P
Paulthenurse
Guest
July 2001
I realized a few weeks ago that I had reached the absolute bottom of my own personal empathy well. Too many nights of looking at too many people showing up in my Emergency Room with frivolous complaints. ("OK, Lemme see if I got this? You took an ambulance here at 3 AM because your neighbor put the 'gris gris' on you? Well ok then, you go on down to that room there and someone will be with you in the blink of an eye. You might want to see about getting your mail forwarded.") I needed to get away and my kids wanted to stay home and work. That left me with the options of doing nothing or doing it alone. Alone won out. By a landslide.
A few years ago my kids and I started going camping. At that time camping consisted of opening up the trunk, pulling out a cooler that could easily swallow a side of beef, and setting up a tent that could double as a MASH surgical suite. ("OK, Sheila has the west wing; Beth, you have the north, and I'll take the rest.") We would go canoing and goofing around in the state forests of NH and just generally have a blast. As they got older they wanted to start backpacking, so I got them backpacks for Christmas and we got a tent that could fit in the palm of your hand. A few weeks ago we went on our annual trip and hiked up, down and all around the White Mountains. We just did it staying in a much smaller tent and without a cooler. Actually, the girls stayed in the tent and I slept alfresco. Aside from one slightly twisted ankle, all went well. They got to use their new backpacks to carry water bottles and CD players and ridiculously overpriced packages of "Trail Mix." I used an old college book pack for my stuff and we did a bunch of day hikes with packs on our back and called it backpacking.
So, genius that I am, I decide that I'm going to go backpacking by myself for my vacation. Not only do I decide to go live out of a tent for a week, I decide that I'm going to hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail. The AT starts atop Springer Mountain, Georgia and meanders in a generally Northeast direction until it reaches Mt Katadin in the middle of Baxter State Forest in Maine. 2100 miles give or take, from door to door. Most folks start around the beginning of April in Georgia. If they don't come to their senses and stop before they make it to Maine, they finally stop walking in mid-August. Now, I've only got 10 days, so I decide I'm going to walk that portion of the trail that goes through Massachusetts. Eighty-five or ninety miles. I'll drive out to the CT/MA border, strap on my pack and stop when I reach Vermont. Or die. Whichever comes first.
I realize that I’ve got to get a few things so I head over to the local camping supply store. Why do they all have initials in the name? EMS, REI, LLBean, I mean, I appreciate that you want to save a little weight but in the name? C’mon! So I spend a few hours walking around the store, trying on this and trying on that. The salesman spends twenty minutes adjusting the straps on my backpack, then loads it with a stove and sleeping bag and a bunch of other cool stuff and has me walk around the store for a while. When I get five feet outside the backpack department I realize that I look like a damned fool walking around the store wearing a backpack, so I go back and tell him its great. I get the extra large, super deluxe model, complete with all the bells and whistles. If I wanted to, I could bring Sheila, Beth and the old tent along, safely ensconced inside this pack! It even has a "Daisy Chain" so that I can lash on my ice axe! Ice axe? It's freakin' July!! This guy saw me coming from the next county! Can you say, 'SUCKER?'
I tell a few people I'm going to be doing this on the idea that if others know about it in advance it will be a whole lot harder for me to back down. For the most part their reaction is either "What are you, out of your freakin' mind?" or "Man, that sounds like fun. I wish I could come with you." The 'Out of Your Mind' camp has a slight statistical lead in the polls. Sort of like Richard Nixon had a slight statistical lead over George McGovern in the polls. Actually, no one says they wish they could come with me. Not a single person! But I am undeterred. I'm going. After all, it’s just walking, right? I walk all the time. I walk out to the waiting room to bring back a new patient. I walk out to the vending machine in the lobby. I walk up to the ICU. Ok, so I take the elevator to the ICU, I still walk some of the ways there. I mean its not like I don't exercise at all. I play hockey once a week. I exercise then! Sure, I'm the goalie and I don't exactly shag ass up and down the ice but I move around. Well, ok, since that embarrassing incident against the MotherPuckers, my team has decided that if I leave the crease to go after a puck in the corners again the defense men are supposed to trip me, but still, its not like I'm sedentary. I mean, c'mon! It’s walking! WALKING!!! Big whuup! I'm going for a walk.
So I'm all set to go. I've got my ultra-large, extra capacity backpack filled to bursting. I've bought my food. I've read up on the trail in that area. I've got my maps. I've asked everyone I know if they are sure they don't want to come. No takers but that’s all right. I'm all set. I'm going. And then one of the ICU nurses say's, "Aren't you scared?"
"Scared of what?"
"Bears. Wolves. Rabid chipmunks. People from 'Deliverance'."
"Ummmm, no. What I AM afraid of are 98 pound psychotic crackheads with switchblades in their pockets, but I don't think I'll run into too many of them in the Berkshires, cause they're all HERE!!! Look around you!!! What in the woods could possibly be as dangerous as this neighborhood?"
"Good point!"
So the big day finally comes and I'm driving west on the Mass Turnpike in 95-degree heat and 500% humidity. It hasn't been this hot in Massachusetts in recorded history, but that’s all right. After all, I'm only going for a walk. I've got it all set, I'm going to leave my car at a backpacking outfitter in the area and he will give me a ride to the trail head. I get a late start getting off Cape Cod but eventually I'm away from the salt and heading west. I stop at a rest area on the Pike and grab a couple of hot dogs for the road. Then, before you know it I'm standing on the side of a dirt road waving goodbye to some rapidly retreating taillights. "What's that sound? He's laughing? What's he laughing at? Must have been something on the radio." Well, nothing left but to start walking.
"Hey, this is nice... It’s a little cooler here in the woods.... Maybe if I tighten up the waist belt the pack won't be digging into my shoulders like this. Ya, that’s it, that’s better.... Whew, so much for being cooler here in the woods. Man, it's hot out! .... HA! Die, you blood sucking mosquito! Take that! ..... Lets see, the trail guide says this trail "meanders lazily with gentle ups and downs for the first 2 miles, giving hikers a chance to work the kinks out of their legs before the real work begins at 2.2 miles"... I wonder if I'm on the right trail. It doesn't say anything about this cliff blocking my way... Damn, it’s hot here... Friggin mosquitoes...I wonder how far I've gone? What’s that???? Uh, oh, its traffic on the road I just left. I guess I haven't gone too far after all... Friggin mosquitoes! Damn, it’s hot! 'Meanders lazily' my ass!!!!!...Friggin mosquitoes..."
Slowly, VERY slowly, I went deeper into the woods. The sounds of traffic eventually were left far behind. Instead I got to enjoy the steady buzz of swarms and swarms of insects descending on me. Entomologists tell us that over 250,000 insects live in a single acre of land. I'd like to know who called ahead and told each and every one of those bloodsuckers that "Paul’s Traveling Road Show All-You-Can-Eat Buffet Dinner" would be coming through. I inhaled bugs with each breath. I had bugs up my nose, in my ears, in my eyes. The ones that didn't fly into an orifice tried to crawl into one. I slapped myself silly smacking bugs. "I sure am having fun... Damn, it’s hot! Friggin mosquitoes..."
And still I kept walking. I certainly didn't do it without stopping. In fact, on the uphill sections I spent more time bent over with my hands on my knees, gasping for breath, than I spent actually moving. But all in all I WAS making forward progress. Until I made the mistake of looking back the way I'd come. And here comes this kid, 20-22 years old, running up the slope that I’d just taken 15 minutes and 15 rest stops to negotiate. He pulls up in front of me with this big grin on his face and asks the single most aggravating question in the English language, "Is it hot enough for ya?" The message my brain sent my mouth was, "You gotta be a Yankees fan." What actually came out of my mouth sounded more like, "Gronk!" I wondered if I was having a stroke. After guzzling the better part of a quart of water I was able to talk again and reassured him that I would live. I told him I'd catch up with him at the next shelter. Ya, right! The look on his face said that he thought I'd be dead by sunset. We started walking up the trail together, but when I stopped to catch my breath after gaining 2 1/2 to 3 feet of elevation he seemed to disappear. Just as well, it probably would have grossed him out when the hot dogs made a sudden return appearance a few minutes later. I'm all for this 'leave no trace' stuff, but ain't no way I'm packing THAT out! Sorry bout that, Ranger Rick.
It rapidly became obvious that I was incapable of going further that night but fortunately I found a lovely flat spot to pitch my tent. I was in the midst of a large glade of mountain laurels in full bloom. It was dazzling. The scent of the flowers was incredible. I got my tent set up and crawled inside for a nap. I lay on my back, looking out through the mesh ceiling at the laurels arching overhead, soaked on sweat and thought about how this was going to be a lovely final resting spot, sure that my heart was going to stop any moment.
Backpacking food has come a long way since I was a Boy Scout. When I was a Scout we brought cans of tuna fish, jars of peanut butter, macaroni and cheese dinners and stuff to make S'mores into the woods. These days, dinner comes in these neat foil pouches. The contents don't even bear a casual relationship to food but wait... Boil up some water, add it to the pouch, reseal and wait ten minutes. What you get still bears no resemblance to real food. Think multicolored oatmeal. Yummy. Mom never made mush like this! Did I mention it's Vegetarian mush? Or worse still, Vegan mush. Vegan is apparently a variation on the Vegetarian theme, where full blooded Vegans get extra credit because the stuff they eat tastes even worse than regular Vegetarian food.
I used to work with a doc who was a reluctant Vegetarian. He was Vegetarian because his wife told him he had to be. He used to try to convince everyone that what he was eating was really good. "Here wanna try some of this? It tastes just like a cheeseburger."
"No it doesn't, Tom. It tastes like crap. Ya know what tastes like a cheeseburger, Tom? A cheeseburger tastes like a cheeseburger. That tastes like goat shit." And poor Tom would just look into his tofu and get this big sad look on his face, because he knew you were right. He also knew that you weren't gong to fall for the ol' "I'll offer you some of mine so that you'll offer me some of yours" trick. Tom may well live to be 100 but I'm fairly sure he wishes he were dead every night at dinnertime. I had that same look on my face every night at dinner. What I wouldn't have given for a steak. One night, about 6 PM, I was crossing a road trying to make it to the next campsite before dark. I passed a house where they were barbecuing hamburgers in the backyard. It took everything I had to not go over and try to mooch a couple of burgers. The only reason I didn't is because I was afraid they would offer me a hot dog.
One thing that I had with me that did taste good was the Trail Mix. I figure that if I made it myself I could put in what I wanted and leave out the stuff I didn’t. I went down to the local supermarket and had a field day. Sunflower seeds, yogurt-covered raisins, dried bananas, almonds, dried apricots, peanuts, cashews, M&M’s. I bought a pound of everything and took it home and mixed it up and split it up into two jumbo-sized zip lock bags. I also bought a box of oatmeal and a plastic bear of honey. I thought that taking the bear was an extravagance at one pound but I figured that the honey would be useful for breakfast as well as tea. Ya right, the bear was the problem!
The Thru-hikers talk about something they call "Trail Magic." According to them, there are guardian angels looking out for them. Whenever they are down on their luck, or out of something, or something is broken, Trail Magic rescues them. I hate to be the one to break it to ya guys, but there ain’t no Trail Magic. Trail Magic happens because morons like me head into the woods with eight pounds of Trail Mix, a plastic bear filled with honey, six pair of underwear, five tee shirts, a pair of sweatpants, and dungarees. Not to mention, about six bucks in change in my pocket. The next time I crossed a road I went thru my backpack like a tornado. I pulled out enough stuff to feed and clothe a small village. I left everything wrapped up in plastic (did I mention the roll of plastic trash bags I brought along ‘just in case?’) with a note to take what you want or need. I signed the note Santa Claus. I left the change stacked up in piles of nickles, dimes and quarters. I wouldn’t be too surprised if it’s still there. There isn’t much that’s more useless on the trail than money. Except maybe eight pounds of Trail Mix. Or a one pound plastic bear filled with honey.
That same afternoon I met up with a group of people that I would keep bumping into for the next week. I had hiked pretty steadily through the day, eventually finding a nice campsite. I didn't want to sleep in the lean-tos. I had enough of mosquitoes during the day; I didn't want to be slapping myself in my sleep. I preferred to set up the tent and sleep in the relative comfort of being trapped in a tent with a limited number of mosquitoes as opposed to the unlimited numbers that awaited me outdoors. So I set up my tent in the back portion of the designated camping area and set to work building myself a little campfire. Once I had it all set up and had gathered a sizable collection of firewood; I went over to the lean-to and introduced myself to the folks there. "I've got a nice little campfire going over there, you are all welcome to come over and enjoy it with me."
A young man from Dusseldorf, who sounded exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger, looks at me and says, "You are not a thru hiker, are you?"
Knowing I would regret asking, I agreed that I was just a mere 'section' hiker and asked him how he knew.
"You are fat. And thru hikers don't make fires. Its far too much effort to make a fire for a thru hiker."
"Well, okay then! Well, the rest of you are all welcome to come over and enjoy the fire."
"Oh, don't mind Hans, he's German, he doesn't mean it." This came from Margie, a 70 year old retired woman who had started the trail on January 1st. She was now hot footing it through Massachusetts at a speed that was much faster than mine but she only walked for a few hours a day. Hans had injured his foot a few days before and so he was only good for a few miles a day. I was only good for a few miles a day because... well, because I was fat and only good for a few miles a day. We all went at our own speed kept to our own timetable, but we seemed to walk about the same number of miles per day. One night I came staggering into that day’s campsite about 8pm and Hans says, "Oh, there you are. We were just going to send out the Pony Express looking for you." "Thanks Hans, you're a peach."
I finally got him back. We heard about Ted Williams passing away and Margie and I were going to have a shot of hooch in his honor. We invited Hans to join us and he asks, "Who is this Ted Williams?"
"Only the greatest hitter in baseball history."
"Baseball is a silly sport. You should watch soccer."
And I turned to Margie, and said, "So, did you hear that Brazil just eliminated Germany from World Cup competition? That guy Renaldo beat them singlehandedly! " Margie snorted her Jack Daniels out her nose with that one. Hans got all red-faced and went away muttering Teutonic curses under his breath. Ah.... Sweet revenge.
Pick em up. Lay em down. Pick em up and lay em down. Eventually I got to a point where I was good for 10-15 miles a day. (Not the day we toasted Ted. Margie and I went into a little dive bar in central Mass and toasted Ted with 75-cent drafts for a good portion of the afternoon. We eventually left when the bar started to fill up and we noticed that no one would come down to our end of the bar. Eventually your nose gets immune to your own stench but there was no mistaking the looks we were getting. Time to pick em up and lay em down.
It’s initially surprising how frequently you cross roads. Remember that the trail covers 90 percent of the Eastern Seaboard. Every few miles, two or three times a day you come to a road. Come down the ridge into a valley and there would be towns and roads and all the other stuff that makes up the America that we are all aware of. Cross the road and climb up to the top of the next ridge and you are away from all of that. It’s hardly wilderness, there are few trails anywhere more heavily traveled than the AT in July. But its jolly well not Downtown Crossing, either. I went eight days without seeing a Starbucks, a personal record.
Eventually I reached the Vermont boarder. I even got there a day before I figured I would. My brother Joe had agreed to drive out the following day and find me somewhere in North Adams and shuttle me back down towards Great Barrington. My right knee had been throbbing since coming down the north slope of Mount Greylock so I hoisted out the thumb and caught a few rides. I wouldn't have stopped for me; I looked like an axe murderer. Fortunately, the good people of western MA are used to grungy, smelly people with large packs on their backs standing on the side of their roads. I called Joe and told him to go golfing instead. (Lets see, golf 18 holes or ride for 1 1/2 hours with a large smelly man sitting next to me. Hello, do you have any tee times for tomorrow?)
I've got another week off in a few weeks. I wonder if I can talk the girls into coming with me? They like vegetables, and with them in the tent there may be less room for mosquitoes.
PTN
I realized a few weeks ago that I had reached the absolute bottom of my own personal empathy well. Too many nights of looking at too many people showing up in my Emergency Room with frivolous complaints. ("OK, Lemme see if I got this? You took an ambulance here at 3 AM because your neighbor put the 'gris gris' on you? Well ok then, you go on down to that room there and someone will be with you in the blink of an eye. You might want to see about getting your mail forwarded.") I needed to get away and my kids wanted to stay home and work. That left me with the options of doing nothing or doing it alone. Alone won out. By a landslide.
A few years ago my kids and I started going camping. At that time camping consisted of opening up the trunk, pulling out a cooler that could easily swallow a side of beef, and setting up a tent that could double as a MASH surgical suite. ("OK, Sheila has the west wing; Beth, you have the north, and I'll take the rest.") We would go canoing and goofing around in the state forests of NH and just generally have a blast. As they got older they wanted to start backpacking, so I got them backpacks for Christmas and we got a tent that could fit in the palm of your hand. A few weeks ago we went on our annual trip and hiked up, down and all around the White Mountains. We just did it staying in a much smaller tent and without a cooler. Actually, the girls stayed in the tent and I slept alfresco. Aside from one slightly twisted ankle, all went well. They got to use their new backpacks to carry water bottles and CD players and ridiculously overpriced packages of "Trail Mix." I used an old college book pack for my stuff and we did a bunch of day hikes with packs on our back and called it backpacking.
So, genius that I am, I decide that I'm going to go backpacking by myself for my vacation. Not only do I decide to go live out of a tent for a week, I decide that I'm going to hike a portion of the Appalachian Trail. The AT starts atop Springer Mountain, Georgia and meanders in a generally Northeast direction until it reaches Mt Katadin in the middle of Baxter State Forest in Maine. 2100 miles give or take, from door to door. Most folks start around the beginning of April in Georgia. If they don't come to their senses and stop before they make it to Maine, they finally stop walking in mid-August. Now, I've only got 10 days, so I decide I'm going to walk that portion of the trail that goes through Massachusetts. Eighty-five or ninety miles. I'll drive out to the CT/MA border, strap on my pack and stop when I reach Vermont. Or die. Whichever comes first.
I realize that I’ve got to get a few things so I head over to the local camping supply store. Why do they all have initials in the name? EMS, REI, LLBean, I mean, I appreciate that you want to save a little weight but in the name? C’mon! So I spend a few hours walking around the store, trying on this and trying on that. The salesman spends twenty minutes adjusting the straps on my backpack, then loads it with a stove and sleeping bag and a bunch of other cool stuff and has me walk around the store for a while. When I get five feet outside the backpack department I realize that I look like a damned fool walking around the store wearing a backpack, so I go back and tell him its great. I get the extra large, super deluxe model, complete with all the bells and whistles. If I wanted to, I could bring Sheila, Beth and the old tent along, safely ensconced inside this pack! It even has a "Daisy Chain" so that I can lash on my ice axe! Ice axe? It's freakin' July!! This guy saw me coming from the next county! Can you say, 'SUCKER?'
I tell a few people I'm going to be doing this on the idea that if others know about it in advance it will be a whole lot harder for me to back down. For the most part their reaction is either "What are you, out of your freakin' mind?" or "Man, that sounds like fun. I wish I could come with you." The 'Out of Your Mind' camp has a slight statistical lead in the polls. Sort of like Richard Nixon had a slight statistical lead over George McGovern in the polls. Actually, no one says they wish they could come with me. Not a single person! But I am undeterred. I'm going. After all, it’s just walking, right? I walk all the time. I walk out to the waiting room to bring back a new patient. I walk out to the vending machine in the lobby. I walk up to the ICU. Ok, so I take the elevator to the ICU, I still walk some of the ways there. I mean its not like I don't exercise at all. I play hockey once a week. I exercise then! Sure, I'm the goalie and I don't exactly shag ass up and down the ice but I move around. Well, ok, since that embarrassing incident against the MotherPuckers, my team has decided that if I leave the crease to go after a puck in the corners again the defense men are supposed to trip me, but still, its not like I'm sedentary. I mean, c'mon! It’s walking! WALKING!!! Big whuup! I'm going for a walk.
So I'm all set to go. I've got my ultra-large, extra capacity backpack filled to bursting. I've bought my food. I've read up on the trail in that area. I've got my maps. I've asked everyone I know if they are sure they don't want to come. No takers but that’s all right. I'm all set. I'm going. And then one of the ICU nurses say's, "Aren't you scared?"
"Scared of what?"
"Bears. Wolves. Rabid chipmunks. People from 'Deliverance'."
"Ummmm, no. What I AM afraid of are 98 pound psychotic crackheads with switchblades in their pockets, but I don't think I'll run into too many of them in the Berkshires, cause they're all HERE!!! Look around you!!! What in the woods could possibly be as dangerous as this neighborhood?"
"Good point!"
So the big day finally comes and I'm driving west on the Mass Turnpike in 95-degree heat and 500% humidity. It hasn't been this hot in Massachusetts in recorded history, but that’s all right. After all, I'm only going for a walk. I've got it all set, I'm going to leave my car at a backpacking outfitter in the area and he will give me a ride to the trail head. I get a late start getting off Cape Cod but eventually I'm away from the salt and heading west. I stop at a rest area on the Pike and grab a couple of hot dogs for the road. Then, before you know it I'm standing on the side of a dirt road waving goodbye to some rapidly retreating taillights. "What's that sound? He's laughing? What's he laughing at? Must have been something on the radio." Well, nothing left but to start walking.
"Hey, this is nice... It’s a little cooler here in the woods.... Maybe if I tighten up the waist belt the pack won't be digging into my shoulders like this. Ya, that’s it, that’s better.... Whew, so much for being cooler here in the woods. Man, it's hot out! .... HA! Die, you blood sucking mosquito! Take that! ..... Lets see, the trail guide says this trail "meanders lazily with gentle ups and downs for the first 2 miles, giving hikers a chance to work the kinks out of their legs before the real work begins at 2.2 miles"... I wonder if I'm on the right trail. It doesn't say anything about this cliff blocking my way... Damn, it’s hot here... Friggin mosquitoes...I wonder how far I've gone? What’s that???? Uh, oh, its traffic on the road I just left. I guess I haven't gone too far after all... Friggin mosquitoes! Damn, it’s hot! 'Meanders lazily' my ass!!!!!...Friggin mosquitoes..."
Slowly, VERY slowly, I went deeper into the woods. The sounds of traffic eventually were left far behind. Instead I got to enjoy the steady buzz of swarms and swarms of insects descending on me. Entomologists tell us that over 250,000 insects live in a single acre of land. I'd like to know who called ahead and told each and every one of those bloodsuckers that "Paul’s Traveling Road Show All-You-Can-Eat Buffet Dinner" would be coming through. I inhaled bugs with each breath. I had bugs up my nose, in my ears, in my eyes. The ones that didn't fly into an orifice tried to crawl into one. I slapped myself silly smacking bugs. "I sure am having fun... Damn, it’s hot! Friggin mosquitoes..."
And still I kept walking. I certainly didn't do it without stopping. In fact, on the uphill sections I spent more time bent over with my hands on my knees, gasping for breath, than I spent actually moving. But all in all I WAS making forward progress. Until I made the mistake of looking back the way I'd come. And here comes this kid, 20-22 years old, running up the slope that I’d just taken 15 minutes and 15 rest stops to negotiate. He pulls up in front of me with this big grin on his face and asks the single most aggravating question in the English language, "Is it hot enough for ya?" The message my brain sent my mouth was, "You gotta be a Yankees fan." What actually came out of my mouth sounded more like, "Gronk!" I wondered if I was having a stroke. After guzzling the better part of a quart of water I was able to talk again and reassured him that I would live. I told him I'd catch up with him at the next shelter. Ya, right! The look on his face said that he thought I'd be dead by sunset. We started walking up the trail together, but when I stopped to catch my breath after gaining 2 1/2 to 3 feet of elevation he seemed to disappear. Just as well, it probably would have grossed him out when the hot dogs made a sudden return appearance a few minutes later. I'm all for this 'leave no trace' stuff, but ain't no way I'm packing THAT out! Sorry bout that, Ranger Rick.
It rapidly became obvious that I was incapable of going further that night but fortunately I found a lovely flat spot to pitch my tent. I was in the midst of a large glade of mountain laurels in full bloom. It was dazzling. The scent of the flowers was incredible. I got my tent set up and crawled inside for a nap. I lay on my back, looking out through the mesh ceiling at the laurels arching overhead, soaked on sweat and thought about how this was going to be a lovely final resting spot, sure that my heart was going to stop any moment.
Backpacking food has come a long way since I was a Boy Scout. When I was a Scout we brought cans of tuna fish, jars of peanut butter, macaroni and cheese dinners and stuff to make S'mores into the woods. These days, dinner comes in these neat foil pouches. The contents don't even bear a casual relationship to food but wait... Boil up some water, add it to the pouch, reseal and wait ten minutes. What you get still bears no resemblance to real food. Think multicolored oatmeal. Yummy. Mom never made mush like this! Did I mention it's Vegetarian mush? Or worse still, Vegan mush. Vegan is apparently a variation on the Vegetarian theme, where full blooded Vegans get extra credit because the stuff they eat tastes even worse than regular Vegetarian food.
I used to work with a doc who was a reluctant Vegetarian. He was Vegetarian because his wife told him he had to be. He used to try to convince everyone that what he was eating was really good. "Here wanna try some of this? It tastes just like a cheeseburger."
"No it doesn't, Tom. It tastes like crap. Ya know what tastes like a cheeseburger, Tom? A cheeseburger tastes like a cheeseburger. That tastes like goat shit." And poor Tom would just look into his tofu and get this big sad look on his face, because he knew you were right. He also knew that you weren't gong to fall for the ol' "I'll offer you some of mine so that you'll offer me some of yours" trick. Tom may well live to be 100 but I'm fairly sure he wishes he were dead every night at dinnertime. I had that same look on my face every night at dinner. What I wouldn't have given for a steak. One night, about 6 PM, I was crossing a road trying to make it to the next campsite before dark. I passed a house where they were barbecuing hamburgers in the backyard. It took everything I had to not go over and try to mooch a couple of burgers. The only reason I didn't is because I was afraid they would offer me a hot dog.
One thing that I had with me that did taste good was the Trail Mix. I figure that if I made it myself I could put in what I wanted and leave out the stuff I didn’t. I went down to the local supermarket and had a field day. Sunflower seeds, yogurt-covered raisins, dried bananas, almonds, dried apricots, peanuts, cashews, M&M’s. I bought a pound of everything and took it home and mixed it up and split it up into two jumbo-sized zip lock bags. I also bought a box of oatmeal and a plastic bear of honey. I thought that taking the bear was an extravagance at one pound but I figured that the honey would be useful for breakfast as well as tea. Ya right, the bear was the problem!
The Thru-hikers talk about something they call "Trail Magic." According to them, there are guardian angels looking out for them. Whenever they are down on their luck, or out of something, or something is broken, Trail Magic rescues them. I hate to be the one to break it to ya guys, but there ain’t no Trail Magic. Trail Magic happens because morons like me head into the woods with eight pounds of Trail Mix, a plastic bear filled with honey, six pair of underwear, five tee shirts, a pair of sweatpants, and dungarees. Not to mention, about six bucks in change in my pocket. The next time I crossed a road I went thru my backpack like a tornado. I pulled out enough stuff to feed and clothe a small village. I left everything wrapped up in plastic (did I mention the roll of plastic trash bags I brought along ‘just in case?’) with a note to take what you want or need. I signed the note Santa Claus. I left the change stacked up in piles of nickles, dimes and quarters. I wouldn’t be too surprised if it’s still there. There isn’t much that’s more useless on the trail than money. Except maybe eight pounds of Trail Mix. Or a one pound plastic bear filled with honey.
That same afternoon I met up with a group of people that I would keep bumping into for the next week. I had hiked pretty steadily through the day, eventually finding a nice campsite. I didn't want to sleep in the lean-tos. I had enough of mosquitoes during the day; I didn't want to be slapping myself in my sleep. I preferred to set up the tent and sleep in the relative comfort of being trapped in a tent with a limited number of mosquitoes as opposed to the unlimited numbers that awaited me outdoors. So I set up my tent in the back portion of the designated camping area and set to work building myself a little campfire. Once I had it all set up and had gathered a sizable collection of firewood; I went over to the lean-to and introduced myself to the folks there. "I've got a nice little campfire going over there, you are all welcome to come over and enjoy it with me."
A young man from Dusseldorf, who sounded exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger, looks at me and says, "You are not a thru hiker, are you?"
Knowing I would regret asking, I agreed that I was just a mere 'section' hiker and asked him how he knew.
"You are fat. And thru hikers don't make fires. Its far too much effort to make a fire for a thru hiker."
"Well, okay then! Well, the rest of you are all welcome to come over and enjoy the fire."
"Oh, don't mind Hans, he's German, he doesn't mean it." This came from Margie, a 70 year old retired woman who had started the trail on January 1st. She was now hot footing it through Massachusetts at a speed that was much faster than mine but she only walked for a few hours a day. Hans had injured his foot a few days before and so he was only good for a few miles a day. I was only good for a few miles a day because... well, because I was fat and only good for a few miles a day. We all went at our own speed kept to our own timetable, but we seemed to walk about the same number of miles per day. One night I came staggering into that day’s campsite about 8pm and Hans says, "Oh, there you are. We were just going to send out the Pony Express looking for you." "Thanks Hans, you're a peach."
I finally got him back. We heard about Ted Williams passing away and Margie and I were going to have a shot of hooch in his honor. We invited Hans to join us and he asks, "Who is this Ted Williams?"
"Only the greatest hitter in baseball history."
"Baseball is a silly sport. You should watch soccer."
And I turned to Margie, and said, "So, did you hear that Brazil just eliminated Germany from World Cup competition? That guy Renaldo beat them singlehandedly! " Margie snorted her Jack Daniels out her nose with that one. Hans got all red-faced and went away muttering Teutonic curses under his breath. Ah.... Sweet revenge.
Pick em up. Lay em down. Pick em up and lay em down. Eventually I got to a point where I was good for 10-15 miles a day. (Not the day we toasted Ted. Margie and I went into a little dive bar in central Mass and toasted Ted with 75-cent drafts for a good portion of the afternoon. We eventually left when the bar started to fill up and we noticed that no one would come down to our end of the bar. Eventually your nose gets immune to your own stench but there was no mistaking the looks we were getting. Time to pick em up and lay em down.
It’s initially surprising how frequently you cross roads. Remember that the trail covers 90 percent of the Eastern Seaboard. Every few miles, two or three times a day you come to a road. Come down the ridge into a valley and there would be towns and roads and all the other stuff that makes up the America that we are all aware of. Cross the road and climb up to the top of the next ridge and you are away from all of that. It’s hardly wilderness, there are few trails anywhere more heavily traveled than the AT in July. But its jolly well not Downtown Crossing, either. I went eight days without seeing a Starbucks, a personal record.
Eventually I reached the Vermont boarder. I even got there a day before I figured I would. My brother Joe had agreed to drive out the following day and find me somewhere in North Adams and shuttle me back down towards Great Barrington. My right knee had been throbbing since coming down the north slope of Mount Greylock so I hoisted out the thumb and caught a few rides. I wouldn't have stopped for me; I looked like an axe murderer. Fortunately, the good people of western MA are used to grungy, smelly people with large packs on their backs standing on the side of their roads. I called Joe and told him to go golfing instead. (Lets see, golf 18 holes or ride for 1 1/2 hours with a large smelly man sitting next to me. Hello, do you have any tee times for tomorrow?)
I've got another week off in a few weeks. I wonder if I can talk the girls into coming with me? They like vegetables, and with them in the tent there may be less room for mosquitoes.
PTN
