Notes from the Other Side: A Perspective on the Jaunt

Yes. You caught me. Fine.

I freely admit it.

I've been putting this off. But I can't postpone any longer.

It's time for the final AT post.

I waited a while. Sorry. Thanks for your patience.  I tried, you know. Tried to sit down and get this written. But after a few frustrating attempts I decided that I needed a little distance. A dash of perspective.
I thought that maybe a few weeks after being done, with my aches healing and a mind occupied with anything and everything other than walking that I might get emotional distance neccesary to really write about the trail.

But...it's all still too big, even with the immediate sensations already fading into the haze of memory. So I'm just going to have to take a bash at it anyway and hope for the best.

People keep asking me, "so...how was the trail?" And inevitably I sigh and stumble over my words until I settle for something like "it was far worse and far better than I ever imagined it would be."

People seem satisfied with that, even though that sentence is a magnificent failure. But nobody wants a three hour answer in the middle of the Kroger parking lot. Mostly they just want to know if it was worth it, to which the short answer is: yes.

But I'm assuming that if you are reading this, you might have the stomach for the long answer. So here we go.

Let's start with how it feels to be done and go from there.

First of all, my body doesn't know quite what's going on yet. I knew that healing would take a while, but I foolishly thought it would go a little bit quicker than it is. My knees are still tender and stressed. Stairs are a bit of a challenge. My feet are still in rough shape...dry, peeling, and calloused no matter how much or often I slather them with lotion.

I want to eat a lot. Not huge quantities, in fact, my portions are much smaller than they were pre hike. But I want to eat ALL the time, and I have trouble turning down food,  even when I don't really want it.

I am still very tired. I easily drop off for naps, at any time of day, for hours at a time.

I feel okay when I am moving around, but any period of inactivity is rewarded by instant stiffness and the return of the "hiker hobble". It takes me a long time to get up from chairs, out of bed, and to bend over and tie shoes.

My body, in short, is still hiking. I don't know when it will stop, but surely it will be soon. It has to, at some point.

The good thing is, I haven't gained any weight back, though I feel sluggish and doughy. The pants don't lie, though. Still plenty of room in a size thirty waist...a continuing source of amazement. I like my new body and I am highly motivated to keep it. I just have to find some exercise routines that baby my knees. Probably weights and yoga...especially yoga. You wouldn't believe how inflexable I am.

My sleeping rhythm is one thing that has changed to reflect my new circumstances, for which I am grateful. It's nice to be able to stay up past eight without collapsing in the middle of a dinner. (Although falling asleep face first into soup does have some advantages. You are almost certain to get at least a few calories while asleep, which is very efficient.)

So that's the physical side of things. Pretty straightforward.

Now for the other stuff.

I was an emotional wreck when I finished walking. I don't mind saying it, it's a pretty common symptom. Maybe if I had been in better shape to begin with, maybe if my family hadn't suffered a loss, maybe if it weren't for Sandy, maybe if it weren't for these things I would have finished in jubilation and triumph.

But the overwhelming sensation that rushed over me at the top of Springer Mountain was a flat kind of relief and a mild sense of accomplishment, not much more intense than how you feel at the end of a long day when a difficult task at work has been completed succesfully and with skill.

Don't get me wrong. If I had the choice to make over again, I would still choose to hike the trail. In a heartbeat. It was amazing, and hard, and frustrating, and grueling, and exciting, and cold and hot and there were bugs and views and mountains and trees and great instances of overwhelming beauty, both natural and human.

It was better and worse than I ever thought it could be. Hell, I don't know. It was the Trail. If anyone could describe it perfectly, no one would walk it.

So is it any surprise that I wasn't quite sure how to feel at the top of Springer? Other than relief? Who wouldn't feel relief after that experience?

Is it any surprise that I still don't know how I feel?

I do know a few things for sure though. My emotional transition back in to the real world continues to be rough.

Everything is too fast, too loud, and too crowded. Houses are too small. Everything else is too big. There are too many smells, most of them bad, and wow, did you know how absolutly UGLY everything is?

I mean, really...is there anything uglier than a strip mall? Power lines? Urban sprawl? I know, I know...some of these things are inevetable, the price we pay for a cushy and well fed life. And I certainly don't mind hot showers, flush toilets, and meals that consist of more than noodles or taters. But I submit that only SOME of the uglyness is out of our control, and that the rest is merely carelessness and lazyness.

In any case, I know that I missed the trail today, really missed it for the first time with an ache deep in my bones. And I was standing in the middle of an outdoor mall, surrounded by shoppers, with crappy Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers.

It's a far cry from Katahdin, or McCafee Knob, or even a little glade with a spring and a path winding through the woods, and the sound of the wind in the leaves, and the loons crying at sunset, and...and
..

...and so on.

I am happy to be back, happy to move on to other adventures, first and formost being married. But I know that I will spend the rest of my life seeking out windy peaks, and peaceful valleys, and clear springs.

You should try it sometime.

The trail taught me two things. I'll talk about them briefly and then I'm done.

The first is this: all control is an illusion. Remove a few trappings of civilization and control over your circumstances vanishes. If you run out of food, you are hungry. If it rains, you are wet, no matter how much goretex and eVent fabric you have. If it snows...guess what? You are cold AND wet. Where there are streams you cross them and where there are mountains you climb them. This is life. Stop complaining and start walking.

It doesn't take a philosopher or a poet to see how this can be applied to every day life, although I suspect as time wears and I continue to be well fed and warm and dry the lesson will be harder to understand. Still, I have to try. It's a lesson worth learning.

Here is the second thing I learned. The world is a big place. Huge really. Amazingly, brilliantly massive.

"Wait a minute" you say. "Hold on. Isn't the world a small place? What with cars and planes and cell phones and skype? It's been shrinking since the nineties, that's what the folks in the know say!"

And yeah, you have a point. But consider this. I spent nearly five months of my life walking from Maine to Georgia. I stepped foot in most of the states on the east coast, many of which I'd never been to. I looked at things most people don't get to look at.

AND I SAW NOTHING.

Not in the grand scheme of things. I didn't even see a tenth of my own country, much less the world. You don't even have to take cars and planes out of the equation and STILL the world is vast. Are you "well traveled"? Have you been to Europe, or Austrlia? Good for you. You still haven't seen one millionth of all there is too see...and isn't that amazing? Isn't it incredible?

So don't let people tell you the world is small. It might be politically, or technologicaly...but that just doesn't mean anything. Not really.

If you still don't believe me, leave your car in the driveway and try walking to the grocery store one day.

It's a big world out there.

So that's it.

In July of 2012 I stepped onto a path in the woods. The path was one foot wide and two thousand miles long. I walked along it for four and a half months. I drank from springs. I sweated. I ached and shivered. I popped blisters, watched hawks migrate from the tops of mountains, and startled several bears. I made good friends and realized just how selfless many people can be. I had long conversations about every concievable topic, missed my loved ones, and spent great quantities of time in perfect solitude. I had wacky adventures and a few nervous moments. I was blissfully happy and perfectly miserable.

I completed something that only a quarter of everyone who starts it completes. And I did it faster than most of the people who complete it.
But mostly I was just a body in motion. I walked. That is what I did.

I just walked.

Happy trails
--Andrew

THE END

*AFTERWORD*

Thanks for reading, folks. I enjoyed writing this blog. Hope you enjoyed reading it. It was cool knowing ya'll were along for the ride.

So it looks like my vagabond life is just beginning. Shortly I'll be moving to Ohio, but that's just a pit stop. In a few years Rach and I plan on working overseas, and we plan on traveling frequently even when we are on the home front. In addition to that, I have many more outdoor adventures planned. (Colorado Trail? PCT? New Zealand just completed a trail!)

Anyway, what I'm saying is I'd like to keep writing. I can't promise that my life will always be blizzards and pooping in the woods, but my upcoming adventures in the world of part time holiday retail employment are sure to generate some material.

I'm notoriously bad at keeping blogs, so no promises. But I'm gonna give it a try. Your best bet is to subscribe by email so you get notified whenever or if ever I post. Get a friendly neighborhood geek to show you how, if you don't know.

The Great Shaving

The End (sort of) Minus Pictures

Well.

That was a little bit harder than I thought it was going to be.

But.

We did it!

Yesterday, November 16th, 2012, at 2:45 P.M., I summited Springer Mountain, completing a four and a half month "thru - hike" of the Appalachian Trail. Rachael, my Dad, and my brother were all there to see it happen. There was champagne. There was a victory cigar (one of two cigars that Patches' father mailed me. John, I've been carrying that thing around in my bag for a thousand miles, saving it for Springer.) There was much hugging and taking of pictures.

I'm just too overwhelmed to write in any kind of detail about anything right now. Last night I was whisked off the mountain and driven straight to Chattanooga, where I saw many family members I haven't seen in months (years?) and was the topic of much excitement and amusement. I tried on clothes for the memorial service today. (size thirty in the waist? Thank you sir, I'll have another) I ate obscene quantities of food and then had to go somewhere dark and quiet to digest so I wouldn't vomit all over the kitchen.

I guess what I'm trying to say is...this hasn't really sunk in yet.

So.

Pictures, lots and lots of pictures, coming soon. Pictures from the summit and pictures from Hurricane Sandy and every picture from my phone that I never posted (there's lots!)  Maybe tomorrow? Family stuff will take precedence today. So pictures tomorrow, as well as a full write up of the last several days. A few days after that I'm planning a "what has it all meant" kind of post to wrap things up. Things have and will change in my life since I started this hike, and those things have to be considered and talked about.

One indication that I am at least temporarily "out of order"...I've been sitting here in the hotel lobby since four forty five this morning, waiting on either continental breakfast or the gym to open. I was hoping to sleep until eight at least this morning, but it seems I have to either eat or move. Also, I was too hot (!) last night.

So stick around folks, and keep reading, if you will. The Walk is over (for now) but the Jaunt continues for the next few weeks at least.

And once again, thank you all for your support through the dark times. More coming soon, until then,

Happy Trails

PAWN

Homecoming

Just crossed the state line. Got to see the sun come up over the mountains this morning, with the clouds lit up like glowing amber. Reminded me why I am out here. A constant stream of advil seems to be doing my ankle some good. Bout to finish another thirty mile day. Looks like I am gonna make it. Thanks for the support, everybody.
See ya on springer.

Happy trails
PAWN

Notes from the Edge of Insanity: Hurricanes, Loss, Injuries, and Various Adventures of the Home Stretch

"According to the research I've done, the only way you are going to run in to snow in the south is if some kind of freak storm rolls in"--Steve Marshall (Pawn Sr)

"I have been acquainted with the night/ I have walked out in rain, and back in rain,/ I have out walked the furthest city light." --Robert Frost.

Long past time for an update.

At some point in mid October I started telling my hiking buddies, my parents, Rachael, and practically anyone who would listen that I had just about reached the end of my physical and mental endurance. Like a battery that has been recharged too often, I wasn't holding a charge anymore. I woke up more and more tired each day, and every mile came harder and harder. Still, the end was in sight, with less than five hundred miles to go till I finally completed this monumental jaunt that I started on July 3rd. Tired as I was, I was confident in my ability to finish.

Then came Sandy.

Somewhere around October 27th we started hearing rumblings. Day hikers and weekenders are a great source of weather information, and as the weekend came and went their news became more and more dire. A cold front, some rain, some ice, some snow...a blizzard? A hurricane?

Being from the south I did what any experienced southerner would do in the face of such dire news. No, I didn't run to the grocery store and stock up on bread and milk. Rather, I discounted the predictions as overblown and fatalistic. A few inches, sure. But two feet? Come now. Please.

On the night of the 28th seven of us huddled in a five man shelter as the falling rain turned in to sleet, then snow.

"Look", I said, in what would prove to be the most erronious statement in a lifetime of erronious statements. "It's not even sticking. We'll be fine."

The next day the snow was still falling and the wind was blowing. There was three to six inches on the ground and more accumulating all the time. We set out through the snow, hoping to make it seventeen miles.

We made it eight.

Luckily, as I have written, I bought some shoes for just such an occasion. But in all other respects, especially in regards to the light woolen glove liners that were my only hand protection, I was amazingly unprepared for Sandy.

I rolled the dice gear wise, opting to carry light gear and a minimum of clothing, banking on the fact that snow in the southern Appalachians usually hits in January or February. And...I lost.

Cold Beer's mom lives in Ashville. She picked us up on Monday the 28th after eight miles of walking with my hands shoved under my armpits, hunched over and with my hat pulled low and scarf hiked up.

We sat Tuesday out, as it was the biggest day of the storm. We did some laundry, took hot showers, and bought some gear more suited to the conditions we were about to face. At least, the conditions we THOUGHT we were about to face. Had I any idea of exactly how difficult the next week and a half of my life would be, it's likely that I would have sat right there in Ashville, weeping in the shower like a little girl.

So here was the plan. For the next three days, Cold Beer's mom "slack packed" us, meaning she dropped us off in the morning and picked us up at night, allowing us some rest and warmth before heading back out in to the snow.

On Wednesday the 31st we made nineteen miles. The snow was a foot deep on the trail, and trees and shrubs were laden with snow and hanging down in the path, requiring a stop every minute or so to knock them clear of the weight so they would spring clear. Often huge trees had been knocked over by wind and ice, neccesitating more scrambling and slow going.

We took turns breaking trail, or "post holing", the most exhausting position. When one person got tired at the front of the line, he would step aside and move to the back. With the snow, the cold, and the obsticles, each mile took the energy of three or four normal miles.

Halfway through that day we ducked into a hostel at a road crossing to warm up, and I turned my phone on. I had a text from my parents. My grandmother had died.

It has been a long time coming, and her death is really a mercy and a blessing for all involved, especially her. Still, tha doesn't make it any easier to bear, does it?

A snow bound hostel named Uncle Johnny's is no place to grieve. Instead I poured all of my emotion in to walking, taking the lead position and breaking trail like a maniac for the rest of the day.

This would be my pattern for the next day as well, where the snow was deeper, the climbs steeper, and the going even slower. We only made fourteen miles that day.

That night several members of our group (now numbering seven) voiced the opinion that we would never make it to Springer by the 15th. Not if conditions remained the same. Indeed, they were about to get worse. Before us loomed the Smokey Mountains, were we would be above five thousand feet for several days. The snow was deeper up there.

Again I channeled my grief into determination. Mimi's memorial service was slated for the 17th. I was not going to miss it.

On November second we were dropped off at the trail for good, our period of slack packing over. Patches, Six String and I did 24 miles through even worse conditions, hiking from eight in the morning to eleven at night without stopping. Stopping meant getting cold, and getting cold was worse than getting tired.

The next week is kind of a blur. Four of the seven fell behind, unwilling or unable to keep pace through the smokies. The days were an endless haze of fog, constant snowfall, and mile by knee deep mile. Still we were breaking trail, all other traffic on the AT apparently taking a break. The nights were damp and shivery and any time spent out of a sleeping bag was unbearibly frigid.

We saw no views, and Clingmans Dome, the highest point on the AT, was a wasteland of ice. I didn't even look around asI went over it. There was nothing to see.

Our feet were wet all the time of course, for eight straight days. In addition to that, my new shoes gave me bisters, and something about trudging through the snow began to inflame the achillies tendon on my right foot.

It was bad. It was very bad. But we were making the miles. We were doing it.

Finally, on our last day in the Smokies, the sun came out. We saw the ground for the first time in a week. We formed a plan named "Get the BLEEP Outta the Smokies" and pulled an epic 31 mile day to Fontana Dam. Mercifully, the shelter had a shower facility.

I looked at myself in the mirror there and was shocked. Sandy had stripped the last vestiges of my old lifestyle completly away. I had no belly to speak of. At all. I haven't been able to say that since I was about sixteen.

Not that I looked healthy, mind you. I was more exhausted than I have ever been, and it showed.

"It ain't the years honey. It's the milage" I said to my reflection, trying not to giggle hysterically.

I stood in the shower and let the hot water try and wash away the last week. "I have to be careful" I thought to myself. "I am hovering on the edge. I am a week away from finishing but I am not in a good place. It would be easy to get injured."

And that very day, I did.

It was supposed to be an easy day. Twenty miles on a warm day with no snow at low elevation. But my body finally rebelled.

After eight days of moisture, my feet dried out and every crack on my heals, pads of my feet, and in between my toes suddenly split wide open. My achillies tendon, bothersome for days, went nuclear and began sending sharp pains up my leg with every step. My knees, abused for 2000 miles now, began throbbing as I changed my walking pattern because of foot pain.

I slowed, then I slowed further. Finally I stopped, three miles from camp. 

I called my parents, then Rachael, simply needing to hear some friendly voices. They all advized me to stop for the night and continue on in the morning. Good advice.

Rachael also told me that her father is in the hospital with chest pains. She is overcome with worry, as anyone would be. I felt impotent and powerless to help her.

After getting off the phone, I looked up at the stars for about a minute. And then it all came out. Grief for my grandmother, exhaustion, my rage and frustration at my failing body, my in ability to be there for my loved ones when they need me.

I started this blog with the intention of being honest. I cried. I cried for a while. And then, not really feeling any better, I went to sleep.

The next day I only went three miles, trying to heal myself. That was yesterday. Today I went five and then hitched in to town. I am skipping about thirty miles of trail to meet back up with my friends and try to finish on the sixteenth. I don't really know if I can. But I am sure gonna try.

I am upset and ashamed about skipping trail, but I want to finish with my friends, and after two thousand miles, I don't really think anyone can begrudge me thirty.

I am on my way back to the trail now. My next post, God willing, will be from the top of springer mountain. The end of the journey.

Wish me luck. I am really needing it now.

--Pawn

FRANKEMSTORM!

Yes, we are alive and safe. And yes, we have seen a lot of snow. Details tonight.

Quick Notes from Damascus: Now Enterting the Home Stretch

Four hundred and sixty miles remaining.

It really feels like the home stretch now. The landscape, the people, and the food have all turned decidedly southern (as opposed to the quasi-southerness of northern Virginia) and now it really does feel like I'm walking home. Examples: more churches than functioning business, and biscuits and gravy at the gas station for breakfast this morning. Yeah man.  

The Greyson Highlands were as beautiful as advertised, although a bit shorter than I was expecting. I saw a few wild ponies, mostly from a distance. Other people got a lot closer to them, and Cold Beer even got to pet a few of them!

The Highlands were very...Rohan-esque. 

There were a LOT of people in the park and on the A.T. over the weekend, probably more than I've seen since the White Mountains in New Hampshire. I answered the usual through hiker questions again and again..."where are you coming from? Maine? WOW. Where are you headed? Georgia! Holy Smokes!"

I must admit that the questions are far more pleasurable to answer now that this great adventure is almost done and the miles hang about me like a cloud. Now I see less doubt and more respect (or the "you're crazy" look, which doubles as respect) in peoples eyes. It's a good feeling.

Damascus has been a good stop. Here I bid a sad fair thee well to my trusty Chacos. Those sandals were the most comfortable, effective, efficient, and sturdy shoes I've ever worn; an elegant and simple solution to problems that have bothered hikers since the beginning of hiking. (Invented by Sir Wallace H. MacHiker in 1433, when he accidentally climbed a mountain in the Scottish Highlands while searching for a lost sheep)

I have over a thousand miles on the Chacos now, and I could easily finish the trail without them falling apart. By contrast, my Merril trail shoes dissolved into scraps of rubber and expensive gore-tex in two hundred and fifty. The weather simply will not permit it, however. My feet are just too cold in the mornings. So I bought some shoes at the outfitter here and have my fingers firmly crossed, hoping they will last till Springer.

As far as spring and summer hiking goes, I'll never wear anything but Chacos again.

It will be nice on my feet to have a change of pace though. The drying and cracking problems on my heals and in between my toes never truly went away, even with many different moisturizing strategies, and the pain has been severe and hobbling at times. Here's hoping I don't trade in cracked heels for a new crop of blisters. I'm actually pretty worried about it. I would hate to repeat the blisters and foot pain of my first two hundred trail miles during the LAST few hundred.

I've made a few other changes to my gear lately, mostly in the form of warmer clothes that I got on sale in Daleville. I also bought two new tips for my trecking poles. The old ones were worn down into plastic nubbins after eight hundred miles or so.

What else to say? I'm tired. Really, really tired. We've all come to the conclusion that we just need more than one day of rest at a time to get back up to full health. Basically I'm really good at walking in a straight line up and down mountains, but any kind of movement that requires agility, speed over three miles an hour, or flexibility is extremely difficult.I can climb four thousand feet in three hours with thirty pounds on my back but it takes me ten minutes to get up from a sofa and hobble in to the bathroom of a hostel. My feet only seem to bear my weight when wearing shoes. I only walk quickly with a pack on my back.

Conversations have started to turn to "after the trail", which is odd. This is the first time everybody is talking about what we are going to do when we get back, as opposed to what we used to do before we left.

Odd.

Tomorrow I cross in to Tennessee. 

Out of library time. Gotta go.

Next post will be from Tennessee, or possibly North Carolina.

Happy Trails!

Pawn





 

There can be only one...

There can be only one...Greyson Highlander!

Notes From Pearisburg: Travels Through Virginia

They say, and by "they" I suppose I mean the Virginia Board of Tourism, that Virginia is for Lovers. I can get behind that, because one of the words I would use to describe Virginia so far is COLD, and it would be nice to have Rachael around right now, if only for the BTUs. (Rachael, you are more to me than a walking generator of warmth, but since you have often used me for just that purpose, I consider fair to be fair.)

Anyway. Virginia. The first half of this gigantic state is comprised of Shenandoah National Park. The park is famous for it's huge bear population, and sure enough I saw my first wild bears about halfway through the park. They were two cubs, bouncing through the forest and having a grand old time. I watched them for a bit before moving on in case mama was near.
Fun fact: all the signs in the park recomend that if you are attacked by a bear, you should fight back and try to kill it or drive it away. Suddenly all the ultra light guys who carry a razor blade stopped laughing at the hard core tactical knife that my brother gave me for this trip. Also, the knife is excellent for when I am attacked by a bagel or some summer sausage. Thanks again, mi hermano.

The trail in Virginia is beautiful! Long slow climbs up to four thousand feet, beautiful vistas over rolling mountains dappled by splashes of red and orange, and breezy ridge walks that stretch on for miles. Come three or four o'clock the light comes in through the trees just right and
..well, words fail.

The mid atlantic was fun, but it is so great to be back in real mountains again!

A few quick stories. Two guys names John and Paul (not the Beetles...although...no, couldn't have been...right?) gave me some awesome trail magic: a whole hunk of cheese, a giant bag of peanut butter m&ms, and a mini bar sized bottle of whiskey. And they say sobos get no trail magic!

Just south of the Shennies I met a dog who apparently hikes one six mile section of trail over and over again with different hikers. He followed a north bound day hiker up from the road, camped with us, and then hiked back down to the road with me the next day. He had a grand time and knew excactly where the trail was, even when we came to intersections. At the road a truck pulled up, the dog jumped in, and the driver gave a wave.

Every section of trail should have it's own dog.

Have I mentioned the cold? There have been many days in Virginia with thirty five degree temps and rain. Tricky stuff, with a high risk of hypothermia, so we have been using caution.

This morning I hiked in full on cold weather gear, a first for this trip
Normally I only have to sleep in it. On the plus side, the cold clear air made for an amazing star gazing opp last night.

A week or two more in VA, and then we cross in to Tennessee. In a few days we will be under five hundred to go. Hard to believe in some ways, but in other ways I fully believe I have walked nearly fifteen hundred miles. They wear on me, the miles that is, and not a day goes by that I don't feel their weight on my body.

Reminds me of one of my favorite lines from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Miriam: You're not the man I knew ten years ago.

Indiana Jones: It ain't the years honey. It's the milage.

Highlights to come include the Grayson Highlands, home of wild ponies, and the Great Smokey Mountains. The end of my journey draws ever closer. I've just got to keep warm and keep my feet from falling off. Wish me luck.

Till next time, and as always,

Happy Trails,
PAWN

Oops...the REAL McAfee Knob

Ten steps down the trail from the last post and I found the real deal.

Greetings from McAfee Knob!

Back In the Mountains

Just good to be back in the mountains!

The Long Awaited Halfway Post

"I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least-and it is commonly more than that-sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all wordly engagements...When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the fornoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them-as if legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon-I think that they deserve some credit for not having all commuted suicide long ago" --Henry David Thoreau

Well. I'm halfway there.

Over halfway, actually. Here are some stats.

Steps taken-2,500,000

Miles walked-1,208.1

Miles remaining-976.1

Days in the woods-88

Days remaining-Approx 47

Times tripped, stumbled, stubbed, slipped, or fallen- 4,224 (4 times per hour, twelve hours per day...conservativly.)

Tick bites- 0

Mosquito/fly bites-infinate

Wildlife seen- two rattlesnakes, one copperhead, two moose, no eagles, a flock of turkeys, and endless deer, frogs, toads, newts, salamanders, crayfish, trout, and non-venimous snakes.

Injuries-blisters, cuts, scrapes, bruises, soft tissue pain, achy knees and feet, split heels, stomach ailments, and one headache.

Injuries avoided (thus far)-Broken bones, sprains, twists, colds, the flu, hangovers, and (for the absolute first time I can remember) zero allergy symptoms.

Days spent without walking at least five miles-4

Things gained and lost...

Well, this requires some more careful thought.

First of all, I've lost one pack cover, countless pens, one trecking pole, one spoon, and thirty five pounds. I miss the spoon the most. It was a good spoon and I carried it nearly nine hundred miles before leaving it on a rock after lunch. After that I whittled chopsticks until I was given a replacement by a section hiker fifty miles later.

I also started losing my hair more rapidly, a battle I've been fighting for five years (I'm 27!) and so as of this typing I have shorn it down to a short crop. I was getting tired of it being dirty all the time anyway. In return I've gained a few more strands of snowy white in my beard. (This is a great adventure but never assume that any day is easy out here.) But more on gains later.

When I started this hike I was sick. No physical problems, other than my weight, no, this was a spiritual sickness. Congestion of the soul, if you will.

Too many years spent in the same place and not enough travel. Too many days wasted in front of a flickering screen, both professionally and in my leisure time. Too many hours fluttered away on frivolities and trivialities. Too many friends ignored, phone calls unreturned, and way, way too much time spent feeling underpaid, overworked, and unappreciated.

Some of these things were my fault, some of them were situations I found myself in because of my decisions, and some of them were beyond my control. I'm a fool (are not we all?) but as I wrote some time ago I am not fool enough to think that simply walking from Maine to Georgia will solve my problems or make me a better person (or even a different person)

But I'll tell you what it has done. I feel scooped out, empty and clean, like somebody has poured half a gallon of metaphsical drano down my pipes. Like with every step I take the poision is leaching out of my shoes and in to the ground.

I feel like all the shit is gone.

I'm sorry to put it crudly and I don't mean to offend, but that word applies more than any of the substitutes we have for it.

Is it the woods? The relative solitude? The kindness and generousity of total strangers,the startling moments of beauty,the time spent pouring endlessly over my life just to occupy my thoughts?

Probably some combination of all. But most of all I think it's the walking itself. The trudge, the daily jaunt, the total scope of the journey itself.

I think there is a reason so many cultures sent their young men on journies to usher them into adulthood.

It's just walking. Nothing to it. You learn it at age two and unless something goes wrong you do it every day.

But here I have learned that sometimes the walk pushes all else aside, sometimes the walk is all there is. The walk is all encompassing, the walk is total, the walk is, once you get past the gear and the miles and the surface of it all, the most pure and simple thing I have ever done.

And it is shifting all my gears back into neutral.

I dunno. Maybe I feel like I have a fresh start because when I get home my life will be totally different. My stuff (what little I own could fit easily into a pick up truck) and most of my friends are in Georgia, but my family is scattered, my love is in Ohio and my work is wherever I next find it. So who knows? All these feelings I am trying to describe could very well be the product of every circumstance OTHER than the walk.

But I don't really think that's the case...do you?

Will this new found sense of purity last? I have my doubts. If my suspicions are correct and the walk is the genesis of all this, no doubt the vitriol will start to seep back in the moment I step off the trail. I guess it's up to me to take a fresh start (such a rare commodity and much to be treasured, indeed, I do with all my heart) and make the best go of it that I can.

I have high hopes. I've got a good woman behind me, a brain that works halfway decent when I get out of it's way, and some friends and family that will go to bat for me every time. Great things have been accomplished on far less.

I am both excited and absolutley terrified about my life starting a month and a half from now, because the unknown future is always that way. But by God if there is one thing this walk has taught me, it's that you never get anywhere if you don't keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Keep moving. Always, keep moving.

In the meantime, philosophy aside, there are more miles to walk, Virginia and North Carolina and Tennessee and Georgia to conquer, more mountians to climb, more weight to lose, and more shit (though not much now, no, not very much at all) to leach from my soul.

These few lines of Robert Frost are much quoted and thus diminished, but good poetry always rings true in the right moments, and never have I fully grasped their meaning like I grasp them now.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep/ but I have promises to keep/ and miles to go before I sleep/and miles to go before I sleep."

Happy trails
PAWN

Big update coming tonight!

Big update coming tonight I promise! In the meantime, this deer got really close to me!

The South

The day before yesterday our little hiking collective walked all day in the rain, twenty four miles of cold wetness, to put us firmly over the halfway mark. Along the way we passed about ten other southbounders who were holed up in shelters staying dry.

Wimps.

The first half of this great adventure ( mile wise) is over, and I will post some interesting stats I've been compiling once I get to Harpers Ferry. Time wise, I'll only be out here for another month and a half. Thanksgiving is going to be an epic feast.

Another notable occasion yesterday as I crossed into Maryland and over the Mason-Dixon line. I am officially back in the South ya'll. Looking forward to the beauty of Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee.

Forty miles in Maryland, and then I'm in Harpers Ferry, where I get to see Rachael! Look for the giant halfway there post and a map update on the 22nd. (If I can drag myself out of the shower long enough to do any writing...things have been a little chilly lately and I'm ready for some hot steam!)

See ya then!
Happy trails!
PAWN

A Day in the Life

I can't sleep. I am regularly plauged by sleeping problems, always have been, but I am surprised to be having them out here.

Anyway, I thought as an interesting topic I would give a detailed acount of an average day on the trail.

This was my day yesterday, Sept 11th, 2012.

"Pawn".

The voice of Patches, our group early riser and elected alarm clock, cut through my tent and my sleeping quilt, which I had pulled over my head at some point to keep my head warm.

"Mmmgggg?" I inquired with customary early morning wit.

"It's four thirty."

I pulled the quilt off my face and flicked on my head lamp. I observed my breath in the cool blue light of the LED.  Not good. I checked my themometer. Forty two degrees.

"Mmmgaaaah!"

"Yeah."

Fall has officially fallen in northern Pennsylvania.

Normally I do a cold breakfast: poptarts, fig newtons, instant oatmeal with cold water, or all of the above. It saves time and fuel. But this morning I needed the warmth and moral fiber (not to mention actual fiber, ba-zing!) that only hot oatmeal can give. Cold Beer, Patches, and packed our gear while water boiled and then huddled around our hot dishware like hobos huddled around a barrel fire in a Chicago trainyard: stooped and ragged, ripe and bleary eyed, silent except for the occasional curse laden declaration of cold.

We were walking by six, beating the sun by fifteen minutes.

Pennsylvania is all ridgeline walking. Flat, which is great, but rocky and dry, which is not so great. Our campsite of the previous night was nowhere near water, and all of us had packed enough from the nearest source to see us through dinner and breakfast and nine miles of walking the next day.

Water is my new and now only obsession, ever since it got hard to find in New York. How much do I have? Do I have enough to get to the next spring or creek on my map? Will it be deep enough to drink from? Will it even exist? When did it last rain? Saturday. What day is it today?

Our water source was a spigot on the side of a bed and breakfast at a road crossing. We each chugged a few liters and then stocked up on a few more to carry with us. Always a good idea to drink as much as you can at a water source. Better to carry it inside you than on your back.

By 11:45 we had walked thirteen miles. Lunchtime. The temperature had warmed to a balmy sixty five, and we sat in the sun and fueled up.

Food, always a rich and exciting experience for me (as anyone who knows me and/or has seen me without a shirt on can attest) has now become more of a neccesity than a pleasure. Calories per ounce rules over flavor. Ease of preperation, survivability in a pack, accesability in gas stations and small country markets all overrule delectability.

I had a family sized tuna pack, half a box of fig newtons, two pop tarts with peanut butter, and an Old El Paso burrito stuffed, which is a pre cooked package of rice and beans and meat. Total calorie intake for lunch: about 900. I have now lost over thirty pounds in two months and one week.

We eat grimly and quickly, enjoying meals not because they are enjoyable but because they let us walk farther. They get us closer to Georgia, each calorie does, but nobody says that because it is too big. Better to get to camp for the night. After lunch our chosen spot is still sixteen miles away.

The middle of the day took us through the superfund zone, a fun little part of Pennsylvania where indusrial chemicals stripped every last leaf of vegetation from the mountains. We came across a timber rattle snake, fat and sleakly dangerous, sunning himself across the width of the trail.

I led the way around it, the only time that day I would lead. C.B. and Patches are both younger, stronger, and faster than me...but I am not afraid of snakes, even the ones who can do nasty things. That being said, the rattler gave me a buzz with his tail as I walked by, and my skin crawled and tightened and goosebumped. That sort of thing is hardwired in, and has nothing to do with the intellectual respect that I was giving the snake. We passed by without event.

Miles later we arrived at Eckville shelter. The time was four thirty, with nine miles to go. Eckville is a rareity: a shelter with a caretaker, solar shower, it even had outlets to charge phones! Twenty miles in, it was hard to pass up. This is where hiking really becomes a mental game. We knew we had twenty nine miles in us, even if our bodies didn't think so.

Climbing back onto the ridgline from the gap where the shelter was, I began to flag. My pace slowed, my breath came hard. The others pulled ahead. I stopped for a snack. I poured a dab of water into an instant oatmeal pack, stirred, and ate it all in four bites. My body instantly reacted, and I opened another.  Water, stir, eat, repeat. After six packets (all I had left, pop tarts for breakfast the next day) I continued on.

Eventually it got dark.

My headlamp is always handy, and I scrambled over the rocks un disturbed by the dark, just as I walk in the rain, or heat, or cold, or bugs. Somewhere in the last few weeks something in me has changed, and I don't know what. I have very little control over my conditions, my envronment. I steal toilet paper from Chinese buffet bathrooms. I smash my feet on rocks, my heels crack. I now consider powdered lemonade to be the height of human achievement.

Things happen. I walk south with the fall. This is my life.
 
I smelled the fire a mile and a half before I reached the campsite. I can smell everything now. When a day hiker passes me I smell not just cleanlyness but the individual layers of it: shampoo, body wash, deoderant, perfume, detergent, hair product. Soap is the grease in the gears of civilization.

I should point out that the one thing I don't smell is the odor of myself, my gear, and my fellow hikers. The nose is a selective organ and it revolts whenever it feels like it.

I walked in to camp and there are Patches and Cold Beer, along with a few other people I will most likely never see again. I talked to them anyway as I ate second dinner (double ramen packs, hot sauce, pop tarts-1000 calories), and then pitch my tent and went to sleep. Twenty nine miles, a new record for me, for all three of us.

Two days from now, we are going for thirty one.

Happy Trails
Pawn

Bad Hostel Art: Part Two

Today's painting brought to you by the Church of the Mountain Hostel, also, those ducks must be the size of labridor retrievers.

Pawn crossing the deleware

Seventy days

For your comparison: me on day one, tired and afraid I had hurt my knees and already ended my hike. Now me on day seventy(ish?) Feeling strong and beardy.

New York: Trail Magicians Galore

I know it has been a while since any kind of comprehensive update. I apologize! Since the shelter I'm in tonight has a power outlet(!) I'll take the opportunity to make a longish post on my phone. (The google map of my travels has to be updated from a computer so not sure when I'll get to that.)

First of all, I'm through New York, for the most part. (I'll swing back and forth along the border with New Jersey for most of tomorrow.) As of September third, I have walked for two months and covered eight hundred miles.

One thing about New York was how amazingly nice everybody was. I got more trail magic in NY than any other state so far. Several people gave me water. (New York is VERY dry and sometimes thirty miles passed without water.) Two pool cleaners at a deli gave me a slice of pizza, a new lighter, and fifteen bucks. A russian guy on a day hike gave me his lunch. His entire lunch. Apples, dark bread and sharp cheese, a hobbit meal if ever I had one. A very nice man taking a walk along a gravel road took me back to his house, for pete's sake, where his wife gave me oatmeal, pop tarts, energy bars, and homemade cookies!

The funniest thing about this amazing generosity is that every time it happened I made a comment about how nice New Yorkers were, and every single person, without fail, made some comment like "oh well not really most people in this state are jerks."

Right. Well not in this hungry semi homeless man's opinion. Thank you, people of New York, for being amazing.

All this niceness was well timed, because I was feeling pretty ragged. High miles, low water, high heat (I spoke a little too freely about the nice fall weather I guess) and a tough, roller coastery trail combined to totally wear me out.

My parents, sensing this exhaustion, very generously paid for two nights at a motel, and I spent a great day sleeping or eating pizza in the bathtub. If you've never eaten pizza in the bathtub, try it some time. You'll love it, I promise!

One of the motel employees asked me if I was hiking or if I was with the Renaissance Festival that was in town.

Apparently the looks are much the same.

The tiny bar of motel soap proved inadequate to the task of cleaning all the layers of dirt off my feet, but I don't really mind. I kind of like having the dust of seven states ground in to me. It's almost...biblical?

In recent days I found and lost Halfway, Cold Beer, Stiltz, Silver Surfer, and Nail. I bumped into Patches last night and he and I have outlined an ambitious plan to get us through Penn, over the halfway mark and well into Virginia in the next fourteen days. Our miles will be big, twenty five on average, so we should catch and pass all of the folks listed above sometime in the next week.

Now that daylight shrinks every day, the key to big miles is an early start, an early (even earlier than normal) bedtime, and very short food breaks. Our alarms are set for four thirty tomorrow. Time to really step on the gas. We both want to be done by the first week of November.

There was a huge storm last night and most of the day today. I walked in the rain with perfect peace, stomping in puddles just for the fun of it, while thunder bounced and boomed off the mountains. The wind and water knocked red and yellow leaves to the ground and scattered them along the trail. Fall is coming, and I can't wait!

One more thing and then I'm done for the night. I happened to be hiking though a state park over most of labor day weekend, which meant that I had a lot of conversations with day hikers and families about what I was doing. One hispanic family refused to believe that I was walking the whole way. They also thought I was from Europe. (The kilt? The red and wild beard? Both?)

A family of Asian tourists took pictures of me and afterwords we chatted for a bit.

"You are really walking the whole way to Georgia?" the father asked.

"The whole way!" I said, inbetween bites of my hobbit lunch. I went on to answer his questions about the trail: how long it is, how long it has taken me, when I will finish.

He shook his head and chuckled. "That is the spirit of America. That is why I love this place," he said. Then he walked off to join his family, leaving me with my lunch and my view of the New York City skyline and a whole lot of interesting thoughts.

Happy Trails
Pawn

Various Things

First of all, special thanks go out to mi hermano, who stretched out his hand from kuwait and mailed me some super nice name brand trecking poles. The cheepies I started with both completly broke but these are designed in da Rhineland and you know the germans make good things. Rock on brother. Consider my bacon to be saved.

The weather has been outstanding lately. Blue skies with a touch of autumn crispness to the air. Of course it has rained on me only once since I changed footwear to be more rain compatible, but hey, I'm not complaining!

Not to sound cliche, but mere hours after crossing into New York I came across a road side pizza stand, which I immediately patronized. It was every bit as delicious as you would imagine it was.

The goal is seventy five miles over the next three days. A daunting task but if the weather continues nice I think it is possible. I felt strong today, and twenty two miles flew by with almost no effort and no ill effects. (Unless you count the amazing amount of food I ate.)

It was a good day on the trail and I am feeling happy to be out here, almost ludicrously so. There are so many people that I love who are sacrificing to make this possible for me, and I can't thank them enough. Looking at you, family mine and future wifey woman.

Got to save some battery power for the next three day stretch. Love from New York, the State that never Sheeps. (Only lots of cows so far).

Happy Trails!
PAWN

OOPS

Step one of lyme disease prevention is going to be a little difficult.

Ailments (Part One)

After passing through Massachusetts passing mostly without incident (that's right kiddies, Pawn is rocking out Connecticut) I thought I might take a few moments at the public library in Salisbury to talk about injuries and ailments. The subject has been on my mind over the last few dozen miles due to my most recent bout of foot problems. As I walked along through Mass, thinking about what to write about (it's a splendid way to pass the time) I realized that I haven't talked much about the wide range of physical problems that I have experienced or that I could experience. It's kind of a good "nuts and bolts" way to understand a little bit more about long distance hiking, and yet I haven't mentioned it.

Mostly this is because as I was suffering from these setbacks I was as least partially convinced that each one would lead me to leave the trail. Seeing as I'm still lurching along, now might be a good time to illuminate my ever growing international audience. (You still with me, people from Russia? I hope so. Take a sip of Vodka and settle in.)

So without further ado, Pawn's Encyclopedic Injurtanica.

Bite-Man Begins:

Simply put, everything in the woods can bite you. So far I've suffered stings from ants, mosquitoes, black flies, horse flies, wasps, hornets, and good old fashioned bees. This is by far the most minor category of injury and is almost always just a passing inconvenience.

Once, not too long ago, C.B. and I were walking along a nice little bit of trail when he started cursing, shouting, and hopping up and down. I was confused until I felt something like a crazy carpenter pounding nails into my legs, it was then that I realized a group of yellow jackets had built an underground lair on the trail and were NOT happy about all that pounding going on upstairs.

After vacating the area we amused ourselves by having lunch near the spot and watching northbounders, our eternal enemies, wander through gauntlet.

One thing that I haven't run into yet is rattlesnakes, though everyone tells me I will encounter them further south in the mid Atlantic. Rattlesnakes really dislike being stepped on.  Luckily for you, me, and upright apes everywhere, rattlesnakes have gone out of their way to avoid the sticky situations an accidental trod can illicit, mostly by rattling at you loudly anytime you get within two feet of them.

Basically you have to be a pretty big idiot to step on a rattlesnake on the trail--and now I have insured that I, in fact, shall step on one tomorrow.

Foot Follies:

Foot problems are the most common and persistent injury to be found on the trail. In the first month I got a nice little crop of blisters, one grape sized swelling on the pad of each of my toes. Blisters also cropped up on the sides of my feet, on my heals, and on one notable occasion, the very bottom of my foot. I don't even know how that happened.

After popping, the loose skin of blisters hardens into kind of a protective covering. I thought this was pretty awesome. I felt like an X-man who's mutant power was the ability to not get blisters anymore. Not a very useful power when it comes to fighting crime, perhaps, but not everybody gets the laser eyes or the lightening thumbs.

Stone bruises, scrapes, scratches, stress fractures, and Planter Flac..hi..tus...stopolis, something like that, I don't really have time to look it up cause I only have twenty five minutes left of time before the library closes, anyway all of those things are common and most of them except for the stress fractures and the P.F. have happened to me at one time or another.

Intestinal Instabilities:

Okay so first of all, proper digestion is difficult when you eat lunch and then immediately strap thirty pounds across your stomach and start bouncing up and down hills. Everybody knows that the best way to digest food is to lay on the sofa with your girlfriend for three or four hours, watching DVDs and drinking beer until it is once again time to eat. Ideally, nachos are involved.

Long distance hikers do not have this luxury.  We also tend to go long periods of time eating small amounts of fairly bland food, punctuated by brief periods of time overeating very rich foods.

You do the math.

Once, in the White Mountains, I stopped for lunch on a ridge line called the Webster Cliffs. Since all my stuff was soaking wet (this was New Hampshire, state of endless rain) I decided to lay it all out in the sun while I ate lunch. Ten minutes into my meal I was racked with sudden and rolling pain. My stomach made an uncomfortable series of sounds: almost as if my large intestines were balloons and a sadistic clown was busy making elephants down there.

"Oh no!" I thought. "The Chowda!"

Yes, it was the two bowls of clam chowda I had consumed on the summit of Mt. Washington, come back to haunt me.

I staggered around the cliffs, searching vainly for somewhere, anywhere, most private to evacuate myself of the New England specialty. Being above treeline is kind of tough that way. Finally I found a stand of stunted pines and set about my business.

Just then a storm rolled in, as they are wont to do in high altitudes. Within seconds the sky was dark and fat, cold drops were soaking me to the bone. All the while, keep in mind, I am squatting in the age old position known to pioneers and cave men everywhere. Thunder rumbled.

At this point, three thoughts went through my head.

1.) All of my gear was now getting soaking wet, laid out on the cliffs. Well, MORE soaking wet, I should say.

2.) My toilet paper, which was the very last thing I owned which was NOT currently wet, would become soaking wet once I opened the plastic baggie and exposed the roll to the ravages of the pelting rain.

3.) There was a thunderstorm directly over my head and even squatting I was the tallest thing around. I was like a filthy, moaning lightening rod. I pictured my mother, dressed in funeral black, explaining the situation of my death and then bursting into tears.

If you have never had all these thoughts go through your head at exactly the same moment while simultaneously suffering from sudden and explosive diarrhea, then my friend, you have yet to fully enjoy life.



Well, golly. I've used up all my time at the library and I've only covered two categories. I guess I'll have to remember these for later:

Knee Knockers:
Lyme Light:
Rash Behavior:
Rodent Rumbles:

A few other quick notes:

As I walked into Salisbury at 3:01 I passed a bakery. They were just flipping the open/closed sign to closed. Outside on the chalkboard was a sign for Strawberry Rhubarb pie. Foiled again!

CT will be short. I'll be in New York in a few days. Before that my next stop is Kent, hopefully tomorrow, where I will be picking up my new trecking poles and maybe finish this blog post.

Okay, the librarians are getting antsy. Time to roll. Five to ten more miles to go today!

Happy Trails

Pawn

The Things You Miss!

Jennifer Anniston is engaged! Tom and Kate divorced! Egads! 

Oh yeah and some other stuff has also happened.

I guess.

From My Feet to You, Thanks

Thanks everybody for the foot care advice. You all gave me basically the same pointers. As a manly man of the manly woods, the idea of moisturizing my feet had simply never occured to me. While I still have some pain, it is walkable and I have high hopes of a swift recovery. (I regret the nearly half pound of Nivea Soft moisturizing cream I am now carrying but sacrifices must be made for good foot health!)

Onward to Dalton and a free hostel. Some notes:

Fig newtons are a hundred and sixty calories per TWO cookies. Awesome.

I am almost lighter now with my pack on than I was WITHOUT my pack when I started.

Saw the sunrise this morning from Mt. Greylock, highest point in Mass.

Had a pretty dark time yesterday between the feet and some family stuff going on, but a beautiful day today and a burger and fries put me right.

Happy Trails-
Pawn

Cheshire, Mass

Ouch!

The callouses on my heels (at this point, basically my entire heel) suddenly dried out and split completly open in the night. This must be an unintended consequence of suddenly NOT having wet feet for three days at a time.

Speaking of which, the hike in chaco sandals plan worked perfectly. As usual, it rained on me coming out of Manchester Center and for the first time I walked through it knowing I would be dry the next day.

ANYWAY. I need some treatment options for my feet. Just tried to walk around without my pack on and the pain is severe. There is a grocery store 2 miles away so any treatment ideas must be something I can buy at a standard pharmacy section.

Welcome to Massachusetts!

Quick Updates

Some quick updates before I fall asleep--

I'm in Manchester Center, Vermont.

I got new shoes today. Sandals, in fact. Goodbye wet feet. When I stumbled into town today my shoes were being held together with ducktape and fervent wishes. 

I finally got my pie--Strawberry Rhubarb. Sorry Bethany, Key lime was not to be found in these heathen parts. Nick, I almost went apple, but...strawberry rhubarb, come on!

By the way Nick, how did you know that apple is the state pie of Vermont? You know far too much about Vermont if you ask me. 

The crew pooled our resources today and we had a little cookout at the hostel. At a table. With napkins. And utensils other than sporks. All of us were clean and there was much rejoicing across the land.

Four, maybe five days until Mass. Patches and Halfway want to do a "hiker marathon" tomorrow-26 miles in one day. Not sure if I can do it, but I kind of want to see if I can. 

This is for Patches' mother. Patches' mother, I just want you to know that we are all morally sound, ethically legitimate individuals. We are teaching your son only strong, manly skills and absolutely none of us have any bad  habits.

While the LANDSCAPE of Vermont has been lovely, the actual people here are shockingly unfriendly. This has been our first experience with meanness on the trail and it has left us all a little bewildered. Thank you, Maine and New Hampshire, for being so nice to hiker trash.

Early start tomorrow. I'm notoriously bad about making longer posts in the morning but I HAVE to write about our experiences in Rutland-Meanest Little Town on the trail. Also, pictures of pie upcoming.

Happy Trails, and g'night.

--Pawn

500 Miles!

There was no sign marking the five hundred mark so Cold Beer, Halfway, Patches and I celebrated with Chinese buffet.

Tragedy Strikes

I forgot about this emergency snickers in the side pouch of my backpack. This is what happens!

A Misty Vermont Morning

A typical scene in lovely Vermont. Mood slowly improving as shoes dry out. Just got to make it to Manchester Center without rain and all should be well. Five hundred mark today or tomorrow!

The Entropy of the Universe as Applicable to Footware

As the trail wanders on, I have gradually become used to most of the hardships that come with it. The constant hunger, the pain, the tiny thousand irritations that come with hauling your belongings on your back: I can deal with all of it with a grin, a shrug, or at the least a patient sigh.

Except for the rain.

It kills my morale like nothing else. It slows me down and it cuts my miles. But it's not just a simple matter of being wet. See, my clothes dry fast and my gear stays dry in my bag.

It's my shoes! It takes at least twenty four hours for them to dry completly. So they get wet on day one while it's actually raining. On day two they stay wet because of puddles and plants. On day three they finally start to dry. On day four it rains again.

Meanwhile I've covered seventy miles in soaking wet socks and shoes, something that my feet do not thank me for. And there is nothing more demoralizing than waking up and putting on wet socks. Give it a try sometime.

So. Solutions? My shoes are falling apart anyway. I'm gonna need to get a new pair regardless. I'm giving serious thought to hiking in chaco sandles now that the trail has smoothed out.

Anyway. This all comes up because this is day two of a never ending rain shower. A short day today into a shelter with the hope of a clear day tomorrow and a twenty one miler.

Morale pretty low for the first time in a while. For some reason being wet all the time makes me question everything about this. To paraphrase Jon Kracour (sp?) Mountains are poor receptacles for dreams.

But eating is always a quick fix for the blues. Trying something new tonight: stuffing and a gravy packet. I see joy in my future.

Happy Trails

PAWN

Gentlemen...we must find some ben and jerry's

A compromise

Beer...or shower...shower...or beer...

Beer...in the shower!

Caution Bees

Look out for that ladder, bees!

Oh Yeah, and a Few More Things

Forgot some things:

I never described the guys who ran the Hiker Welcome Hostel, where I took an aftertoon siesta. Imagine being fed endless ice cream by two slightly different versions of Santa Clause, both of whom probably road managed for Black Sabbath, or possibly Alice Cooper.  That ought to give you the general idea.

I stopped yesterday at the house of a man named Bill Ackerly. He puts up signs on the A.T. advertising free water and an ice cream sandwhich, and we come like moths to the flame. Bill sat out on his porch and chewed the fat with me for a while. He is a man of the sort that I only seem to see in New England: checkered shirt, suspenders, wiry thin and tall with a strong, rough grip. Wispy thinning hair and thick, coke bottle glasses that were probably prescribed around 1982. He gives the impression of being a human piece of beef jerky, and when the world is ashes and dust it will probably just be Bill and the cockroaches, sitting around eating ice cream and talking about how bad the weather is.

I'll be in Vermont tomorrow. IN YO FACE New Hampshire.

The Five Hundred Mile mark is about three or four days away. I feel like this needs a celebration but I'm not sure exactly how. Maybe some food item packed into the woods with me and saved for that moment? Possibly a pie of some kind?  Any ideas, people? Leave a comment.

This should come as no shock to anyone, but I need a shower. I often think my legs are tanned until I pull my socks off and I realize: Oh yeah. That's not tan. That's fiflth. Women, feel free to throw up now. Men, try to contain your jealousy.

I'm daydreaming about pie lately. Strawberry or mixed berry. I need some pie, and I need it bad. See above comment.

I've invented another piece of trail gear: Ultra light camp shoes. Most people have sandels or crocs, I have two discarded boot insoles and one shoe lace that I made straps with. Total weight? Less than an ounce. Wham, Bam, thank you ma'am, I am the ultralight masta! Walking into town my pack was 25 pounds.

Okay, Okay, I'm done. More tomorrow.

Happy Trails (again)

Pawn

Notes from Hanover: City of the Studiously Beautiful

If you've been following along on the google map, you will be happy to learn that I have finally updated it to reflect the last couple of weeks.

As for my current location-I'm in the Hanover public library! Rather, I'm in one of them. That's right kids, this is a double library town, my favorite kind. It makes sense-Hanover is home to Dartmouth College. You'll be happy to know that there actually IS expensive looking ivy growing on things: walls, buildings, stately stone domiciles. I sure was!

Boy howdy, the people here sure are pretty and sweet smell'n. The studious looking fellow at the computer next to me keeps going "hmmmm" in a thoughtful way. No doubt he's contemplating how to invest his inheritance after he graduates with a degree in comparitive African Socio-Politics. Should he buy a yacht or travel through Europe for a while? Hmmmmm...

The trail has continued meandering along through southern New Hampshire in a pleasant fashion. Today I wound back and forth along low, smooth hills. I walked through a field of blackberries and ate and ate and ate. I scrambled around low, ancient looking stone walls all covered in moss and ferns, the occasional piece of quartz glaring out from the native granite like an angry, clouded eye.

And I've been hiking solo for a few days now. Patches and Cold Beer are somewhere between fifteen and ten miles behind me, Six String was ahead of me until last night when I finally caught up to him. I rocked out a nineteen mile day on the seventh and a twenty one mile day yesterday, breaking my records for longest miles in a single day and longest distance covered in two days.

Maine and New Hampshire were a crucible: I've been heated, beaten, battered, and rained upon. Now I'm feeling incredibly strong: I walked twelve miles into Hanover today before eleven thirty. Probably could have done a thirty mile day if I really pushed it.

And the best part? Northbounders are asking ME questions for a change. "How are the Whites? Is Maine hard? Did you see any Moose? How do you stay so good looking while hiking?"

Hard.
Yes.
Two.
It comes naturally. Don't beat yourself up.

So that's the fast and dirty update. I've been writing down a few more thoughtful pieces in my paper journal, I'll probably post one tomorrow before I leave town. One good thing about Hanover: There is a whole list of people willing to let you stay at their house for free. I also got a free slice of pizza at the local pizzaria, a treat that I enjoyed while watching three college dudes try to impress the one girl who was with them, mostly by trying to talk louder than one another.

Ah, to be 18 again.

Hap Hap Happy Trails Ya'll.

--Pawn

Notes From the Flipside: Siesta at the Hikers Welcome Hostel

Is there anything in this world better than three free bowls of ice cream? No, I say, and I say it with a certainty that cannot be matched.

The Hikers Welcome Hostel is right on the southside of the Whites. I'm sprawled out in the friendly main room of the hostel, charging my phone and working on my third bowl of free ice cream. Soon as the phone is charged I'm hitting the trail again, but this trail...

...oh sweet Appalachia, Goddess of the Trail, thank you for this amazing trail!

Coming down out of the Whites this morning Cold Beer and I started leveling out and suddenly, with a beautiful and lovely shock, I realized we were walking along flat ground. Not only was it flat, it was mostly without rocks, mostly without roots, and mostly dry.

Great jumped up baked beans on toast, I didn't even know what to say. My jaw dropped open. Tears welled up in my eyes. My knees lept off my legs and flew around my head, singing the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's "The Messiah".

I grabbed my knees, stuck them back on my legs, and cartwheeled down the rest of the trail into "town". (a hostel, a post office, and some houses).

Don't get me wrong. The last three weeks have been nothing but absolutely amazing views. I think my pictures and posts speak for themselves. I'm sad to see these rugged mountains vanish behind me. It is going to be a long, long while till we peak out at another 4,000. (We did our last one this morning and looked out over Franconia Ridge and Mt. Washington behind it in the morning mist).

That being said, it's time to start banging out some significant miles. I want to do at least three twenty mile days this week, and eventually work up to twenties seven days out of seven.

Side Note: I found another straw hat in the hiker box here. (Mine blew off my pack during my epic night hike up to Mt. Washington)  It is quite snazy and I cut a dashing figure in it. I'll post a pic soon.

Time to check the charge on my phone and use a flushing toilet before getting back on the trail.

Mom, Dad, and Rach, I'm looking at Hanover in three or four days. Two solid days of rain delayed me a bit coming out of Lincoln.

--Happy Trails!

Pawn

A Useful Book at Chet's Hostel

Kimshi

The internet is a strange and wonderful thing. Through google analytics I have realized that four people from Russia, two people from the U.K. and exactly one person in all of South Korea have somehow stumbled upon my blog. I have an entirely accidental international audience. Hoorah!  I zeroed today in Lincoln NH, where even the Mcdonalds is ski slope themed, and Moose tours abound. Pulled my second twenty yesterday and this time around I could actually move without ten advil when all was said and done. So this is a good thing. Next destination is Hanover, home of Dartmouth College, writer Bill Bryson and inumerable BMW's plastered with Macain 2008 stickers. Take your best shot New Hampshire. You don't have much left. Then I'm on to Vermont, where the mountains are greener and the Ben and Jerry's flows like water down the hillsides.

The Four O'clock Summit

I was doing my first "work for stay" at Madison Springs hut in the northern section of White Mountain National Forest. Some explinations. The AT in the White Mountains is run by a group called the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC). The AMC maintains several "huts" along the trail here-self sustaining miniture hotels capable of feeding and housing thirty to forty guests a day.

Tourists through the Whites pay up to a hundred dollars a night to "hut hop" through the mountains, walking six to eight miles a day and stopping at the huts for hot meals and cots in bunk rooms. There are very few other sleeping options available in the Whites-shelters are often thirty to forty miles apart and camping is stricktly limited, and downright forbidden above treeline.

This leads many through hikers to refer to the AMC as the "Appalachian Money Club" or "Appalachian Motel Chain". For the hungry and poor through hiker there is one good option: work for stay. Generally each hut takes two thru hikers a night and gives them menial work to do: dishes, sweeping, cleaning, and the like. In return hikers get to eat whatever the guests don't finish and a place to sleep on the floor of the dining hall.

As I said before, I managed to snag a work for stay at Madison Springs hut, just below the summit of Mt. Madison. A northbounder named Skunk Ape and I enjoyed four or five plates of leftover pasta, bread and salad and then washed some windows and started up on the dishes.

As we were finishing up (this was around nine thirty) I heard a voice behind me say "anybody up for a moonlight tour of the Presidential range?"

I turned around and there was a girl named Patches (NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE GUY PATCHES I AM CURRENTLY HIKING WITH) , a northbounder I had run across in Maine, three weeks before. I later learned that she had finished her hike and was killing time walking around in the Whites before she started a job crewing one of the huts.

"What, right now?" I said? "In the dark?"

"It's a full moon!" Patches said.

She was right, the moon was gigantic in the sky, lighting up every nook and cranny and peak of those jagged, rocky slopes.

Skunk Ape laughed in disbelief and shook his head. I hesitated.

I remembered from our conversation in Maine that Patches was an expert in these mountains-she grew up in NH and hikes the Whites several times a year. If there was anybody who could successfully guide me through the toughest section of the trail, all above treeline, at night...

"I'm leaving in five" she said, breaking into my musing. "Anybody who wants to come has until then to make up their mind."

I'm tired. I thought. My right foot has a stone bruise that leaves me with a slight limp. I did a solid ten mile day straight up the side of Mt. Madison this afternoon and I haven't slept since then. In fact, it's already past my hiker bed time. This is rough terrain. It's dark. There is no reason to do this. 

Except for the fact that it sounds like an adventure. 

"Okay." I said. "I'll do it."

Everybody in the room, including Patches, looked at me in disbelief.

And that was how I found myself scrabbling through the boulderfields and rockslides of the Whites in the perpetual twilight of a bright full moon, five thousand feet in the air, bound for the highest peak in New England: Mount Washington.

Patches and I navigated with a combination of luck and skill. (My luck. Her skill.) Our headlamps were only necessary for the ground immediatly underfoot, all else was visible in it's bright, chinese lantern light.

Occasionally Patches would take a side trail and hit a summit that the AT bypassed. I should note that she is a ludicrously stronger hiker than me. (She did just complete a through hike after all, and I am merely a month into mine) I was going over mostly level ground, walking ridges and winding around peaks while she went up and over the top, and usually beat me to our meeting place. She kept up a running monolouge: her life story, hikes she had hiked, gear, food, the usual hiker conversations.

Meanwhile I contributed to the procedings with the occasional affirmative grunt or gasp inbetween muffled curses as I slipped and slid all around the mountain side. She was glad for the company. I was merely glad to be surviving the hike.

After five or six miles I was flagging badly. After a month of this, my body shuts down when the sun does, and the time was now 2:15.

We parted ways at the base of Mt. Washington. She had another six or seven hours of hiking to do and several more peaks to bag, while my final desitination, the summit of Washington, was merely a mile and a half away.

I watched her headlamp climb the mountainside until it vanished at the peak. I pulled out my quilt, wrapped it around myself, and slid to the ground at the base of a cairn. I mixed up some lemonade and had a snickers bar. I looked up at the sky.

The stars were few and washed out in the moonlight, partially obscured by whispy clouds running across the sky like finger marks on glass.

It was quiet.

No, it was silent. Totally silent. No crickets, birds, airplanes, cars, engines, voices, background hums and drones and whines...nothing. Here I was at the base of a mountain with the officially recognized worst weather in the country, and not a breath of wind stirred. Try to remember the last time you were in absolute and total silence. I bet you can't do it. I couldn't either, until that moment.

I sat there for hours, just being, thinking, existing.

At four I hiked up the last mile and a half to the summit. Washington is an unsual mountain for the AT...it has a road and a cog train that leads to the top, a visitors center, a muesem, in short it is a tourist attraction. But I had the entire mountain to myself as the sun rose up over the lesser peaks. I saw the clouds move in as the rocks heated up, crashing in slow motion against the crags like the worlds softest, gentliest tsunami. I saw the oranges and reds and yellows of sunrise tint the greys and greens of the mountain with a subtle sepia. I listened to the mountain slowly wake up: the jingle of keys as the buildings were unlocked, the first hints of engine noise, the far off whistle of the cog train as it steamed up the mountain.

Soon the tourists arrived and swarmed the peak, taking pictures, laughing, scolding children. The lady at the muesem let me in for free since I was the first one there. I ate two bowls of clam chowder, donated to me by a family from Birmingham, Alabama. (A swell of pride for my native south warms the nooks and crannies of my heart-thank you family from Alabama. I hope you are reading this. You made an already great day that much better)

But the best thing, the most awesome thing of all is this: Mt. Washington is swamped by clouds most days of the year. Something about the difference in moisture at the high elevations. Regardless, here is the fact that will remain with me for the rest of my life. The clouds moved in at seven, before anybody else was on the mountain. Nobody saw anything, any kind of view, all day long.

I am the only person that saw the view from Mt. Washington that day. 

Of course I paid the price. I still had seven miles to hike that day, and I hadn't slept in more than twenty four hours. It rained, of course, as it has every day since I've been in New Hampshire. The trail went back to kicking my butt in every possible way. My knees started aching, my feet were swollen, and my stomach rolled with the pressure of unfamiliar food.

But for just a while, just a few hours, Mt. Washington was all mine. And I will always remember it.

Happy Trails,

Pawn