distant thunder forced us down to the Wilbur Clearing Lean-to, past which I have walked many times on dayhikes in the area. It had been a gorgeous day- one where the climbing clears my mind and I fall back into the pattern of whole-body movements, drops of sweat rolling down my cheekbones and dripping from my chin. The juxtaposition between home and hiking life gave me new eyes with which to look at the trail. Things are so beautifully simplistic out here. We walk; sometimes we rest; we sleep; we pack up camp; we eat; we walk; sometimes we rest. And while my body follows a specific and well-marked route northward, my mind is always free to explore a world of my choosing. It's perfect, and dangerous.
It smelled like pine trees climbing up and down Greylock yesterday. Fantastic.
Love.
WindUp
Monday, July 13, 2009
Home bittersweet home
As I round out the last evening in a very jam-packed home stay weekend, I am inclined to reflect on what it means for me to have left my home, or, for that matter, what home means in itself. My "respite" contrasted starkly with that of Saint, Hermes and Rusticus (also crashing for the weekend), who almost spent the entire time on the couch. I instead opted to run around like a mad woman, presumably because I have long since realized that what I most miss is connection and belonging. I constantly consider what this trip would have been like if my best friend had come. And when Teenie came to hike in Connecticut for a bit, I caught a glimpse of that which I left behind, and have been unable to duplicate on the trail. It saddened me. I say it wholly, honestly, constantly and always from the heart: I have the best friends in the entire world. And they, you, are my home.
I had built this visit up in my head; I came seeking reconnection. But in the swirl of friendly gatherings and drinks and dinners and dancing and storytelling and catching up, I never had a single one-on-one. Those are the interactions upon which I thrive, the ones dependent upon a mutual comfort that allows for deeper connection. Everyone so generously made plans around me all weekend, and I saw in the flesh many of the people toward whom I have mentally turned on the difficult parts of this journey. But I was still starving.
I was able, through some more very generous schedule rearranging, to have a long conversation, solo, with a best friend tonight. It felt like a deep breath. For the first time I gave voice to a lot of the emotional stress of the trail. I didn't have to play entertainer, relaying bear stories and storm stories and tales of food and equipment and statistics about weather and miles and state lines crossed and vistas seen or missed/enveloped in cloud. I could say, without fear of judgement: this is so hard sometimes. Quietly, it has been an emotional weekend, not at all what I expected and chalk-full of reminders that when I return for good I have a rebuilding to do. Until I came here for the weekend, it had not crossed my mind that I still might be wandering even after I finished this trip. I had not thought about that fact that after I pulled out of the race for a while, I might be left in the dust when I tried to get back on the track. This realization made me extremely uncomfortable; it caught me completely off-guard. I had turned to one of my best friends during the very emotional night before I left for Atlanta on March 13th. I turned to the same friend tonight, almost equally emotional, and said, "I was scared to leave, and now I'm scared to come back." In many ways, that's true.
For four months I have been walking towards my home, moving into what I knew. But as we head back to the trail tomorrow, I shall take my first steps of this journey in the other direction. As we make our way toward Vermont, I'll walk with the thought that what we left behind may have changed in our absence. The doors we walked through may have closed behind us. They may open again, having been painted a different color, and we will have to look afresh at an old familiar scene to realize that they still frame the entrances to comfort. I only hope that after following white blazes for 2200 miles I will be able to navigate without them.
I imagine the next few days of hiking will prove very difficult for me. I'll be in thought, which is so often my savior and probably more often my curse. Ah well, it makes for good writing though, right?
As always, friends: peace, love, and if you know anyone looking to take a chance on an unqualified but potentially productive and possibly, arguably, plausibly talented writer, I'll be back in September. Or 650 miles. And I've got journals.
Love,
WindUp
I had built this visit up in my head; I came seeking reconnection. But in the swirl of friendly gatherings and drinks and dinners and dancing and storytelling and catching up, I never had a single one-on-one. Those are the interactions upon which I thrive, the ones dependent upon a mutual comfort that allows for deeper connection. Everyone so generously made plans around me all weekend, and I saw in the flesh many of the people toward whom I have mentally turned on the difficult parts of this journey. But I was still starving.
I was able, through some more very generous schedule rearranging, to have a long conversation, solo, with a best friend tonight. It felt like a deep breath. For the first time I gave voice to a lot of the emotional stress of the trail. I didn't have to play entertainer, relaying bear stories and storm stories and tales of food and equipment and statistics about weather and miles and state lines crossed and vistas seen or missed/enveloped in cloud. I could say, without fear of judgement: this is so hard sometimes. Quietly, it has been an emotional weekend, not at all what I expected and chalk-full of reminders that when I return for good I have a rebuilding to do. Until I came here for the weekend, it had not crossed my mind that I still might be wandering even after I finished this trip. I had not thought about that fact that after I pulled out of the race for a while, I might be left in the dust when I tried to get back on the track. This realization made me extremely uncomfortable; it caught me completely off-guard. I had turned to one of my best friends during the very emotional night before I left for Atlanta on March 13th. I turned to the same friend tonight, almost equally emotional, and said, "I was scared to leave, and now I'm scared to come back." In many ways, that's true.
For four months I have been walking towards my home, moving into what I knew. But as we head back to the trail tomorrow, I shall take my first steps of this journey in the other direction. As we make our way toward Vermont, I'll walk with the thought that what we left behind may have changed in our absence. The doors we walked through may have closed behind us. They may open again, having been painted a different color, and we will have to look afresh at an old familiar scene to realize that they still frame the entrances to comfort. I only hope that after following white blazes for 2200 miles I will be able to navigate without them.
I imagine the next few days of hiking will prove very difficult for me. I'll be in thought, which is so often my savior and probably more often my curse. Ah well, it makes for good writing though, right?
As always, friends: peace, love, and if you know anyone looking to take a chance on an unqualified but potentially productive and possibly, arguably, plausibly talented writer, I'll be back in September. Or 650 miles. And I've got journals.
Love,
WindUp
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Hello loves.
Okay, this one is part rehash... because I started writing it two weeks ago and it got erased and I gave up (wohh wohhh). But anyways.
[back in time]
Surprise, surprise, it's raining again. We must be setting some kind of record. Or, at the very least, we must be giving 2003 ("the rain year") a run for their title. However, good news: I am not outside today, nor do I plan to be for longer than it takes to run from a car (a car!) to a store and/or restaurant. You see, mom and dad have come to visit the fair hamlet of Delaware Water Gap, PA (mile 1,283.6). We are in the Poconos. We are also just short of the border of Jersey. You can tell because last night when we went for a beer at an Irish pub in adjacent Stroudsburg, "Jager bomb" was on the Happy Hour drink menu. True story.
"What is a Jager bomb?" Mom asks.
Don't ask, mom. And better yet, don't order. None of us have the proper haircut.
I have already regailed my parents with the unabridged version of the bear story that accompanies the allusion ending the enormous post I dropped on you all last week. I'm not the family story teller by any means, but this one deserves some attention. Right then, here we go.
On the day before we made it to Duncannon, PA, home of the historical and hiker-friendly but potentially haunted Doyle hotel, Saint and Hermes hiked 23 miles to the shelter nearest town. At 18 miles, I had had enough for the day, and decided to camp by myself and hike the extra miles in the morning. The trail, as I'm sure one can gather from all the tales included herein, teems with friendly faces and amazing hiker friends. However, because of this, we are rarely alone at night. I usually hike in solitude during the day, occasionally bumping into a friend or other random hiker. But nights pass in commune at the shelters. And even when we tent, we usually elect to tent together. But, I didn't feel like going to the shelter with the boys, and I had been separated from Gangsta and Wags since Pine Grove Furnace State Park, where they got off the trail to spend time with their families. So, for the first time in nearly three months, I had a solo camp site. I chose a wonderful little spot, just past a small wooden bridge over a stream. Saint, who was behind me, passed by as I pitched my tent. I explained that I was tired and would be staying here. He wished me good night, and I him, and he left.
As I finished setting up camp, I attempted to build myself a fire. I was all set for a night of hanging out and reading and relaxing by myself. As I crouched over the smoking pile of kindling, a man approached my campsite. We started the usual round of questioning: "Oh are you hiking the trail? Are you doing the whole thing? When did you start? Where are you from?" etc etc etc. He explained that he was a section hiker [a section hiker is someone who tries to complete the entire Appalachian Trail, but in chunks over multiple years, as opposed to all at once]. He had completed from south of Shenandoah up to Kent, CT, approximately one quarter. Hey, alright, that's pretty good! I said. Then he told me that on his very first day of section hiking the AT, he had camped out at this exact campsite. Really? That's funny. THEN he told me that when he had stopped hiking, his dog had collapsed and died on this very spot. Well, I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that except to express my condolences and share that I was sure that must have been horrible. It was, he said. He still stopped by to pay his respects whenever he was in the area. THEN he said, "this was many years ago, but I'm sure I can still find the rock pile." So, though this man was extremely nice and we had a very pleasant conversation, he left me alone and pretty creeped out that the ghost of his dead dog was going to be rising up from under my tent in the night. I hoped it didn't bite.
After he left and I tried not to let my eyes wander too far, lest I discover the site of entombment, I continued to build up my fire. The duration of the evening passed peacefully. I cooked dinner, read, journaled, brushed my teeth, hung up my food in a tree... all that good camp stuff. And then I went to bed at about 9:15.
Between 9:30 and 9:45 I started to hear all this commotion-- rustling leaves, breaking branches, the works. Oh, what on earth? I wondered. I unzipped my tent groggily, poking my head out (sans glasses). Some giant shadow obscured what little vision I had at the time. Holy crap. I went back into my tent to grab my glasses and headlamp. I put both on my head, and looked back out. As I shined my headlamp toward the noises, two large green orbs glowed back at me from just under my food bag. It was a bear. Not only was it a bear, but it was a bear who was actively trying to get my food bag down from the tree. I dropped back into my tent, as if some paper-thin synthetic material would save me if it decided to come for a closer look. My heart was pounding. I stuck my head back out one more time, and the bear stared right at me. He didn't seem very concerned that a strange nighttime light source had him in its sights. He started to pad off into the woods, seemingly not from fright but from annoyance.
My mind and heart raced in tandem. There's a bear! Did it get my food? Should I try to scare it away? Should I stay here? Are there more, like cubs with an aggressive mother? How hungry is it? And somewhere in there was a, "honestly the first night I spend alone!? What the heck." I had flashes replaying a conversation with a Ridgerunner in Shenandoah National Park... he told us he once watched a bear try to climb a bear pole [pole used for hanging food at shelters in SNP] for 2 hours before it finally gave up. They can be relentless.
I thought I ought to check out the situation. I cautiously padded out of the tent. I grabbed my trekking poles and started acting like an idiot, banging them around and yelling. I made my way over to the hanging food bag, playing percussion on my trekking poles and hoping the bear had gone off somewhere. I journeyed over to the tree, and, low and behold, my food bag remained. Score one for a decent bearbagging job. I thought, should I move it? If the bear knows there's food here, it'll probably come back. So I looked at the food bag, and I thought, well, it's not going to make the cover of Bearbagging magazine or anything, but it's pretty good and I think it'll be alright. I decided to have a little faith in my food hanging job and leave it there. I decided also that if the bear came back, I didn't want to hear it. So, I put in my earplugs and went back to sleep.
About half an hour later, I started to hear branches cracking, through my earplugs, in the same area near my food bag. Oh no. The bear's back! I thought, is this going to go on all night? What should I do? I started yelling from my tent and making noises, trying to frighten the bear away. I yelled something ridiculous like, "Get away from my food bag or I'll skin you and make a pelt from your fur!" Generally, I was just hoping it would get the idea.
All of a sudden, I hear this voice: "Uhhh... what's up?" It was a young man, coming into the woods to make a bonfire and hang out with his friends. Awkward.
"Oh!" I started, "I'm sorry! I thought you were a bear!"
"A bear?" he asked, confused. "You scared the crap out of me!"
"Yeah, there was just a bear here... it tried to get my food! Eh, sorry."
"There's a bear!?"
"Well, this was a half hour ago, I think it's gone now."
We chatted through the dark, yelling back and forth, I from my tent and he from the A.T. He asked what I was doing, and where I was from, and how old I was, etc. etc. etc., the usual hiker conversation. His name was Rushka; he was 20; he lived half an hour away. He sometimes came there to hang out with friends, and he had seen my bright orange food bag (ah, the bright orange again!) hanging in the tree and decided to investigate. Hence the breaking branches under the tree again. He then got on the phone to call his friends: "Hey, I just met this chick named 'WindUp' in the woods, and she said there was a bear, so be careful when you come in!" I imagine that was a very interesting phone call to receive. The young man expressed some fear that they might keep me up, as apparently I had bedded down about 50 yards from an enormous fire pit and hangout spot. I assured him that I would put my earplugs back in, since I had been using them to ignore the bear in the first place. I assured him also that, far from being concerned about the noise level, I was very glad that: one, he was not a bear, and two, that his friends would probably keep it from coming back anyways.
Well, long story short, I put my earplugs back in and I heard some kids coming in at around 11 and leaving again at about 2:30, but that was it. And I was certainly glad to hear the sounds of merriment over the sounds of a bear munching away on my granola bars. In the morning, my food was still hanging (yay!), but the small branches had been broken off the bottom of the tree where the large critter had tried to climb up. Yipes. All in all: crisis averted.
The above story happened practically ages and ages ago, and true to trail form, much has happened since then. [fast forward]
Saint and I spent a wonderful weekend with my parents, who spoiled us rotten for a few days in Delaware Water Gap, PA, just short of the Jersey border. I gave a big shout when I crossed into Jersey, you know, for the Jersey kids. No one could understand why I was so excited about New Jersey. Oh, you don't even know, I told them.
In Vernon, New Jersey, B came to visit. It was so wonderful to see her and have her in front of me and catch up and give her a hug. We swapped stories and anecdotes and talked about the ginormous projects that we have both undertaken, I on the trail and she about to leave for the Peace Corps. True to form with the two of us, what we had initially intended as a lunch meeting turned into an all-afternoon and evening affair including Thirsty Thursday: New Jersey Edition, at what I assure you was an appropriate venue. It was a priceless memorable fantastic evening.
Since, we have plowed through New York (which hit us like a rock!) and just entered Connecticut. New York, unexpectedly(?), abounded with hospitality. We spent one night at "The Mayor's House" in Unionville. This locale was the private residence of the former mayor, who now just takes care of hikers. Three men, who swore profusely and taunted all, did so only to cover that they had the biggest hearts I have ever encountered. The Mayor, simply in awe of our attempted journey, opens his home to dirty, smelly hikers purely on the good faith that we live up to the opportunity we have been given. He was truly a Trail Angel, and an inspiration.
Saint and I have taken on a new leisurely pace, where we seize every opportunity for off-trail adventures. Resultantly, we have had some good ones. We spent much time hiking with our friends Double Vision and Jukebox Hero, who are wonderful. We four, along with Loon and Hot Sauce, spent a night being adopted by some wonderful trail angels named John and Susan, whose number we found taped into a cooler full of donated water they had placed beside a road crossing. Calling the number resulted in one of my favorite nights so far on the trail. These amazing amazing people fed us twice (well, more like three times if we count 2nd dinner), let us shower and do laundry, bought us beer, gave us beds, made us breakfast, and allowed us to hang out in their house all night. Having a home environment was an immense morale booster for all. We sat on the floor in their spare room watching the VH1 Michael Jackson video tribute for three hours. Literally. It was amazing. It felt like we were just hanging out all together at a friend's house. We laughed and bonded and relaxed, and I am immensely grateful to John and Susan for providing us with the venue and opportunity to do so.
Two days after, we ran into a man named John in Fort Montgomery, New York, outside of a mini-mart. He expressed interest in our trip after we struck up a conversation. He offered us a ride to go get some pizza in the adjacent town, which apparently was right outside the gates of West Point. We sat down with John, and after much chatting, learned that he was a West Point grad who had lived on the installation for much of his life. His father was a West Point legend: a one-star general, designer of the West Point curriculum, and one of only about 5 men to ever graduate #1 both academically and militarily in the history of the institution. Well, one thing led to another, and John ended up getting Double Vision, Jukebox Hero, Saint and myself through West Point security (on the pretenses that 'Uncle John' used to live there and we were going to visit Col. SoandSo, head of the Social Sciences department) and taking us on a personal tour of the installation for about three hours. He drove us around, telling us about the statues, fields, buildings, history, rules, and providing legends and personal anecdotes along the way. We got out to tour the shore, the chapel (which holds one of the world's largest organs, boasting over 18,000 pipes), the dining hall, the cemetery (where his sister is buried), and some of the main campus. And, to top it all off, it was "R Day," which is the first day the new cadets arrive at West Point. So, there were basically a bunch of scared shitless freshman with shaved heads being yelled at and learning to salute and march and standing with packs as big as ours, not allowed to move while they memorized the cadet manual. John told us all about how horrible that first day was. And we were able to bear witness. He kept saying, "I can't believe it's R Day!" The four of us would just laugh at random points throughout the day... "We're at West Point! Hahahaha!" Double Vision and I repeatedly remarked at how this further cemented that we were not cut out for lives in the military. I admire those young men and women tremendously, but NO THANK YOU. "But," John said, "I'm not sure how many of them would want to be doing what you're doing either." Haha, thank you, John. True. So, at the end of the afternoon, John took us to a grocery store and drove us back to the trail after wasting an entire day touring some hikers around West Point for no reason other than he wanted to share a place that clearly meant a lot to him. And I, for one, was eternally grateful.
I reiterate in every post how many unbelievable experiences I have encountered on the trail, but they keep coming and coming and coming. I'll mention also that it never stops raining and so many days are horrible and miserable, and that, after being caught in another thunderstorm three days ago, my clothes are still wet. But I have a feeling that when this is all over, those days won't be as firmly cemented into my memory. What has already been cemented into my memory are all the positive interactions with people willing to shower us with their time, money, affection, good will, and resources, all because we have committed ourselves to undertaking a crazy mission. I regret that with all that happens on my journey I cannot give them all the attention they deserve. These people have forever changed what it means to be strangers, for me. I devote only a few sentences to them when I blog, though their benevolent deeds are a constant in my mind. Above all, I hope that I have the strength to keep that gift with me, even when I return to the bustle of working and city life. They deserve that.
Today I'm in Kent, Connecticut. I can't believe we're in New England. Saint and I are getting a rescue from the weather from Hermes, who lives about 40 minutes away. Teenie and Moon and MK are coming to visit tomorrow. And though I had a terrible couple of days (but I won't go on and on about it!), there are many gorgeous experiences that enable us to press on. I cannot believe all the people we have met and the generosity they have bestowed upon us. I feel so fortunate to have my eyes opened (or reopened) to all the goodness that one person can offer another. I'll have to work on paying it forward when I get home.
During the many terrible trail moments (poor Teenie listened to me complain endlessly on the phone about how it rains every single day, and practically try to dissuade her from our trail date... Why do you want to come hike with me!? Do you watch the weather!?), I often say to myself, "Hey, I'm in [insert state here], chasing down my dream." Now, I get to say, "Connecticut." And next week, in only 47ish miles, I'll be in that gorgeous state with the long, funny Indian name and all the really badass people.
You're in my thoughts, friends.
All my love,
Windup
The halfway point in PA (referenced last post)... the weather + Bon Jovi = NOT ENTHUSED:
Okay, this one is part rehash... because I started writing it two weeks ago and it got erased and I gave up (wohh wohhh). But anyways.
[back in time]
Surprise, surprise, it's raining again. We must be setting some kind of record. Or, at the very least, we must be giving 2003 ("the rain year") a run for their title. However, good news: I am not outside today, nor do I plan to be for longer than it takes to run from a car (a car!) to a store and/or restaurant. You see, mom and dad have come to visit the fair hamlet of Delaware Water Gap, PA (mile 1,283.6). We are in the Poconos. We are also just short of the border of Jersey. You can tell because last night when we went for a beer at an Irish pub in adjacent Stroudsburg, "Jager bomb" was on the Happy Hour drink menu. True story.
"What is a Jager bomb?" Mom asks.
Don't ask, mom. And better yet, don't order. None of us have the proper haircut.
I have already regailed my parents with the unabridged version of the bear story that accompanies the allusion ending the enormous post I dropped on you all last week. I'm not the family story teller by any means, but this one deserves some attention. Right then, here we go.
On the day before we made it to Duncannon, PA, home of the historical and hiker-friendly but potentially haunted Doyle hotel, Saint and Hermes hiked 23 miles to the shelter nearest town. At 18 miles, I had had enough for the day, and decided to camp by myself and hike the extra miles in the morning. The trail, as I'm sure one can gather from all the tales included herein, teems with friendly faces and amazing hiker friends. However, because of this, we are rarely alone at night. I usually hike in solitude during the day, occasionally bumping into a friend or other random hiker. But nights pass in commune at the shelters. And even when we tent, we usually elect to tent together. But, I didn't feel like going to the shelter with the boys, and I had been separated from Gangsta and Wags since Pine Grove Furnace State Park, where they got off the trail to spend time with their families. So, for the first time in nearly three months, I had a solo camp site. I chose a wonderful little spot, just past a small wooden bridge over a stream. Saint, who was behind me, passed by as I pitched my tent. I explained that I was tired and would be staying here. He wished me good night, and I him, and he left.
As I finished setting up camp, I attempted to build myself a fire. I was all set for a night of hanging out and reading and relaxing by myself. As I crouched over the smoking pile of kindling, a man approached my campsite. We started the usual round of questioning: "Oh are you hiking the trail? Are you doing the whole thing? When did you start? Where are you from?" etc etc etc. He explained that he was a section hiker [a section hiker is someone who tries to complete the entire Appalachian Trail, but in chunks over multiple years, as opposed to all at once]. He had completed from south of Shenandoah up to Kent, CT, approximately one quarter. Hey, alright, that's pretty good! I said. Then he told me that on his very first day of section hiking the AT, he had camped out at this exact campsite. Really? That's funny. THEN he told me that when he had stopped hiking, his dog had collapsed and died on this very spot. Well, I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that except to express my condolences and share that I was sure that must have been horrible. It was, he said. He still stopped by to pay his respects whenever he was in the area. THEN he said, "this was many years ago, but I'm sure I can still find the rock pile." So, though this man was extremely nice and we had a very pleasant conversation, he left me alone and pretty creeped out that the ghost of his dead dog was going to be rising up from under my tent in the night. I hoped it didn't bite.
After he left and I tried not to let my eyes wander too far, lest I discover the site of entombment, I continued to build up my fire. The duration of the evening passed peacefully. I cooked dinner, read, journaled, brushed my teeth, hung up my food in a tree... all that good camp stuff. And then I went to bed at about 9:15.
Between 9:30 and 9:45 I started to hear all this commotion-- rustling leaves, breaking branches, the works. Oh, what on earth? I wondered. I unzipped my tent groggily, poking my head out (sans glasses). Some giant shadow obscured what little vision I had at the time. Holy crap. I went back into my tent to grab my glasses and headlamp. I put both on my head, and looked back out. As I shined my headlamp toward the noises, two large green orbs glowed back at me from just under my food bag. It was a bear. Not only was it a bear, but it was a bear who was actively trying to get my food bag down from the tree. I dropped back into my tent, as if some paper-thin synthetic material would save me if it decided to come for a closer look. My heart was pounding. I stuck my head back out one more time, and the bear stared right at me. He didn't seem very concerned that a strange nighttime light source had him in its sights. He started to pad off into the woods, seemingly not from fright but from annoyance.
My mind and heart raced in tandem. There's a bear! Did it get my food? Should I try to scare it away? Should I stay here? Are there more, like cubs with an aggressive mother? How hungry is it? And somewhere in there was a, "honestly the first night I spend alone!? What the heck." I had flashes replaying a conversation with a Ridgerunner in Shenandoah National Park... he told us he once watched a bear try to climb a bear pole [pole used for hanging food at shelters in SNP] for 2 hours before it finally gave up. They can be relentless.
I thought I ought to check out the situation. I cautiously padded out of the tent. I grabbed my trekking poles and started acting like an idiot, banging them around and yelling. I made my way over to the hanging food bag, playing percussion on my trekking poles and hoping the bear had gone off somewhere. I journeyed over to the tree, and, low and behold, my food bag remained. Score one for a decent bearbagging job. I thought, should I move it? If the bear knows there's food here, it'll probably come back. So I looked at the food bag, and I thought, well, it's not going to make the cover of Bearbagging magazine or anything, but it's pretty good and I think it'll be alright. I decided to have a little faith in my food hanging job and leave it there. I decided also that if the bear came back, I didn't want to hear it. So, I put in my earplugs and went back to sleep.
About half an hour later, I started to hear branches cracking, through my earplugs, in the same area near my food bag. Oh no. The bear's back! I thought, is this going to go on all night? What should I do? I started yelling from my tent and making noises, trying to frighten the bear away. I yelled something ridiculous like, "Get away from my food bag or I'll skin you and make a pelt from your fur!" Generally, I was just hoping it would get the idea.
All of a sudden, I hear this voice: "Uhhh... what's up?" It was a young man, coming into the woods to make a bonfire and hang out with his friends. Awkward.
"Oh!" I started, "I'm sorry! I thought you were a bear!"
"A bear?" he asked, confused. "You scared the crap out of me!"
"Yeah, there was just a bear here... it tried to get my food! Eh, sorry."
"There's a bear!?"
"Well, this was a half hour ago, I think it's gone now."
We chatted through the dark, yelling back and forth, I from my tent and he from the A.T. He asked what I was doing, and where I was from, and how old I was, etc. etc. etc., the usual hiker conversation. His name was Rushka; he was 20; he lived half an hour away. He sometimes came there to hang out with friends, and he had seen my bright orange food bag (ah, the bright orange again!) hanging in the tree and decided to investigate. Hence the breaking branches under the tree again. He then got on the phone to call his friends: "Hey, I just met this chick named 'WindUp' in the woods, and she said there was a bear, so be careful when you come in!" I imagine that was a very interesting phone call to receive. The young man expressed some fear that they might keep me up, as apparently I had bedded down about 50 yards from an enormous fire pit and hangout spot. I assured him that I would put my earplugs back in, since I had been using them to ignore the bear in the first place. I assured him also that, far from being concerned about the noise level, I was very glad that: one, he was not a bear, and two, that his friends would probably keep it from coming back anyways.
Well, long story short, I put my earplugs back in and I heard some kids coming in at around 11 and leaving again at about 2:30, but that was it. And I was certainly glad to hear the sounds of merriment over the sounds of a bear munching away on my granola bars. In the morning, my food was still hanging (yay!), but the small branches had been broken off the bottom of the tree where the large critter had tried to climb up. Yipes. All in all: crisis averted.
The above story happened practically ages and ages ago, and true to trail form, much has happened since then. [fast forward]
Saint and I spent a wonderful weekend with my parents, who spoiled us rotten for a few days in Delaware Water Gap, PA, just short of the Jersey border. I gave a big shout when I crossed into Jersey, you know, for the Jersey kids. No one could understand why I was so excited about New Jersey. Oh, you don't even know, I told them.
In Vernon, New Jersey, B came to visit. It was so wonderful to see her and have her in front of me and catch up and give her a hug. We swapped stories and anecdotes and talked about the ginormous projects that we have both undertaken, I on the trail and she about to leave for the Peace Corps. True to form with the two of us, what we had initially intended as a lunch meeting turned into an all-afternoon and evening affair including Thirsty Thursday: New Jersey Edition, at what I assure you was an appropriate venue. It was a priceless memorable fantastic evening.
Since, we have plowed through New York (which hit us like a rock!) and just entered Connecticut. New York, unexpectedly(?), abounded with hospitality. We spent one night at "The Mayor's House" in Unionville. This locale was the private residence of the former mayor, who now just takes care of hikers. Three men, who swore profusely and taunted all, did so only to cover that they had the biggest hearts I have ever encountered. The Mayor, simply in awe of our attempted journey, opens his home to dirty, smelly hikers purely on the good faith that we live up to the opportunity we have been given. He was truly a Trail Angel, and an inspiration.
Saint and I have taken on a new leisurely pace, where we seize every opportunity for off-trail adventures. Resultantly, we have had some good ones. We spent much time hiking with our friends Double Vision and Jukebox Hero, who are wonderful. We four, along with Loon and Hot Sauce, spent a night being adopted by some wonderful trail angels named John and Susan, whose number we found taped into a cooler full of donated water they had placed beside a road crossing. Calling the number resulted in one of my favorite nights so far on the trail. These amazing amazing people fed us twice (well, more like three times if we count 2nd dinner), let us shower and do laundry, bought us beer, gave us beds, made us breakfast, and allowed us to hang out in their house all night. Having a home environment was an immense morale booster for all. We sat on the floor in their spare room watching the VH1 Michael Jackson video tribute for three hours. Literally. It was amazing. It felt like we were just hanging out all together at a friend's house. We laughed and bonded and relaxed, and I am immensely grateful to John and Susan for providing us with the venue and opportunity to do so.
Two days after, we ran into a man named John in Fort Montgomery, New York, outside of a mini-mart. He expressed interest in our trip after we struck up a conversation. He offered us a ride to go get some pizza in the adjacent town, which apparently was right outside the gates of West Point. We sat down with John, and after much chatting, learned that he was a West Point grad who had lived on the installation for much of his life. His father was a West Point legend: a one-star general, designer of the West Point curriculum, and one of only about 5 men to ever graduate #1 both academically and militarily in the history of the institution. Well, one thing led to another, and John ended up getting Double Vision, Jukebox Hero, Saint and myself through West Point security (on the pretenses that 'Uncle John' used to live there and we were going to visit Col. SoandSo, head of the Social Sciences department) and taking us on a personal tour of the installation for about three hours. He drove us around, telling us about the statues, fields, buildings, history, rules, and providing legends and personal anecdotes along the way. We got out to tour the shore, the chapel (which holds one of the world's largest organs, boasting over 18,000 pipes), the dining hall, the cemetery (where his sister is buried), and some of the main campus. And, to top it all off, it was "R Day," which is the first day the new cadets arrive at West Point. So, there were basically a bunch of scared shitless freshman with shaved heads being yelled at and learning to salute and march and standing with packs as big as ours, not allowed to move while they memorized the cadet manual. John told us all about how horrible that first day was. And we were able to bear witness. He kept saying, "I can't believe it's R Day!" The four of us would just laugh at random points throughout the day... "We're at West Point! Hahahaha!" Double Vision and I repeatedly remarked at how this further cemented that we were not cut out for lives in the military. I admire those young men and women tremendously, but NO THANK YOU. "But," John said, "I'm not sure how many of them would want to be doing what you're doing either." Haha, thank you, John. True. So, at the end of the afternoon, John took us to a grocery store and drove us back to the trail after wasting an entire day touring some hikers around West Point for no reason other than he wanted to share a place that clearly meant a lot to him. And I, for one, was eternally grateful.
I reiterate in every post how many unbelievable experiences I have encountered on the trail, but they keep coming and coming and coming. I'll mention also that it never stops raining and so many days are horrible and miserable, and that, after being caught in another thunderstorm three days ago, my clothes are still wet. But I have a feeling that when this is all over, those days won't be as firmly cemented into my memory. What has already been cemented into my memory are all the positive interactions with people willing to shower us with their time, money, affection, good will, and resources, all because we have committed ourselves to undertaking a crazy mission. I regret that with all that happens on my journey I cannot give them all the attention they deserve. These people have forever changed what it means to be strangers, for me. I devote only a few sentences to them when I blog, though their benevolent deeds are a constant in my mind. Above all, I hope that I have the strength to keep that gift with me, even when I return to the bustle of working and city life. They deserve that.
Today I'm in Kent, Connecticut. I can't believe we're in New England. Saint and I are getting a rescue from the weather from Hermes, who lives about 40 minutes away. Teenie and Moon and MK are coming to visit tomorrow. And though I had a terrible couple of days (but I won't go on and on about it!), there are many gorgeous experiences that enable us to press on. I cannot believe all the people we have met and the generosity they have bestowed upon us. I feel so fortunate to have my eyes opened (or reopened) to all the goodness that one person can offer another. I'll have to work on paying it forward when I get home.
During the many terrible trail moments (poor Teenie listened to me complain endlessly on the phone about how it rains every single day, and practically try to dissuade her from our trail date... Why do you want to come hike with me!? Do you watch the weather!?), I often say to myself, "Hey, I'm in [insert state here], chasing down my dream." Now, I get to say, "Connecticut." And next week, in only 47ish miles, I'll be in that gorgeous state with the long, funny Indian name and all the really badass people.
You're in my thoughts, friends.
All my love,
Windup
The halfway point in PA (referenced last post)... the weather + Bon Jovi = NOT ENTHUSED:
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Long as the trail in Virginia
The other night in my tent, I opened my blank sketchpad-turned-journal and found myself overwhelmed at where to begin in the day's record: the morning and afternoon had contained multitudes. Evenings on the trail, I often feel similarly-- remarkable since I make it a point to journal every day. Imagine, then, friends, if you will, what feelings overcome me now as I sit for the first time in weeks to record my adventures via weblog when, in the last 2 1/2 weeks I have turned 25 on the trail, had an amazing visit from the ladies formerly known as Penthouse 509, toured Shenandoah National Park, hit the 1,000-mile mark, crossed out of the (never ending!) state of Virginia, registered at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters as a potential 2009 thru-hiker, passed through West Virginia and Maryland, entered the dreaded Pennsylvania, had four or five 20+ days, and passed the official halfway mark, not to mention grappled with the usual freakish weather/potential drownings and everyday hiker troubles, i.e. sore knees and ankles, frightening things happening on my feet, spots of walking boredom and homesickness (or, more aptly in my case, people-sickness), etc, etc, etc. So...[disclaimer], if you're enjoying today's ramblings at work, wheel in your lumbar-friendly chair, turn down the desk phone ringer, file away those errant memos and TPS reports, and climb aboard the emotional roller coaster. This is going to be a long one.
Transport yourselves back in time to Saturday, May 23rd, 9:30 AM, and in place to Shenandoah National Park, where the A.T. crosses Skyline Drive at Sawmill Run Overlook, and you will see two very happy reunions: one, between myself and the very fabulous Flynn and Maura (and Roark!) of 509B (circa 2005-6), and the other between a bunch of vitamin-deficient hikers and a cooler full of fresh fruit, provided by aforementioned fabulous members of 509B (circa 2005-6), on site namely in celebration of the 25th anniversary of the birth of yours truly, former resident of 509A (circa 2005-6). Hungry hikers will be sporting white tank tops decorated with "Happy Birthday WindUp!", or, in Saint's case, "My Big Sis is a 1/4-century!", or, in my case, "Birthday Girl." The Goonies had surfaced from their respective tents in the morning in said garb, which elicited uproarious laughter. They also have provided me with a birthday ribbon, and book full of temporary tattoos (a town stop favorite!) and each donned a pair of star-shaped plastic sunglasses. And, here, at this intersection of road and trail, my trail family meets my senior year family, who have driven all the way to Virginia to celebrate with me.
Many hugs happened here, and some chatting, and much marveling over food which was neither pre-packaged nor dried, but had been transported via SUV from a magical civilized location called 'Whole Foods'. Flynn and Maura then took my equipment, and that of Saint, Wags, Gangsta and Hermes, to be transported to a prearranged northerly location. This glorious procedure, which allows hikers to temporarily escape from the enormous burden that we carry daily, is known as the "slack-pack." ['NERD ALERT' SIDENOTE: owing to the literal and figurative burdens associated with thru-hiking, after Gangsta decided to name her pack "Esmeralda," I named mine "The Albatross".] Right. So Flynn and Maura slackpacked us, and, subsequently, we put in our longest day to date: 24 miles. The afternoon was well-graded (i.e. relatively flat) and sunny. These conditions were the two things I had jokingly told my mom that I wanted for my birthday. That worked out well, as did the pink tiara my mom sent me to wear. It wrought many enthusiastic birthday well-wishes from dayhikers. At lunchtime, the Goonies surprised me with the quintessential trail cake: a double-decker Fudge Round with a "2" and a "5" candle, which they lit while I went to pump water at a spring. They really did my birthday up trail-style, which I appreciated enormously. Thanks, Goonies.
We continued hiking rather quickly, thanks to the empty packs, and arrived at Pinefield Hut, where my roommates said they would meet us and cook dinner. We had agreed upon this road-accessible location. All were eager for some real food.
Now, because Flynn and Maura are amazing, and also because of their respective personalities, and our shared history and penchant for generous celebration, I had a sneaking suspicion that they would go big in making dinner. However, by no stretch of the imagination could I have conceived of the veritable catering session that occurred at Pinefield Hut that night. It was legendary. Literally. As in, people are still talking about it: "Oh, WindUp! I heard about your birthday party!" I arrived at the shelter, having to cross the water source, which was a small stream. In it, there was a wall of beer, fortified by a bottle of Absolut and several cartons of wine.
"Oh my goodness," I said aloud, at which point there was a shout from the shelter above.
"Hey birthday girl! Look, I made a beer dam!" Maura. Amazing.
I approached the shelter, and there were about twelve or so people that had collected during the day, some of whom I knew. Around the fire there were packages and packages and packages of food wrapped in tinfoil, and my two roommates orchestrating the entire production. There was sea-salted popcorn, chips and hummus, guacamole, herb focaccia and cheeses- including goat cheese and brie. "Appetizers!" Flynn said. This was already ridiculous. For main courses they made (get ready): strip steak, cube steak, steak tips, chicken and beef kabobs, salmon burgers, pesto salmon, corn on the cob, broccoli, asparagus, and steamers (No, really, steamers. Steamers in the backcountry!), all cooked over an open flame.
"Um, the sea bass isn't ready yet," Flynn said.
"There's sea bass!?" I laughed.
There were eight thru-hikers and five or so dayhikers/weekenders at the shelter and we still had food left over. They lit some candles on a delicious cake for me, and then we made s'mores and drank beer and wine and oh-- let's not forget the cooler of Sangria with the quartered fruit floating in it-- and we traded stories and laughs and smiles. Flynn kept saying, "I couldn't be having more fun!" and I think everyone else felt the same. I certainly did. I kept thanking them repeatedly, trying to express how this was the most ridiculous celebration to ever occur on the AT. Then, just as I thought the night couldn't get any better, my long-lost fourth roommate, Sarah, and her fiancee Tim, showed up after dark, via flashlight, having located the shelter with only a mile marker on Skyline Drive for directions. And suddenly, after over two years, Penthouse 509 (circa 2005-6) was reunited... in the middle of the woods in Shenandoah National Park. And it was glorious. I missed those ladies muchly.
Essentially, then: best birthday ever. And I don't just mean on the trail. And I don't just mean mine, either. It meant so much to me to share my new trail life with some old friends, and also to share a piece of my other life with my new trail friends. Plus, now my trail friends know what I mean when I'm always talking about how I have the best friends in the world. Exhibit A. So thank you, best friends in the world, for being the best friends in the world. Thanks for all the phone calls and cards and texts and shouts and love. It is so appreciated.
As I bid farewell to 509 (including Roark, our top-secret last-semester English Bulldog resident), we the Goonies drifted back into the woods (fully loaded again, sigh), for the remainder of Shenandoah National Park. I think the first instance of the 'Virginia Blues' set in after my roommates left. Partly, I think, I felt the sting of having glimpsed my home life and some of the people in it. But the other part stemmed from long days on the trail in SNP. Unfortunately, the trail shot through the center of the park, circumventing most of the waterfalls and precious views that make the park impressive (excepting those waterfalls flowing down the middle of the trail during the 2-day deluge that closed out our Shenandoah adventure... woh wohhhh). Having driven through the park before, I know how beautiful it is and what we missed. It depressed me. And, of course, through the most notoriously bear-infested stretch of the entire AT, I didn't see a single one. I think they were off molesting the Memorial Day weekenders cooking hamburgers in the campground. Though, despite my overall disappointment with the trek through SNP, I must say that the wayside blackberry milkshake did indeed live up to its reputation. But, in general, all agreed that the visit from my roommates was the highlight of Shenandoah National Park.
Highlights of the next section included areas of relatively flat land, making for easy hiking. We were excited about the opportunity for some high-mileage days. Unexpectedly, though, the lack of trail diversity made for flat moods as well as flat terrain. I got bored. Apparently, I'm out here to climb mountains after all. And I missed the rush.
Lowlights of the next section included my taking a wrong turn out of a shelter's side trail one morning and walking .6 miles southbound. Embarrassment and frustration followed, but, frankly, I'm surprised this was the first time it happened. Hey, the woods all look alike sometimes. I also fell twice on the same day, one in which I was feeling particularly lethargic and could not will my feet to cooperate properly. It happens. But the same day we reached the West Virginia/Virginia border! I don't think any state line was or will be as celebrated as that one. Well, maybe Massachusetts... boo yah. It felt like an enormous milestone, I suspect, primarily, because it was. We passed nearly 560 miles, and 1/4 of the whole trail, in Virginia. It took forever.
In rapid succession immediately afterwards, I was almost killed by a falling tree and then we hit the 1,000-mile mark. Such events provoke deep thought.
I suppose having a tree almost fall upon one's head launches a myriad of contemplative processes. I barely registered the 1,000-mile mark, but I stood staring at that tree trunk for at least five minutes. Wags and Gangsta caught up in a frenzy. G had heard me yell and had seen the end of the fall, when the tree hit the ground. "I thought it fell on you! You scared the hell out of me!" she said. She had run up, her head dancing with visions of trying to pry an enormous fallen tree trunk off my crippled body. I think I just stared at the fallen mass, whispering surprised expletives to myself. It wasn't particularly windy that day. Apparently, that tree was dead and it was just its time to go. I was glad it wasn't mine. And, when the three of us hit the 1,000-mile mark (more an educated guess than an actual labeled occurrence) shortly thereafter, my mind was making bigger strides than my boot soles while crossing a phantom line. Though, I joked, my soul would have laughed at the irony of a quasi-treehugger slash nature enthusiast, who has dedicated so much of her energy to ensuring proper recycling practices in her home and workplace, suffering death by falling dead wood. It would have been even better than when Gangsta, the ornithologist, got shit on by a bird outside of The Homeplace Restaurant in Catawba.
These days, and the next few, were devoted to "girls weekend," where we separated from the guys for a few days. Though I'd like to say I missed the heightened decibel level and constant stream of "Seinfeld" references, well... no. Not so much. In Front Royal, though, I found a used bookstore, and oh, glory of glories, I was in my element. It was the first I have seen. After much internal debate, I picked up a copy of Utopia, which gets my brain working a bit again. I wrote many of my questions and thoughts in my journal, to which I have devoted myself diligently every night since Springer Mountain. It is my most prized trail possession.
Though the days sometimes drag, the weeks disappear out here. In the blink of a hiker eye, we had crossed into West Virginia, where we earned some local celebrity when we three thru-hiker ladies met three dayhiker ladies by the border. We talked to Phyllis, Catherine and Donna for quite a while, answering some trail questions and chatting in general. Occasionally, we have these interactions that allow us to look with fresh eyes at the journey we have undertaken. When I meet someone who marvels at the distance we have crossed on foot, the mountains we have climbed and the adventures we have experienced (slash, at times, endured), I am sometimes called into wonder myself. I guess it is pretty unbelievable. Sometimes I forget.
In West Virginia lies the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters and the unofficial halfway point of the trail. During this much-anticipated day, we registered at the ATC as potential 2009 thru-hikers and had our pictures taken for the log. We celebrated reaching this milestone in historic Harpers Ferry. I even did my first night hike with G and Wags to celebrate (picture: darkness, headlamps, general intrigue). It was only the next day that the afterthought arrived. It turned into an enormous emotional backlash. "We're halfway there!" struck like a double-edged sword. My goodness. We're only halfway there. As we sunk deeper into the woods of Maryland, this reality seemed to nest in each of us and feed parasitically on our psyches. It manifested itself differently for each; some had unusually short tempers, some launched into quietude, some into a brief but intense depressed mood. Wags, G and I, still hiking together, ended up sitting down in the middle of the trail for a breakdown and therapy session. We were all surprised at how Harpers Ferry had frightened as well as invigorated us. My brother said it was the first time he thought seriously about going home. I didn't so much want to go home, but I did think about home more than usual. I think I made a lot of phone calls, but like always when we reach town in the middle of the week, friends were difficult to contact.
I found strength here and there, in those little moments that bring the trail experience to life for me. A bunch of cars beeped and waved as I paused on the footbridge over I-70. It made me smile. I met Wags' parents, and their enthusiasm about our trip refreshed me. The ice cream might have helped. The rain started again the next day and didn't let up for 47 straight hours. When water soaked everything I owned, and it was so cold that I had my winter gloves on again, it became one of those days where we question our motives for being on the trail. With small ponds growing in my boots and Wags walking in front of me, I started laughing.
"What?" she turned to ask.
"I was just wondering what the hell I'm doing to myself!" I chuckled.
She laughed too. "I was just thinking the same thing."
Sometimes we just have to laugh at things, at the absurd conditions and frequent torture that we have voluntarily subjected ourselves to in the name of a silly dream. That evening we arrived at Caledonia State Park in Pennsylvania, where we pretty much camped out in the restrooms all night. I know, friends, that given my germaphobic tendencies, such an event must seem impossible. Fret not, however, for we made sure to document it with video and photographic evidence lest you should not believe that I voluntarily stayed in a public restroom for approximately four hours (see above mentioned reference to self-imposed torture). I strung up a clothes line; we showered and cooked dinner and journaled and read. On the floor. And, shockingly, after two days of feeling like frozen prunes and smelling like wet dogs, we found ourselves clean, relatively dry, warm, thoroughly amused and generally spirited. In a bathhouse. Having hit an all time homelessness low. I am continually amazed at the events of this trip.
In the morning we met Wags' parents again for a slack pack to Pine Grove Furnace State Park. And after that, we practically ran. I have never hiked so fast in my entire life. And on this day, too, we hit the actual halfway point of the mileage on the trail. It was another arbitrarily-chosen point, because, as the mileage changes ever year, so does the halfway point. It is thus unmarked. Wags and Gangsta chose one large puddle, and started dancing in it while singing Bon Jovi. I laughed. See accompanying Facebook video footage.
As a result of the halfway point, Pine Grove Furnace State Park is home to the "half-gallon challenge." Thru-hikers, to celebrate their accomplishment, are invited to attempt to consume an entire half-gallon of ice cream from the camp store. As we arrived, Saint and Hermes had already completed the task, and Rusticus was just beginning. My other friend Jeremiah Johnson was unsuccessful (though, I stress, "success" at half-gallon challenge generally meant intestinal unsuccess later in the night). And, boys being boys, they had clocked themselves and were comparing times. I was already half-frozen from another sopping-wet hike and opted for the "half-pint challenge." I came running out of the store with the 2-scoop dish raised over my head victoriously. That drew a few laughs. I don't think Wags and G ate any ice cream at all. After mine, I joking took the "large hot coffee challenge," which, to be perfectly honest, I enjoyed more than the ice cream. Is it June?
That night we stayed at the Ironmaster's Mansion hostel in the park. The building was built in the 1700's and was once part of the underground railroad. It was a very cool place. Unfortunately, owing to a disappearing hostel manager, we had to give ourselves the grand tour. Don't worry though, that didn't stop us from investigating every section of the old building until we found the secret room. I think I enjoyed the exploration, er, "self-guided tour" more anyways. I just wish we'd been able to get some more information on the place.
La la la so back into the woods, etc etc, you know the drill. And here I am, in Duncannon, Pennsylvania (mile 1,137.3), staying at the legendary and reputedly haunted Doyle Hotel, enjoying my first day off in a long long long time. Much needed. There's more... including my solo camping session a couple of nights ago, which involved a frightening beartryingtostealmyfood incident and a bizarre nighttime interaction with a young local. But that's a story for another time. I think I've gone on long enough already.
You're in my thoughts as always, friends.
All my love.
WindUp
Transport yourselves back in time to Saturday, May 23rd, 9:30 AM, and in place to Shenandoah National Park, where the A.T. crosses Skyline Drive at Sawmill Run Overlook, and you will see two very happy reunions: one, between myself and the very fabulous Flynn and Maura (and Roark!) of 509B (circa 2005-6), and the other between a bunch of vitamin-deficient hikers and a cooler full of fresh fruit, provided by aforementioned fabulous members of 509B (circa 2005-6), on site namely in celebration of the 25th anniversary of the birth of yours truly, former resident of 509A (circa 2005-6). Hungry hikers will be sporting white tank tops decorated with "Happy Birthday WindUp!", or, in Saint's case, "My Big Sis is a 1/4-century!", or, in my case, "Birthday Girl." The Goonies had surfaced from their respective tents in the morning in said garb, which elicited uproarious laughter. They also have provided me with a birthday ribbon, and book full of temporary tattoos (a town stop favorite!) and each donned a pair of star-shaped plastic sunglasses. And, here, at this intersection of road and trail, my trail family meets my senior year family, who have driven all the way to Virginia to celebrate with me.
Many hugs happened here, and some chatting, and much marveling over food which was neither pre-packaged nor dried, but had been transported via SUV from a magical civilized location called 'Whole Foods'. Flynn and Maura then took my equipment, and that of Saint, Wags, Gangsta and Hermes, to be transported to a prearranged northerly location. This glorious procedure, which allows hikers to temporarily escape from the enormous burden that we carry daily, is known as the "slack-pack." ['NERD ALERT' SIDENOTE: owing to the literal and figurative burdens associated with thru-hiking, after Gangsta decided to name her pack "Esmeralda," I named mine "The Albatross".] Right. So Flynn and Maura slackpacked us, and, subsequently, we put in our longest day to date: 24 miles. The afternoon was well-graded (i.e. relatively flat) and sunny. These conditions were the two things I had jokingly told my mom that I wanted for my birthday. That worked out well, as did the pink tiara my mom sent me to wear. It wrought many enthusiastic birthday well-wishes from dayhikers. At lunchtime, the Goonies surprised me with the quintessential trail cake: a double-decker Fudge Round with a "2" and a "5" candle, which they lit while I went to pump water at a spring. They really did my birthday up trail-style, which I appreciated enormously. Thanks, Goonies.
We continued hiking rather quickly, thanks to the empty packs, and arrived at Pinefield Hut, where my roommates said they would meet us and cook dinner. We had agreed upon this road-accessible location. All were eager for some real food.
Now, because Flynn and Maura are amazing, and also because of their respective personalities, and our shared history and penchant for generous celebration, I had a sneaking suspicion that they would go big in making dinner. However, by no stretch of the imagination could I have conceived of the veritable catering session that occurred at Pinefield Hut that night. It was legendary. Literally. As in, people are still talking about it: "Oh, WindUp! I heard about your birthday party!" I arrived at the shelter, having to cross the water source, which was a small stream. In it, there was a wall of beer, fortified by a bottle of Absolut and several cartons of wine.
"Oh my goodness," I said aloud, at which point there was a shout from the shelter above.
"Hey birthday girl! Look, I made a beer dam!" Maura. Amazing.
I approached the shelter, and there were about twelve or so people that had collected during the day, some of whom I knew. Around the fire there were packages and packages and packages of food wrapped in tinfoil, and my two roommates orchestrating the entire production. There was sea-salted popcorn, chips and hummus, guacamole, herb focaccia and cheeses- including goat cheese and brie. "Appetizers!" Flynn said. This was already ridiculous. For main courses they made (get ready): strip steak, cube steak, steak tips, chicken and beef kabobs, salmon burgers, pesto salmon, corn on the cob, broccoli, asparagus, and steamers (No, really, steamers. Steamers in the backcountry!), all cooked over an open flame.
"Um, the sea bass isn't ready yet," Flynn said.
"There's sea bass!?" I laughed.
There were eight thru-hikers and five or so dayhikers/weekenders at the shelter and we still had food left over. They lit some candles on a delicious cake for me, and then we made s'mores and drank beer and wine and oh-- let's not forget the cooler of Sangria with the quartered fruit floating in it-- and we traded stories and laughs and smiles. Flynn kept saying, "I couldn't be having more fun!" and I think everyone else felt the same. I certainly did. I kept thanking them repeatedly, trying to express how this was the most ridiculous celebration to ever occur on the AT. Then, just as I thought the night couldn't get any better, my long-lost fourth roommate, Sarah, and her fiancee Tim, showed up after dark, via flashlight, having located the shelter with only a mile marker on Skyline Drive for directions. And suddenly, after over two years, Penthouse 509 (circa 2005-6) was reunited... in the middle of the woods in Shenandoah National Park. And it was glorious. I missed those ladies muchly.
Essentially, then: best birthday ever. And I don't just mean on the trail. And I don't just mean mine, either. It meant so much to me to share my new trail life with some old friends, and also to share a piece of my other life with my new trail friends. Plus, now my trail friends know what I mean when I'm always talking about how I have the best friends in the world. Exhibit A. So thank you, best friends in the world, for being the best friends in the world. Thanks for all the phone calls and cards and texts and shouts and love. It is so appreciated.
As I bid farewell to 509 (including Roark, our top-secret last-semester English Bulldog resident), we the Goonies drifted back into the woods (fully loaded again, sigh), for the remainder of Shenandoah National Park. I think the first instance of the 'Virginia Blues' set in after my roommates left. Partly, I think, I felt the sting of having glimpsed my home life and some of the people in it. But the other part stemmed from long days on the trail in SNP. Unfortunately, the trail shot through the center of the park, circumventing most of the waterfalls and precious views that make the park impressive (excepting those waterfalls flowing down the middle of the trail during the 2-day deluge that closed out our Shenandoah adventure... woh wohhhh). Having driven through the park before, I know how beautiful it is and what we missed. It depressed me. And, of course, through the most notoriously bear-infested stretch of the entire AT, I didn't see a single one. I think they were off molesting the Memorial Day weekenders cooking hamburgers in the campground. Though, despite my overall disappointment with the trek through SNP, I must say that the wayside blackberry milkshake did indeed live up to its reputation. But, in general, all agreed that the visit from my roommates was the highlight of Shenandoah National Park.
Highlights of the next section included areas of relatively flat land, making for easy hiking. We were excited about the opportunity for some high-mileage days. Unexpectedly, though, the lack of trail diversity made for flat moods as well as flat terrain. I got bored. Apparently, I'm out here to climb mountains after all. And I missed the rush.
Lowlights of the next section included my taking a wrong turn out of a shelter's side trail one morning and walking .6 miles southbound. Embarrassment and frustration followed, but, frankly, I'm surprised this was the first time it happened. Hey, the woods all look alike sometimes. I also fell twice on the same day, one in which I was feeling particularly lethargic and could not will my feet to cooperate properly. It happens. But the same day we reached the West Virginia/Virginia border! I don't think any state line was or will be as celebrated as that one. Well, maybe Massachusetts... boo yah. It felt like an enormous milestone, I suspect, primarily, because it was. We passed nearly 560 miles, and 1/4 of the whole trail, in Virginia. It took forever.
In rapid succession immediately afterwards, I was almost killed by a falling tree and then we hit the 1,000-mile mark. Such events provoke deep thought.
I suppose having a tree almost fall upon one's head launches a myriad of contemplative processes. I barely registered the 1,000-mile mark, but I stood staring at that tree trunk for at least five minutes. Wags and Gangsta caught up in a frenzy. G had heard me yell and had seen the end of the fall, when the tree hit the ground. "I thought it fell on you! You scared the hell out of me!" she said. She had run up, her head dancing with visions of trying to pry an enormous fallen tree trunk off my crippled body. I think I just stared at the fallen mass, whispering surprised expletives to myself. It wasn't particularly windy that day. Apparently, that tree was dead and it was just its time to go. I was glad it wasn't mine. And, when the three of us hit the 1,000-mile mark (more an educated guess than an actual labeled occurrence) shortly thereafter, my mind was making bigger strides than my boot soles while crossing a phantom line. Though, I joked, my soul would have laughed at the irony of a quasi-treehugger slash nature enthusiast, who has dedicated so much of her energy to ensuring proper recycling practices in her home and workplace, suffering death by falling dead wood. It would have been even better than when Gangsta, the ornithologist, got shit on by a bird outside of The Homeplace Restaurant in Catawba.
These days, and the next few, were devoted to "girls weekend," where we separated from the guys for a few days. Though I'd like to say I missed the heightened decibel level and constant stream of "Seinfeld" references, well... no. Not so much. In Front Royal, though, I found a used bookstore, and oh, glory of glories, I was in my element. It was the first I have seen. After much internal debate, I picked up a copy of Utopia, which gets my brain working a bit again. I wrote many of my questions and thoughts in my journal, to which I have devoted myself diligently every night since Springer Mountain. It is my most prized trail possession.
Though the days sometimes drag, the weeks disappear out here. In the blink of a hiker eye, we had crossed into West Virginia, where we earned some local celebrity when we three thru-hiker ladies met three dayhiker ladies by the border. We talked to Phyllis, Catherine and Donna for quite a while, answering some trail questions and chatting in general. Occasionally, we have these interactions that allow us to look with fresh eyes at the journey we have undertaken. When I meet someone who marvels at the distance we have crossed on foot, the mountains we have climbed and the adventures we have experienced (slash, at times, endured), I am sometimes called into wonder myself. I guess it is pretty unbelievable. Sometimes I forget.
In West Virginia lies the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters and the unofficial halfway point of the trail. During this much-anticipated day, we registered at the ATC as potential 2009 thru-hikers and had our pictures taken for the log. We celebrated reaching this milestone in historic Harpers Ferry. I even did my first night hike with G and Wags to celebrate (picture: darkness, headlamps, general intrigue). It was only the next day that the afterthought arrived. It turned into an enormous emotional backlash. "We're halfway there!" struck like a double-edged sword. My goodness. We're only halfway there. As we sunk deeper into the woods of Maryland, this reality seemed to nest in each of us and feed parasitically on our psyches. It manifested itself differently for each; some had unusually short tempers, some launched into quietude, some into a brief but intense depressed mood. Wags, G and I, still hiking together, ended up sitting down in the middle of the trail for a breakdown and therapy session. We were all surprised at how Harpers Ferry had frightened as well as invigorated us. My brother said it was the first time he thought seriously about going home. I didn't so much want to go home, but I did think about home more than usual. I think I made a lot of phone calls, but like always when we reach town in the middle of the week, friends were difficult to contact.
I found strength here and there, in those little moments that bring the trail experience to life for me. A bunch of cars beeped and waved as I paused on the footbridge over I-70. It made me smile. I met Wags' parents, and their enthusiasm about our trip refreshed me. The ice cream might have helped. The rain started again the next day and didn't let up for 47 straight hours. When water soaked everything I owned, and it was so cold that I had my winter gloves on again, it became one of those days where we question our motives for being on the trail. With small ponds growing in my boots and Wags walking in front of me, I started laughing.
"What?" she turned to ask.
"I was just wondering what the hell I'm doing to myself!" I chuckled.
She laughed too. "I was just thinking the same thing."
Sometimes we just have to laugh at things, at the absurd conditions and frequent torture that we have voluntarily subjected ourselves to in the name of a silly dream. That evening we arrived at Caledonia State Park in Pennsylvania, where we pretty much camped out in the restrooms all night. I know, friends, that given my germaphobic tendencies, such an event must seem impossible. Fret not, however, for we made sure to document it with video and photographic evidence lest you should not believe that I voluntarily stayed in a public restroom for approximately four hours (see above mentioned reference to self-imposed torture). I strung up a clothes line; we showered and cooked dinner and journaled and read. On the floor. And, shockingly, after two days of feeling like frozen prunes and smelling like wet dogs, we found ourselves clean, relatively dry, warm, thoroughly amused and generally spirited. In a bathhouse. Having hit an all time homelessness low. I am continually amazed at the events of this trip.
In the morning we met Wags' parents again for a slack pack to Pine Grove Furnace State Park. And after that, we practically ran. I have never hiked so fast in my entire life. And on this day, too, we hit the actual halfway point of the mileage on the trail. It was another arbitrarily-chosen point, because, as the mileage changes ever year, so does the halfway point. It is thus unmarked. Wags and Gangsta chose one large puddle, and started dancing in it while singing Bon Jovi. I laughed. See accompanying Facebook video footage.
As a result of the halfway point, Pine Grove Furnace State Park is home to the "half-gallon challenge." Thru-hikers, to celebrate their accomplishment, are invited to attempt to consume an entire half-gallon of ice cream from the camp store. As we arrived, Saint and Hermes had already completed the task, and Rusticus was just beginning. My other friend Jeremiah Johnson was unsuccessful (though, I stress, "success" at half-gallon challenge generally meant intestinal unsuccess later in the night). And, boys being boys, they had clocked themselves and were comparing times. I was already half-frozen from another sopping-wet hike and opted for the "half-pint challenge." I came running out of the store with the 2-scoop dish raised over my head victoriously. That drew a few laughs. I don't think Wags and G ate any ice cream at all. After mine, I joking took the "large hot coffee challenge," which, to be perfectly honest, I enjoyed more than the ice cream. Is it June?
That night we stayed at the Ironmaster's Mansion hostel in the park. The building was built in the 1700's and was once part of the underground railroad. It was a very cool place. Unfortunately, owing to a disappearing hostel manager, we had to give ourselves the grand tour. Don't worry though, that didn't stop us from investigating every section of the old building until we found the secret room. I think I enjoyed the exploration, er, "self-guided tour" more anyways. I just wish we'd been able to get some more information on the place.
La la la so back into the woods, etc etc, you know the drill. And here I am, in Duncannon, Pennsylvania (mile 1,137.3), staying at the legendary and reputedly haunted Doyle Hotel, enjoying my first day off in a long long long time. Much needed. There's more... including my solo camping session a couple of nights ago, which involved a frightening beartryingtostealmyfood incident and a bizarre nighttime interaction with a young local. But that's a story for another time. I think I've gone on long enough already.
You're in my thoughts as always, friends.
All my love.
WindUp
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