Journeys Anew

As I begin this blog, it's about 1:30am on Saturday, and I'm sitting on the basement couch of my parents' house in Christiansburg, VA. The same house my family moved to eight years ago. The same basement that housed innumerable movie nights, pool games, battles of Trivial Pursuit, and various other acts of idiocy and randomness since my sophomore year of high school. The same couch that I slept on for an entire summer of college due to a sheer lazy unwillingness to even climb the stairs to my own bedroom. This post most certainly will not be completed in a timely manner, for I often find it difficult to keep a reign on my thoughts these days, so forgive me for the undoubted meandering and digression that ensues. The week and a half that followed our exit from the wilderness seemed like a whirlwind to me, and thus, I will try to make this summation equally swirling and turbulent and fast (although probably not the last one). The details I could include are mostly innocuous anyway.

Our first night in Millinocket was a Friday. Saturday we wasted and Sunday my parents arrived with the shuttle home. Both days the mountain was closed. We were hoping for Monday to summit, but late on Sunday we got the word it was a no-go. There had been a substantial amount of snow and ice dropped up on Big K and I suppose the park was trying to allow it to melt. We again began to consider all our options. The latest we could wait around was Thursday. The weather forecast did not seem promising, and none of the locals seemed to be optimistic about our chances. Hikers had been piling up in town for days - waiting, hoping, praying. As for myself, the only part of me that still even cared about the mountain was that tiny idea of getting a picture at the top. Just a stupid picture, yet one with so much gravitas. From your first thru-hiker steps in Georgia, the image of the Katahdin terminus sign is ingrained in your mind as equaling completion. Whether you find yourself to be a purist or not along the way, that sign is still the symbol of your ultimate goal. However, in reality (says the greater, more rational part of my brain), that's really all it is - a symbol. My hike, mentally and emotionally, had already come to a close. The sign would provide no extra fulfillment or closure, and knowing this, I didn't want to continue to wait around for it. On top of that, I knew that after leaving Maine, I would only have about a week left to spend with Shawn (no more silly trail names) before he would head home to Louisiana and we would both seek to remedy our very empty wallets. I wanted to make the most of that time, not spend it sitting in an Econo Lodge or on the interstate. I can't claim to know what his thought process was, but we again came to the same conclusion - if the mountain is closed on Tuesday, we go. And it was. So we did. But not before making a little pilgrimage to at least see the mountain and take some "summit" photos near its base. Then we all loaded into my Jeep and set a course south.

The drive was basically mind-numbing (as any 18-hour interstate drive would be) except for an unplanned detour through Rhode Island. Woohoo, I've been to Rhode Island! Finally we arrived at an old familiar Virginia doorstep, leading back to the civilized world. Yet this would still not be the end of the AT for Shawn and me...

Christiansburg happens to be nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia, not too far a drive from most points on the trail between Pearisburg and Daleville. Coincidentally, Shawn had missed some of this section, including McAfee's Knob - known as "the most photographed place on the trail" - and (more importantly) The Homeplace Restaurant, a magnificent family style all-you-can-eat buffet and a long-awaited gorging spot for most thru-hikers. What better way to celebrate the end of our seven month saga? With our now well-conditioned legs, we flew up the 3.5 miles to the Knob, passing many a day hiker. As if we weren't day hiking ourselves. And honestly, I don't think we were. I had an incredibly surreal feeling as we headed down the trail. I had hiked this small section many times in the past, but I had never thought of it as "part of the AT." After I traversed this same 3.5 miles in June, they took on a whole new significance. Yes, I knew the miles well, but I had never hiked them wearing a 35lb. pack. I had never hiked them in 100 degree weather. I had never hiked them on the way to Maine. This trail wasn't just a fun way to spend an afternoon outdoors. It was now part of my thru-hike - a small part of a much greater whole. Back then I was hiking with Freefall, someone I had known since Georgia and had become great friends with. And as we stopped to peruse the trail registers, I saw our entries from June 4th and remembered that miserable sauna of a day, and it left me speechless. I still don't know if I can quite wrap my head around it. We saw the names of all the other hikers we had met along the way, some not until Vermont or New Hampshire, marveling at how close we had been and never knew, or at how far they had been yet somehow caught up. None of these other "day hikers" knew any of this. They had no connection to the trail (I assume, anyway). There was no added relevance in the steps they took.

I suppose that is a lot of the allure of thru-hiking - to feel like you're part of something greater than yourself. The trail is its own microcosm. It's a 2,176 mile long society. I can probably rattle off a bunch of rationalized reasons for why I decided to take on a thru-hike, but I think a lot of it probably was an uncanny longing to experience this separateness.....set apart-ness.....exclusivity. I'm not sure I can put a label on it. Yes, I whined and complained a lot, and yes, there were many days when I honestly thought "What the hell am I doing?", but even on the worst of days I think the thing that kept me and many other thru-hikers going is the knowledge that what we were doing was something spectacular, if for no other reason than that so few people have actually done it. It might sound pretentious, but I think it's true. Every thru-hiker has a totally different experience on the trail, but they always have one thing in common - they're hiking from Georgia to Maine. Now I can begin to see why so many people decide to spend their whole lives on or around the trail. It can be a hard thing to give up - to go from being a part of this secret society, to being just another grunt somewhere in the "real world."

Besides this club mentality, the world of the AT seems to be one of humanity and serendipity. A world where hikers become best friends in a matter of days, where people are constantly depending on the kindness of strangers, and the strangers are happy to oblige. When you strip life down to the bare essentials (food, clothing, shelter, hiking) a person’s actions can impact you drastically and immediately. That’s not to say that everyone you encounter on the trail is all peaches and cream. But the bad experiences are mostly transitory, while the good ones stick to your mind (and your ribs if you’re lucky). I can’t even describe how just a cooler full of soda and freeze pops can make a dubious day worthwhile. I’m a big believer in “everything happens for a reason,” and never have I seen it more evident than on the AT. Whether it’s hiking through a snow storm to find a miraculous shuttle and dirt cheap hotel, or wandering clueless into a random town only to have a family invite you into their home – stuff just seems to work out on the trail. As long as you have faith that it will, which I think is a key element. So many hikers have a preconceived notion of what their journey should be like. They try to plan and control – and then they usually quit. If you can’t learn to be flexible, then thru-hiking is not for you. A good motto for my hike would probably be “I’ll/We’ll figure it out.” There’s nothing wrong with making a plan, but plans change fast, and you’ve got to be able to go with the flow or you’ll sink fast. Things will work themselves out if you let them. There’s so much I would have missed – people, places, experiences – if I had put my nose to the ground and stuck to my mileage every day. I wouldn’t trade any of the last seven months for all the Dr. Pepper in the world.

Speaking of things working out.....way back in April, Shawn spent a week or so down in Hot Spring, NC doing some work for a couple of guys (Frank and Brian) who run The Duckett House Inn, a B&B and small sorghum farm. He did such a good job that they invited him to come back in October to visit and help harvest all that sorghum, which they turn into some delicious syrup, and I could tag along. As it turned out, the harvest was the weekend after we got back to VA, so after a couple days of visiting, we hopped back in the car for a little epilogue to our big adventure. It turned out that a lot of the harvesting had already been done by the time we got there, but we were still able to help out shucking the cane stalks, collecting and bottling the syrup, and generally cleaning up. In return, we got to spend a nice romantic weekend at a bed and breakfast, giving ourselves a little decompression time before easing back into rigors of being productive members of society. After another slight detour through Pigeon Forge and good ol' Gatlinburg (how could I resist?!) we returned to Christiansburg, before Shawn sadly had to rent a car bound for Louisiana so we could both figure out how to make some cash and make our next moves. And I mean "moves" figuratively and literally. I've decided that as soon as my finances allow, I am getting out of dodge and making for that flat delta land, where Shawn and I can make a real go of this crazy little thing called 'love'. I can't wait, for so many reasons.

Which brings me back to this basement couch. It is now about 1:30pm on Monday afternoon. I told you this post wouldn't be fast. I'm currently awaiting a phone call informing me whether I've aquired a position as a cash office clerk at Virginia Tech. Even if the answer is 'no', I've still got my good ol' standby job of cashiering at Au Bon Pain. Sitting on this couch, essentially being in the exact same place I was before I left, is sometimes strange and sometimes frustrating. The trail often feels like another dimension. Or like a dream. I can hardly believe that it all actually happeend. But deep down I know that I'm not really in the same place. Those months were real, and they were life-changing. When I set off on my AT thru-hike, I had absolutely no idea what would happen when I finished - no plans whatsoever - but I was confident that in the many months to follow, something would come up, be figured out, or present itself. And lo and behold something did. Like I said, stuff just seems to work out on the trail.

Last Legs

I must admit, I have generally been dreading and putting off this blog for some time. Perhaps because I know it will take me so long to compile all the goings-on or to sort out all the swirling thoughts and emotions of my cracked brain into some kind of coherence. Or maybe because it's the last little bit of the AT I can still cling to. And I know I just ended that last statement with a preposition, and it kills me. But I digress. Whatever the reasons for my hesitance, I now suck it up and give you the end days of my hike.

I suppose the last time you heard from me on trail, I had put my tail between my legs and retreated back to Monson after a soaking, spirit-killing day in the 100 Mile Wilderness. At the suggestion of our friend, Nest, we did indeed consult a Maine atlas and were pleased (I was more overjoyed) to find a couple of wonderful logging roads that would slice of miles and days from our final trek. After drying and recuperating for one more night in Monson, we set out once again, on a bright day with bright spirits, equipped with interim hiking poles thanks to the lovely ladies at the hostel, and knowing our hiking days would soon be finished. We stood on Main St. and stuck out our thumbs, and it was none too long before we were on our way up to Greenville, where we would hit our road back into the wilderness. We were dropped off in front of an outfitters and had planned on simply walking down the road 'til we hit the trail, but the good Lord smiled on us yet again, and no sooner had we unloaded our packs from one car than we were throwing them in the back of another. In fact, the car belonged to none other than Jim Soandso, Democratic candidate for the Maine state legislature, and since Voodoo was so eager to learn all about his political ideals, he decided to drive us all the way up to the gate, leaving us only 2 miles of nice flat gravel road to walk back to the trailhead. And as if the day wasn't already shaping up beautifully, we had only walked about half a mile before we turned a corner to find a big bull moose standing in the middle of the road, staring right at us. We kept our distance, obviously, and waited for the big guy to move on before we went any further, but it was just one more of those random occurrences that seem to signal we're going in the right direction, wherever we are. We didn't go too much further before an AMC employee pulled his pick-up over for us to hop in, and in two shakes of a walrus' mustache we were back on the trail.

The first thing to greet us on our second wilderness inauguration was, of course, a river ford. But, huzzah! - it wasn't raining and the water levels had subsided, so crossing was as easy as throwing on some flip flops and wading to the other side. Voodoo even got a leech on his toe! Woohoo! Then a fairly easy five miles to the shelter for the night. An excellent restart. The next day's weather wasn't as gorgeous, but not demoralizing. The temperature dropped a little, and a general drizzle of rain pervaded. We had to cross the last couple of mountains between us and Katahdin, including Whitecap, where there was allegedly a wonderful view of the Big K. However, when we arrived there was only fog and rain and cold, so we didn't tarry. When we stopped for lunch at the next shelter, my hands were so cold you would have thought it was the dead of winter. Once we moved on, though, and descended some more the air warmed dramatically. We found our destination shelter that night to be spacious and new - a welcome sight. The word on tomorrow's weather was rain all day. Let me say, I had had more than enough of rain. Words can't even describe. Luckily, with all our shortcutting around, Voodoo and I both had more than enough food to make it to the end, so we opted on the side of dryness and spent the whole next day sitting in the shelter, being lazy and ridiculous, but definitely not wet.

Day 3 of the wilderness included one last stream fording (it took some maneuvering, but was hardly terrible), a quick and easy 12 miles of trail, and then one last logging road blue-blaze. The weather called for clouds, but no rain, and for once it seemed that we had not been lied to. It was still cold, though. Even when we broke for lunch I could hardly stop moving or I would be overcome with chills. A shelter thermometer told us it was about 46 degrees at noon. Jeez. After lunch, we sped down the last four miles to the road, eager to start shortcutting, and the closer we got, the more it rained. It started with a mere misting, which turned into a steady drizzle, and by the time we finally reached the road there were in fact rain drops. Luckily, there was a flat little cove of pine needles nearby, and we threw up the party tarp one last time right before the dripping gave way to real rain. This was not a boost to my already dwindling morale. The forecast for the next several days had called for more of the same. So huddled against the elements once again, we began to consider all of our options. The road before us (physically and metaphorically) had two directions - go left, back to the trail, and see out the last 2-3 days of the trail as originally planned, or go right, out of the wilderness to the highway and into Millinocket, and wait to return for the Big K summit. I have to admit that this little rainstorm was probably the last nail in the coffin of my hike. But then I have always been quick to side with ease and comfort. Basically I turn into a whiny pansy. I didn't want this to affect Voodoo's decision, because it's his trail experience, too, and I know that usually I'm being hasty and irrational. If he wanted to continue I would put on my big girl panties, suck it up, and walk on. Lucky for me, he chose town. We took a right, initially planning to walk a few miles to a campground for the night, but for one last time things worked out better than planned, as they always seem to do on the AT. After a few miles walking, a car pulled up alongside us, drove us all the way down the road to the entry/exit gate, and dropped us off with beer, iced tea, trail mix, tabouli, and lots of chips. We proceeded to inquire with the nice old lady at the checkpoint station which was the way into Millinocket and were informed that the chances of a hitch were probably slim to none. However, another lady, who frequently shuttles in and out of the wilderness, had stopped to chat, was about to leave, and offered to take us the rest of the way to town for a small fee. Once more, I became confident that this was the path we were meant to take. Everything would fall in its right place. In Millinocket, we opted to set ourselves up for a night of stylish relaxation at the Econo Lodge in celebration of the end of our journey.

Thus concludes the hiking part of this story. It has taken me a ridiculously long time to relate just this fraction of it, because my attention span is shorter now than it has ever been. Therefore, I think I shall pause and regroup at another time to continue the tale, for there is so much more to tell! And you thought this blog would end with my hike. Fooled again! Next time - forbidden mountains, road trips, and sorghum...

Livin' on the Edge

Sitting in Millinocket, ME. A town adjacent to Big K, but not really on the trail per se. It's called the "jumping off" point of the AT. The weather has been kind of on and off crappy the last couple of days down here in civilization, but apparently it's been pretty insane up at Katahdin. Like snow and freezing crazy, so Baxter S.P., where the mountain is located, has been closed for the last couple of days. So now we're sitting around town waiting for my parents to get here and start paying for stuff, and also for the weather to clear enough that we can make one last scramble up a ridiculously tall hill, take some pictures and then hobble back down into the real world. There are various other stories to be told of the in between time. But for now I'll keep it brief. Prepare yourselves for a massive blog to follow once the beast has been conquered.

Auf wiedersehen.

Let's try this again.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I'm really sick of this whole "trail" thing. Here I am - back in Monson and not at Katahdin. Let me tell you why...

After staying (and paying for) two nights in town, our wallets told us that we had to get out of dodge, despite the fact that little Hurricane Kyle what making his way right over New England. What more ridiculous things can happen on this trip? A hurricane in New England? C'mon.

So off we go into this wonderous, beautiful, example of natural glory they call the 100 Mile Wilderness. The only things that really make this part of the trail more "wilderness" than the rest are the fact that there aren't any towns and there are many streams - small and large - that you have to ford. That's right, ford. Like in Oregon Trail. I don't know why this is supposed to be an enjoyable part of the AT experience. I mean, I have nothing against preserving nature and wilderness areas, blah blah blah, but why is the trail routed through it? It's the ONLY SECTION of the 2,176 miles where you really have no other choice than to get soaked, plus the fact that there's nowhere to stop and dry out for at least five or six days. If they didn't think it was a good idea for the last 2,000 miles, then why is it fun now?



When we started hiking, it was already raining. There's no way to avoid that. But it caused the trail to alternate between walking over slick rocks and roots and through muddy swamps and mammoth puddles. I tried my best to pussyfoot around and keep my feet dry, but eventually there's just no way around it. I mean literally - there was a giant mud bog and no way to get across except straight through. After that, it was kind of nice on the one hand, since I just had one less thing to worry about. On the other hand, my boots, socks, and feet were now completely soaked. Eventually we came to the first ford, Little Wilson Stream, which isn't exactly little. The water level was undoubtedly higher from the rain, and just upstream from the trail crossing is a 60 ft. waterfall, making the current pretty swift. I got there first and decided to just get it over with. I made it about a whole six feet in and as I went to lift a foot, the current took it right out from under me. Luckily, Shawn had followed behind and was there to grab me, so I and my whole pack didn't go completely under. We started slowly trudging across together, until a combination of current, slippery rocks, and clumsiness took me down again and Shawn with me. The stream took both of our remaining hiking poles. Later, we crossed Big Wilson Stream, which I also would be lost to, had it not been for the guide rope I clung to for dear life. Why they don't put guide lines across all the fords, I have no idea. At the end of the day, we finally got to a shelter only 10 miles into the wilderness that was jam-packed with other soaking hikers (surprisingly four of them section hikers).

Needless to say, after all of this, I was fairly miserable. Luckily, we knew of a road (not really a wilderness, huh?) where people were shuttled into the wilderness for slackpacking, and we had those beautiful, beautiful maps, so this morning we walked down to the road, called a shuttle, and got our butts back into town where it's warm and dry. So like I said, I'm back in Monson.

Now it's time to regroup. If there was any part of me that was looking forward to this wilderness section, that part has died a horrible death. I rue the very thought of setting foot there again, and a pox upon those hikers who find it adventurous or exciting in any way. Unfortunately, this is the only section of trail left before Katahdin. However, there is a small light at the end of the tunnel. As we were strolling down the street today, we ran into a couple of friends, Sampson and Nest, who we hadn't seen in awhile. Nest is even more of a notorious blue/yellow blazer than we are. He's probably walked more miles of pavement than he has trail. He informed us that they planned to get to Katahdin in four days. "Just look at the Maine atlas and you'll see how," he said. And that's exactly what we plan to do. I don't care what else is out there to see on this trail. I just want it to be over with as soon as possible (and as cheaply as possible). If there's any way to shave off days/hours/minutes until the end, we will find it. I'm not exactly sure how all that will happen, but if I am to return home with any kind of spirit or sanity, it will definitely happen.

Hopefully the next time you hear from me, this whole farcical charade will be at an end.




P.S. - THANK YOU, Mom and Dad, for making the last part of this idiocy financially possible!

Monso(o)n, ME

Here I am in my last town on the whole AT. I don't have a lot of time for blog amazingness, so this is the jist.

We hiked out of Stratton and made it to the little burg of Caratunk, which is not really a town, but a post office. Except that nearby is the awesome outfitters, Northern Outdoors, complete with incredibly cheap accommodation, restaurant, microbrewery, and most importantly - giant hot tub. We got a ferry across the Kennebec River from a crazy guy named Hillbilly Dave, and then spent the entire day being lazy and clean and soaking in big bubble baths.

As I mentioned before, we have determined an ending date that I have to meet my parents by. Also, this weekend there is supposed to be some major rain blowing in from all these fabulous tropical storms and hurricanes and whatnot. Who wants to hike in that? I rarely want to hike on nice days, so obviously not me. This being said, we decided that rather than hike out of Caratunk, we would hitch ourselves all over creation one last time to get to Monson. Incidentally, it was perhaps the best hitch I've had on the whole trip, as it was from a logging truck driven by an old guy with the greatest Mainer accent ever. After Monson is the last stretch of the trail, called the "100 mile wilderness," which happens to actually be about 115 miles. This will take us approximately a week to complete. Therefore, once we see how the weather goes, we'll be embarking on our long-awaited final days.

Good Lord, I can't wait to stop hiking.

That's about all the news there is. In just a couple of weeks I'll be back in Virginia, still being a bum, but without wearing a backpack all day.

See y'all then.

Uh, yeah.....

Welp. Made it to Stratton. Bumped into the whole gang of kids again. Watched a bunch of movies at a nice little hostel. Went to the post office and found out my Camelbak wasn't there. I don't know if it's because it didn't make it here in time, or because it was shipped UPS or FedEx or carrier pigeon.

Also, Leki's entire customer service department seems to consist of a voicemail box, which I have left messages on to no avail.

Anyway - all of this is slightly frustrating, but it's nothing major enough to detain me from hiking. Or finishing, for that matter. I can make it with one pole and a water bladder wrapped in a plastic bag.

Off to the last stretch of civilization! Next stop - Monson. Then a mad dash for a big mountain and the last of my sanity!

The Third: We make it to Maine!

Back again and away we go!

Heading out of Gorham, we struggled over the last of the Whites and spent one more night just within the AMC's grasp (luckily they let you get away with a few free shelters right at the end). The next morning we awoke eager with the knowledge that we were only a few miles from reaching the final leg of our journey - Maine. That long-fabled enigma of a state did in fact exist. And on top of that, our last mountain in New Hampshire was Mt. Success. What a morale boost! Mt. Success! How can you climb it and not feel accomplished?! And as we descended from that physical and mental high, all I could think was "Man, why am I not in Maine already?" Until finally we came across that little, blue, anticlimactic sign, marking our crossing into the home stretch.

In Maine we left the White Mts. and headed into the Mahoosuc Range, but this does not mean that the there was a reprieve from the extreme terrain. If anything, it was even crazier than what we'd experienced in NH. Alternating between scaling sheer, slippery rock faces on the acsent and slip-slide-falling down them on the descent, besides maneuvering across/around mud bogs that will eat your boots whole. We made it about five miles into the state before finally calling it an exhausting day. Plus, lying it wait for us at the bottom of the next mountain was Mahoosuc Notch, known as perhaps the most strenuous and difficult mile on the entire Appalachian Trail - basically a ravine covered with the biggest, baddest boulders, which must be climbed over, under, around, through, or however you can manage. We decided to stop, get a good night's rest, and tackle the demon in the morning on a beautiful day. Unfortunately, meteorology was against us. Sometime during the night the rain started and continued through the morning. Besides the fact that I hate hiking in the rain, I hate the thought of hiking the most arduous part of the entire 2176.2 miles in the rain. So what did we do? What do you think?

We packed up and headed down into the Notch of Doom. Well... at least to the beginning of it. Then we dumped our packs and went weightlessly rock-skipping around for a good 20 minutes or so, before we came back out, grabbed our stuff, and blue-blazed our way out to a road, like sane people. The road was an incredibly desolate gravel road, which eventually connected with a highway, according to our estimations of the map. However, we really had no idea exactly how far down the road we had to travel to get to the highway. Luckily, after a mile or two of walking, a lone car containing two very lost fishermen came to our rescue. With the combined efforts of our rudimentary orienteering and a GPS system we finally made it to pavement and our heroes dropped us in the tiny "town" (more like "building") of Upton. Turns out it would have been quite a long walk, indeed. Our ultimate destination was the slightly larger (but not much) town of Andover, which we discovered was about 15 miles down another remote byway. In fact, a woman who actually lived on the road described it as "desolate." Of course, we really had no other choice, so we got to steppin'. I'm not exactly sure how far we walked down that road, but it was a fair ways. Four cars passed us the whole time - three going in the opposite direction, and one that flew past, I'm pretty sure mocking us. It wasn't the highlight of the day, but where else were we gonna go? Finally, I caught sight of a Jeep pulling onto the road just ahead of us, and flagged him down with all the pathetic arm-flailing I could muster. The driver and his beagle, Baxter, had pity on us and thankfully whisked us away to Andover, where I began this incredibly rambling triology of blogness.

We spent the night in Andover at a quaint little guest house, with several other hikers, including the Gatlinburg kids from Gorham. Movies were watched, food was eaten - a good time all around. On the morrow, we did our hiker errands and once again walk/hitched out of town to a campsite near the trail. That night, as we sat marveling at the fact we were in our sleeping bags at 7pm, I heard the rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs nearby. Peeking outside the tent, I saw a huge bull moose - antlers and all - headed in our direction. It came withing about 20 ft. of our camp before noticing we were even there, upon discovering which, it merely turned around and lumbered back from whence it came. Unfortunately, we didn't get any pictures, due to the dwindling light, but hopefully there will be more sightings of this kind before the end.

Can I just stop for a moment here and comment on how baffled I am that I can write so much about these things? When did that happen?

Maine. Goes. On.

Now I am sitting at the Rangeley Public Library of Rangeley, ME. We left Andover. We climbed some more mountains. We camped some more. The detailed stories of the last several posts have tired me, but here are the significant developments:

• The horrors of the Mahoosucs have diminished somewhat. There are still a few significant peaks between here and Katahdin, but we've had at least a little relief for now. Lots of lakes and ponds. More bogs than rocks, which I guess is alright.
• I bent one of my hiking poles. I took an awesome face-first spill on one of the few slippery-rocked uphills and fell right on top of it. Hopefully I will be able to somehow get it replace before the end, although it almost hardly seems worth it. It's just the principle of the thing.
• My Camelback water bladder is slowly leaking somewhere. I discovered this when my tent, the bottom of my pack, and my butt were perpetually soaked even after drying out overnight. I should be able to get this replaced also, but I've managed to jerry-rig it in the meantime.
• We scored some awesomely random trail magic, slackpacking, and a free place to stay in Rangely from some former thru-hikers who live/work in the area.
• We have 220 miles of trail left and three town stops.
• We will be summiting Katahdin around Oct. 5-6, which means that there are less than three weeks left of this insane 6 1/2 month adventure/trek/journey/escapade/quest/vacation/pilgrimage /amazing, terrible, fantastic, trip.

I think I feel like most thru-hikers do at this point along the way, which is to say, I'm not really sure how to feel. I certainly am tired of hiking, and I definitely do not want to continue doing it for several more months. But at the same time, it's all I have been doing (more or less) for the last six months. And suddenly, as soon as I come down of that last mountain, it's over. I'll be in a car, and then a hotel, and then on the way home - out of the woods, totally broke, away from hikers, trying to figure out how to continue existence in the rest of society. Not to mention the fact that I will have spent every day of the last two month with a person that I really love and then after a couple of weeks it'll be splitsville until a date TBD. All of this looming behind the immediately pressing issue of actually getting to the finish line in the first place. So I've got an interesting couple of hundred miles left ahead of me. I will probably savour and lament every one of them. But I definitely wouldn't trade them for anything.

UPDATE: Camelbak is sending a new bladder to Stratton! For free! Woohoo! Thanks, Camelbak, you're the best!

The Saga Continues

So now that I'm back and off my soapbox...

We left Zealand Falls bright and early, intending to do quite an ambitious day reaching the hut at the base of big ol' Mt. Washington - the second highest peak on the AT and famed for it's year-round terrible weather. About a mile into our blue-blaze (what did you expect?) the sky took a turn for the worse and opened up with thunder and lightning and fury. We sat it out under cover of tarp for as long as possible, but couldn't wait forever, so we slogged on down the unexpectedly difficult trail to Crawford Notch, where we stumbled dripping into the AMC Highland Center gift shop. Now supposedly there's a hostel at this place, but us hikers are po', so we figured why pay to sleep when there's a place for free? Previously, my very good friend and former thru-hiker, Becka Lee Rankin, had given us a hook-up with a hiker friend of hers who happens to work at the AMC center in Pinkham Notch, which was on the other side of Mt. Washington and one very long hitch away. Miraculously, at almost the same moment we made the executive yellow-blaze decision, out of nowhere popped a guy I'll call "Dave," a friend of a friend of Voodoo's, who he had met once before, not on the trail, but at Bonnaroo. With a little cajoling he agreed to drive us around those silly mountains to Pinkham Notch, and just like that we were there. Turns out Becka's friend wasn't. And wouldn't be for several days. We just missed her (thanks a bunch anyway, Tracey!). So we had no other choice but to hitch it on up to Gorham a few days earlier than planned. Once in town, we checked into a nice shoddy hostel/motel, got cleaned up, and headed straight to fast food. We actually ran into quite a few hikers about town, including some of the old G'burg gang - Spidey, NoAmp, Cookie Monster, and Thinker! Hadn't seen most of them in quite a long time. It's nice to know that some people from way down south are making it.

The next day's weather was set to clear up, and for once the forecast was right. We set ourselves up for another hostel night and commenced to hitch back down to Pinkham to tackle the beast that is Mt. Washington. Instead of the AT, we hopped on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, which has actually been the site of many of Washington's recorded deaths. Needless to say, it's a fairly tough four miles up the side of a mountain. But incredibly beautiful. It took us about three hours to drag ourselves up there, clouds racing by all the time. Turn around one moment and see the whole mountainous horizon before you, and the next it's lost in a sea of white. At the summit, we were greeted not only by icicles and blasting winds, but also by lots and lots and lots of tourists, since the top 'o' the mount is the site of a weather station, museum, gift shop, snack bar, post office, another gift shop, and something called the "Tip Top House," which we never explored because it was closed. Oh, and let's not forget the road AND the train that travel up there, too. Let's just say Mt. Washington is a definitely a significant peak on the trail, and by far the craziest. We got up, took all our photos, got back down, and pigged out on Chinese food back in Gorham.

On Day 3 in town, we eagerly headed to the post office (for the third time in three days) to check for the many packages we were expecting - a resupply from my parents, an mp3 player from Shawn's friend, and an oh so precious two-person tent (from another hiker friend), which would lighten my pack and simplify shelter situations, since Shawn only has a tarp. I got my huge box of food, but the others were nowhere to be found. Actually, the mp3 player showed up later after we discovered it was misplaced at the post office, but alas, still no tent. The rest of the day was spent organizing and roaming and annoying librarians (another story for another time) until finally we made it back on to an actual trail that actually led back into the mountains. It wasn't the AT, of course, but at least it was free.

And the tales after that, my very patient friends, shall have to come in an amazing third installment. Continue to wait with bated breath!

Maine: The Final Frontier

That's right. State 14 of 14. I actually made it. Yippee doo!

Of course, I still have over 200 miles of trail left. But that's irrelevant, right? For the last six months my polite exchanges with strangers have gone something like this:

"Where ya headed?"

"To Maine."

And here I am. I did not tell a lie. What's that you say? I've come this far, I have to finish, I have to get to that Big K? Well... okay. Just because I love you so much, I shall soldier on.

Now that that's all settled, let me quickly fill you in on all the ridiculous escapades of the continuing saga of Twinkletoes and Voodoo.

Way on back in Lincoln, NH we spent a couple more nights at Chet's Place, to wait for the weather to clear and because it was awesome. There we reconnected with Voodoo's former hiking buddy, Last Minute, who had just returned to the trail after heading home for a few weeks to battle a case of mononucelosis. Again dragging ourselves away from the comforts of civilization, we dove headlong into the big bad White Mountains. First up was Franconia Ridge. The weather did not seem ideal (at least to me), as it was fairly wet from previous rain and the treeless mountaintops were mostly in cloud cover. But when those clouds parted the views were everything they had been made out to be. Spectacular, in a word. And made all the more dramatic by the opening and closing of foggy curtains. We topped some hefty mountains - Little Haystack, Lincoln, Lafayette - in some seriously gusty winds, before climbing a whole mile back down just to get to Greenleaf Hut. Many props to Last Minute for conquering the terrain after such a big hiatus. They killed me without having any breaks (basically), much less illness.

In my last post, I mentioned that I'm not particularly fond of the Appalachian Mountain Club, or AMC. The Whites are particularly popular mountains to hike (for very good reasons), and the AMC had all the foresight to reap the monetary benefits of this popularity. Throughout the Whites, the choices for overnight stay are limited exclusively to AMC-run campsites, for a cost of $8, or "huts" (read "really big cabins"), for a cost of about $90-$100 per night. However, the AMC has decided that during a certain season every year when they are, for some reason, overrun with these "through hikers", they will be oh so gracious and accommodating as to allow two AT hikers to eat some leftovers and sleep on the dining room floor in exchange for a couple of chores around the hut. Now on the one hand, this is in fact very helpful of them, because if we couldn't stay at the huts, then there would hardly be a place to stay at all, and Lord knows that hikers are far too poor to afford their prices. On the other hand, you would think that, being the stewards of these precious natural wonders called mountains, the AMC might have a little more regard for people who have willingly chosen to fully experience these wonders for the last six months or so. You know, enough to at least offer a bunk. Even the leftovers I can forgive, 'cause honestly the food is really good and they shouldn't have to make extra when they don't even know who's coming.

Greenleaf Hut really wasn't bad. The "croo" was amiable, the work was light, and they even made us some pancakes for breakfast. Our second night at Zealand Falls Hut, though, left us feeling slightly more outcast. In a hut that houses close to 40 guests, there were a total of seven, yet we were still asked to sit outside in the chill wind and oncoming dark until the rich folks finished their dinner. As we scraped together what was left of some burritos (still delicious), we were told we could share half of an eclair for dessert - you know, just in case someone else wanted to eat another one. Our chore was a little more strenous - cleaning the stove - but that's not really even an issue; at least it's something to pass the time. However, after another night on the floor in a nearly empty bunkhouse, we were told (not asked) by the same guy who was stingy with the pastries, that we would get to wash some dishes before we left. Fortunately, a more level-headed crew member informed him we had done our fair share and we escaped (without any pancakes).

All this excitement is far too much to be contained in one blog. The gripping conclusion in yet another two-parter...

BAM!

I'm in Gorham, NH! This library sucks! We finally left Chet's and tried to hike the Whites! Some of them...

Franconia Ridge, Mt. Washington. That's about it. Lots of blue/yellow blazing. I don't like the AMC.

I don't know what's going to happen next. Packages, stupid stuff, etc. to worry about.

Really freaking close to Maine.

Stories and details in the future.

How's life?




Love, Murry

Once a bum, always a bum.

Not very much has actually happened between now and my last post, and at the moment I'm not exactly compelled to detail the last 48 hours, so this update will be brief.

I did finally retrieve my packages from the post office, only to find that they took a leisurely 4 hour break in the middle of the day. When the P.O. reopened at 2pm, I sent off my old stuff and we finally headed toward the trail. Basically, there was only one mountain to climb - Mt. Moosilauke (moose-uh-lock-ee) - which is about a 5 mile ascent to our first summit above treeline. The climb really wasn't that bad. Definitely not as difficult as Smarts Mtn. And the views at the top were tremendous. An excellent preview of what we should be encountering throughout the Whites. We spent the night at a shelter just below the summit and headed on down the other side of the mountain the next morning. What's on the other side of the mountain? Well a road, of course. That leads to another town, of course. Where there is another awesome hostel, of course. Where we are now staying, of course.

Do I really even need to update everyone about what we're doing? At any given time you can probably assume that we're either on a road or in town, with a slim outside chance that we might be hiking somewhere. But definitely not for long. We came into Lincoln, NH yesterday and set up camp at a hostel affectionately called "Chet's Place," as it is a house owned by Chet, who lets all the hiker trash crash his pad. There were probably about 20 people there last night, and I'm sure a similar number tonight. We initially had planned a slackpack for today, but that quickly ended up turning into a zero day instead. I'm assuming that we'll begin hiking of some sort tomorrow, but the way things are going these days, I don't even know anymore. Oh well. I'm stilling enjoying every moment of whatever we're doing, so that's all that really matters. Now I've got to go stuff my face with some terribly unhealthy fast food. I encourage you to do the same.

Stuck in Lodi Again

This blog comes to you from Glencliff, NH, at about 2am, in the midst of a caffeine-induced fit of insomnia. So please forgive any raving incoherency.

My current residence is the Hikers Welcome Hostel and has been for the last two nights. Before leaving Hanover, I sent off a couple of maildrops to the Glencliff post office - including all of my warmer winter gear - completely overlooking the fact that Labor Day was on the horizon and the post office would be closed for three days (c'mon, you know it's practically closed on Saturday).

But let me back up a bit...

Thursday afternoon we left Hanover and hiked (by road) over to the tiny village of Etna, where there was allegedly a hostel. We never found it. We waited and loitered around outside the local general store, hoping to get in touch with these mysterious people, when one of the locals finally offered us a place to stay for the night. The place turned out to be a dilapidated old lean-to on the edge of his property, but it had a roof, so it was better than nothing. And it was actually right next to the AT, allowing us to easily hike out the next morning. This would be our first day of serious hiking in quite awhile.

Amazingly (for me) we made it a whole 17.5 miles. One early attempt at a blue-blaze went awry, but we were redeemed later by a convenient ranger trail climbing the greater part of Smarts Mtn. But don't be fooled - ranger trail though it was, it was certainly not a walk in the park, because Smarts Mtn. certainly smarts. It was probably the steepest, rockiest, most difficult climb we've had since Roan Mtn. in NC/TN, and it definitely gave us a little preview of what we have in store in the upcoming White Mountains. However, once we slogged our way to the summit, we were rewarded with an old fire warden's tower, where we spent the night and woke amidst the clouds. I mean, literally - we were in the middle of a cloud; you could barely see to the ground below us. Sweet.

We planned the next couple of days to be short and easy into Glencliff, so we got a late start climbing down from our perch and headed off. Not long into the trek, Voodoo was overcome by a vicious craving for some carbonated, caffeinated refreshment. I could see the shakes coming on. Now I've obviously never been one to pass up a potential shortcut and I'm a bit of a soda fiend myself, so the decision to head to town was easy. We hiked on 10 miles to the first road crossing, where we hitched down to Wentworth to satisfy our beverage-lust, and once we were there, well...why on earth head back to the trail when our next scheduled stop is right down the road? Am I right? A couple rides later we strolled into the hostel where this post began.

Our arrival was on Saturday evening, yet I wouldn't be able to retrieve my very necessary packages until Tuesday, which meant three nights stay at a very unfree (albeit honor system) hostel, which quickly adds up. Fortunately this place really lives up to its name and we were able to manage some kind of work-for-stay agreement by doing a few chores here and there. And honestly, of all the places on the trail you could be stuck for three days, this is definitely near the top of the list. The people that run the place are awesome, the weather has been great, and I have loved every second of time wasted with Voodoo. We swept, vacuumed, did laundry, lounged in hammocks, took a bike ride to the neighboring town of Warren, hackey-sacked, played Uno... Oh, and did I mention that this place has an unbelievable movie selection (DVD and VHS!)? Being that we are both serious movie buffs, it's like Christmas. Just for the record - movies watched include: Canadian Bacon, Half Baked, High School High, Alive, Trainspotting, The Big Lebowski, and The World According to Garp. Part of me wishes I could stay here and watch the entire library, but no, there will be time for that once we've covered these mountains.

Alright. It's now 3:30 and a caffeine crash is inevitable. Once the day breaks, I can retrieve all my belongings held hostage by the holiday. The "plan" (we must use the term so loosely) is to get out of dodge in the afternoon and make our way up Mt. Moosilauke - a 6-mile climb up the first of the dreaded and beautiful Whites. From there? Well you never can tell these days, can you?

When we last left the Dynamic Duo...

... they were loitering in Rutland, VT, attempting to leave town one way or another. Well, of course, it turned out to be "another."

I think that we (at least I) had an overload of Vermont - on and off the trail - and just wanted to get the state over with. Luckily we recalled that Shawn has a friend, Jackie, living in Keene, NH who was eager to visit. The only complication? - Rutland is about a two hour drive from Keene. But of course, our hearts were set and minds made and we would not be stopped. So once again we decided to venture out into that world of fanciful vagary known as hitchhiking. In three easy wags of a thumb we made it about 50 miles down the road to Bellows Falls, where Jackie came to rescue us in a mere 30 minutes. We spent a great night of pizza and DNC coverage at her apt., and tiptoed off to dreamland on a wonderful air mattress.

The next day being Tuesday, Jackie had to get up and go to work like the responsible adult she is. We on the other hand are still complete bums with no deeds to do, no promises to keep. So we slept in, ate french fries for breakfast, popped in Johnny Mnemonic (the perfect morning movie), and awaited the arrival of my old buddy, old pal, Andy Reach, who drove all the way up from Boston. With Andy we ventured out to explore the quaintness of downtown Keene, and Andy related to us the romantic life of a piano tuner. Yet again, the day was mostly spent hanging out, eating, people-watching, and generally wasting time. When Jackie got off work, she took us all to an awesome little brewpub restaurant, and then we returned to her apartment to while away another night with friends.

But alas, our cavorting must come to an end sometime. On that next bright Wednesday morning we heard the call of the trail (that faint "hiker trash" whispered on the wind), so we strapped our few earthly possesions on our backs and headed to follow it. Turns out it was coming from Hanover, NH, about 65 miles north of Keene. Taking a less beaten path, we made it in about six hitches, including an awesome old Methodist minister who writes his own hymns, has a wife from Lithuania, knows how to get optimum gas mileage out of an F150, and once heard Robert Frost recite his poetry. In Hanover it didn't take long to find the old hiker crowd again, and we were quickly invited to spend the night at the property of "legendary" hiker and all around trail bum, Baltimore Jack.

And here we are. Back in a trail town, about to actually venture onto the trail itself after an epic hiatus. It was worth every second. But as I said - the trail calls and Big K looms and we must be off to finish what we started. These last 30-40 days may very well be the most spectacular. I can't wait to find out!




P.S. - I love hyperlinks!

National Lampoon's AT Vacation

Hey again, party people. Just thought I'd give you the scoop on the conclusion to our massive trail detour through Vermont.

After spending about a day wandering through town (with one very uncomfortable night sleeping in the back of the car) we figured we had soaked up all Burlington had to offer. We didn't have to be back in Rutland until Monday, we had a car completely at our disposal, a road map of this wonderful tiny state, and nothing else holding us back. So of course we did what any respectable adventure-seeker would do - we drove to Canada. Neither of us had ever been and it was only 40-50 miles away, so why on Earth wouldn't we? Getting in with merely a driver's license was a piece of cake. We drove up the road through the majestic cornfields of Quebec (who knew?) until we hit a convenience store. I awkwardly bought a soda (Dr. Pepper even!) and ice cream from the French-speaking locals and then sat and soaked up the fact that I was actually sitting in a different country, with all the serendipitous events that occured to bring me there. Reentering our homeland, we encountered a little bit of grief (not having passports and all), but still made it through with no major incident.

We still had nothing else to do but drive into the sunset, so we set a course south, stopping for a hot second in the capital, Montpelier. Now I've been to the capital of Vermont. Having hit pretty much all significant points of the state, we figured we might as well set up a base camp in Rutland - our ultimate destination - so we drove on into town two nights ago, and yesterday spent yet another day driving and wandering and driving and eating and roaming and certainly not hiking.

Today is finally Monday. We've picked up our packages, run our errands, and again have to come to grips with the idea of hiking. Maybe. Who knows where the winds will blow us? Or what cars will drive us? I can honestly say, though, that when it finally does come down to hiking again, I will be ready, merely for the sake of finally getting it over with. It's been five months on the trail now and the end is actually in sight, so I'm raring to get there. From what I hear, this last bit through New Hampshire and Maine is more than worth the all the boredom and struggle that has preceded it, so I'm also anxious to get out of Vermont and see how spectacular it really is.

Anywho, that's all the news that's fit to print right now. We're working on finding our way out of Rutland (one way or another), so who knows when or where our next destination will be. Tune in next time for another wacky Twinkletoes Tale from the Trail!

On the Road Again

Hello, lovely readers I can only assume exist somewhere. I write this blog from the public library in wonderous downtown Burlington, VT.

You may be saying to yourself, "I have been vigilant in my studies of Appalachian Trail maps and handbooks as I follow Twinkletoes on her whirlwind adventure, and I have never seen Burlington listed as a major stop along the way. How is it that she came to be in such a place?"

The answer, my incredulous friend, is as follows: As Voodoo and I extended our stay in the wonderful burg of Manchester Center for three nights (a zero and a half and a slackpack day), we woke on the morn of our final departure with less than an enthusiasm for hiking and an earnest need to break the monotony once again. So with nary a second thought, we Googled our way a route up the highway to Burlington - home of Ben & Jerry's and Magic Hat Brewery - and proceeded to catch a ride on the thumbnail express. That is to say, standing on the side of the road, we were here in three easy hitches with endless possibilities awaiting us. We rented ourselves a phat ride, strolled by Lake Champlain, wandered down I-89 and found an awesome flea market, and who knows what more will come in the next two days.

All I can say is that I am happier right now that I have ever been on the trail. By no means are we quitting the hike - we'll be back to Rutland, VT on Monday - but never before have I had someone to enjoy utter randomness with. Be spontaneous with. Enjoy life with. We will definitely finish the trail (you know, minus the parts we skipped). Getting to Katahdin is something I would never want to miss and was definitely never in question. To us, though, a lot of this hike was supposed to be all about the adventure, seeing new places and people, and having new experiences. I've done the white blazes and it was awesome and will be again at the end. Now it's time to fill in all those other gaps that the white blazes miss.

So that's all for now. I have no idea what we'll be doing the rest of our time here. Maybe visit Montpelier? Canada? The moon? Whatever it is, I know it will be amazing time spent with an amazing person and it will certainly not be hiking (probably).

The Blazes Are Always Bluer

An AT purist can be defined as any hiker (thru or section) who intends to walk every mile of the trail, past every little 2" x 6" white blaze.

Let it be known that I am not a purist.

Blue-blazing can be defined as the act of following any trail detour that is not the AT (usually marked by blue blazes vs. white). Yellow-blazing might be defined more simply as "hitchhiking" - that is, getting a ride to a further point on the trail as opposed to hiking all the way there - and is thusly named because of the yellow lines of the open road.

Basically, as definied by a purist, these methods are what you might call "cheating". That is if there were some kind of actual score kept or rules broken.

Let it be known that I love cheating.

For approximately the last three weeks I have been hiking with my now trail partner/boyfriend (what?!) Voodoo (Shawn), and during this time we have blazed a trail north all our own that would make any purist turn away in horror and disgust.

Since returning from our jaunt in the city, we decided that we would continue our adventure and explore the roads less travelled (by hikers) with a little help from some long-awaited trail maps. Ah, the wonders of cartography. With maps a whole new world of untold civilization is unfolded before your eyes, and a truly straight path from Point A to Point B is finally revealed.

From Kent, CT we meandered by road and trail along the Housatonic River all the way to Cornwall Bridge where we enjoyed an afternoon swim and some free drinks. Then onward we road-walked into Falls Village for some amazing sandwiches and Moxie and hiked into Salisbury that night with nary a place to rest our heads. That is until the amazing and wonderful Olsen family took us into their own home for the night. Finally crossing into Massachusetts, we once again took the shortest path between white blazes where we ran into Del and his not-wife enjoying the day in their front lawn. When we asked for some water, we were given a ride into the nearby town of Great Barrington for some sandwiches and drinks, and then back to the trail again before the rain came down. By far our greatest blue-blaze yet was on the way to Upper Goose Pond Cabin, which involved wading across a brook, bushwhacking through fields of waist-high grass, jumping an electric fence, crossing a cow pasture, strolling down some gravel-paved-gravel roads back into the woods, and finally fording a chest-deep creek just before reaching our destination.

Since that amazing coup de grâce to AT purism we further hitched a ride into Dalton, MA, walked a bike path on a 23 mile slackpack, took a few more roads and another hitch into Bennington, VT and again to Manchester Center, VT where I currently am rushing to finish this blog.

Basically what all this shortcutting and hitchhiking and random wandering means is, the AT is great and all, but there's so much else out there - people, places, llama farms - that you miss when you restrict yourself to those white blazes. Maybe we're not really thru-hikers (but we are), but we're still awesome, and life is awesome, and adventure is awesome.

So up yours, ATC.

Start spreadin' the news...

...these vagabond shoes are longing to stray right through the very heart of it.

New York, New York. That's right. THE city. You may be thinking, "You've gone out onto this wild wilderness journey to escape the trials and tribulations of modern life - why on earth would you want to detour into one of the biggest cities in the whole world?"

'Cause I'm crazy and I can, so back off.

I know that this hike is kind of a "vacation from life," but once that vacation continues every day for 4+ months it becomes just life. And then you need to take another vacation. So my new hikin' partner, Voodoo, and I set a course for awesomeness and hopped a train to Grand Central. Luckily, my long-lost high school chum, Daniel Morgan just happens to live in this very city and is amazing enough to endure a weekend of chauffeuring around a couple of almost-homeless people.

Honestly, I was expecting a seizure-inducing onslaught of over stimulation, but really that is confined only to Times Square (which I did indeed dart through like a cracked out rat in a never-ending maze of people). Most of the time was spent as mine always is - hanging out with friends, eating, observing crazy people, watching movies, occasionally sleeping, and always wandering. We drifted past a few of the landmarks, but there's just no time to be a tourist in the course of a day and a half. It was just fun to be someplace completely different doing something completely different and catching up with old and new friends. And it definitely made me ready to return to the trail.

Now I've moved on to New England (Connecticut if you don't know your geography) and New York is a mere wispy memory. Back to the regular vacation...until another fanciful detour presents itself, of course.

Thanks a lot, Daniel, for showing us such a great time. And thanks, Mr. Sinatra, for providing such an awesomely cliche title for this blog entry.

Also, for The Manchurian Candidate. The remake was totally lame.

Definitely not in Kansas

So I've been about a week now in the "actual North", made it all the way to New York, and here are just a few of the new and crazy things I've discovered...

There are lots of delis and pizzeria. And I'm not talking, like, Subway and Domino's. Real delis where you get giant sandwiches, with fresh bread and meat sliced before your eyes. And places where you can not only get pizza by the slice, but probably any kind of italian food you can think of.

There are actually trees and lakes and even farms. Contrary to popular belief, NJ and NY are not completely covered in urban sprawl. There are many towns, but a lot of them are just as small and rural as places down South.

People own pick-up trucks. Along the same lines, if you live on a farm in the country, you most likely own a truck, whether it's North or South. Although, I have noticed that many people call any kind of SUV a "truck".

There is a whole lot of ethnic diversity. At least more than in Christiansburg, VA, which I guess isn't too difficult. Italian, Hispanic, Eastern European, Asian. And today, just on a trip to Wal-Mart I saw more Hasidic Jews than ever before in my life. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen a Hasidic Jew before that wasn't in a movie or TV show.

And most of all - people are really nice. At least people around the trail. Right now I'm staying with a couple, who just invite hikers literally right into their home. They gave us rides, showers, laundry, beds, and food, for nothing. And a few days ago it was the same story. The mayor of Unionville, NY (really, the actual mayor) takes in any and every hiker that comes through his little village. The night I was there, the house was so packed that some people had to tent in the backyard; people were in the basement, on the floor, even on the living room couch. And with the help of two friends, he opens his entire house to everyone, just like you lived there - watch a movie, take a shower, drink all the soda (or beer), and make sure you get a good dinner and breakfast the next morning. It was unbelievable.

I have to say that these Yankees have gone above and beyond anything I ever expected. Of course, this weekend I will be taking a little excursion over to the other side - New York City. It's definitely going to be a shock to the senses, but I can't wait. Then we'll see how I really get along up here...

GO SEE 'THE DARK KNIGHT'

It's really good.

I've spent the last two days in Delaware Water Gap, PA, which happens to be adjacent to the town of Stroudsburg, PA, which happens to have a movie theatre. Starting on this trail, I had only two goals - 1. Walk to Maine, or as close as I could possibly get, and 2. See Dark Knight.

So far I'm one for two.

In fact, I also saw Hellboy 2 the same morning, because if you know me at all, you know I have an insatiable need to watch movies.

DWG also happens to be adjacent to New Jersey. Which means goodbye, Pennsylvania and the Amish country pseudo-"North" and hello to the crazy land of bagels and "caw-fee" that frightens me so.

But seriously - go see Dark Knight. It's, like...really good.

On Accommodations

The places I spend the night while on the trail can generally be sorted into four basic types:

1. Tent - MSR Hubba; sleeps one (i.e. - me) with room for boots and other random junk and my pack outside under the vestibule.
2. Shelter - Structures placed along the trail near a water source (most of the time) specifically for hikers to sleep in; sleeps anywhere from 5-25; usually wooden, usually 3-sided, although some are definitely more impressive than others.
3. Hostel - Any place along the trail that offers overnight accommodation at a significantly cheaper price than a hotel, generally geared toward hikers; usually a bunk room w/ shared bath; may or may not have mattress, sheets, food, etc.
4. Hotel/Motel - You probably know what I'm talking about; From Mictrotel in Franklin, NC to Bales Motel in Gatlinburg (see The Gatlinburg Gang: Parts 1 and 2).

Of all the states so far, Pennsylvania has definitely offered the most interesting and ecclectic choices for accomodation, sometimes blurring the lines between categories. My first night was spent tenting literally just north of the Mason Dixon Line, between railroad tracks and a road crossing, and the second at a pair ("snoring" and "non-snoring") of incredibly nice shelters. Then, right after the halfway mark was the Ironmaster's Mansion hostel, which used to be the huge house of (you guessed it) the owner of an iron mine, who also happened to be on the train of the Underground Railroad, so there were some cool secret rooms underneath it, too!

With halfway under my belt, I decided to trek it all the way to Boiling Springs - a very pretty town, but not exactly hiker-convenient. Basically the only places to stay are bed & breakfasts, or a hiker campsite a half a mile out of town (with no water). Except, one wonderful family, the Mateyas (I hope I spelled that right), invite hikers to spend the night in their backyard, in an adorable little playhouse their kids had. Is it a shelter or a hostel? Either way, it was warm and cozy and dry, and exactly where I stayed.

Still moving on, my next stop was the great little trail town Duncannon, and the hiker mecca that is The Doyle Hotel. The Doyle is one of those long-fabled and anticipated stops for most hikers. But don't let name fool you - it's not a Super 8. In fact, it would probably fit more comfortably in the "hostel" category, with their low, low price and mostly hiker customers, except for the fact that you do get your own room. The Doyle was built back around 1900, when Duncannon was probably a more booming town. It has a pub on the first floor (with excellent food), while rooms are located on the 3rd and 4th floors - a shared bathroom for each floor. My corner room (two windows!) contained a twin bed, a chair, an old dresser, and an oscillating fan. Vickie and Pat, the owners, are some of the nicest people on the whole trail. The Doyle has ambiance. Character. Just no cable or air conditioning. I loved it.

After Duncannon, it was back to shelters. But not just any shelters. The 501 shelter (so-named because it's right next to PA501) could easily be a hostel. It's a 4-sided building, with bunks, a solar shower, and a caretaker who lives in the house next door. And because it's right near the road - pizza delivery. What more can you ask for? Electricity, you say? Well, wait 'til you get to the Eckville shelter, 'cause that's exactly what they've got. A lightbulb and an outlet and everything. It's in a little building right behind a house (another caretaker). Only 6 bunks, but oh yeah, it's got a real flush toilet, too!

And finally, yesterday I came into the great little town of Palmerton, where they have what they call the "Jailhouse Hostel". In one of the city buildings, which used to be the old jailhouse, they let hikers spend the night in the basement for free (bunks and everything)! It's not really like a jail at all anymore, but if you need to check in after the office has closed, you're supposed to just flag down an officer on patrol and he'll let you in. Ha!

So thanks, Pennsylvania. Despite all the boulder fields and rock slides during the day, you've certainly provided some sweet places to spend the night. The next seven states will have a lot to live up to.

Movin' On Up

First of all - happy late July 4th! I hope everyone was very patriotic and gorged themselves on hotdogs and apple pie before blowing something up in their backyard. I did my part by hitching into town for a great lunch at Colonel Sanders' and then later lighting an obscene amount of sparklers at the shelter. My reward was waking up the next morning with my face covered in huge, oozing, awful bug bites. Or it could be some kind of rash. All I know is, it gross and it happened over night. Thanks America.

Secondly, I am now officially in "the North". Enemy territory. Yankee country. Although, if it weren't for the license plates you probably would never know it. Most of the people I've witnessed reek of "redneck" and the trail passes through so many historic areas, I haven't learned so much about the Civil War since I was in 5th grade. In fact, the hostel I'm staying at right now was part of the Underground Railroad. And I got to go down into the secret rooms!

And finally.....I'm really truly actually halfway to Maine! 1088.1 miles down, 1088.1 to go. Honestly, hitting halfway was pretty anti-climactic. I was by myself at the time, and there wasn't even any kind of marker to indicate it. I guess I'll just have to settle for the old marker with the wrong mileage. But to celebrate I'm spending the night here at Pine Grove Furnace State Park in Pennsylvania, only a few miles past the half, and home of the famous "Half-Gallon Challenge", where hikers try to down a whole half gallon of ice cream as fast as they can and then never eat ice cream again. However, since I enjoy ice cream so much, I opted for a pint instead, plus two cheesburgers and two orders of fries.

So now it's onward and upward...or northward. Only one more half to go!

Self High Five!

1000 miles - check.

Virginia - check.

Obligatory thumbs up picture - double check.


Harpers Ferry is not actually halfway to Maine. But it is a big checkpoint.

On to the actual halfway!

We've gotta get out of this place...

Virginia, that is. And for awhile, I thought it very well might be the last thing I ever did. Maybe it was because I slackpacked for a week. Maybe it was because I got a sweet little taste of the movies and Rock Band I'm missing. Maybe it was because most of the people I knew were either in front of or behind me. Starting on my way through Shenandoah N.P. I was none too happy about hiking. So unhappy, in fact, that it was the first time I ever seriously considered quitting the trail.

Shenandoah is like some kind of strange spirit-sucking, tourist-filled alternate dimension, hidden under the guise of a seeming hiker fantasy land - easy terrain, plenty of views, nearly-tame wildlife, many many places to eat. As soon as I got in, I wanted to be out again, but not enough to be motivated to hike out. I just wanted to sit around, take my sweet time, and complain about walking. I guess it's just my natural tendency to sulk.

I was glad to find out later that I wasn't the only hiker feeling this way. It's the Virginia Blues. I got into Damascus on May 8. That's a MONTH AND 16 DAYS AGO. Don't get me wrong, I had a great time visiting with people and begin lazy and taking lots of days off, but when it's finally time for all that to be over, you want to feel like you're actually moving on, getting back to getting somewhere. And Shenandoah is that last big, 100-mile hurdle you have to drag yourself over before you finally get there - out of VA.

The good news is, I made it. I'm in Front Royal right now, rewarding myself with a night at a posh Super 8. Yes, I'm still in Virginia, but I am no longer miserable. The end is in sight, WV is right on the horizon, and before I know it I'll be venturing into that foreign territory above the Mason Dixon.




P.S. - I did see 3 bears in the park! No pictures, though. Keep your fingers crossed for N.J.

Casa de Lipscomb

Right now I am as close to hiker heaven as you can probably get. Sitting in a beautiful kitchen in an amazing house, with seven friends, on a gorgeous day, waiting for a delicious dinner to be prepared. Also, there's plenty of Dr. Pepper.

Three days ago, Freefall and I pulled up to the James River near Glasgow, VA, which just happens to be down the road from Fairfield, VA, where my good ol' hiking buddy Vachon and his wife, Mary Lynn, live. So after a nice afternoon dip in the river, we hopped in their car and were whisked away to what has become an impromptu hostel. We picked up Pick and Rabid the same day, while Cookie Monster and Timeless (who I just met) were already at the house waiting. Since I've been here, Freefall, Cookie, and Timeless have all packed on, but Thinker, Brahma Bull, and Sweet Potato have taken their places.

I first met Mary Lynn back in Hot Springs, where she came to visit Vachon, and I was instantly overwhelmed by love and generosity. They insisted everyone pack into the adorable little cabin they had rented, while Vachon, Dave from Maine, and I were slackpacked all the way to Erwin, TN. This time it's the same story all over again and even more. They have opened up their entire house to us AND their cars. Everyone who has been here has been slackpacked as far as possible (I went all the way from Glasgow to Montebello - 38 miles) and on top of all that, a hiker-family dinner every night. I have had barbecue chicken, hamburgers and hot dogs, tortellini and fettucini alfredo (with homemade sauces), grilled salmon, and roast beef w/ potatoes.

Basically what I'm saying is - I live here now. I've been here five nights and it's going to be awful to tear myself away from it. Two months ago, I didn't even know any of the people here, but now we're all together like one big happy family. The Lipscombs have let their house be a home away from home. It will be impossible for me to ever repay them. And it will definitely be impossible for anyone to ever top this trail magic.

Trail Daze

Yet again, I have become very lax in my blogging duties. Please forgive me - myself at a blog is very similar to a monkey at a typewriter.

However, the last few weeks have indeed been eventful, so I will give you the abbreviated highlights...

"ahem"

Hiking out of Damascus, rain storm, group seperated, Troutdale, slackpack w/ Racoon and Lipstick, Grayson Highlands (wild ponies!).

Trail Days! = back to Damascus. reunion!, Tent City campground, Grizzly Park, lots of vendors, lots of Damascus Eats, Mom visits, The Place, hikers parade/water fight, talent show, Vachon goes home, more tent city, party's over, everyone's split, gotta go.

Back to the trail, Relax Inn at Atkins, crossing I-81, cow pastures, short days, huge trail magic breakfast, into Bland, picked up and home for the weekend.

Tooling around Pearisburg, visit people ahead on the trail, meet Freefall and Double D, back to my place, lots of food, hot tub, Monday morning - drop 'em off, gotta meet Mary Disa, back to Bland, and away we go.

*whew*

So that's the super super quick version. If you want anything fleshed out, just shoot me a line somehow. My pictures might help illustrate some, too, since I've actually got them updated now.

Until next time...good night and good luck.

The Road to Damascus

Alright.

So a lot has happened since Gatlinburg. Let me see if I can condense all of it into one blog post...

We left Clingmans Dome and made it out of the Smokies alive, with no other craziness to speak of. We spent a quick two nights outside the park before we hit Hot Springs, NC. A couple of the shelters along the way had been terrorized by bears (or probably a bear), but luckily most of my companions and I were able to avoid them, although we have heard many a story from those who didn't. On the way into Hot Springs, Vachon hiked on ahead of the rest of us to meet his wife, Mary Lynn, in town, and as the rest of us arrived, we were all promptly ushered into a car and driven out to a wonderful little cabin they had rented. They invited everyone to crash there, use the shower, shuttle back and forth to town, and eat a ridiculous amount of delicious food that Mary Lynn prepared. It was amazing. Also, since there was a car easily accesible, Vachon hatched a plan to slackpack a good section of the trail, or day-hike in other words - take some water and lunch, get dropped off at one point, picked up at another, and come back to spend the night in town. I was invited to join, and I sure wasn't going to pass up something like that. Long story short - Vachon, Dave from Maine, and I all ended up slackpacking something like 70 miles in between Hot Springs and Erwin, TN, while the rest of the crew hiked on their own. Alas, in Erwin, Mary Lynn finally had to head home, and unfortunately Dave also made the tough decision to end his hike there, for several reasons. We were very sad to see them go.

Vachon and I finally put our enormous packs back on and set out again for some "real" hiking...but we only ended up getting 4 miles our first day. The next day, we walked awhile in the rain, and that night an unexpected cold front blew through. When we woke up it was about 22 degrees and there was snow on the ground. This was not a good start back, but Mary Lynn just happened to have an uncle who lived in the area, so Vachon gave him a call, and we were whisked away to Bakersville, NC. Ted and his wife, Florence, who are some of the nicest people on the face of the earth, took us into their home and gave us showers, laundry, beds, plus breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Incredible trail magic.

Getting back on the trail a second time, we hiked some more fairly short and easy days (with some of the best views so far) until we met my parents in Elizabethton, TN, for yet another weekend of pampering and town food. We defintely had been spoiled. My parents dropped us back on the trail AGAIN, where we ascertained the whereabouts of the rest of our former group (minus MOTO, who sadly also decided to leave), quickly rejoined them, and headed on our merry way to the big V.A.

Which brings us up to this morning, where I woke up with my regular spring allergies in full swing (i.e. - incredibly itchy eyes). And like a dumb hiker, I just couldn't keep my dirt-covered hands out of my eye. No self-control - I just couldn't stop scratching. When I finally asked for some assistance, I was greeted with shock and appall at the state of my left eye, which was apparently swollen beyond comprehension. So it was decided that I should get to a doctor, post-haste, and get it checked out. So here I am in Damascus, a day earlier than expected. My eye is fine (don't rub your eye with dirty hands, by the way), and hopefully I will be able to slackpack the little section of trail I skipped.

Whew! And that's basically it. Here I am! Back in good ol' Virginia! Seems kind of weird to be some place I recognize. You should come and visit sometime, or maybe I'll visit you when I get near home. Three states down already, woohoo! The future's wide open!

The Gatlinburg Gang: Part 2

At last, halfway through our cross-country skiing expedition, Freefall was able to get through to her mom by cell phone, and her mom reached a Gatlinburg outfitter and paid for them to meet us at Newfound Gap. So on we went, as fast as we could, through the accumulating snow. We actually skipped the summit of Clingmans Dome and took a bypass trail around to the parking lot, where we then had to trek down the paved road to Newfound Gap.....which turned out to be another seven miles. I am not ashamed to say that this was the low point of my entire trip, and I thought I might break down and totally lose it. But at long last, when all seemed lost, I came around that last curve and saw that big red van sitting there waiting, and it was the happiest moment of my entire life. The shuttle driver, Mike, informed us that he had been told to wait for us until 6pm, and the first of our group arrived at 5:48.

Mike asked us where we were headed, and we told him anywhere cheap and easy, so he dropped us off at a place right off the main drag called Bales Motel. Our cold and pathetic group piled out of the van and hoped we could haggle for a couple of reasonably priced rooms we could all share. After some discussion and deliberation we ended up with three rooms....for $25 a night (each), for two nights. The young lovebirds among us, Pick and Rabid, took one room for themselves (which ended up having a full kitchen in it) and the other nine of us divided ourselves between two rooms - making the total cost for our 2-night stay a whopping $12.50 per person. We all dumped our things, soaked up some hot showers, and dressed in our best hiker trash fashion for a night on the town in beautiful Gatlinburg. There is so much insanity crammed into the main drag of Gatlinburg that it can hardly be described without having seen it yourself. To take an excerpt from my journal: "MIRROR MAZE! OLD TIMEY PHOTOS! RIPLEY'S! WAX MUSEUM! KING KONG! SKY LIFT!" It's a bombardment from all sides, and it really seems like everything is screaming at you at once. It was magnificent. We consumed large quantities of greasy food, and some people large quantities of alcohol, and staggered back late for a warm and cozy night's sleep after a very long day.

The next morning, we awoke with a whole day to take in all the Gatlinburg goodness. A fine breakfast at a pancake hut, then laundry, outfitters, library, and all the regular hiker chores. That night, everyone pitched in some cash, and we prepared a feast of biblical proportions at our own humble accommodations, including bruschetta, stuffed pasta shells, and bacon wrapped steaks. It was more than any hiker could ask for. In the morning, we finally had to bid farewell to this Shangri-La of the Smokies as Mike shuttled us back up to Clingmans Dome. Alas, we never did actually get our old timey photos or airbrushed t-shirts, but we all got to know an amazing group of hikers - Pick, Rabid, Cookie Monster, Freefall, Spidey, NoAmp, Long Shot, Vachon, Thinker, MOTO, Buckey, Circus, and Twinkletoes - and gain some of the best memories from our hike in place we never would have expected.