The First Hundred

We're happy to see that everyone is enjoying the blog (Great to hear from you Natalie!! Drop me an e-mail, love to hear more detail on your recent adventures in the west!). To those of you who expressed concern over the temporary separation (including my darling brother), we appreciate your concern and we can assure you it won't happen again: I've picked up speed quite a bit since then, and now I know that Jess will be waiting for me at the top of every mountain. Hiking up the side of a mountain requires a steady pace, and Jess's is faster than mine - if he walked my speed, he'd get twice as tired twice as fast. But we go the same speed on the downhills, which is the more dangerous part anyway.

If I had written last week, I would have been exuding joy and oneness with the universe and all things nature. Even the rain didn't dampen my spirits, and all doubts of finishing vanished. Every morning, we woke up already in our favorite place: the woods. The walking, walking, walking was more awesome than I could have believed - my body felt great, and every step quickly disappeared into a "hiking trance", where my mind could wander freely and every green thing in this early spring world was a small miracle to behold. The first week we broke in our hiking legs, but in the second, we had to break in our hiking souls. Though the sun was shining when we left Helen, by the next day the rain was back - and it didn't leave. At first, I saw its beauty - the trees disappearing into the mist, the diamond-like drops clinging to branches, the relief from the burning sun in the heat of the day. Even through day 6 of rain hiking, I still clung to the notion that if it rained now, at least it wouldn't rain in the Smokies (arguably the most difficult section of the whole hike), but by day 7, with our food supply dwindling (our lunch consisted of Spam pieces and cheese chunks in a bag with tortilla pieces; the rain prevented even mayo or mustard), the dreariness, lack of good views, and general dampness of everything I own finally beat my optimistic nature to the deadpan lack of emotion that comes from determination to go on despite the odds.

And then there was Day 8.

The night before, with a soaked tent and sunset immenint, we stumbled into a packed shelter. Though there were nearly 20 people inside, everyone was asleep or reading (we keep a somewhat later schedule than many, particularly shelter folk), so we silently made dinner, set up our little area under the ladder to the loft, and tried to go to sleep. Of course, we landed next to THE snorer (a charming little middle-aged woman), and I spent most of the night worm-kicking her from my sleeping bag. Finally, the sun rose (to reveal a grey world), and the snores stopped - Finally, I could get maybe 3 hours of sleep before our 12 mile hike. But no. Many of the occupants of the shelter were middle-aged couples, and all the middle-aged women woke up and started chit-chatting loudly about the most inane, frustrating things. I recall one of them saying they should make the Appalachian Trail into a reality show, and having the strong desire to punch her in the face. After a while of this, people started grumbling and, having no other choice, started getting up and getting ready. I made some kind of passing comment to my snore-ful neighbor about how I hate shelters, which sparked a sarcastically-toned conversation about snores and rude people. So I came out looking a little rude too in the end, but at least everyone was already awake.

Jess and I waited till everyone else left, and boy it was cold outside. Not raining too hard, but definately the coldest day yet. Someone who had been tent camping nearby came over, and he was really cool, and we talked for a bit about shelters and how they're lame. He then told us about a blue trail. For those of you who are unfamiliar with trails, they are marked with painted squares on trees - sometimes as close as 50 ft, sometimes not to be seen for a mile. The Appalachian Trail is marked with white blazes, and other trails in this area are marked with blue blazes. Blue blaze trails usually lead to shelters or water sources, but sometimes they are also shortcut trails. This particular blue trail was about 5 miles, and would cause us to miss 14 miles of the AT, which would put us in Franklin a day early. Between our low fuel and food supply, our low moral, and the Hiker Fools Bash this past weekend that we would otherwise miss, we decided we didn't necessarily need to be "purists" (people who believe that you must pass every single white blaze in order for your hike to count) and headed off down the AT toward "Deep Gap", 11 miles away and the location of the shortcut.

It was so cold. Rain, whatever, we have rain suits and garbage bags lining our packs for a reason. But it was so cold. You'd hike along and build up a sweat, stop for a minute to catch your breath, and be freezing in less than 30 seconds. To the point where you stop taking breaks to catch your breath. You have to keep plodding along, no matter how your muscles protest, ignoring the stitch in your side, just keep slogging through the mud. As I approached the top of a mountain, about 2.5 hours into the day, a sudden pain tore through my abdomen. Keep in mind, 75% of the weight of your pack rests on your hips, via the belt strap, wrapped as tightly as possible around (you guessed it) your abdomen. I tried to power through and keep climbing (for what other option did I have, really?), but the pain intensified and I ended up yelling in pain hanging from a rhodendendron on the side of the trail so I wouldn't fall to my knees (how would I get back up?). The pain passed, and I journied on, but less than 5 minutes later it was back. This time I did fall to my knees, nearly crying. It passed, and I soldiered on until I reached the top and, more importantly, Jess (who this whole time had been less than 50 yards away, and I only couldn't see or hear him because of the mist). I told him of my problems, and he put me in front of him for our descent down the other side. To my suprise, going down was worse. The jostling of the pack going down put even more pressure on my abodomen, and I quickly collapsed on a nearby log, now literally crying and Jess a little freaked out. "Jess," I said, "I have to do it in the woods," (all stumpies rejoice). I stumbled down the 45 degree slope, threw my butt over a log, clung to a rhodendendron branch so I wouldn't go rolling off down the hill, and prayed that it would all be over soon.

Meanwhile, Jess prepared O-noodle soup for lunch.

I returned, and proceeded to gulp down scalding hot soup in the hopes that it would warm my marrow. If I thought I was deadpan before, it was nothing to this state. No emotion. No thought. Just scalding hot soup buring my tounge. Slowly, slowly, my bones did begin to warm, and my brain rebooted. Still no emotion, but one thought. "Why am I here again?"

"Why am I here again? No, seriously, what the am I doing here? What could possibly have been going through my mind? Am I insane? What just happened? Why am I here? This is my free will? I'm finally a "grown-up" (whatever that means) with my fancy degree and my fiance and all that bologna, what the <> am I doing here????"

And I contemplated the next six months. And then I contemplated the next six miles, which I had no choice but to hike, regardless of any other thought processes. And then I contemplated my life, and the choices I have made, and the choices I thought I would be making in the future. And I really retraced the thought processes that had brought me to this time, place, and situation in general. Really analyzed my "logic", more so than I had before I left for this whole adventure. Remembered, slowly, that I hadn't wanted to do the the whole "job" thing yet; that I had endured 19 years of school and deserved a "vacation"; that I had spent the last 4 years learning about the environment but speding little time in it; my frustration with society, and the human race at large, which is so obsessed with its own superiority to the actual Earth that we Live On that it is slowly poisoning it and DOESN'T seem to CARE; and my desire to distance myself from popular culture and, yes, the human race at large; really thought about all these things and realized that, yes, I would still rather be here. "Wow," I thought, "what a world I live in."

I felt better. We walked on. What choice? None. We got to Deep Gap, the location of the shortcut. And lo and behold, there was a tent, and in this tent were two men, father and son, who had hiked the trail in '02, and decided to bring some Magic to the Trail. In the form of beef stew. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, beef stew to finish off one of the more miserable days of my life. The white blazes work in mysterious ways. Because they fed us dinner, and breakfast the next morning, and lunch before we left, we had enough food to take the AT to Franklin. But more importantly, we had the spirit. The next morning, the sun rose, and the world wasn't grey. We took the long road, and we got to Franklin just in time to avoid the 6 inches of snow the Trail has gotten since we left. Bam-shaka-laka.

Though we missed the Hiker Bash, we met a few interesting hikers in Franklin, and I came to learn something that I hadn't understood about the trail previously. Between the begining of March and the end of October, about 2 million people get on the trail at some point for some purpose for some length of time and travel north for some distance. Some hop off and others hop on as it proceeds up the east coast. This is the size of a small city. Some people have never hiked before, but most have and have returned for years to thru-hike again, or section hike, or to provide trail magic, or just to jump on the bandwagon. There are people who have been "on the trail" for twenty years. I met a dog that has 6,000 miles under his belt. A DOG! And this small city has a society, and elders, and norms and codes of behavior and standards and practices and even "Rainbow Hikers" who are the Trail equivilant to bums but all hikers are bums really (unemployed and homeless, benefiting off the kindness and generosity of others), the difference is they apparently come out with NO gear or food or money and live off the hiker-helper attitude (AT thru-hikers are famous in these parts because we are kind, helpful, and grateful). Bottom line? My whole escape society thing isn't going as well as I thought it would out here.