(backposted from a hurried and unfinished draft, August 28th)
Well, kids.
We're in Monson, Maine, the last stop before the 100-mile Wilderness which leads up to Katahdin. I saw Katahdin the other day-- from atop a small climb on a clear day. I was unsure whether to smile or frown or raise one eyebrow and say, "we meet at last." I think I just stared. It stared back. And we two, mountain and mountain climber, we had a moment. It was a moment without a clearly-channeled emotion of some sort, one that tightrope-walked the line between ambivalence and equanimity, and I was without vertigo of any kind. We just were, it and I, for a few seconds under the sun.
We're coming.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Maine: the final frontier; last call for love.
Hi from the last state. Whoa.
We are in Rangeley, Maine, 220 miles from the summit of Mount Katahdin, having recently passed 1900 miles and five months on the trail. I have never been much of a numbers person. Actually, I did very well in math until it turned away from numbers and into Greek letters. But anyways, I think these numbers are pretty good.
On the 5-month anniversary of The Quest for Katahdin (so named for convenience- I am assuredly not on a quest for destination but a quest for journey), we scrambled, clambered, crawled, ducked, and squeezed our way through Mahoosuc Notch, notoriously the toughest mile of the Appalachian Trail. We had a great time climbing around and over and sometimes under boulders. On four occaisons, I needed to remove my pack and either push or pull it through a tiny opening that I thought was more of a trail router's joke than an actual trail. That pack. The Albatross. It has been hearing my jokes and scorn and commentary on our love/hate relationship-- the necessary bundle of burden has weighed me down but also kept me alive for almost 2000 miles. I grumbled at that pack all the way through Mahoosuc Notch, except for a half-second period and its thirty-second aftermath. I fell. I fell from a sloping rock face about six feet in the air when my boots--which have no grip left on them, and had to have part of the soles glued back on in Berlin-- slipped out from under me. I went hurtling backwards, momentarily thinking all sorts of bad things about cracking my skull, spine, and neck vertebrae on a rock below, only to land relatively safely, back-down atop the Albatross, which broke my fall. The tumble wedged me between two other, more vertical rocks, one of which had bruised and minorly lacerated my leg. But, I have never been so happy to have that enormous pack on. I haven't thought so poorly of it since.
Southern Maine has been very intense, but is calming a bit. We completed 17.7 miles yesterday, the longest since pre-Whites New Hampshire. We will climb Saddleback this afternoon, which allegedly has views back to Mt. Washington and north to Katahdin on a clear day. I may get to see the finish line today. It's a possibility which hits me quite forcefully. To have the end, literally, within sight, is something I have barely allowed myself to consider.
This brings me, friends, to my final order of business:
LAST CALL FOR LOVE!
We will be stopping in:
Caratunk, ME 04925 (probably next Monday[?])
and
Monson, ME 04464 before entering the final stretch: the 100-mile wilderness before Katahdin.
Drop me a written line.
Love, as always.
WindUp/Bee
We are in Rangeley, Maine, 220 miles from the summit of Mount Katahdin, having recently passed 1900 miles and five months on the trail. I have never been much of a numbers person. Actually, I did very well in math until it turned away from numbers and into Greek letters. But anyways, I think these numbers are pretty good.
On the 5-month anniversary of The Quest for Katahdin (so named for convenience- I am assuredly not on a quest for destination but a quest for journey), we scrambled, clambered, crawled, ducked, and squeezed our way through Mahoosuc Notch, notoriously the toughest mile of the Appalachian Trail. We had a great time climbing around and over and sometimes under boulders. On four occaisons, I needed to remove my pack and either push or pull it through a tiny opening that I thought was more of a trail router's joke than an actual trail. That pack. The Albatross. It has been hearing my jokes and scorn and commentary on our love/hate relationship-- the necessary bundle of burden has weighed me down but also kept me alive for almost 2000 miles. I grumbled at that pack all the way through Mahoosuc Notch, except for a half-second period and its thirty-second aftermath. I fell. I fell from a sloping rock face about six feet in the air when my boots--which have no grip left on them, and had to have part of the soles glued back on in Berlin-- slipped out from under me. I went hurtling backwards, momentarily thinking all sorts of bad things about cracking my skull, spine, and neck vertebrae on a rock below, only to land relatively safely, back-down atop the Albatross, which broke my fall. The tumble wedged me between two other, more vertical rocks, one of which had bruised and minorly lacerated my leg. But, I have never been so happy to have that enormous pack on. I haven't thought so poorly of it since.
Southern Maine has been very intense, but is calming a bit. We completed 17.7 miles yesterday, the longest since pre-Whites New Hampshire. We will climb Saddleback this afternoon, which allegedly has views back to Mt. Washington and north to Katahdin on a clear day. I may get to see the finish line today. It's a possibility which hits me quite forcefully. To have the end, literally, within sight, is something I have barely allowed myself to consider.
This brings me, friends, to my final order of business:
LAST CALL FOR LOVE!
We will be stopping in:
Caratunk, ME 04925 (probably next Monday[?])
and
Monson, ME 04464 before entering the final stretch: the 100-mile wilderness before Katahdin.
Drop me a written line.
Love, as always.
WindUp/Bee
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The White Mountains; Berlin Games
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
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
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
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