Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood

After 1803.5 miles and 3 agonizing days in a hotel waiting out weather and injury I have decided to leave the trail and finish the last 370 miles in the future. Having wrestled with feelings of guilt and failure I did not come to this decision easily but also suggest that it was a decision made for me.

It has not stopped raining in weeks, literally. I have been hiking through endless rivers of runoff and mud, at times knee deep, sometimes waist high. Entering the White Mountains in New Hampshire I was excited for the legendary views awaiting me and the challenging rock climbs above treeline but was instead met with freezing winds, horizontal rain, slippery rock walls and a feeling of foreboding as I summited under thunderstorms. What was supposed to be the highlight of the trail became a race over peaks, through lightning fields, and across rising river waters. A couple locals in North Woodstock, informed me that the farmers almanac predicted constant rain until September. News casts reported deaths from flash flooding across New England and 7 day forecasts dashed my hope of relief. I didn’t want to get trench foot and thought a lightning bolt across my forehead might not leave a scar as indiscreet or charming as Harry Potter’s. This coupled with failing knees which have become more painful with every mile decided that continuing in this manner was inviting disaster.

I am very much looking forward to being clean, and burning the clothes i’ve been wearing everyday for 4 1/2 months which are at this point closed eco-systems of bio-terror. I am excited to see my family and friends and a familiar mattress though I will miss my tent and the freedom of erecting my home wherever and whenever I desire. I will miss the quiet solitude, stories around camp fires, reaching mountain summits right at lunch time, random acts of generosity and falling asleep every night at 8:15 in the pages of a book.

I wish that this final post was coming from Maine, from a hiker stuffed with lobster but alas Katahdin will have to wait. Despite leaving the trail with 370 miles remaining I feel as though I have achieved what I wanted to gain from this experience which is not limited by mileage but perhaps was guided by a desire to go to the woods “in order to live deliberately,” as Thoreau writes. I look forward to completing the last miles in the future but am content until then with all that I have accomplished.

I want to thank Kate Klonick for making these posts intelligible, my family for their love and support, my friends for always making me laugh even when it was difficult, Tracey Sperry and the Scleroderma Foundation for helping make this fundraiser a success and to anyone reading this for your comments, your prayers, and your attention (even if divided between American Idol). It has been quite a trip and I am glad I had the opportunity to share it with you. May all of your paths continues to surprise you and may your dreams continue to inspire.

Early on in North Carolina I met three 60 year old men who had all hiked the trail the year before, having met on the AT from disparate corners of the US to develop a lasting friendship. I called them the “3 wiseman” though the “3 Stooges” might have been more accurate. I asked them, as a novice thru-hiker, for some sage advice or nugget of wilderness wisdom and what they offered I would like to share with you as sound advice for all mankind.

1) Don’t pee into the wind!

2) Never make a decision going uphill!

3) Never let the truth get in the way of a great story!

Best Wishes and Happy Trails

-Newt

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

I am bloging from Killington Vermont, at the Mountain Meadows Lodge which boasts an unbelievable thru-hiker package including Breakfast and Dinner. With almost 1700 miles completed I am staring up at the Whites with trepidation and excitement and though I have less than 500 miles left, I still have a long way to go.

Connecticut was beautiful which surprised me. Miles of river walks led to resepectable climbs over a well maintained trail. Clearly the state that spawned Martha Stewart was not going to let a dingy overgrown trail blemish its manicured landscape. Even the signage adhered to a strict color scheme: eggshell and fern. Complimenting the forest pallete, these signs were handcarved some in cursive which usually directed you to the toilete. Unfortunately the muted tones made reading the signs difficult. Even the  trails leading to the shelters were blazed by a gentle sky blue rather than the standard abrasive attention grabbing neon shade and therefore easily missed. 

In Massachusetts the trail goes through the Berkshires, which though beautiful were not as “dreamlike” as James Taylor would have believed in fact it was slightly nightmareish. Rundown motels get away with murder on the weekends, everything is overpriced and not many shops were happy to see a dirty hiker come through the door. The area even has its own currancy, the Berkshire, which cooincidentally is stronger than the US dollar. a thru-hiker named Durty Feet and I commiserated over the problem. Durty Feet is not a “purist” hiker determined to hike every mile and every white blaze but rather hiking, hitch-hiking and flip flopping her way to Maine, hopeful to complete 1500 miles for the season. She is from Orgeon and is taking time off from her job where she was hired becasue she was a Sagitarius. After consulting her astrological chart, her boss told her they needed a Sagitarius on staff and he liked what her chart said she would bring to the office. “That’s Oregon” she told me.

I learned the hard way that Massachusetts mosquitos are immune to DEET, a toxic chemical that can eat through tent material but can’t adequately repel bugs. Sometimes I would glance over my shoulder to see a dark cloud of blood thirsty mosquittos in pursuit. Its too dangerous to stop so If you have to pee, you have to hike and pee, if you have to eat, its on the go.  But the climb up Mt. Everett and Mount Greylock was worth the inexorable itch.

In Mass I was reunited with Pokey Pokey who joined me for a couple days of hiking. Pokey made sure that there was ample space between us at all times. Apparently my stentch triggered her gag reflex. I was warned by a flailing arm and frantically waving hand that I was encroaching and contaminating her clean air supply. Boxed wine seemed to ameliorate the problem. Why I haven’t been able to find wine in juice boxes til now, I know not? I do know that it is a brilliant invention, a touchstone of human engineering equaled only by the invention of gore-tek. Unfortuantely true to form, it rained for 3 days straight. Seeing a pattern emerge Pokey Pokey and I snatched up a motel room in Williamstown, Mass. which plays host to the Williamstown theater festival every summer. The festival attracts actors from near and far using celebrities to headline shows and fill houses. Sure enough, walking into the Stop and Shop to resupply we ran into Kristen Johnston, the really tall actress from third rock from the sun talking really loudly into a cell phone and kind of making a scene. “Shes not even trying to be incognito,” I said to Pokey who responded, “I don’t think she’s famous enough.” There we were in line with Kristen Johnston at the great social equalizer- the Stop and Shop. I thought how wierd it was for this small town to host both celebrities and hikers, from people who won’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 to people who havent slept in a bed in weeks.

Before Pokey left, I checked the weather report which went something like this. “BUCKETS of rain, SOAKING New England, moving SLOWLY, advised to stay INDOORS,” voiced over a 7 day graphic forcast of nothing but angry frowning gray clouds with lightning bolts. I ended up hiking the first 20 miles of Vermont in Crocs unable to avoid the river of water rushing down the trail. This was not a light trickle of water but 4-6 inches of fast moving streams and waterfalls gushing down on me. Where the terrain was flat, the water pooled up to a foot deep. If the water managed to soak into the soil it simply converted the trail to a mud pit up to 8 inches that sucked both boots and crocs off hikers. Apparently this is one of the wettest Julys in Vermont record but Inspite of the trail itself the woods are beautiful and have seamlessly transitioned into tunnels of evergreens, leaving soft pine needle beds for camping. Moose have replaced bears and the smell of fir trees makes it impossible to resist singing christmas songs.

Blog of Myself

As I sit before this serene lake, drafting this post I am reminded of Walt Whitman who gazed over a similar pond though his of course wasn’t the site of a nuclear fuels processing plant lovingly called “Nuclear Lake” but the sentiment is the same. Old Walt is the inspiration for this post entitled “BLOG of Myself” as it tends to ramble on without direction or resolution in a transcendtental haze. Having cruised through 3 states now I am diving the stories by the states in which they occured. I am now 1,453.7miles into the trail leaving 722.5 and I am writing from Kent, Connecticut as I wait to see a doctor about Lymes Disease.

Pennsylvania:

If anyone reading this blog is inspired to hike anypart of the Appalachian Trail I would strongly discourage you from hiking any of the state of Pennsylvania. It was here I almost quit, with phone in hand tried to arrange transportation home only then to spent a day resting and convincing myself to push onward. My father’s advice, “just assure us you will quit before you go nuts,” vieing with the platitude, “when the going gets rough…” you know the rest. The only redeeming aspect of Pennsylvania were the fields of wild blueberries swollen, sweet and falling off their stems that slowed me as much as the boulder fields.

I stayed in a hotel called the Doyle that is over 100 years old and is an original Annheuser Busch Hotel, a beautiful relic of a past era and still standing-ish. When I approached the entrance a group of ragedy men were filling in a ditch. “A Hiker!” one of the men announced, “We’re just burrying some of your friends” he said. I laughed but he didnt have any teeth so I did so only cautiously. The owner’s wife escourted me in and sat me at the bar. When I told her I wanted to stay the night her eyes lit up and told me, ” You can even take a shower because we finally have hot water!” she exclaimed with an enthusiastic fist pump. It was then I realized I probably wasnt going to get to watch LOST.

The next day I encountered a family of bears. As soon as I noticed the group, a cub broke free of its parents ran onto the trail spun in a confused circle and ran to the other side of the trail leaving its 500lb parents looking across. Now, I don’t know much about bears but am fairly sure the adivce, never come between a cub and its mother, isnt just superstition. But this dolt of a bear left me know choice. I stood there worried and perplexed and decided to try to scare the parents with a lot of noise and pole banging. This had no affect on the mamouth creatures who simply sat up, cocked their head to one side and continued stuffing their gaping jaws with blueberries. Ill just have to fight them I thought so I built up the courage started screaming and charged up the hill. It was truly a Rambo moment. The bears of course never flinched .

New Jersey.

When I reached my first campsite in the Garden State I was saurprised to find a group of 14 year old girls loitering around a couple tents in nothing but bras and panties. This is not something one often finds on the Appalachian Trail. Soon close to 15 girls piled out of two small tents and were flirting with a hunky ridge runner. As an observer I thought how courageous and at the same time how disturbing. The ridgrunner told me they were part of a YMCA camp and that these girls were struggling. When he left the girls turned their attention to me and I asked them “Where are your counselors?” Two of the most scantily clad young ladies raised their hands. “We are the counselors.” They announced. Uh Oh I thought, at which point one of the “counselors” rangled a group of girls to fetch water (a half mile away). They donned flip flops and headed north wearing nothing more than underwear. 3 hours later they returned escourted by the ridgerunner who had caught the counselor trying to catch fish with her bear hands in a protected glacial pond which was only slightly illegal. The next morning I overheard one of the girls complain how she didnt have any clean underwear for the day to whcih the counselor replied, “This is why I told you to bring at least 5 pairs.” “I did” she said, “but I hung them with the food bag last night so they all got wet.” Oddly enought this didnt provoke the question, why did you hang your underwear with the food bag?, as if this logic was intuitive. I didnt feel comfortable asking so I wished them luck on the next leg of their adventure- a canoe trip. Now how this group of girls will manage to stay dry and out of trouble on a fast river when they couldn’t accomplish as much stationary on land is beyond me- maybe something for a later post.

Unfortunately in NJ, I developed terrible blisters on the underside of my feet after a sudden rain storm. The blisters popped and opened soars that bled into my insoles with every step until the pain was so bad I collapsed on a flat part of trail and set up my tent by crawling on hands and knees. Since my NJ resupply went horribly awry I was forced to carry a 10 pack of hotdogs as my protein, praying that they wouldn’t go bad over 5 days of high heat and humidity . Unfortunately the resealable pouch failed and leaked hotdog juice into my food bag coating everything with a thick grime and even soaking into my paper oatmeal packets adding a sour aftertaste to breakfast.

New York:

Crossing the boarder into New York I felt on top of the world and for the first time accomplished, proud of what i had achieved. I don’t know why but I consider New York an important milestone. From the top of Bear Mountain I could see the Mahnattan skyline stretch out before me and I was filled with awe and excitement thinking of all of my friends running to and from auditions in midtown while I sat high above them basking in sun. New York is a notoriously dry section of trail in which water sources are few and far between sometimes upwards of 20 miles. Trail magic frequently takes the form of gallon jugs of water at road crossings that have saved numerous lives im sure. It was here i had my first dehydration scare. At the top of the mountain prior to Bear Mountain I realized I had run out of water knowing the nearest source would be 4 miels north. I knew I had to get there fast so I started running only to become extremely dehyrated 2 miles in. At that point my body’s natural reaction was to cry which was extremely counterproductive but I thought if im going to cry i need to fun even faster. At the top of the mountain, 4 long miles later, I found water and a thru-hiker who had suffered a similar fate the day before. We recounted our tales of tears. Hers being slightly scarrier when she followed what was supposed to be a quarter mile blue blaze trail to water that was actually a mile and half away.

New York hosted a couple treats inlcuding a dozen pink flamingos stuck into the ground at the top of a mountain, a metro north stop called the Appalachian Trail for thru-hikers who commute back to the city and a section of trail through a zoo that also marks the lowest elevation on the trail.

More to come

-Newt

Uh-Oh This Isn’t Good…

I am now 1,135 miles into the trail, leaving a paltry 1,040 miles left. At this crucial juncture, just north of the 1/2 way point, I feel the need to pause and reflect and perhaps obviate just how little I’ve learned in the last 3 months in a blog i’d like to call “Uh-Oh, This Isn’t Good.” Part 1: Things that are gross. Part 2: Things that i’ve broken. Part 3: Things that I shouldn’t have done.

Part 1: Things that are Gross

The 1/2 gallon challenge, as I mentioned earlier occurs at the Pine Grove State Park just south of the half way point and was the cause of much of my trepidation two days prior to my arrival. Could I actually consume a half gallon of ice cream? and worse, would I be sitting on the privy for the next 3 days? The woman behind the counter of the general store informed me it was a 27 year old tradition and the only way to gain membership into the exclusive “1/2 gallon club.” Not one to argue with tradition I was convinced and sat down with my brick of vanilla surrounded by a ring of spectators including three children who wore expressions of excitement equalled only by those seen on Christmas Day. I set my watch and dug in. 19 minutes and 34 seconds later I finished. It was by no means a record breaking time but it was the strongest showing recently. I was proud and nauseous. The kids cheered and asked whether I would attempt a full gallon in Maine. Absolutely not was my response. It was about three miles later that the mound of butter and cream became restless and I thought, uh-oh, this isn’t good.

The only other time my stomach revolted was in Virgina. I came to a beautiful section of trail and heard a gentle drizzle in the distance. I thought it odd that it was raining on a cloudless day and as the pitter patter grew closer I realized it wasn’t rain at all but little seeds falling from the leaves. I then asked myself what kind of tree discharges seeds at such a constant volume? The answer is none. I looked up to see hundreds of thousands of Gypsy Moth Caterpillars defecating over me. I was under siege. pummeled by poop unable to escape the “friendly fire”. This continued for miles and miles and ceased only when the moths entered the next stage of metamorphosis which I like to call the “yellow-goo phase” this also brings us to the present. It seems these pests have fastened themselves to any and every surface only to die and ooze or drip yellow goo from their rotting bodies. Inevitably I find myself sitting in these gooey bodies almost daily evoking the same thought every time Uh-Oh this isn’t good.

Part 2: things Ive Broken-

I recently took my trekking poles to an outfitter for repair, having worn down the tips to nothing more than blunt nubs. The woman behind the desk said, “These are the worst tips i’ve ever seen, I mean ever and i’ve seen thousands of poles.” I agreed they were pretty bad but doubted they were the worst. ” I mean how could you let them get so bad?” she asked as if I had just revealed to her a goiter the size of a cantaloupe. After wrestling the ends off she replaced the tips and they were beautiful. I showed them off to everyone. “Yeah, they’re new,” I said, proud of my new bling. The next day one of my poles broke in half after some aggressive hiking and then the waistband of my pack split in half, dangling like a broken wing from my side. Uh-oh this isn’t good I though. Fortunately I managed to repair the pack with some sticks and a strap but I am afraid the pole is a goner. Now I simply carry its pieces, unable to part with its beautiful new tip.

Part 3: Things I shouldn’t have done-

Recently after a 20 mile day , I came to where I had hoped to camp, just past a footbridge over US 11, a major highway. I found a spot that showed clear signs of over and misuse with litter scattered about but with a decent pad to pitch a tent. Going against my gut reaction to run away fast, I set up camp thinking, what kind of rif-raf comes out on a Wednesday night? I mean really. Sure enough at approximately 2 AM I heard branches breaking in the distance. The sound of cracking limbs came closer and closer and I prayed it was bears- at least I knew how to handle bears. It wasn’t. Flashlight beams struck my rain-fly and a crowd of people emerged from the woods carrying bags of spray paint cans which I could hear rattling between spurts of laughter. Uh-oh this isn’t good, I thought and at 2 am I packed up my bag and hit the trail. What lay ahead were miles of farmland and wetlands both of which are impossible to navigate in the dark and prohibit camping. For hours I stood in overgrown fields, turning in circles looking for the next white blaze to guide me ultimately giving up and trusting my intuition, heading off into the dark in some random direction. I can say without fail that my intuition was wrong every single time and I was forced to retrace my steps, swallow my pride and chart another futile course into the darkness. By process of illumination I discovered the trail and took an embarrassingly long time to hike away from my poor judgement.

-Newt

Beyond Reason

After celebrating the wedding of 2 very good friends of mine from college on Nantucket, I am returning to the trail tomorrow. I had forgotten how many things clutter your thoughts in the real world; will I make this train? Where are the keys to rental car? Should I tell that man his price tag is still on his jeans? The worst of which being remembering to use restrooms and suppressing the instinct to pee against tall objects.

At mile marker 930 I still have a week left in Virginia, but the half way mark is fast approaching which means I need to begin training for the “half gallon challenge.” This is a competition of speed and indurance testing who can consume a half gallon of ice cream the fastest. This long standing tradition, at the mid-point, inspires much conversation and strategy in the preceeding miles. Unfortunately my two biggest competitors are 100 miles north of me by now. Space Dots and The New Guy may appear to be two unassuming hikers but don’t be fooled they have an appetite for victory.

Space Dots (a name derived from his jacket sleaves which are lined with reflective dots which he claims help him “propriocept in space”) is of the “ultralight” school of backpacking. These hikers carry between 6-25 pound bags usually sacrificing items which I consider essentail such as, sleeping bags, tents, pants or food. In spite of his ultralight status, Space Dots carries a howling tube. You know, those corregated tubes serving no other purpose than to make noise when spun rapidly and can hold a kid’s attention for maybe 3 minutes. When people ask him what this tube is for he whips it out of his bag gives it a twirl and then retires the instrument evoking the same response every time, “that’s it?” Space Dots has failed on many occasion to jettison the tube which is always returned to him by another hiker anxious to reunite the tube with its proper owner. After making beautiful music on his wailing tube, Space Dots’ second favorite hobby is smelling day and weekend hikers. When passing a clean, hygenic hiker, Space Dots takes a big unreserved whiff because, “they just smell so good.” I have to agree with him though I prefer greater discretion in my olfactory indulgence.

The New Guy doesn’t carry any useless gear but does carry a magic bag of trail mix. In his preparations to hike the AT, New Guy prepared 10 gallons of trail mix including everything from dried strawberries and kiwis, to cheerios over a decade old from a childhood hiking trip. These offer a more reflective or sentimental snack if not slightly stale. I have never seen so many ingredients in a bag of GORP. He dares me to ask for any item from the bag claiming it will magically appear on top when prompted. I do. He shakes the bag opens it and sure enough resting on top is a dried and mangled piece of fruit. ITS ALIVE! The day hikers we meet are not as easily entertained by the magic GORP as we are, calling attention to the fundamental difference between our worlds: namely, we believe in magic and they don’t…or we have an altogether insane relationship with our food.

-NEWT

The Virginia Blues

I am now 850 miles into the trail but would first like to clear the air or the water as the case may be.

I recently received a comment froma  reader that I decided not to post. Yes, I have the absolute power or censorship but have not exercised that power until now and admit I anguished over the decision to do so. A fellow thru-hiker (I presume) whom I will call “poo” (because it is the only name I could glean from the comment) was, shall I say, less than happy about my characterization of Bluewater in a previous post. Having hiked 100 miles with the man, Poo wrote that I clearly didn’t know him…and that I should not buy into trail gossip. To Poo I say, A) you are right I don’t know Bluewater and B) you are also right I shouldn’t buy into trail gossip. What I will also say is that this is simply a blog of my experiences and as my multiple experiences withhim were markedly negative I make no apologies for my reporting. As for the other information, it was presented as speculation though I do not pretend this ia unbiased journalism. I remind poo that this is a trail of big-egos, long miles and tall tales. Storytelling is part of the culture unfortunately I continue to hear stories of encounters similar to mine. I appreciate your desire to lay this rumor to rest. Thank you for that. I welcome critique and criticism which I am happy to post as long as it is not offensive or a personal attack. On to the trail.

I did something the other day which I haven’t done since my second day on the trail; I took a walk. After hiking 19 miles I set up camp, ate dinner, and a took a walk around the area. Though my feet throbbed and my knees ached it was the most enjoyable moment of my day. Free from the endless white blazes, unreliable water sources and the shackles of an overweight pack I was free to roam at my own leisure. There was no pressing destination, no threat of dehydration and I realized there is a substantial difference between hiking and walking. Even the pace of my mind slowed from a flood of thought to a slow meandering crawl of ideas. This is less a romantic walk with spring as it is an inexorable march to the finish. My trail mentor Big Shanty, a previous thru-hiker, was section hiking with his mother when I ran into him recently at a particularly difficult stretch of trail. After the treacherous climb his mother asked him, ” We aren’t going to have another hard day like this one are we?” to which he replied, “Every day is hard. If its not the climb its the heat, if its not the heat its the bugs, if its not the bugs its the monotony.” Nothing could have better described my feelings.

This leads me to the topic of the Virginia Blues, a condition that afflicts many hikers struggling to clear the 500 miles of rocky terrain, nearly 1/4 of the AT. The VA blues are normally attributed to the sheer distance between state lines that fails to provide any sizable benchmarks of progress. I believe this is a more complicated affliction. The terrain up until now has been repetitive and predictable like traversing a washboard. I would climb out of a low cow pasture to the top of a ridge only to descend into the next valley of cows. Injuries develop or worsen. I know of 4 people who have left the trail in the last 100 miles due to injury. The crowd is thinning not only in volume but over distance and we are hiking around fewer and fewer people. Without Trail Days or much trail magic to look forward to, it is simply about who can wake up and hike 20 miles in oppressive 95 degree heat. Also as I sit here drafting this post in a public laundromat wearing nothing but a hotel towel the gravity of my homelessness hits me.

Fortunately I have beens surrounded by good company if only seen sporadically, including a father son team from Rhode Island, and a lesbian couple living and working a farming commune in Virginia. Recently I camped with a man who is a professor of music at a prestigious university and a hiker whom I hold in the highest esteem. When asked how he got the name Fifer he said it was because he carries a Fife and offered to play us some music that evening. Now for those of you unfamiliar with the fife, it is a shrill irritating instrument when played well, perhaps the musical equivalent of an ice cream headache which is usually reserved for civil war reenactments and military processions. This is not the calming voice of an acoustic guitar or the melancholy buzz of a harmonica. As I was sitting in my tent listening to the 18th century version of Yankee Doodle, I smiled and thought to myself these are the Virginia Blues.

Back to Damascus

For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting this post, you need not click refresh anymore. For its tardiness, I apologize but you can blame it on the state of Virginia or Moonshine (more to come). I am now in Pearisburg VA, 624 miles north of Springer Mountain GA, putting the phrase, “within walking distance” into perspective.

There is a festival once a year in Damascus VA. called Trail Days in which a town of 1000 people plays host to upwards of 10,000 hikers, vendors and hiking enthusiasts. The small town is flooded with representatives from every backpacking outfit, thru-hikers past and present, trail legends and Virginian teens from near and far who have been waiting patiently for the largest party of their lives and better yet it lasts a week. The week is filled with lectures, gear demonstrations, advice panels, a talent show, a hot dog eating contest, a cake eating contest and free medical screenings, naturally I had to attend. I hitch-hiked  50 miles back to Damascus to catch the weekend festivities. My friends has reserved a place for me in Tent City. Now Tent City (appropriately named) is where these thousands of people reside during the week long fight against sobriety. It is about a mile outside Damascus proper and sprawls further than I could imagine or venture to guess. Tent City itself is divided into neighborhoods, which is how you explain your whereabouts to others. A group of hikers collectively drops their packs on level ground gives it a clever name like, Billville, Booze Town or John Cougar Mellon Camp and it becomes a neighborhood. I was staying in Rio Dulce named for the beautiful stream it paralleled. My friends the Ohio State Boys, 2 Beers, and Y2K acquired this prime piece of tent city real estate neglecting to realize it was a solid bed of poison ivy but with a name like sweet river we could not be bothered by the infectious weed and proudly staked our claim.

The culmination of Trail Days events is a parade of hikers marching down main street shouting chants of their thru-hike year (mine being ’08) like some college rally. The crowd dons squirt guns, water balloons and buckets of water pummeling the hikers as they pass. The hikers mount their own H2O offensive but can not avoid the onslaught.

The evenings in tent city are wild to put it mildly. every night a monsterous  bonfire is erected drawing the masses, jumbae and bongo players a handful of fiddlers and a lot of amateur guitarists. Ultimately the drums win out and those moved by the “spirit” throw off their shirts (male and female alike) and dance around the fire in some “tribal” release. Not one to be out-performed I ripped off my shirt and joined in for a lap until the heat threatened second degree burns and I fealt my flesh peeling from my body. I don’t know what trance-like state propelled these dancers but it certainly numbed them of any burning sensation. Perhaps it was the moonshine. Ah yes Moonshine, still alive and well in the south and being passed around liberally in nalgenes and platypus bags through the crowd. I must admit I was pleasantly surprised by the fruity flavor expecting some bitter toxic sludge that could only be consumed by “real men”. Then the “spirit” moved a special few beyond dancing. Fire breathers began spitting giant fire balls into the air over our heads and an acquaintance of mine, Papa Sarge, boldly or stupidly, leapt twice over the conflagration followed by a slow strut over the burning pyre before being removed from the circle of spectators, scolded and treated for burns. Altogether it was an uncanny experience.

Bad news at the medical tent the next day. My good friend Y2K has a stress fracture in his foot but true to thru-hiker form, he is going to rest it until the swelling subsides, wrap the foot and continue hiking albeit 100 miles south of me. My friend 2 Beers was told she has bursitis in her knee and should no longer hiker so she is off the trail for the time being as well. Fearing the worst, I didn’t inquire about my knee problem but I was told at the courtesy foot washing station that I would need to take two days off simply to clean the dirt from my feet.

At the medical station I was also informed of my BMI statistics which are frightening but not surprising. I have lost 10lbs since the start of my hike and am down to 6% body fat. I consume 1750 calories at rest and have a blood pressure of 105/63 which the physician informed me was superior which I made him repeat loud enough for my friends to hear. This trail has significantly changed my body. The average male hiker burns between 6000 and 8000 calories a day far more than one can realistically consume on the trail. Despite the great shape I appear to be in, 6% body fat is dangerous if not monitored. My friend Snacks was down to 2.1% body fat though the lowest the physician admitted had been a man with 1.4% who was immediately escorted to the “emergency tent.” That being said my diet is revolting: pop-tarts, snickers, instant cheese pasta and family size packets of tuna or chicken nightly. A jar of peanut butter only lasts 4 days and can maybe stretch an extra two if I ration. I am perhaps the only person mourning the passing of trans-fats. Old Buzzard Tonto, a colorful hiker, carries a bottle of Canola Oil which he swigs like malt whisky.

A quintessential Mass-Hole, I met Old Buzzard through the OSU boys and have become very fond of him since. He doesn’t carry rains gear, a tent or cook citing his inability. He is usually half dead  when I see him on the trail. At some point during the fire dancing he managed to misplace his umbrella and blamed his loss on the OSU boys and I. Being 20 miles north he has been leaving 2 1/2-3 page rants warning other hikers how dangerous we are providing dossiers and diatribes about each of us. He has now assumed the identity of the father from the shining, writing entries in shaky script with backwards letters threatening to hack us to pieces for our supposed theft of his umbrella. Though it is all in jest I find myself assuaging the fears and concerns of other hikers unfamiliar with Buzzard and his charm explaining that he only comes in one emotion “grumpy.”

More from Virginia soon,

Newt.

Hostel Territory

I have now completed 461.1 miles of trail and have crossed three state lines. I am writing from Damascus, V.A., reputed to be the friendliest town on the Appalachian Trail.  I would argue against this having already quarreled with the librarian about my alloted internet time and the owner of a Bed & Breakfast who in my opinion, was guilty of price gouging.

As a result I find myself camping out in the back yard of the Damascus Methodist Church which operates under the guise of a hostel. I have had some pretty amazing hostel experiences which seem to be as much a part of the hiking culture as the trail itself. I feel almost obligated to stay in the hostels to get the true experience of being a thru-hiker.

Most Hostels are (dis)organized similarly. There is a large central bunkhouse filled with bunk-beds, cheap bug infested mattresses, a pillow (if you are brave enough to use it), and the smell of hikers who have been marinating in their own filth for days, if not weeks, at a time. Behind the bunkhouses are private cabins which usually get snatched up by older couples, people looking to escape the party scene, or those trying to save face. There are usually showers littered with empty hotel shampoo samples. If you’re lucky, laundry facilities are provided. There is always a kitchen area adjoining a common area where many hikers fall into a couch or cushy chair only to realize three days later that they haven’t moved. This is referred to as the hiker vortex.

Last week I stayed at the Kincora Hostel in Tennessee which was highly recommended by a few thru-hikers I met, who told me I would be an idiot not to stay the night. How could I refuse? Kincora operates on the honor system simply encouraging a $4 donation. I was immediately served a bowl of curried lentils, fresh fruit and bagels upon entering. A hiker named Bone Lady had spent the last three nights cooking banquets for hikers, having been sucked into the vortex herself. Tattoos of early Salvador Dali nudes stretch across her forearms and from what I could gather she is a self-taught taxidermist (in addition to being a fine chef). She informed me she was preparing chili with cornbread and sugar cookies that night, available to me for a couple dollar contribution for groceries. There is usually a shuttle into town for those who need to resupply or those looking for greasy food– the pizza place has put restrictions on the times available for hikers to have pizza delivered so as not to be overwhelmed. Hostel owners compete to see how many hikers they can cram in the back of their vans. At Kincora, 15 people including myself piled into the back of a small van watching passing cars do double takes.

It is at this hostel I caught up to my friend Y2K, who I had met in Franklin. His name comes from his food which was donated to him by family friends who had stock piled months of Mountain House Meals in preparation for the “Year 2000 Apocalypse.”  Eight years later they are still good though to eat, though even if they weren’t I doubt anybody would be able to tell. Y2K is a mechanical engineering student taking a break from school to hike and has an insatiable craving for slushies. Not crushed ice or snow cones (inferior products) but the time tested convenience store staple. Having hiked together for a few days now, he’s even managed to whet my appetite with his slushy obsession. Together we decided to design the first portable hiking slushy machine. Not a mechanical engineer myself, I have to rely upon the two engineering tools at my disposal: liquid nitrogen, and solar panels.  With these, I am convinced anything is possible. Throwing in phrases like “cooling agent” and “pressure differential” (neither of which I understand) I was convinced I had a brilliant design.

With a better understanding of mechanics, Y2K proposed a much more refined and plausible design, but without the pretentious and cool technical jargon I immediately dismissed it and started in on product licensing. Needless to say we have given this much thought. Fortunately, before we drove ourselves crazy with the slushy dilemma, my Aunt Mary appeared performing trail magic with barbecue ribs, peas, fresh fruit and juice which was timed perfectly with the weather. That morning we had been walking a ridge in torrential rain with lightning crashing beside us and a forecast that warned of tornados. Unfortunately, without a practical way down from the ridge, we were forced to keep moving. Right when Mary arrived the weather cleared. Coincidence or intelligent design? I defer to you.

After leaving Mary, the rain returned with renewed vigor. Forty mph winds blew rain horizontally, which turned to hail as it struck me from the side.  For the first time since being on the trail, I was scared. My body was fatigued, and I needed to set up my tent knowing I couldn’t make the five miles to the next shelter. The one place I found was extremely exposed and the wind nearly knocked over my 50 lb pack before I could begin to retrieve my tent. I stood there shivering starring at my pack for 15 minutes as hypothermia began to set in. I said to myself, “I have to do something or I will die,” so I strapped my pack back on and began to walk. Freezing water flowed freely through my shoes and socks. I ran into a fellow hiker who told me it was not worth risking my life on the ridge, and suggested we turn back, hiking off the mountain to find relief from the storm.

The next day at the hostel everyone shared their near death experiences including Y2K who had struggled for 10 minutes to unfasten his sternum strap, unable to move his fingers.

I am now taking a well deserved zero day in Damascus perhaps the biggest vortex yet. This morning my friends Y2K, Two Beers, Pre and I sat down to breakfast at a diner on the trail at the edge of town watching hikers attempt to escape the vortex’s gravitational pull. All of those who stopped into the diner to say goodbye wound up ordering a plate of pancakes, bacon, chili fries and a slushy only to resign themselves to having only hiked 200 yards that day, truly a hostel takeover.

Newt

Hiker Humor

Q: What’s the only difference between a hiker and a homeless person?

A: Gore-Tex

This Appalachian Life

I have boldly braved a forest fire to be here today. The last 10 miles of woods into town were charred black from a controlled burn that was a complete surprise to me. Hand written warnings at the shelter read, “THE WOODS ARE ON FIRE!!!!” For some reason the Tennessee trail workers decided that the best time to set the woods ablaze coincided with 1,500 backpackers taking up residence in those exact woods. To be fair the fires were mostly out by the time I arrived, but I digress.

I have walked almost 340 miles now and owe partial credit to Ira Glass of This American Life . It is my favorite radio program, he is always entertaining and since I can’t watch “Lost,” I have to fill the void. To honor this man I have decided to structure this post like an episode of This American Life, but with an Appalachian twist.  In this post I will reveal the seedy underbelly of the Appalachian Trail and the intricacies of trail etiquette in three acts. Act I: No Nuts For You; Act II: Murky Waters; and Act 3: To Squat or Not!

Now you may not realize, but hikers operate by a set of trail manners.  They’re not quite as codified as the rules that govern high society, but an understood code of conduct none the less. For example, it is not offensive to fart next to someone without warning, or blow your nose by clogging one nostril with a finger and blowing out the other (snot rocket), or even to burp righteously if one were to ingest enough food to require a belch. It is however inexcusable not to yield right of way to an uphill hiker when passing, a personal pet peeve of mine. The following tales address some of what I like to call “Backwoods Etiquette.”

Act 1: No nuts for you

One amazing aspect of the Appalachian Trail is how information is transmitted over great distances. At every shelter is a “Shelter Register” where hikers, camping or simply passing through, sign in and can check to see who else has signed. Often hikers leave notes to friends behind them, information on dry water sources, dangers, obstacles ahead/behind and words of encouragement for other hikers. Many people post cartoons, funny anecdotes or even poems. It is a remarkably efficient and effective system. To send word ahead, one simply finds a faster hiker and gives them a message.  Abusing this system is an unthinkable offense, yet one has.

I came upon a post by Worldwide the other day who criticized hikers for writing GAME (Georgia to Maine) after their entries as almost every thru-hikers does. He claimed that it was presumptuous and technically incorrect for one to write ME when one has not yet reached Maine and should write GA2? instead. Well I was shocked and offended by this inaccuracy. I know where I am and where I am going for the most part and find the business of a question mark laughable. GAME is really a declaration of intent not an exclusive club. More than this, I am appalled that a hiker has assumed ownership not only over the trail, but of the English language. Needless to say Worldwide is not well liked and has made many enemies. Retired at the age of 38, he likes to believe he has 60 years of life experience which he is eager to share. He has asked people to leave shelters whom he didn’t like and boasts about doing 50 mile days balking at simple hikers can who only do 10. But he still claims that having thru hiked already, he’s just out here for the people. Well the people disagree.

My friends Sparky and Stubby informed me that recently they were approached by an older woman offering peanuts. They politely declined but suggested that she offer the recent arrival (Worldwide) some nuts, to which the woman replied, “I don’t think so, I don’t give my nuts to just anyone.”

Act 2: Murky Waters

Another character I met goes by the name Blue Water. Do not let this name fool you: when I met him it was at Standing Bear Hostel at noon and he was already falling down drunk, insulting everyone around him.  He was in the company of friends of mine, and while I thought it odd that nice people would adopt a belligerent alcoholic into their circle, I kept my mouth shut. I found out later from my friend Snowflake that he was a creep. She told me that waking up one morning she found him glaring down at her, “I’ve been watching you sleep all night,” he said.  She and her group have been trying to escape this man for weeks and had succeeded only to find him at the hostel having hitch-hiked to catch up with them. He is rumored to be hiking the trail, a task that seems beyond his abilities, to avoid paying child support, and worse he is not the only one. I have heard many stories of hikers out in the woods escaping child support.

Though a lot of these situations are largely speculation I’m certain that Blue Water has a young daughter and is not interested in keeping contact. One night he and I stayed at the same shelter and stumbling up in a drunken stupor he proclaimed that my bear bag was shoddy and would surely be devoured by a hungry beast. I happen to pride myself on my bear bag engineering and was very offended. I promptly went to bed to avoid interacting with such a dubious character. The next morning I found everyone’s bear bag hanging right next to mine. Untouched and in one piece.

Act 3: To Squat or Not

The information superhighway that is the AT let me know three days in advance not to camp at a particular shelter because of squatters. I, of course, was curious to know who would voluntarily remain for multiple days at a mouse infested, uninsulated, three walled structure. I found out soon enough. These were three punk kids who had been staying at the shelter for over a week, though were quick to tell me, “Yeah, uh, we just got here today.” Ha, lies. They were camped out in front of a pile of garbage and litter was everywhere. Even the privy was filled with litter which is especially disgusting because it is the job of some poor unassuming forest ranger to pick out the litter from the privy, sorting garbage from the mound of poop. To pass the time, they had been self-tattooing and had black images all over their arms and face including three dots under their eyes.

My friend Muffin Man said that the three dots means they have either lost someone they loved or have killed a man. I am hoping the former. They had made a fire of nothing but plastic containers after burning the pages of the shelter register for fuel. Wearing jeans and cotton t-shirts they were completely unprepared for the elements. This was bad. Most hikers hiked past this scene sensing danger. The few who camped around the shelter almost all had encounters with bears. The bears, smelling the mound of garbage from miles away came every night to raid bear bags. Three guys from Cincinnati had each of their bags ripped from different trees all in one night and had to hike 18 miles without food to get to town, having previously only hiked 10 miles a day at most. They were in very high spirits when I saw them mostly because they had the foresight to remove their pot from the food bag before the bears arrived. They punks were reported and I have not heard anything since.

In spite of these people I have met many wonderfully interesting friends, but as attrition continues, and the normal people return to their regular lives, only the crazy remain. Onward, ho! ‘Til next week I am Newt with This Appalachian Life.

Out of the Park

240 miles in and I missed my own aunt’s trail: Magic; something I discovered when I met up with a large group of happy, well-nourished hikers. Nonetheless, I reached Fontana Dam and checked into the Fontana Hilton.

A luxury hotel you say? Not quite, but when a trail shelter houses 24 hikers, has a spigot for fresh water and a working bathroom, it will acquire the same reputation. That evening, a man with a van pulled up to the shelter and asked us if anyone would be interested in attending the Hiyak Music Festival.

Never heard of this festival? Well, apparently neither had anyone else which became painfully obvious when the only people to show up were Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who had caught rumor of free food in the area, or were picked up in a van. Despite its anonymity, the music was a refreshing change.

That evening, I had the privilege of meeting (the appropriately named) Landfill. If this name evokes a visual image, it’s probably pretty accurate. This is a hiker who has apparently given up the activity of hiking and is simply living out of hiker shelters and hitch-hiking up the trail to retrieve his next food drop box. When I met him, he had been at the shelter three nights, waiting on the post office to receive his next drop box.  He also managed to leave the majority of his belongings out in the rain, including his stove, even though he, himself, had taken refuge in a shelter.

I entered the Smokies with trepidation, assuming the worst about the notoriously difficult park. My fears were topped only by my frustration with park regulations. Thru hikers have only 7 days to clear the park, must stay in the shelters, and have on them at all times a permit for back country hiking which details their intended trip. Failing to meet any of these requirements can result in a hefty fine. For hikers who have spent a month free from any rules or restrictions, these regulations seem ridiculous. My first night I was reprimanded by a ridge runner for peeing on the wrong side of the mountain, truly an egregious offense.

The mountains are beautiful and no words or pictures can do justice to their grandeur. I was also surprised to find the hiking relatively easy including the climb to Clingman’s Dome, the highest peak on the AT towering over 6,600 feet. It’s all downhill from here I guess.

While in the Smokies, I met a hiker named Rhino. One night, as I was all alone preparing for bed, a 6-foot tall German man barged into the shelter. A seasoned hiker, Rhino immediately ran into the woods in search of wood to build a fire. Minutes later he returned with a root 2 feet in diameter and approximately 5 feet long and proclaimed, “ I just pulled this from the ground.” Later, he hauled an entire tree from out of the forest, breaking it apart by beating the limbs against other trees. His fire engineering consisted of shoving an enormous amount of wood into the pit, dousing it with alcohol and lighting a match.  There is something to be said for German efficiency. He kept the fire going all night, and in the morning informed me it was “fine” to leave the fire lit as we left, saying that it would simply burn out.  I would later discover the entire park ranger service was on his tail for leaving fires going at every one of his shelters.

Leaving the park I had the fortune of meeting a trail legend, a man who has hiked the trail 8 times named Baltimore Jack. The tales of Baltimore Jack are of Biblical proportions and it seems that everyone has had some miraculous encounter with this man. I caught up with Jack at a hostel just north of the Smokies. He welcomed me into the open-air kitchen as he was preparing dinner. A meat cleaver in one hand and fifteen pounds of elk meat in the other, I sat nervously across from him watching bloody pieces of elk fly across the sky. Despite his rugged and imposing appearance, he was remarkably warm and took great interest in my hike with an almost paternal concern. He launched into a lecture about 18^th century French poetry, Robert Redford and 1970’s western cinema that somehow seamlessly segued into his adventures along the Appalachian Trail. That night we all sat around eating elk stew playing Tom Waits on guitar and talking about peace abroad. Its good to see that in some places of rural North Carolina hippy communes are alive and well.

On a more serious note, I have been suffering knee pains that last couple weeks and despite wrapping them with ACE bandages every morning, the demand of the trail has taken its toll. I am hoping it is simply fatigue that will pass, rather than any permanent joint damage, but at this point I am continuing to cut my pace and mileage. That being said my new friend Rainbow, whom I met at the Hostel, is hiking on a fractured heel. She limps up the mountains with a full boot, which immobilizes everything below her knee. I just hope I can catch her.