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.