Breakfast at Linda's

If Northeast Ohio didn't already exist, we would have to invent it, if only to have a place to store the nation's strategic reserves of red and white checked gingham tablecloths.

It seems to be a place dreamed up by the collective consciousnesses of America, a mecca of  red farmhouses, F-150s with snowplow attachments, and the most U.S. Presidents of any state. It swings politically from red to blue and back again. It sits slightly north of the South, just west of the East, and a smidgen east of the Midwest.  If America were a hard working man living in a big city and fondly remembering his rural childhood, complete with white picket fences and firework shows and visits to the county fair,  Ohio would be that childhood.

In the town of Middlefield, Ohio (pop. 2,694) is a place called Linda's Restaurant. You've been to Linda's, even if you haven't, because Linda's exists in every township and crossroads in the country. If there is a post office, a general store, and a bar, chances are there is a Linda's.  This is Ohio. If you've been here, you've been everywhere.

You walk in to Linda's, stamping the snow or dust or red clay off your feet, and sit where you like, because it's that kind of place. No buzzers, no hostess, and no wait. (except maybe on a Saturday morning, a Sunday afternoon, or a Friday night after the game)

The menu is laminated paper, usually mass produced from a home printer or copy machine. There is a black and white photograph of Linda and her husband (George, Tommy, Bruce) along with a story of how the place came to be. Sometimes the words are obscured by some mysterious and fragrant gunk, possibly maple syrup and powdered sugar and dirt. There are always pancakes on the menu, always eggs, always potatoes, always bacon or sausage. Gravy is optional and varies from region to region, but pancakes are universal.

 The word "zesty" is nowhere to be found.

Your waitress comes. She is pure rural everywhere, regardless of accent, with a strong, plain face and a web of crows feet around her eyes. She is over forty. She is either a smoker or she quit sometime in the last ten years, and she almost never needs to write down the order. Often, her name is Lucille.

She is never, and this is key, an eighteen year old girl named Tiffany or Amber. She is not a twenty six year old struggling actor named Aden.  She isn't working on a screenplay. She doesn't watch Downton Abby. When she gets home, chances are she will cook dinner for her husband and go to bed exhausted while he sits with a beer and watches the golf channel. She smiles at you. She is sad but resigned.

 She never offers you an appetizer (Firecracker Cheese Sticks! Exploding Onion! Jalapeno Poppers!), and she never asks if you've been there before, because she knows if you have or if you haven't. She never squats down to hear you better. Her knees are too bad and there isn't any music playing other than the ambient symphonic melody of cheap plastic glasses clinking, chairs scraping across linoleum, and the last gasps of small town newspapers being rustled and pawed and shuffled. Outside, long haul trucks passing through are an aural blend of wind and smoke and splashing slush; a Doppler Effect of chickens or televisions or ball bearings traveling to and from points unknown.

Your food arrives swimming in grease: eggs over easy or scrambled, hash-browns or home-fries, sausages as thick and knobbly as the fingers of your fellow diners, waffles with chocolate chips, blueberries buried in pancakes like nuggets of gold. You sop up the juice with toast. You never see the bottom of your coffee cup.

The people around you are old timers or old before their time, a collection of Carhartt jackets and blue jeans and hats tipped back to the crown of the head. Big men with big hands, mustaches and beards, flannel. Solid women with glasses. Blue tipped hair. The lingering aroma of tobacco and mud and snow.

You might be able to pay your ticket with a card, but chances are you have to use cash. Or, incredible, amazing, a check. On your way out, somebody coming in holds the door open for you. In and out, a steady stream of classic Americans: the kind of people politicians like to pretend that they once were. The kind of people country music used to be about. The kind of people Tom Waits used to write songs about. People with hard lives and debt and working class jobs that they hate but they do anyway. A tonic of caffeine and grease to get them on their way and through their day, chased by cheap beer and cigarettes at night.

There are other versions of Linda's, certainly. Delis in New York, taco stands in L.A., meat and two veg places in Georgia, BBQ in South Carolina.  But Linda's seems to stand for them all, an amalgamation of love and sweat and callouses, the fond recollections of a country that seems to exist now, if it ever did at all, only in the dreams of it's citizens. Places like Linda's stand outside of time, and we can rest assured knowing that whatever may come, syrup will flow, bacon will be crispy, toast will never lose it's amazing properties of egg yolk absorption, and pancakes will always come in stacks of two, four, or ten, or twenty, pancakes up to the blue Ohio sky.

--Andrew--

Race, Furniture, and Packing Peanuts: Adventures in Warehouse Temping

"Hemph blah nubbin hemp hemp", said Willie, pointing to a palette of vintage leather suitcases with his free hand. I made a wild and totally unsubstantiated guess and hauled the palette to a different area of the storage room. He seemed satisfied.

 I was relieved. In three days of work, I had understood roughly five percent of anything Willie said to me, but it looked like we were beginning to understand one another. At least I assumed so. For all I knew, he couldn't understand anything I said either.

I picked up this temp warehouse job from a friend. The company I was working for deals in antiques and home furnishes. The first day, I did nothing but help three other guys pick up dressers and mirrors and cabinets and move them to different parts of the building. All of the pieces were: A) very heavy, B) extremely fragile, and C) monstrously heavy.

I'm a little guy, barely scraping 5'6. My entire life I've been dealing with crap from guys who are taller than me. (everybody but Peter Dinklage and professional jockies) Usually said crap takes the form of people assuming I'm not strong enough to lift the other side of a sofa or something. When this started up on day one of the new job, I threw myself in to the work, proving that I could and would lift anything that any other man in the room could.

Six hours later I wept gently in the bathtub while I wished fervently for a massage, a chiropractor, and an acupuncturist, in that order. New resolution: If another man's pride demands that he lift something while you stand and watch...by all means STAND AND WATCH.

Moving furniture for money is an interesting experience. Have you ever helped somebody move to a new house or apartment? You know how it kind of sucks but at least you get free pizza and beer, and you get to hang out with people that you are probably pretty good friends with?

So imagine that, but take away all the good things.

Things got better in a few days. With all the furniture moved, my only remaining job was to pack up antiques into boxes and on to palettes and ship them away to business with names like "Kristin's Korner" and "Fun and Funky Collectibles!!"

This was work that I enjoyed. My mind always demands a puzzle, and looking at an oddly shaped antique and trying to figure out how to wrap it and box it as quickly and efficiently as possible fits the bill. It's like Tetris with cardboard and a tape gun. I also have experience in this area, having worked at a UPS store for two Decembers and two summers during college. Compared to boxing up Christmas presents for irate housewives and stressed fathers three days before Christmas with a line stretching out the door, wrapping up antiques in a quiet storeroom with NPR playing over the radio was a cakewalk.

Interesting note about this job experience: As far as I can tell, I was the only person in the building who didn't fit into uncomfortable racial molds. All of the store owners and employees were white, all of the movers, grunt labor and security guards were black, and all of the janitors were Latin.  All the white people think the black people are lazy and intentionally slow moving, all the black people think the same about all the Latin people in addition to thinking that the white people are making their lives difficult for no good reason. I don't know what the Latin people think but I'm sure it's something similar.

What a mess.

I don't know what anybody thought about me, but I did get some fist bumps from my co-workers and what seemed to be genuine respect at my willingness to work hard. I also got compliments from my white bosses. And friendly nods from the janitors, after I nodded at them. How much of what we perceive as race issues are actually class issues? And how do you tell the difference? Food for thought.

After a few days I enthusiastically Tetrised (tetristed?) myself out of a job. The backlog of items to be shipped had been cleared, almost entirely thanks to me. (This is a direct quote from the boss lady). So back to the drawing board we go. Who knows what sits waiting just around the next corner? Not I.

I just hope it doesn't involve a three hundred pound antique liquor cabinet*.

--Andrew--

*Unless it has liquor in it.

Getting Myself Out There

I read an article recently that listed the "Top Five Things You Should Be Doing (Other Than Job Searching)".

Number three was "use social media and blogging to network and create awareness of your employment needs." The article also mentioned that writing about being unemployed might be therapeutic.

Hi folks. Welcome back to the Jaunt...version 2.0.

So, it's been almost three months to the day since I finished hiking the Appalachian Trail. What have I been doing since then? Job hunting. How's it going?

Ehh...not so great. It's the hardest job market since the Great Depression, no kidding. And it's not like I'm trained for, oh say, generic middle management. I have a very specific skill set that severely limits my options.

Another problem is that I'm looking for work in a very specific area: Cleveland, Ohio.

Fun Facts about Cleveland, Ohio:

1) It was named after a guy named Moses

2) It is a major hub for iron ore shipped from Minnesota

3) It is the 45th Largest City in the country

4) It is kind of hard to find fun facts about Cleveland

I kid, folks. Cleveland actually seems like a pretty groovy place, and if you know anyone in the area, drop my name, won't you? Thanks.

What else? Well, while I've been job hunting I've been freeloading off some friends of mine, Nick and Quel Ramey. I have a bed and a toilet and food. Not bad. I've also been picking up the odd freelance gig and handyman work from time to time. I plan on writing about all of this in the future, today is kind of a "welcome back" post.

Here's the deal. Being unemployed is weird. It just feels weird. It feels useless and emasculating and frankly depressing. But luckily, I think weird is funny. And plenty of funny things have happened to me because I'm unemployed. Consider this blog to be a chronicle of those things.

 I realize this is kind of a stretch, but you got to take your giggles where you can find em, folks.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy reading about my problems. I promise never to whine too much.

But I just may ask to sleep on your couch and have access to your fridge...metaphorically speaking*.

--Andrew--

*Except for you, Nick Ramey. In your case, I meant it literally. As you know.

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.