Appalachian Trail, Ho!

Maine: The Final Frontier

2011-09-25T00:16:00.000-07:00

This has been a difficult story to conclude. Part of me doesn't want it to end. Each time I was asked when the blog would be finished was an opportunity to reminisce and maybe tell a story or two out loud, as they are meant to be shared. But, as we are off on yet another adventure, I suppose the time has come to bring this one to a close. Or this chapter at least. We intend to continue using this blog to record our various voyages, though it is probably best not to put any sort of a time frame on these sorts of things. So, where were we...?
We had taken a pass on the White Mountains in order to spare my deflicted shoulder the wear and tear of the seemingly most arduous summits of the trail. We found ourselves confronted by obstacles that paled in comparison to what lay behind us. What Maine peaks lack in elevation, they more than make up for with sheer number and sheer sheerness. As soon as we crossed the boarder into Maine, the trail took a rapid rise up and continued in this direction. We climbed on into the sub-alpine region, an area populated with low shrubs and Balsam Fir. The Firs would follow us up our assent and give forewarning of our arrival at one summit after another. As we reached a high point, the trees would get shorter and shorter. By the time we broke tree line, we would feel like giants, trudging upwards past ancient trees only a foot tall. Some of the oldest trees are those unassuming dwarfs on the tops of mountains, where their growth is slowed and stunted by the elements. It is from these trees that the practice of Bonsai originated. It is believed that insight can be gained from the contemplation of their gnarled forms, and so people wished to have a version in their own homes. Though I do not disagree with the art, I feel much of the insight is gained on the trek to such harsh environs and the miracle that anything at all survives there.
It was here I developed my List of The PHLO's favorite smells. 1. Balsam Fir on a windswept ridge. 2. Honey Locust blossoms in spring (Hot Springs, NC) 3. Bacon anytime. The balsam formed pockets beneath the bark about the size of a Lima bean. When pressed, the most fabulous smell would fill the air, a fresh evergreen aroma mixed with mystery and the promise of wild places, with just a hint of loneliness. All this blown into my face by the purest air, swept up from wooded valleys known only to squirrels and moose. I realize that some of the above description is not generally regarded as attributable to smells, suffice it to say it is an olfactory experience beyond words. The view shares this downfall. (change)
We would go up, up inclines better than 45 degrees. Up climbs I would have thought impossible, if not for 6 months of practice. Up and up. Up so steep that the trail two paces ahead of us was at eye level. Then the the trail would turn to living bedrock exposed by years of water running from the balds above. The rain cut a trail as much as two feet below the forest floor around us, though this difference disappeared rapidly on the accent, as there is little soil at all as one approaches the alpine region. And we would leave the last miniature sentinels of the Fir and scramble over bare rock. The first few peaks were rounded crags, a welcome break from elevation change and we looked out in wonder. No towns, no highways, only a single dirt road winding its way and tracing a thin brown line along the valleys below. And in place of villages and burroughs in the low places were multitudinous lakes and ponds. If there is one thing that may rival mountains for abundance in Maine, it is lakes. As I traced the path of the wooded road, I saw a house on one lake nearby and off the dock was not a boat but a puddle jumper, or pontoon plane. This was the first difference we saw between Mainers and people in other parts of the US, but not the last. And then, after taking in the view, we would proceed down downhills that felt more like controlled falls. Or uncontrolled falls. At one point, on such a decent, I lost my footing and saw the ground rushing up at me. I don't know what prevented the usual instinct to catch one's self, but I tucked and rolled instead. My shoulder touched lightly on the trail and my weight rolled on. Then my pack hit the ground and vaulted me back into the air, where I performed an unconscious flip and found myself landing nimbly on my feet. I doubt I could ever replicate the maneuver if I tried, but Julia was awestruck. Perhaps I was a ninja in a past life. Either way I saved myself from a broken wrist at best and a skull fracture at worst. Ah, the excitement of trail life. It was also on one of these descents that Julia made a key discovery. When demanding how I was able to sprint down the sides of these near cliffs, I replied that it was just one foot in front of the other, and you find the flattest point in front of you and step on it. She responded that she couldn't even make out these flatter spots and that the trail was just a blur when she walked. After a few miles of considering this and playing the “OK, can you see that (insert random far away thing)?” game, we realized that she needed glasses. Which would explain, at least in part, why she was always so much slower than me, especially on downhills and around twilight. Unfortunately we were in the middle of nowhere, and Lenscrafter's was a long way off. She finally got glasses in Long Island, and looks very professional, yet alluring in them, but at the time, we had no choice but to press on.
Then we left the 'foothills' of Maine and got into some real mountains. These were like the others, but when we broke treeline, there were no rounded tops, only bare rock ascents requiring the use of both hands to hold on. All the while we were buffeted by strong winds, and would look over our shoulders an know that one wrong step would equal a 200 foot unchecked roll over bare rocks, ending in a likely-fatal crash into the trees below. I was loving it. I'll attribute this to confidence gained while rock climbing. Julia was less enthused. But we survived each climb and were rewarded with views greater than before. We would look ahead and one of us would ask the other where they thought the trail went. And the other would point at every jagged summit, one by one, and sarcastically declare that to be the route. And it invariably was.
It was on one of these crags that we ran into a spry woman in her mid-fifties. Over the din of gale-force winds, she told us she lived a few miles from the bottom of the mountain and was training to hike Mt. Katahdin with some friends in 2 weeks. She then gave us some fresh veggies she had brought up in case she ran into distance hikers. I had only experimented with tomatoes occasionally on burgers up to this point; they were one of a very short list of foods I did not like. But the zip-lock of cherry tomatoes she gave us was a glorious discovery. They were little packages of juicy goodness, packed full of the vitamins and minerals my body was starved for. I think the 'list of foods I don't like' is now completely empty.
*A brief side note: In the previous blog entry I referred to The PHLO's eastern brewery tour as having 4 stops up the trail. It was actually 5. I forgot to count the Great Smokey Mountain Brewery in Gatlinburg TN which was excellent.
Eventually we fell into the rhythm of Maine, and noted considerable improvement as we trudged up one peak and and vaulted down the other side. We weren't even surprised to come across pieces of rebar jutting out of bare rocks to make some places negotiable. We did take a moment to appreciate a giant ladder-type structure leaning against a cliff face (i.e. trail) at one point. The ladder was made entirely of logs approximately 2 feet in diameter and reaching up at least fifty feet. Tricky to climb with packs weighing us backwards towards oblivion. I had already made it up, and Julia was about ten feet from the top when she remarked, “You know, I don't see anything holding this in place.” Huh. Well waddya know. Ah, Maine.
The ladder was just one example of the crazy feats the local trail maintainers pull off. In the final week we would run into a crew who would bribe us with Cliff Bars in exchange for help in moving giant logs into place, two side by side, and holding them while the crew leader sawed off a strip along their entire length. This is how they made the bridges we walked over in the swampy lowlands. They also tried to explain how they used a block and tackle to move rough hewn rocks the size of a conventional stove onto the trail to form a step in staircases that would go on for over a quarter-mile in a stretch. They tried to explain it, but I refuse to believe it until I see it with my own eyes. The trail crew was comprised entirely of LL Bean employees, who maintain the final 100 or so miles of the AT leading to Baxter State Park, home of Mt. Katahdin. I just got a new pair of LL Bean hiking shoes today, and they are awesome, as were all the other pairs of their shoes I have owned. I told them of my love for their company, now doubled after having met the people who make it happen. They appreciated it, and we swapped gear stories and ridiculed Patagonia for their insane prices and shoddy products. Their customer service is also crap.
But that run in was in the low lands of the Hundred mile wilderness, and we had far to travel yet. First we had to tackle the Mahoosic Notch. The Mahoosic Notch is listed in the Appalachian pages as either the hardest or most fun mile on the AT. That's all it says. So, knowing how we hike, we walked past the shelter and Cowboy Camped (under the stars, no tent) on a small flat patch near the last water source before the Notch. That night I was completely unable to sleep, a rarity on trail. I laid awake and watched a beautiful moon make its way slowly across the sky. As dawn began to break, I was finally able to end my contemplations and get a few hours rest. We roused ourselves early and headed down into the unknown.
The Notch turned out to be a huge boulder field and required some pretty delicate scrambles. On two occasions, we had to shove our packs through tiny caves, then wriggle our way through behind them. On either side were gigantic cliff faces reaching up to the clouds. In all, it took over four hours to travel the one mile to flat ground. Sore and exhausted, we grabbed a campsite immediately after the notch, probably created by weary hikers such as ourselves. As we made camp, we were harassed by an adorable chipmunk. We got some great pictures of him bear-hugging our plastic honey bear, but later cursed him for stealing some of our trail mix. It's hard to stay mad a creature that cute, especially one who would let you get less than a foot away and take pictures. We made an early night of it, and were asleep before the sun had set.
The trail in Maine was lonely, desolate, and stunningly beautiful. This was what I had expected, I think, when I set out on the trail. No towns, no friends, just us, our gear, and the unknown wilderness. It blends together in a mosaic of bogs and fall foliage, near falls and harrowing climbs. A departure from civilization unfound elsewhere on the eastern coast.

The Phlo's moose stories:
Soon after entering Maine, I began to see signs of large ungulates; hoof-prints as big as my hand and scat larger than marbles. One particular evening, as twilight crept in, we passed a series of wooded lakes on the way to the shelter. I had a strange feeling, and remarked to Julia that we were going to see a moose. For no reason, I was positive of this and continued to insist that,”Oh, man. We're going to see a moose today!” Within ten minutes, we reached the shore of a ~4 acre lake, and in its center was a female moose, mostly submerged. I excitedly tried to photograph it, but the light was too poor and the distance too great. None the less, I felt satisfied. One of my biggest hopes of the trail had just been satisfied. It was not the last time.
A week or so later, we were hiking the top of a barren ridge and came to a sign marking a side trail. It wasn't in our book, but having been living the trail life for so long, we felt confident the trail would descend into the valley and meet up with the trail again. More hiker's intuition than sound judgment, I suppose, but we set off down the trail anyway. There is a great joy to be found on Blue Blazed Trails. The moss grows thick and the leaves have not yet been trampled brown. No tracks mark the passage of man, and we have no trail guide to consult. As we continued on, there was a crash like a dump truck trying it trail legs, and we saw a gigantic brown butt disappearing through the undergrowth. We stopped and looked at each other. It was either the world's largest deer, or we had just been within 50 feet of a full grown moose. We considered ourselves very lucky, and doubly so when the trail rejoined the AT.
And then, a week or so after this encounter, we happened to be hiking a remote section of trail in the late evening. Twilight had given way to a star filled sky, and I was just thinking about taking out my headlamp, as the final traces of sunlight left the sky. I heard a noise off the trail a few meters, but assumed it to be a squirrel. A moment later there was a tremendous crash that could only be one thing. I stopped, frozen, then turned slowly to see who else was hiking at this late hour. Fifteen feet (FEET) behind me stood a full grown Bull Moose. It paused on the trail I had just walked and eyed me. I could see its steamy breath blowing in twin cones from nostrils above my head. I was in awe of the primordial beast, its great cyclopean hump covered in coarse hair reminiscent of mastodon exhibits I had seen in museums. It was the wildness of the landscape embodied, and it was staring me in the face. I could do naught but stare back. As our silent moment stretched on, I realized that this massive creatures horn's were easily wider than I was tall. I took a slow side-step behind a nearby tree. At that moment, a light came on 40 or so feet behind the moose. The monstrous mammal ponderously turned its head and looked agitatedly back. I prayed that Julia had seen the creature and wasn't about to startle it into charging. I felt the back of my throat tighten as I considered the possibility of doing battle with this creature of the Old World, to distract it, and hopefully save my companion. I can imagine worse deaths, for surely there would be no other outcome. The moose turned back to me and gave an irritated snort. Not wishing to be cornered, even by such insignificant threats, it shuffled off the trail and was gone, with all the grace of an avalanche. I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. On this trail, I had encountered bears and rattlesnakes in close proximity, but they were nothing like this. The moose could have killed me without a thought. It was more a force of nature than a single creature. It stirred some last vestige of caveman instinct in me, and left me dumbfounded. It was more like the feeling after experiencing a brutal lightning storm and living to tell the tale. Adrenaline pumping, but overwhelming any fear, the knowledge that I had just witnessed something truly beautiful. I will never forget that moment. Being face to face with Bull Moose and not feeling out of place.

And why were we out so late? Poor planing? A undue fondness for breaks? Maybe, but I think more it was a love of the experience itself. Just as the trail varies along it's length, so do night-hikes vary, and posses their own charm. From our early night hikes, rolling into shelters a little after dark and finding every occupant sound asleep, to rainy nights in Virginia, to cornfields in PA, each provided a break from the monotony of trail life. In Virginia, as we picked our way down a slope, the setting sun turned the heavy cloud cover into a roiling blood red sea. In Pennsylvania, we paused at the edge of a field so packed with lightning bugs that my brain ached trying to take it all in. I imagined I was staring at a vast and tiny metropolis, or maybe an electron field. I felt like a giant and a particle all at the same time. Mostly I felt lucky, and infinitely grateful to be exactly where I was. Night-hiking in Maine was no exception. We did this several times, and each time I was struck by how silent it was. Night fell like a soft blanket here, and even our own footfalls were swallowed up in the darkness. No town lights interrupted our vistas and no bugs dared venture so high up the mountains. We were alone in the darkness, picking our way along the trail we had followed so far.
We had the opportunity in Maine to stay at one of our favorite hostels. We came out of the woods and onto one of the very few roads, and met a hiker waiting for a ride into Andover, courtesy of the hostel. We figured hitching would get us nowhere and when the ride arrived, we hopped on and decided to make a day of our resupply. It was here we found the legendary ( at least to children of the trail) jewelry maker of the AT. He was a gentleman of Native American ancestry, and I guessed him to be around fifty. He was the one who gave us a ride into town, and assisted the woman who owned the hostel. I guessed her to be around a hundred. After we had gone food shopping and ate at the local diner, we lounged on the porch with a SoBo and a long-term hiker known as Stickman. The man who had given us the ride, and who's name I have regrettably forgotten, approached our group and said, “You guys wanna see my shit?” Huh? Beg pardon? “Oh yeah, I got a whole shed full of cool shit.” None of us wanting to miss an opportunity, we followed him to his workshop, where he showed us his full line of Moose Poop jewelry. That's right. Moose Poop Jewelry. As he showed us various necklaces and key chains, he educated us on the finer points of moose droppings. He explained that it's the cleanest poop there is, and he dries it and coats it with a sealant, then turns it into jewelry. My mother and brother's shared birthday had passed recently, so I bought them some souvenirs. Julia also got a set of earrings for her mother and they were mailed to Long Island. I don't know what happened to them, but Doris, if you're reading this and didn't immediately throw them away, please forward my family their one-of-a-kind AT keepsakes. Rob's key chain even had a little white blaze on it. Sorry we forgot about them in the post-trail chaos, but rest assured, they are something you can treasure for a lifetime. Not to mention being one heck of a conversation starter.
The other hostel we stayed at in Maine was nothing special, but the town of Monson was probably the coolest. That and Helen, GA. No phony-bologna Bavarian theme here though. Quite the opposite. There were two businesses we saw, one being a laundry mat / bar. The machines were in front, and down a tight hallway was a hidden speakeasy packed to the gills with about a dozen locals and hiker trash. We bought a drink for Patty-O, the truest trail angel we had met. More about him in a second. The other place of business was the General Store, and I mean General. It was also the only restaurant, serving awesome all-you-can-eat french toast for dirt cheap. It was also the post office, town notary, office of the Fire Marshal, movie rental shop, and hardware store. Our guidebook only marked it as a resupply and added that they held a Friday night jam session. I had assumed hippie, jam-band type music, and thought it might be a fun way to spend a Friday night. We stepped into the store at 10, well after closing time and after hikers bedtimes, and felt as though we were intruding on a very intimate scene. There sat the owner of the store (and postmaster, and fire marshal, etc) holding a guitar, along with two other guitar players, a banjo player, a fiddle, and a tin whistle(I think) player. I just re-watched the video and got goose bumps. There they were, playing songs handed down from times of antiquity, the purest bluegrass, with no audience but a few travel worn hikers and themselves. They welcomed us in and we stood by, unable to do anything but take it all in. They asked if any of us could sing and we said no. If I had only known they were about to bust into Johnny Cash, I would have answered otherwise, but we watched as they played on into the night. When they were finished, they packed up, wished each other well and made their way home. We told the owner how incredible what we had just seen was, and he seemed to share our feelings. He said they had been getting together every Friday for 6 years, except for one blizzard that snowed their doors shut. They're a hardy breed, Mainers. He said he was going to sell the place, and the weekly Jam session came with it. I think that alone would be worth the asking price, which was incredibly low. Anyone reading this who wants to make a change in there lives, I'd consider this one. This was to be our last night in civilization on the trail, and I couldn't imagine a more perfect send-off into the hundred mile wilderness.
But Patty-O. We descended from a mountain and came face to face with a large orange sign stating “Road work ahead.” Odd. Some worker with a sense of humor, I guess. Or a SoBo vandal. Either way, we were next to the third of five roads the trail crosses in Maine. One to Andover, a weeks march behind us, the Grafton Notch road, which we had stealth camped next to, and this one. We could hear a car or two through the trees, but we noticed a campsite along the trail, and decided to camp and go in to town the following day, as darkness was approaching. As we unpacked, we saw more tents farther back in the trees. Next thing we knew, Stickman was inviting us over to his campfire, where he introduced us to a pair of hikers on their second through hike; this time headed south. I can't remember their names, but they looked like the actors they have on Discovery Channel specials, the ones about neanderthals and early man. Except they wore dirty Goretex instead of dirty leather. They had something delicious cooking on the fire, and were all around good people. They clued us in to one of the ultimate cold weather camping recipes: AT Apple Jacks. In a steel cup or pot, mix two packets of apple cider powdered drink mix, 4 ounces of Bourbon, and 4 ounces of water. Heat uncovered until the first bubbles appear, and add one or two soft caramel candies. Hard candy may also work. Heat again, stirring until candy is dissolved. We sat by the fire and swapped stories as dusk closed in around us, diffusing through the northern woods like dye in clear water. As darkness became complete, our hosts asked if we had met Patty-O. We said we hadn’t even heard of him. We had been hiking pretty much on our own since we started Maine. The difference between the beginning of the trail stood out starkly. They told us that Patty-O was a first rate trail angel, though he didn't advertise. He was also the originator of the Trail Bomb. They couldn't remember exactly what it was, just that we should say yes if offered one. Just then, some headlights sent their shards out through the night, dodging between branches and stabbing the smoke of our fire with electronic power-glow. “That must be him,” one of the cavemen said. “He was bringing back Sailor and the rest of that crew. Let's go say hello.” So Graveyard and I got up and went with him and Stickman to meet Patty-O, leaving the cavewoman to tend the fire and Apple Jacks. Patty-O was a friendly guy in his late thirties, or so, who drove a large truck, loaded with odd boxes, hoses, coolers and gadgets, all mostly covered by a tarp. He let out the four hikers he had with him, and came over to say hi, having met our associates earlier. It all started casually, just chatting about this or that, weather, trail life, etc. Then, Patty-O would casually interject and ask if we wanted a soda. Then fifteen minutes later, “Hey, do you want a beer?” And he would reach under his tarp and produce a Budweiser. We continued talking; found out he was an engineer from New York who comes up here as his vacation for a week or two every year. He gave a thru-hiker a ride a few years back, and fell in love with the trail and its residents. He was also a huge fan of music, and several hours later, we were all singing along to Frank Sinatra and eating hot dogs with bacon while drinking trail bombs. The hot dogs and bacon were cooked out of the back of the truck on a propane grill, which explained some of the piping. I assume Patty-O is a pretty excellent engineer. The trail bombs were similar to an Irish Car Bomb, except with Wild Turkey 101 instead of Jameson. Quite a luxury in the wilderness, and thanks to the climate, cold and refreshing too. So we called it a night. The next morning, we packed up, said goodbye to our site-mates, and started hitching. It was a lousy spot, and about 45 minutes had gone by when Patty-O pulled in. He gave us a ride to town, and dropped us off at a little pizza place. As we tried to hitch back to the trail, we see Patty-O again, and he picks us up again. We then went on to the next town, a three hour drive, but about 80 miles of trail. After settling in to the hostel, we ventured out again, and ran into Patty-O, dropping off a hiker at the bar/laundry mat, and that ends the back story of Patty-O. We had a great night's sleep at the hostel, after familiar episode of the Simpsons (funny the details that stick with you over a year later). We ran into Moe! again that morning, as she sorted through a mail drop outside on the lawn of the hostel. We spent the morning talking with her and a few others about life and the trail. It's end was drawing near. This was our last town before the Hundred mile wilderness, and we sat outside the Last Homely House and reflected. We had come a long way since meeting Moe! on the northern side of the Great Smokey Mountains, and we all had innumerable stories, but we spoke more generally at our last meeting. Things such as life after the trail, lessons learned, and our view on the rest of the world. We had dropped off the map, and the rest of the world was a little different than we had left it. You don't really notice the trends at the time when you're in society, only afterward when looking back. Oh, the music changed, the styles changed. But the change is counted by decade. After six months of having our fingers off the pulse, we realized the beat had changed subtly. It was on these things that we spoke, until the morning had passed and afternoon was well underway. We knew it was time for us to shoulder our packs and throw out our thumbs for one last hitch on our quest for Katahdin.
This turned out to be easier than expected when 10 minutes later Patty-O pulled up, and off we went. He dropped us of as the sun dipped below a mountainous horizon, and treated us each to a parting hot dog with bacon. Patty-O is the Merlin of trail magic. We watched him depart and used the last remaining light to pitch a stealth camp on an old logging road a few hundred yards in. The next morning,we broke camp, walked 50 paces and ran into the following...

A nice cheery message to start the day.

The Hundred Mile Wilderness:
The first thirty miles was high elevation hiking much as before, but significantly colder. A strong wind blew constantly, and the sun refused to show itself, but there was no precipitation, just early morning fog that chilled to the bone and made an early start a foreboding prospect. It was relatively uneventful, until we got to the next to highest peak we would climb. You see, the trail drops to almost sea level in the last 70 miles before Katahdin. We were to reach the pre-Katahdin zenith on a cold and misty day. “No view of Katahdin today,” we lamented, still wrapped in or sleeping bags. But we rose and hiked on. As we drew near to the pinnacle, the skies cleared, the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. A few hikers sat huddled out of the wind as best they could. “Where's Katahdin?” I cried against the wind, and they pointed to a path amongst some boulders that led to the windward side of the mountain. “Don't get your hopes up, it's not the close one,” they called after. I emerged from the rocks and looked across a vast plain with the most enormous mountain I had ever seen directly in the middle of it. That's not it? The mountain in front of me appeared no more than 30 miles off as the crow flies, so I strained to see Katahdin. I took some pictures of a distant mountain I hoped might be our mountain. I had forgotten 2 crucial things about hiking. Never assume that 'as the crow flies' has the slightest bearing on 'as the hiker hikes,' and two; never trust anybody's word on on anything related to time, distance, or location while in the wilderness.
We descended from the barren peak, and found autumn laid out before us in full splendor. A view presented itself a few hundred vertical feet above the plains. The temperature had climbed 20 degrees and the wind was no longer howling. It was a pleasant breeze that smelled of pollen and living things. We took in the view and were joined by Sailor J, one of the hikers we had seem disembarking from Patty-O's Patty Wagon. As we looked out on the final stretch of our six month endeavor, we didn't swap stories, or say much of anything, just looked out on the flat terrain of the great wilds of Maine. Small ponds abounded and there wasn't an elevation climb in sight. The weather was gorgeous, and we sat in silence, taking it in. We crushed the last 5 miles as if they were a stroll. We walked through tunnels of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows, highlighted by fringes of green in the undergrowth. Sailor J had hiked on to meet his trail crew, and we made camp in a shelter less than 70 miles from the pinnacle of Mt. Kahtadin. That night we heard a tale of love from a traveling poet who met a woman speed hiking the Long Trail in Vermont. They had hiked together for days and vowed to reunite after their respective journeys. He shared with us and our shelter mates some of his poetry, and we were reminded that beauty and wonder abound in many places and in many forms. The next morning we took water at a pristine stream and resolved to set off at a rugged pace. We hiked hard, our trail legs stretching out as we left the hardest section of trail for the easiest. The ground was wet, and at times we walked on well-maintained wooden walkways. As Graveyard demonstrates below, the walkways were essential.

We killed the first ten miles before lunch, and it was on this day that we ran into the trail maintenance crew from LL Bean mentioned earlier. We hiked on, less than ten miles from a hostel that offered 1 pound burgers. We were on pace to reach there well before sunset and Graveyard sang a hiking tune centered around the deliciousness of a one pound burger. And then she made the punt of her life. She slipped on a patch of trail and swung her other foot to catch herself. She succeed in not falling, but broke her toe in the process. After venting and walking it off, we set out again, and realized within 100 yards that we were done for the day. We rested her huge purple toe and lamented on our meal of noodles and the lack of burgers. The next day we tried to hike the remaining four miles to the hostel, but only made it three. We rested again, and that evening Julia elevated her feet on our backpacks while I made a cold compress by dipping a bandana in the stream. We made it to the hostel the next day, blew an air horn, and waited while a man made his was across the slow moving river to our location. We ate our burgers gladly, cheers-ed our friends from our last shelter, and inquired about a ride to Abol, given Graveyards deflicted toe. They wanted us to stay at their place over night for $80, and then pay further for the ride. We considered having Graveyard go ahead, and I would meet her in in Baxter, but we started this trail together, and we weren't about to separate now, so we spent the last of our money on extra rations and went back across the river. We kept our mileage to 5 or so a day, and Julia's toe slowly started to heal. We were able to get a call out to Julia's Mom, and she gave us the nurse-ly advice that there is nothing a hospital can do for a broken toe, and we should just Rest it. Plus Ice, Compression, and Elevation. RICE. Easy to remember. Fortunately, as we drew within two days of our Katahdin assault, her toe was feeling up to snuff. We rolled in to Abol bridge at the boundary of Baxter National Park. We “resupplied” (mostly Snickers, more Snickers, and a Three Musketeers bar for variety) and took in the spectacular sight of this mountain we had pursued so long. Outside, two hunters from New York were checking in a moose they had shot. They were stoked about their 500 pound catch, but the owner of the store whispered to us that it was “a little one.” We ate dinner, and decided to take one last night hike. We entered Baxter as full dark came on. After pondering the entrance sign to the park, and the accompanying weather forecast, we knew that tomorrow would be our day. We left the white blazes again, taking a shortcut to reach base camp. But how can you pass up something called the Blueberry Trail? And as all blue blazes, it was great. The stars are beautiful when you're 20 miles from the nearest residence.
Just as we began to fear we had lost the trail, we heard voices echoing through the woods. After 10 minutes of pseudo-bushwhacking, we came to the Birches; last shelter of the Appalachian Trail. Sailor J was tending the fire, and the rest of his crew had just retired. We exchanged a warm greeting, made camp, and fell asleep immediately. I had expected to be anxious and too excited to sleep, but physical exhaustion took over.

The next morning we awoke at dawn and joined our fellow ascenders around our last campfire of the AT. Sweet Lou made us all some pancakes and we enjoyed them with the last of our oatmeal. I would swear off oatmeal for quite some time. Actually, I don't think I've had it since. Same with Ramen noodles, which was now the culmination of our rations in addition to 2 Powerbars and 4 Snickers, destined to be eaten on the side of our final climb. As we left camp, a British hiker rolled in to camp, with the intention of taking the summit tomorrow in spite of the foreboding forecast. I'm not sure, but I do believe he was the hiker we encountered outside of Bear Mountain. The one with a cheap dollar store 'torch' and no idea how to set up a tent, who had just set off to take a walk. If it was him, he had come a long way. Literally and metaphorically.
We walked to the ranger check-in station with a spring in our step borne of anticipation. We gave our information to the lovely Rachel (all the more alluring in her neatly pressed US Forest Service Uniform). We told her that we had come from Georgia over six months ago, but we had hitch-hiked some large stretches and couldn't call ourselves thru-hikers. She marked us as Long Distance Section Hikers with a notation of 1400 miles. Roughly two-thirds of the trail, or three times what Bill Bryson hiked, for those keeping score. That is how we are classified in the official records of the Appalachian Trail Association. I give much credit to purists, despite poking fun at them sometimes. They are hiking their hike, and they have more perseverance and tolerance than I. But I can say that, thru-hike or no, I hiked my hike. We hiked our hike. And I wouldn't change a single step. Julia might change the one that shattered her toe, but aside from that...

So we ditched almost all of our gear at the ranger station. Two hefty bags with small bundles of rancid clothing and stale spices in zip-locks, a paper back or two, and our minimal stove. Some chipped cookware stained by alcohol flame and campfire alike. A sheet of nylon packed down to the size of a softball and about half the weight. We called it a tent. These meager possessions were our necessities and our companions over long miles. We left them on the rangers porch, certain no one would want to steal them, yet well aware of their pricelessness to us. We had six bars, 3 liters of water, rain coats, and an emergency blanket. Also, a camera and a game called Cosmic Wimpout. The day had begun, and we lighted off in high spirits.

Mt Katahdin is almost exactly 5.2 miles from the Ranger station to the summit via the AT. There are other trails, but this one was ours. The first two miles were joyously easy, and we joked as we climbed, making excellent time. The trail gradually grew steeper, but we were prepared for such gain. We left Katahdin Stream and climbed up through thinning fall foliage. As we approached tree line, the trail became difficult. The grade increased dramatically, and we had to use our hands at times. This didn't continue for long, as we soon hit cloud line and the trail took a dramatic turn. An upward turn, to be specific. The hiking turned to climbing, and I was glad for my time spent at Seneca Rocks. I had learned balance and how important one's center of gravity is. Julia, however, got to pick it up on the go. And it was slow going for the both of us. We certainly weren't prepared for the number and difficulty of the scrambles before us. After a heroic struggle, we reached a flat point of the trail. A sign was just visible through the fog; I mean clouds. We had reached “The Tablelands”, and were only a mile from our destination across relatively flat terrain. We approached the sign, tired but not beaten. Or so we thought. “The Gateway”, it read. 1.5 miles to the top, which may not seem like a big difference, but it is the most difficult half mile of the climb. We stopped for a break in a sheltering rock. The temperature had dropped dramatically from the mid 70's below, and the mist chilled us as we ate a candy bar and reflected on our position. This position was particularly unnerving because the trail was no longer only a cold, foggy boulder field with a treacherous drop. It now became a colder, foggier, boulder ridge, with a treacherous drop on both sides. We had about fifteen feet to play with, and then the trail area just dropped off for 50 feet before being lost in the fog. We were pretty sure the drop continued for some way. At this point, Julia decided she had had enough. We were way behind schedule, and weren't even half way yet. But we were here, and there was no turning back. We struggled on.
We then came to a large wall of rock, with two boulders on either side. I pulled myself up, and vaulted up to a decent position through an act of contortionism and flexible joints. Julia was dubious about following, but I assured her it wasn't as impossible as it looked. She disagreed. She was quite sure there was no way for her to get over this. I lowered myself and offered her a leg to reach up to and I would pull her up. We tried this for a quarter of a second before she told me where to stick my ideas and walked away from the bottom of the trail/cliff. I don't remember what I was yelling when I was cut short by Julia standing about fifteen feet above me. “There was a trail around the side,” she stated, and disappeared up the trail while I struggled after. We crept up this dicey trail slowly and cautiously, well aware that our day was slipping away, and we had far to go yet. About a tenth of a mile after our strength and spirits gave out, we came to another sign. The Tablelands. These were a flat harsh stretch covered in low plants and bent shrubs. The leafless branches were iced over on one side, and my beard was beginning to gather its own collection of alpine diamonds. I breathed a moist sigh of relief. Time to get to the top. That was my only thought. Julia was burdened by the thought of how long it had taken to reach this point (6 hours), and how much daylight we had left (3 hours). And how she was now exhausted and stressed. Of course this latter ailment only compounds itself and grows rapidly in the back of one's mind. But we pushed on. We saw three guys in the distance approaching us through the gray and burgundy dreamscape of the Tablelands. They were shadows at first, coming in and out of the mist, but they turned off on a side trail and were again lost from sight. We looked down the trail they had taken. So there are others lost in this ethereal realm. We turned our heads back to our trail and saw a shadowed teepee in the haze. What a strange place for something like that. It almost looks like the sign in all those pictures. All those pictures in all those hostels and gear shops. Pictures on postcards and pictures on faded old Polaroids. Pictures in fog and sun, pictures in ice. Pictures of smiling bearded faces and people holding Thank You signs. We had seen these for miles and months. Now we saw the Northern Terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Our heart rates fluctuated, and we approached in slow motion. The last 50 ft of trail were 50 ft below the ocean. Only hazy light filtered down, only the sparest seaweed dwelt. There was no sound, and each movement met resistance. We stood silently by it for a moment. Graveyard reached out a cautious hand. She touched it, and a small choked sound died somewhere in her throat. I took a picture.

“Well, that's it, I suppose,” I said. Pictures were taken, though no postcards would ever be sent. Could we even send out such a thing in good conscious? We weren't “Thru Hikers” after all... But we had been walking for 6 months and 12 days, and now there were no more white blazes to follow. It was a surreal moment for more than just the setting. We were both a mix of powerful emotions, all of which manifesting themselves equally. So we spoke little, took our pictures, did our meditations, and set off the way we had come. I was dazed as we trekked back across the tablelands. Graveyard was in a funk, but I wasn't sure why. When we stopped at Thoreau Spring, we paused to rest and to find some water to bring back to Gravey's Father. He's a fan. But there was no flowing spring. Just a muddy puddle that we dipped our fingers in and licked, hoping the wisdom was in greater concentration than the Giardia. That's when Gravey confessed how worried she was that it had taken 7 hours to get up there, and we only had 2 hours of light left and hadn’t even started the hard part. I said there was nothing to do but keep going, and it was a good thing we brought headlamps. So we approached the crux of our descent with more than a little anxiety. It took hopping down approximately 30 feet of boulders before I heard a laugh behind me. A turned and saw Graveyard making her way easily down to me. “ I was so worried we were going to get stuck on the side of this mountain! I was just so exhausted, the whole way up, all I could think about was having to huddle in one of these rock crevasses with our emergency blanket til morning. But now I'm using totally different muscles!” And I started to say, “That's great, babe!” But she was already past me and out of sight.
We made awesome time on the descent, laughing and joking for the first time since entering the boulder field. It was certainly getting dark, and we were still scrambling, but we didn't care. We came again to the first boulder of the journey up. It seemed much easier now by comparison. And as we left that stone, we broke cloud line and looked out over the flatlands of Maine. The world below shone with pale white lights; many small ones, but also larger ones that made it clear that what we were seeing was no illusion. And to add to the strangeness, a brighter pale line extended at the far edge of our vision, with a glowing center, as if we were viewing the Milky Way from its side. We gasped as our brains processed this reality. the setting sun was a perfect slender line between distant mountains and low-hanging clouds. This dying light in the west illuminated the multitudes of lakes dotting this open landscape. Even after months on the trail, hiking the most scenic areas the East Coast has to offer, the world could still take our breath away and show us unimaginable beauty. A toast; To the Right Place, at the Right Time. And so we finished the trail with one last night hike.
Poetic and appropriate as this was, it did mean no hitch hike out of Baxter State Park that day. We gathered our gear, and ate 2 packets of Ramen noodles as our victory feast. I think this was the coldest night of the trail, and I got little sleep. The next morning we started early and found a hitch halfway out of the park almost immediately. In another 20 minutes, we had a hitch with a gentleman from Canada who's daughter was also hiking the AT. “Do you know Chef?” Small world. “Yeah, we know Chef! We haven't seen her since Virginia!” So we palled around with him while he found Chef outside of Baxter at Abol Bridge. It was good to see her and swap a few stories, then she had her resupply sorted and took off for the foot of the Mountain. We took off for town, the only certainty for us was a large meal cooked by someone else. So we ate with Chef's Dad, thanked him for the ride, and left to see what the last town of the trail had to offer. A decent hostel, for one thing. We paid 4 dollars each for showers; the last of our cash. We had $50 total, wait, scratch that. We spent 15 of that on lunch. So things were looking a little rough. We asked the owner of the hostel what the odds of hitching outta town were, and he just gave a shrug. Not an optimistic one though. He laughingly agreed to knock $4 off the $12 a person rate if we came back, since we had already paid for showers. We walked to a 'busy intersection' in town. It had a car drive through every minute or two. After about two hours, as we began to become discouraged, a car pulled over and we hopped in. The driver said he had seen us as he was giving his ride a wife to work, and they agreed we should get a lift if we were still there on his way back. He was a metal-head, and we bonded over the way people sometimes think tough guys with shaved heads are white supremacists. We're not. We're going bald. Jerks.
So he dropped us off at the interstate, and as soon as he pulled away, a (very) old gentleman pulled over and offered us a lift down the road. He was on his way to a church choir recital about 20 miles down the road and felt it the Christian thing to do to lend a hand. We were thankful to be making progress, and were enjoying the variety of people who will offer rides to strangers. We got to his exit, and he dropped us off. It was under serious construction, and not near a town. We were more than a little nervous as he pulled away; we had never encountered this particular dilemma. But fate smiled one last time on our long voyage home. The first thing to pass our way was a semi who immediately stopped for us. He later told us that it was only because we were a couple and we looked so happy. So a lesson to all you would-be hitch-hikers: Smile! Not only was this truck going to Bangor, Maine; our chosen destination for the day, he was on course to pass through Wilkes-Barre, PA the following day; just a quick hop up I-81 from my parent's residence. I won't rat our driver out with too many details, as his wife doesn't like him picking up hitchers. Suffice it to say, he was a fascinating character. A true political centrist who spent his days hauling freight and listening to Fox News, NPR, and CNN. He and Julia had some intense debates, while I tried to mediate and not get us kicked out. We spent the night under the trailer that night, after repeated assurances that he wouldn't forget about us and drive over us in the morning. It rained that night, and as we huddled in the orange sodium lights of a truck stop under a big-rig, Julia realized she was living yet another childhood dream. Childhood is a strange time.
We were not run over in the morning, and made it safely to our destination, where my Mother and Father met us. We bid farewell to another awesome driver and an epic hitch of 580 miles. That's a return option they don't put in the guidebooks. But we were off the trail now. No more white blazes to follow, so we've been forced to bushwhack for the last few years. The trip has been amazing, and is certainly not over. Thank you for sharing in this piece of the life of Graveyard and the PHLO. We love you all.

Appendix I:
The PHLO's book review.

We were on the trail for six months and eleven days, I believe. The speed record is 44 days, last I checked. What did we do with all that extra time? Well, enjoyed it. I personally spent a fair amount of time reading. The following are the books I read and my thoughts on them. Also, used book stores are awesome.

1. The Teachings of Don Juan – Carlos Castaneda
This book will find you; if it's supposed to. A friend of mine holds that Castaneda is a charlatan. I cannot speak one way or the other on this. I will say that I think it is the readers duty to not take written things at face value, but to extract their own meaning based on themselves and their place in life. An author is writing from a particular place, the reader reading from another. If you read the right books, they should be a jumping off point for your own thoughts and ideas. In this way you grow and develop, instead of merely being entertained or informed.

2. Jaws – Peter Benchley
Well, we all know the story. The book unfortunately spends most of its time ashore, and throws in an uninteresting affair with Hooper and Sheriff Brody's wife. It was still epic, and also neat to see where the movie diverged from the book. In conclusion, Jaws the book: pretty good. Jaws the film: A Masterpiece.

3. Fahrenheit 451 – Ray Bradbury
I had read this before, but it's still my favorite of the genre (1984, Brave New World, Alas Babylon, etc) It carried special meaning, given our removal from contemporary society for a bit. I remember writing the following quote in a trail journal at some point: “He felt as if he had left a stage behind with many actors. He felt as if he had left the great seance and all the murmuring ghosts. He was moving from an unreality that was frightening into a reality that was unreal because it was new.”

4. Welcome to the Monkey House – Kurt Vonnegut
This was my first introduction to Kurt Vonnegut. I somehow missed out on Slaughterhouse 5 in high school, and am glad of it. Nothing ruins a good book like being forced to read it and them fill out worksheets on what it all means. Each reader must find their own meaning, and the better the book, the more personal and complex that meaning. Anyway, this is “a collection of short stories written to pay the bills so better projects could be undertaken.”

5. Candide – Voltaire
My favorite of the trail. Read it to find out why. This is also the book that taught me that it's a bad idea to read while hiking. This lesson took less than a quarter of a mile to grasp.

6. The Importance of being Earnest – Oscar Wilde
This book included the title play as well as two others. I've never really liked reading plays, but these were to good to be annoyed by formatting/syntax. Oscar Wilde is the hilarious Dandy his reputation implies, twisting wordplay, flights of fancy, Victorian Morals, and bawdy coarseness into a single story of irony and improbability; tie up neatly into a bow of truth.

7. Ellen Foster – Kaye Gibbons
Worst book I read on the trail. Just not my thing, I guess. Dizzybat loved it though. Its about a girl with a tough childhood named Ellen. She moves in with 'The Foster Family'. Hence the name, end of book.

8. Prey – Michael Crichton
MC's last book. This time the world is going down thanks to nanobots. A gripping story as always, but the “Man destroys self through arrogance and ambition” theme has been done, and T-Rex is way cooler than Micro Machines.

9. Demien – Herman Hesse
I lied. This was my favorite book on the trail.

10. Hocus Pocus – Vonnegut
A book written while Vonnegut was living off short story money and Pall Malls. This may be my favorite of his books and is definitely a better starting place than Slaughterhouse 5. But you could never read it in school, because it talks about school, and heaven forbid students should think about their own situation, or anything applicable to their lives. One thing is for sure, I shall always remember the Alamo.

11. Call of the Wild – Jack London
I haven't read this since I was a kid. Actually, I don't think I've ever read it. I think my Dad read it to me before I could read on my own. It's great, by the way. A killer story from the perspective of a dog. It was made all the cooler by being out in the woods with trail dogs. Dogs that spend a lot of time outdoors really are different than house dogs. Hang out with a few and you'll see what I mean.

12. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louise Stevenson
A good book, but [spoiler alert] the big surprise ending is that they're the same person.

13. Nemesis – Issac Asimov
My first Asimov book, and it was great. Describing the plot couldn't do it justice, as Asimov's dialog and subtleties are what make him the Godfather of Science Fiction.

14. Return of the Jedi – James Khan
Well-written, unlike the other two books in the series, which Julia read. Well-written, but exactly like the movies. Still, it was pretty awesome to have on the trail.

15. A Brief History of Time – Steven Hawking
This was the most fun book to read on the trail. Julia or I would read a section out loud. Then we would both reread it a few times silently. Then we would spend the next half hour figuring out what it meant. There are no cool pictures like in Universe in a Nutshell. And I still don't understand how/why time is not Absolute. I do get why it probably doesn't exist, but I do not understand why it is so inconsistent in relation to our perception of it.

16. Steppenwolf – Hermann Hesse
Another piece of brilliance by the Man. I really enjoyed this one, but didn't relate to it in the same way as I did with Damien or Siddhartha. In many ways, it was a cautionary tale, lest I turn into a Madman in my old age. Or perhaps I am a Pablo.

Thanks for letting me engage in a bit of hero worship, and provide a bit of my own literary context on this voyage. As Newton once said, “ If I have seen farther than most, it is only because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.”

I think a lot of hikers saw themselves as John Muirs or Bob Marshalls. I always saw myself as more of a Socrates or Candide.

Thank You!
This blog is dedicated to The Grandparents. We couldn't have done it without you.

Rapid Travel Through New England

2010-01-04T12:36:00.000-08:00

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/jkmuench

They say that West Virginia is the shortest state on the trail. Connecticut and Massachusetts seem pretty short, however, if you're asleep in a car doing 70. After my brief trip to one of Long Island's fine medical establishments, we were headed north to rendezvous with our long lost hiking buddies; Dugout, DizzyBat, her dog Boo, and of course the irrepressible Einstein. Gravey's parents were nice enough to jet us up to a little hostel on the border of Conn. and Vermont. We had already accepted that we would be skipping these states due to time, and I still do not regret that decision. This feeling was further reinforced by all the south-bound hikers we met in New york and New Jersey who advised us to skip them, regardless of necessity. And so, after being treated to a lovely dinner by the Muench's, we went to the hostel. While walking to the ply-wood 'cabin', I managed to slip down a grassy incline and land on my tail. This was far superior to landing on my still disabled shoulder, but was both painful and embarrassing. The embarrassment factor was increased by the fiery, five-foot-nothing owner of the farm/hostel, who insisted that I take her arm and have her escort me the rest of the quarter mile to the cabin. A lovely woman, but a somewhat emasculating experience. Ah, well. The cabin was cozy, if sparse, and we awoke feeling refreshed. A few hours later, we were reunited with our tribe and headed off to Vermont. Dug & Dizzy had discovered a great free campground next to a great restaurant and we made it our home for several days. While we were there, waiting for my body to heal enough to carry a backpack, we soaked up the surrounding area. Dugout and I hiked 200 yards to some abandoned cabins nearby, and then later that day, we drove to the top of Mount Washington. There we made our perilous assent to the summit from the parking lot below. The treacherous climb required all of our skill and training, as we scaled no less than 40 feet of elevation. The view of the trail both ways down was incredible, and we vowed to climb this mountain range one day. We then toured the gift shop, passed on the snack bar, and drove back down. The next day, we caught lunch at the Long Trail Brewery. The food was terrific, as was the beer. This stop marked the end of The PHLO's Eastern Brewery Tour, with four stops in total. Sweetwater, Flying Dog, and Long Trail were all excellent. Screw you, Yuengling. I'll still drink your beer, but I hold no love for your operations. Afterward, we climbed to the top of the large mountain near our campsite. As we took in the view, a man came jogging up the trail and ran up to the edge of the cliff facing our campsite some 300 yards below. He marveled for a moment, then turned and asked if we were from around here. We replied no, and explained that we were refugees from the Appalachian Trail. After a bit more conversation, we found out that he was in fact the owner of the Long Trail Brewery and jogged to the top of this mountain every day after work. Small world.
That night, we saw the new Quentin Tarantino movie in the nearby (15 miles) town. As we returned to our campsite, illuminated by the restaurant's security light, we saw a familiar looking tent that had appeared while we were out. It was none other than Chinese Tourist, not seen since the Aqua Blaze. It was a fantastic impromptu reunion, and the next day he was gone, disappeared up the trail. Small World.
We left that day and drove on to New Hampshire. We arrived in Gorham New Hampshire near the border of Maine and took a campsite at The White Birches campground and Hiker Hostel. We were surprised to run in to Lucky Joe and Moe!, still heading North. Moe! had been unfortunate enough to get the Hiker's Triple Crown, or Giardia, Lyme Disease, and a Staph Infection. She seemed ready to be done, but was still glad to be on her journey. They headed back to the trail soon after we arrived. That night we ate brats around a fire and talked long into the night. Dugout and DizzyBat took off the next morning and we bid a sad farewell. We knew it would be a long time until we saw each other, but knew also that we would be reunited again. The trail had blessed us with good company throughout its course, and DizzyBat, Boo, Dugout, and Einstein were chief among these. We packed our belongings slowly, now in the final stretch and feeling alone again. After catching a ride to town, we picked up the last mail drop, sent home everything that was not absolutely essential, and I finally replaced my crappy, heavy headlamp. Better late than never, I guess. A short hitch later, and we were home. After long hiatus, we were back on the White Blazed Trail.

Where are we?

2009-11-05T12:28:00.000-08:00

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/jkmuench

Graveyard is busy helping at her church's fundraising fair, so I will do my best to pick up where we left off. I hope people have noticed that there was a post just before "What's in a name," which was just a brief aside to anyone who was curious. I also hope someone is still reading these, as there have been no comments on the four previous posts over the last 2 months.

So we hiked late into the evening for a view of NYC. The trail was long and made longer by the multiple trails running on the same trail. There was the blue blazed trail, which was almost impossible to see in the dark, but also a yellow reflective trail that we could see. The reflectors were a blessing except for the points where they joined and left the blue trail, plus we constantly worried that the trails had parted without our knowledge. They hadn't, and we finally reached our destination. There were no clear skylines or tall buildings poking up as we had expected, but instead a huge dark valley and lights of various concentrations all around it. As we made dinner, we watched flashes of lightning in the distant clouds. After dinner, the storm had intensified and to our right (west) the flashes of lightning were leaving their cloudy birthplace and crashing down in spectacular arcs. The lightning came at shorter intervals as it moved to the east across our vista. These bolts came from far up in the atmosphere, but were so far removed from us that these enormous static discharges made not a sound to our ears. This surreal silent lightshow moved until it was across the darkened valley, and then a monstrous bolt amongst giants flashed down, while an opposing streak shot up through the valley. It was then that we could see that the valley was in fact the Hudson River, reflecting the sky's own fury back at it. These two immortal elements exchanged volley upon volley while two fragile mortals could do naught but gaze in wonder. Meanwhile, in the city, millions of mortals sought shelter from a storm that ravaged Manhattan and dropped countless trees through Central Park. The devastation would later be compared to tornadoes, but on that silent hill, we watched in awe as blinding white bolts flashed earthward and turned rusty red as they broke through the dense atmospheric bubble that surrounds all cities of that size. As we sat, watching hundreds of dichromatic flares flash downward with icy silence, we could not avoid a thought. If we had hiked at any different pace, taken one more or one less shortcut, or given up entirely, we would not have been the trail's only witnesses to what Gravey described as,"The most awesome thing I have ever seen in my life, ever." So I suppose there is a reason for everything, though often not apparent. Even now that it has ended, I believe we hiked our trail and I would not take back a single step. Well, maybe the step that broke Julia's toe, but even that put us on top of that great beast of a mountain on the only 'good' day in to weeks of 'bad' days. And when a good day involves 15 ft. visibility and thick ice formations in a man's beard, it makes a person thankful to not find out what a bad day is. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We were awakened by day hikers out for a jaunt, but they did not linger at the shelter once they realized it was occupied. Thank you. As I looked around this shelter so far off the beaten path, I recognized familiar designs on the wall. Shelters often bear graffiti, but it's usually crap like: 'Bobby luvs Susie', 'Jordan was here', or 'Troop 25 was here' a dozen times (nice LNT skills, guys) but almost every shelter has a few gems. There was an '08er named The Treat who drew landscapes and cartoons from NC to mid-Virginia. My personal favorite,though, were a pair of NOBOs from our year called UFO and Droid. They were some of the first to set out this year and they were from Brooklyn. That's about all I know. They also built mouse exclusion devices (string hung with a can preventing mice from crawling down to protect food bags) with their personal designs, which were quite cool. This morning, though, I noticed an entire wall covered by UFO. Same design, but instead of 'UFO NOBO 09' there were UFO 01 through 08 plus this years. So this was our artistic trail-brother's (or sister's) hang out. Good choice, UFO.

We made good time that day and in the days following. We kept a good pace because, for the first time in a long time, we had an appointment. The Metro North line has a train stop on the trail that only runs on weekends and we were determined to reach it on time. Of course, things are never as easy as you would think. Thursday signaled the death knell of my hiking pants. Coming around a rock that morning, I ripped a hole in the one pocket that was still intact. Fearing for our valuables, I gave my 12 cents and our $9 Walmart watch to Gravey for safe keeping. (The watch band had broken in Southern Virginia) Two hours later, the watch was gone. I blame the tiny pockets on girls pants, even the outdoor brands. In the woods, form should always follow function. So for the first time since my Dad visited, we needed to know what time it was. Of course the trail gremlins would take our watch. The next day we got an unfortunate late start. A passing hiker told us it was about noon. That meant we had 31 miles to hike in 34 hours. No problem, right? So we set off. The next 20 miles were a blur, but a good-natured one. We reached the shelter before the train station around 3 am, having hiked 21.5 miles. It was destined to be our only 20+ miler, though we would come close in the later part of Maine. Ours was not to be a hike of high mileage days; I have no regrets. Somehow we woke up the next day and hoofed it the last 10 miles through rain showers to a wooden bench by the tracks and huddled under a tarp to stay dry. We had made it our 31 miles in a day and a half with an hour to spare. A cold, wet hour, but excellent for its sheer ridiculousness.
When the train came, we boarded, along with three day hikers from the city. We were not prepared for the air conditioning on board, however, and we immediately put on all our dry warm clothes over our cold, wet ones. We were entertained for this leg of our journey by the conductor ragging on the ticket taker for being Australian over the intercom. "Here comes Crocodile Dundee to take your tickets. Hey, what's a roo-burger taste like?" Hilarious. When we got to Grand Central Station, we were, well, a little overwhelmed. There we stood, in jackets and beanie hats in a 90 degree building, backpacks hung with dirty socks, and me gripping a large wooden walking stick. A young girl of about 14 with braces approached us and asked politely if we needed help. Julia answered in a thick NY accent that we were trying to find the transfer to Penn Station. The girl seemed surprised that we spoke English and said that there was an information kiosk right behind us. Thanks. At least she meant well. I guess she thought we were from the 1600's. As we walked towards the transfer train, people continued to stare at us, even when walking behind a man in a wheelchair with no legs and a bag of golf clubs in his lap. And we're the weird ones. When we got on the sweltering subway train, everyone immediately backed up about five feet. I'm assuming the smell had something to do with it. A girl next to Graveyard asked if we were skiing in the summer. We were as confused as she was, until we realized she was looking at Gravey's trekking poles. "Oh, no. These are for hiking. We walked here from Georgia." A double blink and many turned heads. "You what?!?" So we explained that we had been backpacking for the last 4 and a half months. I overhear a girl say, "That must be why he has a beard." The fact that I have it because it grows out of my face obviously was lost on her. I later realized that her ignorance to men's general ability to do this was not unfounded. No one from Westchester east has a speck of facial hair except for Arabics and some (but not all) homeless people. As we rode the train, I looked out the window and saw a huge alien face on the side of a buiding staring at the train. Underneath was the familiar script: UFO. Good show.

We intended to stay on Long Island for a short time, but a dislocated shoulder interceded. The first time in three years and inflicted very benignly. Ah well...an extended vacation was perfectly acceptable, sling and all.

What's in a Name?

2009-10-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

So where did our trail names come from? I can only say, straight from the aether. But here are two things that may give an insight into Graveyard and The PHLO.

First off, The PHLO. When given the name, I was simply told to think about it. Here's a poem found at www.phlo.net. The only other mention was a beverage corporation.

Who can free himself from achievement, and from fame descend, and be lost, amid the masses of men? He will flow like Tao, unseen, he will go about like Life itself with no name and no home. Simple he is, without distinction. To all apperances he is a fool. His steps leave no trace. He achieves nothing, has no reputation. Since he judges no one, no one judges him. Such is the perfect man: His boat is empty.

-Chuang Tzu

As for Graveyard, here is a lengthy description of Oakwood Cemetery that I wrote in 2006. It may provide some insight as well as a history lesson from Syracuse. If you want the full version with color pictures, I have provided the URL.

http://www.esf.edu/writingprogram/hosmer-briggs/Zines/PocketParks.pdf

By: Jess Rumburg
Prof. Hosmer-Briggs
CLL 290
April 13, 2006
Inspired by and dedicated to Jeff Nugent.
The Duality of Oakwood Cemetery
www.shadesofoakwood.com

Jess Rumburg is a student at the State University of New York’s school of Environmental Science and Forestry. He is an undergraduate in environmental science and plans to pursue a carrier as a High School teacher. He is an avid outdoorsman, as well as an active member of the Boy Scouts of America and a Leave No Trace trainer.

The Duality of Oakwood Cemetery

When one thinks of a graveyard, a vast flurry of images and emotions are called to light. Our media and culture have ingrained a portrait of cemeteries in our collective mind that stirs fear and sacred avoidance. It is the setting of so many horror films and the stomping ground for forces not of this world. Only the manliest man would take a drunken dare and walk its hallowed trails at night. And yet there is another side to this piece of Syracuse that many are unaware of. During the day, it is not mourners who occupy its fields, but those out to enjoy a leisurely
stroll. At night its grounds are not stalked by spirits and serial killers, but people without ill intent. The cemetery is indeed a place to mourn those who have left this world, but it is so much more. For many, it is a gorgeous park for dog walking and early morning jogs. To others it is a place rife with history; the final resting place of thirty thousand fascinating lives. To the Universities that border it, the cemetery holds special significance. SUNY ESF uses the wide variety of flora and fauna for many classes and research projects. To those who live in the dormitories, it is their backyard. Whatever else it may be, Oakwood cemetery is Syracuse’s misunderstood jewel.
From the time they arrive in Syracuse, freshmen are warned to keep their distance from the Cemetery. They are told of the danger involved with setting foot on its soil; the armed robberies, the drug deals, the bizarre and terrifying people that one might meet day or night. From the stories told by the campus administration, one expects to look out their dorm window and see mafia stereotypes dumping lumpy garbage bags into holes in the ground.(Muench) There is reason
for the warnings given, though. On the far side of Oakwood from campus there is a rather seedy neighborhood, and strange things have been known to happen within the graveyard, but from literally hundreds of hours of observation over the last two years, I feel I can lay many rumors to rest. During the day, it is very unlikely that any misfortune should befall anyone. Oakwood employs a full-time staff of groundskeepers, and the scariest thing one would encounter is a group of large dogs with an elderly woman in tow. Night is a slightly different story. There is
an inherent risk involved with walking the graveyard after hours. Robberies have occurred, and far worse crimes. For this reason, the person most likely to be encountered is ‘Johnny Law’. Police cruisers often peruse the evening, warding off wrongdoers, most commonly college students. It would be foolish to think that many people in the graveyard at night are up to anything good, but seldom are they causing harm to the living or dead. They simply seek solitude or a macabre social atmosphere, which may be found if one knows the right people. If anything, these late night adventurers are more of a safety measure than a cause for alarm. These strange taphophiles (Webster) cast too many eyes on unsavory doings. Besides, they often travel in groups and don’t take kindly to those who would cause misfortune to others.(Muench) People have said to me that they will not venture into the graveyard, lest they encounter one of the multitude of odd strangers they imagine within. I cannot help recalling at these times the Cheshire Cat’s response to Alice when she told him that she did not wish to speak to mad people. “But it can’t be helped. We’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.” (Carroll)
People rarely delve into the rich history of Oakwood cemetery, but since it’s opening in 1859, it has accumulated many stories and seen many changes since NYC landscape architect Howard Daniels designed its elegant curves. (Nugent) It’s naming alone was a highly debated topic, but it was finally decided on Oakwood. The newspaper article announcing the decision on August 15 of that year, admitted, "We can't say that we like the title, but it might be worse."(Shades) From it’s beginning, Oakwood has held a rigid policy of environmental consciousness.
After only 9 months in operation, Oakwood cemetery announced that those caught
trespassing would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. It also announced a $10 reward for anyone with information leading to the prosecution of anyone who willfully injures the trees or causes other forms of malicious mischief.(Shades) This provision was certainly more for the scenic beauty of the grounds and the wallets of its patrons than enacted out of any concern for the plant life and its intrinsic value, but one shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were.
Vandalism has been a constant problem for Oakwood cemetery, but one can’t but feel their reaction was a bit extreme when in 1863 Julia Gallagher, age 15, was locked in one of the buildings for the crime of maliciously plucking the top of a shrub. In addition to this detention, she also was accountable for a fine not exceeding $150.00, or six months in prison, or both.(Shades)
Unfortunately, far worse acts of destruction have been perpetrated without apprehension of those involved. Reports are vague, but allude to prostitution among other things and in 1869, a full time sheriff was appointed to watch the grounds. As one walks the older portions of the cemetery, the damage of vandalism and the wearing of the ages is displayed in the marred and toppled markers. They lend a surreal and eerie quality to atmosphere within the depths of the cemetery, where nothing is visible but expanses of stones paying homage to the dead. The most disturbing example of this vandalism occurred in 1988. A Syracuse University art student was found boiling the skull of John Crouse, father of former mayor John J.
Crouse and founder of Oakwood, in his dorm room to use in a sculpting project for class. He was discovered when a student noticed a foul smell coming from the kitchen of Flint Hall and found the skull in a pot of water. He alerted the authorities, who arrested the student, and made a search of the graveyard. They discovered that several mausoleums had been disturbed over the past several years and also found a second skull wrapped in a paper bag that someone had removed from one of these.(Moriarty) The history of Oakwood holds other interesting tales, although few as grim. Another tale of vandalism has a happier ending. Near the center of Oakwood are buried 231 veterans of the Civil War. For many years, they were watched over by a beautiful bronze cast of a Union army sentinel, and their 231 headstones stood in ordered line, as the men themselves had once stood while in service to their country. In 1951, the sentinel was stolen, presumably to be melted for scrap metal. Also in the fifty’s, all of the white marble stones were knocked over. The markers of these venerable Americans adorned the hillside like a mouthful of broken teeth; their sentry gone and their eternal barracks pillaged by marauders. But there were those who still remembered the soldiers past sacrifices, and in the fall of 1998
the 122nd New York State Volunteer Infantry, a Civil War reenactment group petitioned the National Veterans Administration to replace the headstones that had fallen so far into disrepair. They sent the stones, and members of the 122nd began placing the stones by hand in June of 1999. On Veterans Day 2000, the site was finally renewed and members of the 122nd gathered along with a large crowd of spectators for the rededication ceremony complete with cannon salute in tribute.
So far, the bronze statue has not been replaced, but the 122nd Infantry is
working to raise the $35,000 needed. With the help of some concerned citizens, the hill shall once again be ordained with its sentinel. (Tyler) Not only do people come to Oakwood to mourn their dearly departed, or study the rich history behind the place. Many come for reflection, seeking the solitude and pensive atmosphere.
There lies a place within its bounds that provides this in abundance. It is one of the least known places to casual visitors, but the best loved to those who know of its existence. In front of the entrance to the abandoned church, across the street and up a trail there stands a lion. Its emaciated form stands watch with sightless eyes across all seasons, watching over a boy named Michael Haggarty. The sculpture embodies the dedication to a life lost tragically. In 1974, Michael Haggarty was killed in an automobile accident at the age of 14. In 1981, his younger brother Thomas was an art student at Syracuse University. At his mother’s request, he began to create a memorial for his brother, who was buried at St. Mary’s cemetery in Dewitt. A year later, his 620 pound bronze guardian was completed, but the cemetery refused to allow the memorial, and so Michael’s body was moved to a secluded part of Oakwood. There amongst the trees stands the lion; its haunting face unmovable, forged from a brother’s love. There are many legends as to the nature of the place, but this is the truth, no less macabre or meaningful. Over the years, many have found there own meaning in that place, of the lion and themselves as well.
For me, the Haggarty lion stands stoic vigil for all those not with us, remembering always those who are lost from us. (Shades)

Quiet reflection and study comprise a more traditional side of cemeteries as urban parks.With Oakwood cemetery sharing a boundary with two universities, it also has another side. The free-spirited exuberance of college life stands in stark contrast to the tombs and sanctuaries. The two stand on opposite ends of life’s road, yet they blend with sometimes bizarre, but generally positive ease. The proximity of the cemetery tempers the students with a slight somberness, and they breathe life into its rolling fields. Thanks to them Oakwood is able to serve more as a park
than one would believe. I can only imagine the thoughts of the families come to visit their Grandparents and find hippies playing Frisbee and banging drums in a graveyard, of all places. Let us not point out that they only visit once or twice a year, while the regular graveyard denizens are to be found in any weather at any time of day. Oakwood now finds more use as historical site and a park than as a depository for bodies. Not only do college students enjoy its open spaces, but a wide variety of people can also be found using the cemetery recreationally. The
majority of people in Oakwood who are not students are out walking their dogs, with a handful joggers as well. In autumn, people come for its diverse tree life, which displays spectacular colors at this time of year. The trees in Oakwood represent a broad cross-section of local species, as well as many exotic species, all planted for their ornamental value. This is why ESF dendrology students are able to see most of what they are learning without ever having to travel. Oakwood serves as ESF’s own private tree museum.(Borker) It also has an equally diverse animal population. It is a haven for bird watchers, although the ratio of crows to other birds is badly
askew in the crows favor.(Borker) In addition to these residents, the cemetery provides a habitat for many ground creatures as well. Skunks and deer often come out at night to feed, and a pair of gray foxes have made it there home for the past two years. Toads, mice, bats, squirrels, snakes and chipmunks are to be found as well. One only needs to take a closer look at Oakwood to see that it is teeming with life more than it is haunted by death. Oakwood cemetery is either Syracuse’s most active graveyard, or its strangest park. It is a beautiful resting place for the dead, where families can come to give their respects. It is a backyard and leisure ground for college students. With 172 acres of property, Oakwood is able to accommodate both of these groups. Oakwood cemetery is a valuable part of Syracuse for many
reasons, and few ever appreciate its full scope. Graveyard? Park? Both, and an amazing one at that.

Works Cited
Borker, Abraham. Personal interview. 11 Apr. 2006.
Carroll, Lewis. The Annotated Alice: the Definitive Edition. Ed. Martin Gardener. 2nd ed. W.
W. Norton & Company, 1999
Moriarty, Rick. "SU STUDENT ACCUSED OF BODY THEFT -." Post-Standard, the
(Syracuse, NY) 19 Oct. 1988, Metro ed., sec. News: a1.
Muench, Julia K. Personal interview. 14 Apr. 2006.
Nugent, Jeff. Discovering the Central New York Outdoors. 1995. Part One
Shades of Oakwood. 10 Apr. 2006 .
"Taphophile." Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition. 11th ed. Merriam-
Webster, 2003.
Tyler, David. "Civil War Veterans Honored with Gravesite Rededication." Oakwood Cemetery
Sentenal Project. 10 Apr. 2006 oakwood.html>.

Points of Interest

2009-10-20T12:41:00.000-07:00

It is interesting to observe the progression of this blog in retrospect. They show not only our experiences but moreover that which we deemed notable, the detours and people that we have met as opposed to our journey itself. As our trek continued over long months and through varied climates, many of the interesting places and things that we saw stood out less poignantly and simply wove themselves into the beautiful background tapestry of our journey of forgotten places. Moreover, these multitudinous moments of joy and wonder at our world defy all description. To truly appreciate our journey and the motivation behind it, I can only recommend a trip to a mountaintop or secluded monument, preferably one that requires walking at least 100 feet. You don't need to stray far to find hidden wild places, nor is lengthy exposure to the elements required to find peace of mind and a reverence for existence, but it certainly drives the point home. After the Aquablaze, I thanked Lenwood, a lifetime farmer who worked on the property of our friend's friend's cousin's family. He said that it was his pleasure, that we were, "Doing things that needed to be done and seeing things that need to be seen." And he is right, for if people stop appreciating the natural and historic beauty all around them, we surely risk their irreparable loss.

This post is a backtrack of the last two posts to fill in some blanks in the 3rd quarter of the trail. Maryland, my home state was sweet. First, the forest composition was different than when we had last been 'on trail' in Waynesboro. This was great for 2 reasons: it was different than the hundreds of miles we had done in Virginia, and it was the type of mid-Atlantic hardwood that I had roamed like a tyrant in my youth. After a few days we emerged into a clearing with an old mausoleum labeled GATH. We found ourselves in a park called Gathland, after the pen name of an eccentric but successful journalist and war correspondent. On site was a huge stone arch serving as a monument to all war correspondents. There was also a flush toilet and vending machine. Several days later we stumbled across a sign declaring the approach of the Washington Monument. We looked around and were indeed still on the AT. Either this was the most devious reroute ever, or I was about to learn something new. Fortunately it was the latter. Apparently the people of whatever town we were near decided back in the day (early 1800's) to build a sweet stone monument to ol' George. It looked like a three story stone thimble with a rough-hewn spiral staircase through its center to an observation platform that had been used during the Civil War. Understandable, as the view was incredible. The next point of interest was an isolated trailside campsite for backpackers, fully equipped with showers. Maryland, home of the clean hikers. We also got to cross the footbridge over I-70. I had frequently driven beneath it and had always wondered what it was like on either side. It was neat, but this is a mystery I will perpetuate. Sorry. I will say there is road access nearby, as that is where Jen picked us up. At the MD-PA border we met with my cousin Angela who hooked us up with Sheetz Sandwich and water, which we desperately needed at the time. Our meeting point was a place called High Rock. The view was excellent, and it was doubly cool because it was a hang-gliding site. No one was gliding, but there were signs about it and the rules, precautions, and certifications required. Unfortunately there was a direction snafu and the park closed soon after Angela arrived, so we were denied a longer visit.
As for Pennsylvania, yes, the midpoint didn't have quite the same impact for us as others. It was, however, next to a cool 2-story stone wall described as a WW II camp in our book. What kind of camp? No idea. Barracks? Internment camp? Resort-style camp for Generals? More mysteries.

I did in fact eat a half gallon of ice cream in PA. It was delicious and far too easy. Plus, we hiked on an additional 8 miles afterward, and I do believe they were the easiest miles of the trail. I guess 2,300 calories of chocolate-marshmallow goodness is the appropriate amount of food to eat for lunch if you are a hiker. I'll spare you the gastro-intestinal details of that evening, but I will say that there are always consequences of our actions.

We were also blessed from PA to New York with an abundance of blueberries and the odd raspberry bush. Delicious but distracting. True, we didn't need snack breaks, but our pace was cut in half to one mile per hour. The blueberries harbored many cute little woodland creatures and they would often scurry at our approach. As we gorged on fistfuls of berries, Julia called up to me, "Hey PHLO! Come check this out." I walked back and as she got to "I think its a..." A roar/buzz filled the air. I had never heard a Rattlesnake that I can remember, but this was unmistakable and deafening. It was hidden in the brush but i could see a good 3 feet of it, all tapering to the tail, so less than half of it. It was as wide as my calf, which by now equalled a huge snake. We moved on, having seen part of a snake of proportions outside the normal range for that species.

After a ride from the excellent Lynn, we were in Jersey. It was hot, but it was not the cespool of medical waste and burning tires that usually come to mind when one thinks of New Jersey. Supposedly that's only the Newark/Jersey City area, but I had always assumed this was disinformation on the part of the State Tourism Board. There was in fact more wildlife in that area than anywhere else. We did not see the mythic Jersey Devil, but it was a short state and we spent little time there. We did however see 5 bears in three days. First two youngsters who fled at our approach then turned and stood looking at us as we looked back. A non-threatening interaction at the top of the food chain by four creatures observing each other with curiosity and respect. Later we saw a large bear prowling around a SOBO's bear bag, but he also ran off as we closed in. That night we experienced more mosquitoes than I had in my life previous to that point, including the Everglades, huge painful suckers that were relentless in their pursuit of our blood. The next day we were hiking when we heard a loud crash in the tree canopy 40 ft. above our heads. A gigantic bird, we assumed, but when we looked up we saw two black bears in a tree about ten paces off trail. One of the bears forced the other out of the tree and we got some great pictures as he left the tree. To see this and more pics, check out

http://picasaweb.google.com/jkmuench

I'll continue to put that link at the beginning and end of all the upcoming posts, because I can never find it.
Julia already described the meeting with her friends, bona fide hikers now with trail dirt on their shoes to prove it. After they left, we continued up and down MUDS (mindless ups and downs) interspersed with rocky outcroppings. This includes 'The Lemon Squeezer' and the rock obstacle where Julia's second camera died. Things tend to fall out of ones pocket when technical climbing is involved. Ah well, we still had my camera, which was shipped to Long Island by our crack resupply team (aka Mom). We hiked on, running into SOBO's but no northbounders. We also encountered many snack stations in the numerous parks and towns of New York. Bear Mountain was cool, but a high litter area. I picked up 6 empty water bottles, several wrappers and a broken hoola-hoop in the 1/4 mile from the top of the mountain to the bottom. And what was at the bottom? A snack bar and a zoo. Thanks to the zoo, no one hikes the AT without seeing a bear. And there was a Rattlesnake. Much smaller than the first one, but about the same size as the one I narrowly avoided stepping on in New Jersey, which I forgot to mention. I saw it at the last minute and jumped over it. It was quite docile, but we still tried to keep our distance; difficult,as it was in the middle of the trail.

After Bear Mountain, we hiked on, destined to reach West Mt. shelter, purported to have fantastic view of the city. Unfortunately it was .6 miles off the trail and we were once again hiking at night. After a particularly steep uphill, we decided to just keep going uphill and find a stealth camp site. And lo and behold, a blue-blazed trail! And so the trail rewards those who go up. Next followed Julia's favorite part of the trail, which I will let her tell in her own words.

Pictures: http://picasaweb.google.com/jkmuench

New York New YOOOORK!

2009-09-13T07:43:00.000-07:00

I broke these up (I've heard these blogs are a little long lol), but I (Graveyard) haven't moved or taken a break, so I'm just going to keep prattling on if you don't mind:)

We got to Delaware Water Gap with 5 days left till my Long Island amigos came to meet up with us - and, as we had already picked the location (a nice, flat-looking stretch just inside NY complete with a water fall and a high point from which you could see the City), we had to hike 20 miles per day every day to kill New Jersey and get there in time. We made it 18.5 the first day, and hiking in NJ was suprisingly beautiful - we were up on a nice ridge. However, in that 130 mile jump east (the Trail swings east for that section, rather than north), the temperature had risen into the 90's, the humidity had grown 10000%, and the mosquitoes had multiplied into the thousands. It was pretty miserable. No matter how much bug spray you slathered on, the mosquitoes would hover inches away from you and the buzzing literally threatened to drive us INSANE!! That night I called my parents, and was quite happy to discover that they had a few days off and wanted to come visit since we were so close:D So, not only did we not have to hike 20 miles a day everyday to catch my friends, but we could escape to the comfort of a real, air-conditioned hotel! I was very happy to see them - this was the longest stretch I have gone in my entire life without seeing my parents! They dropped us off on the side of the road by an abandoned building in Bellvale, NY, where my friends were meeting us.

A few hours later, Jenna (aka Castro), Rachel (aka HardRock), Gail (Mansion), Pacik (Porta-Pond), and Tom (WoodStock) arrived in dress clothes totally unprepared for a hike! But, they were just messing with us lol. We camped behind the abandoned building, Jenna almost cried because of all the bugs but successfully managed not to, Gail successfully scared Jenna half to death, and we called it a somewhat early evening in preparation for the next days hike.

I'll note here that 4 of these people have never been hiking in their lives, let along backpacking. Gail and Tom were the only ones with real packs; the others had school bags. Gail had brought a giant tent fit for 4 people, which we were able to replace with a GoLite we found on the trail in PA. Rachel and Pacik brought only canned goods and the DintyMore microwaveable beef stew dinners. I asked what they were thinking with the microwaveable goods, especially since I had sent them an email containing detailed instructions on what to bring and what not to bring, and cans were definately on the NOT list, and Rachel blamed Pacik, and Pacik said he had a plan. Gail and Jenna brought p.b.&j. and a loaf of bread each and nothing else. And, now that I think about it, I have no idea what Tom ate. I went through the girls' packs and tossed the body spray and other assorted goods they wouldn't be needing - Pacik insisted he needed everything, including his giant knife for who knows what and other such just-in-case gear, and Tom... well... he's done this before, and he's a beast anyway, so I figured he'd chug along all right. We had a breakfast of dry cereal, or, in Pacik's case, a can of oranges and instant coffee, which he promptly threw back up. After he recovered, we set off into the woods.

Tom knew what he was in for... Gail and Jenna seemed to have expected to have their butts kicked... Pacik might have... Rachel, however, certainly did not. I guess she was expecting something along the lines of the nature walks on Long Island. In case you don't know, Long Island is essentially a sand bar, with no hills, let alone mountains. They all walk a lot - Pacik and Rachel just had jobs going door-to-door, requiring 8 or more miles a day. And though I had picked a flat looking section according to our elevation profile, our profile is not detailed enough to reveal, say, hundred or so foot climbs - it shows little bumps at around 200 ft climbs or more. So, we climbed up to the ridge line, not too slowly, but requiring many breaks, and I was quite happy to see that there was a very nice view at the top. The top was the kind of ridge that's made of rocks, meaning that instead of there being a "trail" in the traditional sense of the word, there's some huge boulders and a white blaze at the top of them. So we had to scramble up and over boulders, often climbing strait up for ~10 ft (enough to be scary, but not enough to die - unless you fall of the ridge to your death into the forsests on either side 50 ft below). I think that's when Rachel decided we are out of our minds, and that she was never backpacking with us again. Despite this, she bravely soldiered on to the shelter, 2 miles from where we started. Pacik, still feeling quesy, decided he would not be hiking to the waterfall (2 miles and 600 ft down from the shelter), and Rachel and Tom quickly agreed to stay at the shelter with him. Jenna and Gail decided to get a little more in, especially since we could leave our packs with the others. The hike down was kind of hilarious, because at every steep part they would both say something along the lines of "we are going to die on the way back". But, they made it safe and sound there and back again, and promptly passed out, waking up again a few hours later for more hang time.

Meanwhile, Pacik had constructed his Porta-Pond. Apparently, on an episode of Survivorman or Man vs. Wild he had seen the guy cook a meal in a pool of water using rocks he heated in a fire. He was hoping this would be a microwaveable enough kind of action to work. Well... it wasn't. But it was highly entertaining. They ended up heating their meals right next to the fire, as the rocks weren't heating the water nearly fast enough for their appetites.

The next day we walked back to the road, all escaped unharmed, and my shuttle back to the trail is leaving so peace and love to all:)

Mediocre in the Middle

2009-09-13T06:49:00.000-07:00

Sorry to all followers for the long delay! These blogs always take so long to write; it's hard for us to sneak them in:( As you may have seen from Lorri's comment, Jess dislocated his shoulder recently, but it has healed quite well, and we are currently in Maine. But, I don't want to give too much away. Back to Harpers Ferry!

After the Aqua Blaze, we went to Frostburg, MD to visit with The PHLO's family. We spent a week there repairing the boats that we could - one was unsalvegable, but that was because of damage it acquired prior to our use, so we inflicted no permanent damages in the end (although the canoes are quite a bit uglier). Then we went with the Kennedy clan (Phlo's mom's family) to the Outer Banks of North Carolina and spent a lovely week soaking up the sun on the beach:) Although we were a little sad that we had to spend 2 full weeks away from the trail, knowing how far behind that would put us, by the end of the vacation we were very happy to have had the opportunity - my knees finally stopped hurting, and we were back in full-fledged hiking spirit!

Phlo's parents dropped us off in Harpers Ferry at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy Headquarters. We made the mistake of telling the lady in charge just how much we had yellow-blazed (we just did the math, and were shocked to discover that we had skipped 422 miles out of ~1,000 of trail!), and she marked us down as section hikers and not thru-hikers:( As we walked back onto the trail, NOBO Hobos again, the Phlo came to feel very... dissapointed. He began talking about hitch-hiking home, and eventually even threw off his pack in frustration. "If this isn't a thru-hike, what's the point of hiking on?" I spent the rest of the night trying to convince him to carry on - "What, did you do this just to get your name on some list?" "We came out here to live stress-free after college, and it looks to me like white-blazers have a lot of stress" and so on. I had already made plans with friends from Long Island to hike a small section with them, and I sure wasn't going to give up before I got to hike to and in New York New York! I think this fact was what finally convinced him to soldier on.

The AT we hiked onto was a different trail than we remembered. We were, quite possibly, the last northbound thru-hikers - we had already been behind when we finished the Aqua Blaze, and the two weeks with the Phlo's family sure didn't help. There were no thru-hikers, only section hikers, which to a thru-hiker means lots of identical boring conversations - "yes, we hiked here from Georgia" "we carry about 40 pounds when full on food" "yes, we're going to Maine" "I'm from Long Island, he's from MD" and so on. And they all seemed dissapointed that we weren't doing 20 miles a day and that we had skipped sections - I think section hikers like to fantasize that they couldn't possibly hike the whole trail, and seeing us makes them realize that it is possible, so the only reason they won't is because they don't want to abandon their worldly comforts for so long. We started avoiding shelters, and were generally alone. Which was just dandy for us - it was the first time on this whole hike that it felt like just the two of us were doing this journey together, the way we had expected.

The trail in MD was beautiful and short. It was always two people wide, so we could actually walk next to each other and hear each other when one spoke, and it was nice and flat, with just enough hills to keep it interesting. We were able to meet up with Phlo's cousin, Angela, and his/our friend Jen, who live near the trail, though they didn't do any hiking with us. Then we hiked into PA. We knew by now that we were so far behind that we'd either have to hike 20 or more miles per day everyday for the next 3 months to get to Katahdin before the October 15 deadline... or skip more. It became quickly clear that, despite our best efforts, we are not capable of 20 miles a day everyday. Or, I should specify, I can't. The trail in PA continued to be generally flat and beautiful, so it was easy hiking, but we still couldn't manage to get more than 17 miles in a day.

We arrived at, and passed, the AT midpoint with a kind of melancholy feeling of semi-failure since we hadn't actually walked 1,089.1 miles yet, and were greeted by a laminated piece of paper attached to a sign post that said "AT midpoint. Permanent marker coming." The next store on the trail (in MD and PA and NJ and NY, there are lots of these) is the location of the half gallon challenge, were thru-hikers attempt to consume an entire half-gallon of ice cream in a single sitting. I did not attempt, but The PHLO did and succeded after 51 minutes (Heavenly Hash). Instead, I read Hermann Hess's "Wandering", a short book of his reflections on being a nomad in Europe, which may have been the most well-articulated thing I have read about being a nomad, and if you want to understand our motivations somewhat better, I reccommend finding that manuscript.

Next stop of interest was in Boiling Springs, which was a beautiful small town. We stopped at the tavern, planning on hiking out from there. One guy bought us a round, and we ended up having lunch and chatting it up with a lady sitting alone at the other end of the bar. We came to learn that her mother had just passed and that they had enjoyed this tavern together often. After many laughs had been shared, we told her our plans from there - by now, to hike to Duncannon and skip from there to Delaware Water Gap (as we were so far behind, we figured that we would skip the rocky, nasty part of PA rather than have to skip better miles later) - but we had no idea how we were going to accomplish that, at which point she offered us a ride! We're so good at yellow-blazing that we don't even need to stick out our thumbs! We exchanged numbers with Lynn, and made plans to hike on, at which point the bartender told us that there was a resort down the road offering a $25 thru-hiker rate (hard to find this far north), complete with a swimming pool, so we went there instead. Really nice place! The next day, knowing that the stretch out of Boiling Springs was really flat and mostly in farmers' fields, we spent the day watching VHS in the basement of the resort after check out, and then hiked out at 5:30 pm. This 8 mile night hike was incredible - rather than dealing with the scorching sun and no shade in the fields, we instead were accompanied by fire-flies streching for miles, as far as the eye could see. It was magical, and definately the most enjoyable hike through this section.

A few days later, we arrived at the shelter before Duncannon, planning to stay there for the night, when in the register we saw a note from Jen and Ninja that they had been there 2 days earlier, at which point we hiked right into Duncannon and, sure enough, found them sitting in the Doyle, a thru-hiker hostel/bar landmark. They were taking off for Philidelphia the next day to hang out with his sister, and also planned to skip the rest of PA after the short visit. We had a great night hanging out with them, the first friends we had encountered in 2 weeks. The next day we called Lynn and made arrangements for her to pick us up and bring us to Delaware Water Gap, 130 miles (yea, she's awesome)! She said "I hope you don't mind, but I'd really like to stop at Yuengling Brewery on the way, it was my mom's favorite... and I'd really rather take the scenic route than the highway." Well, isn't that just perfect! The scenic route, conveniently enough, also took us right past Columcille, the park The Phlo & I are getting married at next April 17 (heads up!), so Phlo was finally able to see the place I've been dreaming of for so long, so it's official - he loved it! Yuengling Brewery was a dissapointment because they don't serve people who don't take the tour, and the last tour was at 1:30 - who goes to a brewery at 1:30 anyway?!? We went to a local pizza shop and got a taste of Chesterfield Ale anway, their lesser known and quite tasty label, which pleased Lynn because that was her mother's absolute favorite brew. Thank you so much Lynn!!

So the middle wasn't great, but it was great:)

[I can't help but add this note - Lynn told us that she saw a sign in front of someone's house that said "Government stay out of my Medicaid!" Isn't that sick? Don't they see the note on their paycheck - x% taken for medicaid!?! I'm glad we're only getting glimpses of that debate, the frustration of it all might make my heart explode!]

The Epic Conclusion

2009-08-09T17:28:00.000-07:00

Here it is, the rest of the tale.

The 7 men switched to the other side, and, with much heaving and ho-ing, were able to free it, and it floated downriver for us to catch (these boats, even when completely filled with water, will still “float” just under the surface – but good luck getting them over a shallow section. or turning them. or going at any speed). With people scattered on shore, and in or near boats that weren't theirs, and full of Dizzy & Dug's gear, we moved the boats downstream, past the ripples after the rapid, for a smoother section of water. Phlo and I both had to paddle canoes alone, which was kind of awesome because we totally pulled it off. Only for 20 yards or so, then we pulled ashore and everyone regrouped with a “what the %*^%&^ are we going to do now?” feeling very permeable in the air. Before anyone could even say anything, a dude on the other side of the river who was painting a sign on his property (“TimeShare $1,000”) yells over “Hey, how you guys doing?” and we all simultaneously yelled back “BAD!!” The Phlo jumped in the kayak and paddled across to see if the guy could let us crash on his property, which he did:) He also supplied us with a beer run (B double E double R U N, beerrun, beerrun), and we proceeded to not talk about what had happened or what we were going to do tomorrow (except for me giving Dizzy & Dug realllllly big hugs and having a momentary freak-out that we had almost killed them because of our fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants wholly irrepressible way of conducting this adventure). Instead, we enjoyed our Fourth of July. Danger Muffin's boyfriend from the ‘regular world’ came for a visit, providing us with music via his car. We had some $7 Wal-Mart fireworks, and I do declare they were the best fireworks I've ever seen. And we had a fantastic evening.

And, somehow, the next morning, everyone woke up committed to continuing on the river. Chinese and The Phlo went with Muffin's b/f to Wal-Mart and got some epoxy to mend the boat, which had somehow come through with only 1 severe puncture wound from the rock it was being bent silly around. We were even able to do some mending on Fail Boat (persuading Jr. to stay on another day, who had been about to give up on the Fail Boat). It still leaked, but it was better. Even DizzyBat was determined to get back in a canoe, even though she was still pretty freaked. We thought the dogs would have no part in it, but Einstein jumped right in without a whimper. We didn't actually get on the river until 3 or 4, partly due to the drying epoxy, partly due to the rain and general dreariness of the day, partly due to the hangovers of near-death, emotional turmoil, and beer. I gave a small talk, including some of the finer points of canoe maneuvering (emphasizing that I am no expert, and taking advice from Floating Home and others), asked them all to wear their life jackets (no one did except DizzyBat – I would have, but there weren't enough to go around; Phlo and I went without), asked everyone to stick together, thanking everyone for not giving up, reminding them that if they didn't feel comfortable risking their lives with us that was completely understandable – and when everyone laughed, I breathed easier, because I knew they knew where we were coming from, and they knew I knew where they stood, and everyone knew, and we were all good. And so we paddled on, and the sun came out, and it was good.
A period of time later, it was a beautiful day, and we were paddling the river (a calm, wide, and deep river today) next to a large flock of geese, which was spread out down this long strait stretch of river. If we got to close to a group of them, they would take off, looking pretty and awesome as they went. So, naturally, we started to chase them. Well, some of us did. And some of us took it more seriously than others. Some of us got four boats to come at one group from all directions, surrounding them and herding them into a steep, muddy embankment. Some of them started throwing paddles in a weak attempt to kill one. Rusty, the dumbest and happiest dog you ever met, took his instinctual cue, lept from Fail Boat, landed in the midst of the gaggle and, with fleathers and birds flying all around him, locked his jaws around the head of one of them and fatally wounded it.
Well, we couldn't just let it lie and die. Wheels bashed it a few times over the head with his paddle, and, if that wasn't enough, (it wasn’t) Phlo slit its throat. Word passed along from boat to boat up the river that a goose was actually dead, which angered some, amused others, but all were agreed: We killed it. We have to eat it. Except the vegetarian of course. Phlo proceeded to cut off its head and drain it, pull out all its feathers (finding out much later that this would have been easier if he had dunked it in boiling water first), and gut it (i.e.: slice open the belly lengthwise and widthwise and let the stomach, liver, and intestines spill out into the river). We made camp not far from there, and Ninja (assisted mostly by Jr., Rusty's owner, and everyone else to one extent or another) roasted it on a spit over a fire stuffed with onions and garlic and covered in a honey-orange glaze. It was delicious. It was a little tough, but, for the first time, I really felt like I was eating an animal – something that had lived and breathed and moved and used its muscles once or twice in its life. It had an impact on me, something that I can't really define – that I saw something alive and, though I had no direct part in it, I then saw it dead and ate it. Crazy I know. Except isn't the world crazy, for eating meat that doesn't move when we've never actually witnessed the death that is necessary for the betterment of our own lives? Should there be a coming-of-age ritual or something, where we kill something and eat it so we understand the true cost of the meat we hold so dear? (The PHLO thinks so)

Day 6 dawned sunny and optimistic. We had our first “portage” - where we must take the boats out of the river and carry them around a dam – coming up in 10 or so miles, and we were confident that this would surely be a 20 mile day. If it wasn't, we would have no longer have any hope of making it to Harpers Ferry by the 12th. We made great time... a few more of the boats had sprung some leaks, but as all boats were, by now, equipped with at least 2 gallon-sized bailers, we made quick work of the troublesome water. People had pretty much given up on keeping their stuff dry (turns out, Wal-mart dry bags don't keep things dry if they're floating down a river), or else had sequestered the important stuff in our coleman dry bag. People were starting to get the hang of the whole canoeing thing. People were having a good time. We got to the portage, and we pulled the boats ashore and paused for lunch. I happened to finish eating first, unusual because I eat slowly, and I happened to wander over to the dam to see just how long this portage was, and there happened to be a canoe outfitter who rents canoes and kayaks to people hanging out with a bus and a 10-boat trailer, and he happened to be a nice guy who immediately threw all his boats off the trailer to come help us move ours. We lifted the boats onto the rack without bothering to empty them of our gear, and as we did so, we got a good look at the bottoms of all our boats for the first time....and the Aqua Blaze was over. Again.
When he dropped us off, he left to pick up some rentees and said he'd be back soon if we needed advice or help. In the meantime, we emptied the boats and flipped them all to inspect. The epoxy, less than 1.5 days old, was all gone (turns out fiberglass bends and pops off the unbendable epoxy). Bendy Boat wasn't leaking because the rock had punctured it so badly that the hole was raised up above the bottom of the boat. Fail Boat had returned to its previous rate of failure. But it got worse. Of our four remaining canoes, one had slashes all along its length (but only through the outermost of 3 hulls), two had one severe gash each that went through all 3 hulls in places, and one seemed reasonably o.k. The kayak was still fine. Though we hardy hikers could carry on in this condition, it seemed entirely possible that we would completely total these boats along the way, a situation we did not want to pass along to our darling BSA council that rented/loaned us these boats in the first place. The outfitter guy owned the land on this side of the portage and allowed us to stay the night. He inspected the damage, said we could probably gorilla tape and move on, but that at this point we were looking at a $210 repair job: the boat with slashes all along the outer hull was totaled before we got it due to UV damage thinning the fiberglass outer hull as a result of it being left sitting in the sun, and he estimated that 1 patch for each of the other 3 wounded boats would cost $70 each. In a sad state, Phlo called Manner, the Man of the Hour, the one who this would come back to bite in the butt if it all went badly. He called his council compadres (i.e.: his boss), and was happy to inform us that the council would pay for damage incurred and that, as long as we stuck around to fix them once we got them back, we could continue on. Hooray! Aqua Blaze On! We bought a ton of gorilla tape (think duct tape, but better), patched the boats as best we could, Danger Muffin rented a kayak from outfitter dude, and we paddled on the next day.

Though full of happiness because we were still on the water, it was by now abundantly clear that we would not be getting to Harpers Ferry by the 12th. Most of us still wanted to make as much progress as possible, but some didn't really care anymore - wasn't all that different from other days, really, because some of our number stopped believing that we would make it to Harper's by the 12th, or at all, from day 1, and didn't seem to have quite the drive to get “as far as we could” as some of the others. Didn't seem to get that the group only goes as fast as the slowest boat. No matter, because the quicker ones took full advantage of the extra time this afforded them to do nothing... or go cliff diving.
We came upon some locals jumping off some cliffs into the river, and Chinese, Ezra, Jr., and Wheels got out and tried for themselves. Everyone escaped from this insanity unharmed except for a copperhead snake. As I later learned, copperheads are poisonous (not to the death, but it'll hurt. a lot.) and supposedly an overpopulated nuisance, and the locals probably would have killed it anyway. But I still don't really get it, and certainly didn't at the time. After everyone had jumped, the locals discovered a copperhead in the trail, which everyone had apparently been walking past the whole time to get to the top of the cliff from the water without getting bit. Upon hearing this, Chinese jumped back on shore to look at it, then picked up a stick to poke it, at which point Phlo calmly pointed out that most poisonous snake bites occur because an idiot person pokes them with a stick, at which point Chinese walked into the woods and got a bigger stick. I thought he intended to poke it from a distance, but then I realized it wasn't longer than the old stick – just fatter. Think caveman's club, cuz that's exactly what this thing was. I didn't understand until he test swung it into a rock, to see how it would hold up under pressure, at which point I said “You're not going to kill it, are you?” He didn't answer, but calmly approached the snake. “Wait, a minute, don't kill it, Don't Kill IT!” Regardless of his motivation or his reasoning, he didn't answer, and he killed it. Caveman style. Bashed it five or six times. And when it was still alive, Phlo put it out of its misery and gutted it, as if we could find a use for a 1.5 ft long copperhead snake. He cut off its head and gave it to Chinese. Phlo dumped the body in the river a short time later, after not coming up with a use for it. I made a few testy comments to him about how unnecessary that abuse of life was, but I think Phlo's silent and clearly displeased processing of its body had a much greater impact on him than anything I said. At any rate, Chinese (in the kayak, having traded with DugOut), paddled up to the front of the line of boats and stayed there (we stayed near the back generally, to keep track of everyone).
Meanwhile, Fail Boat was failing, and Wheels, sick of bailing all the time, decided to get drunk to make the time pass easier, to the amusement of all. The rest of Fail Navy was doing o.k. - only 1 seemed to be actively leaking, but it still wasn't sinking, and the others only needed bailed every once in a while. So while the drunkards and the... uh... lackadaisical... members of the crew made their way slowly through some easy rapids and ripples, the motivated ones pulled ahead and arrived at our next portage, not too far ahead, but far enough that there was no communication between groups. Myself and The Phlo, having guide books in our possession, knew that the guidebook said there was no camping at the portage itself, and it was getting to be that time. Also, Wheels, totally fed up with his bailer, had begun pulling over to every person he saw and asking if we could camp on their land. We got a tip that there was a landowner who might let us stay on the left side of the river, although the portage was on the right side. I tried yelling this information to the group in the lead, but they were too far ahead and couldn't hear. I tried gesturing for them to stop where they were so we could send the two kayaks to check the situation on both sides without beaching the canoes, and one started heading to the left side. Images of shotguns flashed through my head and I frantically gestured and yelled for them to go right or stop, so they went right. So we went left, figuring we could send Muffin over in her kayak after we had scoped it out to find out what the deal was on the other side. No one was home, and the house looked too perfect, and we all thought it might be a summer home, so we figured if no one was home by 9 (it being a weeknight and all), we could probably camp on their river-side, very plush lawn complete with picnic tables and fire pits which was quite a distance from the house. When we got back from the house, Chinese was on his way over in the other kayak. What exactly he actually said or didn't say was later debated by many, but at the very least, when asked if we had a permission to camp on the other side of the river, he would say “yea, we're solid” or other, possibly more or less convincing and more or less “solid” phrases than that. At any rate, he gave most of us the distinct impression that Magma had found a good place and obtained permission to camp on the other side. When we got there, DugOut (who, to his credit, still doubted Chinese's words of solidness) asked Magma if we had permission, Chinese said “yea, we're solid” and Magma blinked a few times and said “yea, sure, if that's what you wanna call it”. At which point I chose to walk away and see how long the portage was and see this camping area for myself. It was totally craptastic and not big enough for all 8 tents by a long shot. Unfortunately, when I turned around Chinese was right behind me, also checking the area out, and I, being pretty pissed off and feeling lied to, started yelling. Don't appreciate it. You lied. This is a democracy, we all need all the info. At which point he said something about making progress, at least he got us to the right side of the river, it wouldn't have made sense to camp on the left and pack up just to immediately unpack and repack on the other side. All good points, we could have easily made that decision together... Demanded an apology, which I think we all know will, at best, get an angry, totally fake apology and, at worst, create an enemy out of a friend. Well, I don't know if it was fake, but it was certainly angry, he said it and stormed away. I recognized the hostility, I recognized my mistake, but I still couldn't hang, so I walked the other way, crying in frustration the way I do. The dogs followed me and cheered me up, and I rejoined the crew, who had begun moving the boats across the portage in a fairly tense manner.
And so, the lying Chinese, the wasted Wheels, and myself, the PHLO, took the walk to ask the local land-owner if we could crash in his back yard. The place was strewn with a variety of eclectic nonsense, little of which belonged in a person’s yard. We knocked on the door, but there was no answer. There were voices inside that could have been a television. Of more concern to us was the chainsaw sitting next to the door and the chaos we could see within the home. I don’t know if our readers are familiar with the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but the setting was very similar and guys never survive in those movies. So we walked around the house and found an elderly couple farming out back. We breathed a sigh of relief and explained our position. The gentleman just looked at us with an even expression throughout the tale, nodded that we could stay and muttered his only words. “Don’t tell anyone I let you camp.” Easy enough.
We rejoined the group and Graveyard apologized to Chinese, who said it was a jerk move on his part. She said it was cool and that she over-reacted because she was still pissed about the snake. Which is exactly what I had said earlier when I had chastised him for his deception. But we had a place to camp and were too tired to care about how much info had tweaked. So we all crashed early and awoke the next day, once again full of hope that was destined to be shattered. Again.
We set sail for a convenience store down the river to grab sandwiches and, you guessed it, more cheap beer. But we did not even manage to put a dent in the first frosty refreshment when we came upon a long system of rapids. Much beer was lost, but the rapid was relatively easy to negotiate. We rallied on the other side and waited for the rest of our group. We could see Dugout and Danger Muffin out of their boat, presumably trying to drag it over a low point. We could hear Dugout yelling but it wasn’t till he started gesturing emphatically and colorful metaphors drifted downstream like so much flotsam that we realized there was trouble. Magma and I were in a boat together that day, and paddled at full tilt towards the floundering vessel. Team Magma PHLO reached them with the quickness and ran face first into the scorching language of a distressed Dugout. We dragged the boat to the shallows and drained it by way of our top of the line bailers. I.e. cut up gallon jugs. We found that the weakened boat had hit a rock and there was a hole large enough to put my hand through. We emptied the boat into ours and surrendered it to team DangerDug. We started to walk the boat to a bridge, which was just in sight about 500 yards away. But in our adrenaline jacked state from yet another crisis, Magma and I hopped in the wounded boat and paddled or tails off in a desperate bid to reach the bridge before we were navigating the river in a submarine. We made good time in our empty boat with just ourselves and our beers, but as we reached the bridge, things took a turn. The water had been pouring in at about the rate of a school water fountain, and in a similar arc. By this time, we were over half full and moving rapidly to our destination. As we turned into the landing, the boat listed badly ot the side and Magma bailed in order to avoid spilling his beer. Without his weight in the back, the water rushed forward and I found myself in a rapid nosedive into the current mere feet from the landing. So there I stood, knee deep in broken canoe and waist deep in water, beer in one hand and paddle in the other, surrounded by my fellow lunatic aquablazers. There was a brief moment of eye contact and realization. “Hooray! Good Aquablaze everyone!” And there was much cheering to celebrate the end of the journey, because this time it really was the end. And not a single casualty.
We were now in Luray, well short of our destination, but we had a fantastic time and shared a unique experience that I will treasure for a lifetime. Jr. knew a guy who’s cousin’s family lived in Luray, and by a stroke of good fortune, his friend was visiting. Danger Muffin’s mother was also there and took us to pick up Ezra’s car. Much later, our nomad village was established around a roaring bonfire and there was much rejoicing. The canoes were chained under a bridge and were destined to remain there for some time. I don’t know if there is a god, or what form it takes, but if it is sentient, it must find great amusement in our antics, otherwise we would have all been smote long ago.
My family was nice enough to pick us up the following day and take us all back to Frostburg. There we were nourished and relaxed in style at the luxurious Casa de Rumburg. We even had time for a trip to my favorite place, Flying Dog Brewery, where we got two private tours. Why? Cause sometimes one just isn’t enough. We also got to stop off at my cousin’s home and pay a visit. Over the next couple of days our crew departed with great sadness and promises to reunite soon. And the Aqua Folly was over.
Graveyard and I went to the beach with my family, had a great time, and wrote part of the blog. The rest was written in Duncannon at the Doyle, but that is a story for another time…

Mischief and Mayhem on the High Seas

2009-07-25T11:27:00.000-07:00

At 1:45, well fed on shellfish and reclining on a corduroy futon, it is difficult to believe the state of affairs that I found myself in only a week ago. And that pales in comparison to the fateful afternoon of July 8th;a day which began full of promise and optimism. But thats how this whole thing began, and look how far that got us. (Read: a mix of sarcasm and ironic honesty)

Apple Orchard Falls was beautiful. There was an opening in the tree cover on the path, exposing a beautiful valley, reminiscent of Georgia and the Smokies, which opened up to the west, allowing for gorgeous sunsets. We had high hopes of making it to Waynesboro by the AquaBlaze, full of Grandma food as we were and prepared with steaks and a box of wine for the evening (courtesy of Jess's parents). We hiked on... but didn't make it far. Turns out Grandma food and 6 zero days has a leadening effect on hiking legs, and we barely made it 5 miles. The next day, again with high hopes and better hydrated, we set off for 16 miles of downhill... and only made it 8 before Graveyard was literally collapsing and crying in frustration and pain. Turns out you can't even pretend to be a thru-hiker if all you've been doing is hitch-hiking. We split from Jen and Ninja again, who had to go meet Sod Father to return his dog, Blue, to him. After a few painfully slow days, we realized there was no way were going to make the AquaBlaze and hopped off at Glasgow, from which we hitched to Buena Vista. We found our first bar since entering Virginia here, but it didn't serve liquor! And all I wanted was a jack & coke. To our surprise, and the surprise of the bartender, the one thing I wanted was the one premixed malted beverage he had – bottles of premixed Jack Daniels and Coke. We asked if the friendly guy if we could camp in his small lawn (offering small compensation), and he sadly said that even if he gave us permission, we'd be arrested by the end of the night for loitering or vagrancy or public drunkenness by one of the 15 cops in this population 5,000 or less town. He also cut me off after 3 drinks because “no one's gotten busted out of my establishment yet”. Apparently, stumbling on the street is an arrestable offense in Buena Vista. We sat next to a couple who owned a horse ranch of some kind, and the reminisced about how they used to go hiking before their knees gave out and their back got hurt... in other words, before they turned 50. We talked with them for quite some time, and they left us with good wishes for a safe journey. When it came our turn to leave, we discovered that they had paid our bill for us! We camped at the local (overcharged, but we could afford it now because of the kindness of strangers) campground. Next day, we began the 60 mile hitch to Waynesboro. We still didn't have enough time to walk there, as we knew that the boats would probably arrive 2-3 days before July 1 (our scheduled departure date), and there were no more towns between Buena Vista and Waynesboro. And friendly family on their way home from grocery shopping ran us up Blue Ridge Parkway a little ways, and then we sat and waited. Graveyard drew a pretty sign on our Tyvek in the 2 hours that we sat there, and eventually a quiet man on his way home from fishing pulled over to give us a lift. Over the course of the next half hour car ride, we came to learn (among other things) that he was an actor (he's done several appearances on that t.v. comedy with Alec Baldwin and Tina Fey) and that his dream role was King Lear... which, coincidently enough, I was actually reading at that moment, having been inspired by Gnarly (an actor as well, who could quote Shakespeare) to pick up a play I had never seen. We got along with him quite well. Instead of dropping us when he got off the Blue Ridge before Waynesboro, he took us with him to run a few errands, treated us to pizza (! where we finally learned his name was Ray), and brought us all the way to Waynesboro! Wonders never cease. There are two things this trail has definitively taught me – we're all trying to be good, we just don't know how; and to be grateful for the amazingness of the world and of other people. Thanks Ray!

It was the eve of June 28th, a Sunday. We had left the Lutheran basement hostel, closed for the season, where we had unexpectedly encountered our past compadres Gnarley (AKA General Gnarley of the Minutemen Militia) and Boofer, the one who coined my trail name. After our eviction, we bid safe journies to our friends and made our way to the local YMCA. The people there were sympathetic to hikers and provided free showers and a field in which to pitch a tent. It came furnished with a picnic table and well kept Porto-John. What more can a man ask for? In addition to the plush amenities, our site came with a few loco SOBO's (southbound hikers, a wholly different breed) and front row tickets to the Jerry Springer Show. One SOBO from Vermont took an interest in aqua blazing and asked to sign on. That made eleven: the original nine, consisting of Myself, Graveyard, Dugout, Dizzy Bat, Jen, Ninja, Danger Muffin, Ezra, and Goucha; as well as Magma Orphan, introduced to us by Gnarley at the Hostel, and Miles the SOBO. Plus Einstein the dog. This worked out well, as Ryan and Natahan Houeholder were inbound at that moment with five canoees and a kayak in tow. We had also begun a waiting list, with Wheels and Cookie (pus a dog) seeking an end to the tedium of routine and the Virginia Blues, a well documented hiker phenomenon. Many would offer explainations for it, but I maintain its existance as inexplicable. It is around Wheels that an impromptu episode of Jerry Springer arose, also inexplicably. A pair of locals stopped by on scooters and proceeded to drink themselves stupider on cheap beer in large cans, and make small talk consisting mostly of mountain slang and gibberish. This was unusual, but not unheard of, and we tried our best to be polite and represent hiker-kind in a positive fashion. We began to get the impression that all the Neighborhood Meth Watch stickers we had been seeing were not just a budget ploy. Either that or these two gentlemen had been drinking too much of the South River water, and not upstream o' the DuPont plant (makers of such wonderful products as Tyvek, our floor) One of the locals finally left, but a dispute broke out between Wheels and the remaining yocal. He felt he had crossed us and demanded that we 'beat his arse' to make up for it. This went on for some time, since we would do no such thing, regardless of whether he would fight back or not. He finally called his wife, who showed up in a rusted out van with two teen sons and a daughter. This woman was one of the most terrifying and intimidating people I have ever met, and she seemed perfectly willing to give her husband the thrashing he was after. There was a lot of bad noise between the family, culminating in her dragging him away by his collar and their son riding off on the scooter. We could only look at each other, completely at a loss for words.

That night, Ryan and Nathan showed up with the boats and Dugout. They had their share of excitement as well, trying to rig the trailer with a working light system and finally duct taping flashlights to it and wrapping them in red cellophane. We spent the evening catching up and then called it an early night a bit before dawn. Two more thru-hikers pulled in and joined our revelry. They were understandably jealous of the Aqua Blaze and spent a good hour making plans to buid a raft and float along with us. next day we ran errands and were suprised to return to camp and find them sitting next to a large inner tube and plotting to buy several more. We left them to their delusions and made a run to Walmart. While there, we saw a yellow rubber raft for $40 and figured that if they were dead set on tagging along, they would be better off in the raft than in a craft made of tires selling for $20 a tube. And that is how Walking Home and Chinese Tourist (no, he's not Chinese) pirated their way on to the Aqua Blaze. Wheels and Cookie took a more legitimate route. Miles had vanished that morning with all of his belongings and was never seen again. We also found out that our friend Jr. was trying to join our group and had his own canooe, and a dog. This gave us two openings and cleared our wait-list. And that is how the Aqua Blaze grew to 15 people and 3 dogs (Graveyard, The Phlo, DugOut, DizzyBat, Einstein the dog, Jen, Ninja, Ezra, Danger Muffin, Goucha, Magma Orphan, Wheels, Cookie, Chaya the dog, Jr., Rusty the dog, Walking Home, and Chinese Tourist) in 6 cannoes, one kayak, one rubber Walmart Raft and one tube with a cooler lashed to it.

We are not expert canoers. We are not guides or in any way professionals. We did not elect leaders, or elect to call ourselves leaders of the AquaBlaze we organized, but chose the democratic route instead - which, of course, made our progress much slower as all 15 people (and 3 dogs) had to have their say in every decision.

After spending 8 or 9 hours packing up the YMCA, loading and moving the boats, and a brief safety discussion (this is a throw line, please wear your life vests or keep them close), we finally were in position to get on the water and, of course, it started to thunder and lightening. We waited till it stopped and, though it was still raining and it was already 5 p.m., we disembarked. It became immediately obvious that we were in for a long and perilous paddle. After managing to float, paddle and drag our boats downstream for about five miles (the South river being significantly less deep than we had hoped), we made camp across from a cow pasture and ate a huge communal pot of pseudo-Pad Thai. One day down, so far so good. The only casualty was Danger Muffin, who slipped while guiding a boat in to shore and was subsequently run over by said boat. She was soaked but uninjured, but the earlier rain had dashed any hopes we had about staying dry anyway.

We spent the next day dragging our way down the river, keeping our spirits up by reminding ourselves that the South Fork was only 12 miles away. We hoped to make it all the way, but the water was shallow, the 15 of us didn't get all on the water until 12, the yellow raft wasn't really working out (in that we were carrying all their stuff and we were towing them by the end of the day because they couldn't keep up), and we discovered that Jr.'s boat, which he had borrowed from his neighbor's backyard where it was literally growing weeds, had a propensity for leaking. We also were spread miles apart from each other on the river. We didn't make any "rules" before disembarking, so the more... motivated members of our crew departed at least a half hour before the last people, and as they were more motivated, made more progess in less time. Luckily, they thought to stop 3 hours before sunset, so last-in-line caught them right before dark. They told us they had stopped at a seemingly abandonded field to camp when a dude with a shotgun walked up. Yes, literally. He asked (politely) "What are you doing on my property?" They explained we were thru-hikers on an AquaBlaze, and all that entails. He said that he only lets people camp on his property if they ask permission. Luckily, first in line were 2 cute and pursuasive girls and 2 quiet guys (who didn't mention the other 11 behind them), which may have had something to do with the fact that they obtained permission to stay. We took this as a hint and asked for permission from the closest house from then on. Turns out the shotgun was for gophers. Made it about 10 miles down the river.

Next day we established that each boat should be at least in eye-contact with the boat ahead and behind, and made it to the South Fork of the Shenandoah River around noon (didn't leave til 12 again), which was everything we hoped it could be - wide and DEEP! We can actually paddle for longer than 10 minute stretches!! We stopped at Elkton, a small town at the junction of the two rivers, which was also listed in the Appalachian Pages as a possible resupply town. Most of the crew took off to buy beer - a necessary luxury of the AquaBlaze that is simply impossible on the WhiteBlaze - and mending materials for Jr.'s "Fail Boat", while 4 of us waited with the boats. We discussed our current lack of progress, and decided that we would present to the group that we should perhaps set a disembark time of 9 a.m. and have a 7 a.m. wake-up call from someone who is morning-inclined. An hour or so later, some returned with pizza and beer. An hour or so after that, Goucha and Ezra returned from the remaining part of the crew. Apparently, it was quite a long walk to the hardware store and, upon arrival, most of them simply could not resist the mexican restaurant located conveniently next door. Goucha and Ezra couldn't bring themselves to sit down to margaritas with ice and be waited on in air conditioning while the rest of us sat, unknowingly, guarding the boats on this hot, humid day, so they returned to tell us what the rest were up to... and as my blood began to boil, Goucha sat down next to me in the canoe, looked me in the eye, and calmly told me that she and Ezra had been discussing leaving the Aqua Blaze so that there would be room for all. And I, Graveyard (can you figure out where we switched? haha a game!), was furious. Not at Goucha and Ezra, of course, but at the margarita drinkers and, particularly, the pirates. For now they were truly pirating their way into our boats.

Without asking for specific reasons why they were unhappy with our current situation (I could pretty much guess it was the late starts, the lack of progress, and the mexican situation), I told them that I would rather tell the pirates to peace out, it's been fun, but it's really not working out; that we had just been discussing the fact that we need to get up earlier; that the South Fork would be easier and quicker than the South River had been; that I would be so sad to see either of them go; but that, as we have people to fill their places, they do not have to stay, that they should think about what I said and that they should do "whatever floats your boat". Ha. Ha. Ezra decided to stay (I doubt he really wanted to go, except to make room for the others). Goucha decided to go. "Sorry, Gravey, but I've gotta hike my own hike, yano?" I did. She was up and ready to go every morning before anyone else even got up. And I don't think she was a huge fan of people pounding beers with breakfast. But that's neither here nor there. She left immediately; threw her pack on her back and hitched out of Elkton and back to the White Blaze.

And then the margarita-men drifted back. Dugout, Jr., Wheels, and Cookie came first. DizzyBat, who had been waiting with me from the start, got Mexican from Dug, so she wasn't mad anymore and told Dugout that we felt...shafted? Thinking she was mad at him, he got defensive with his female companion, until I interrupted with a few harsh words about margaritas on the rocks and Goucha leaving us and stormed away... well... to a different canoe, less than 5 feet away, but I think I made my point. He shut up, anyway. 10 minutes or so later he snuck over with an apology beer for me, which was more than enough to quench my rage and bring on the guilt for yelling, so I gave him a big hug and told him I was more mad about Goucha, which wasn't his fault, than the margaritas. He was quickly followed by Wheels, who sheepishly muttered "sorry if I made you angry..." like a puppy with his tail between his legs, at which point I couldn't help but laugh, and it was done. Chinese and Walking Home, our friendly neighborhood pirates, arrived next, with Subway for the ones who had stayed with the boats. I (pretty coolly) told them I had eaten pizza brought back 2 hours ago, that Goucha was leaving, but I appreciated the thought and perhaps I'd eat it later. Chinese asked why Goucha was leaving, and I told him what I had told her - that I would rather them leave than loose her - which he took quite well - but as she had opted to leave anyway, one of them got to canoe, hooray:) As I'd been able to say what frustrated me so to them, that was done as well.

We paddled on... didn't make it far as it was already 5 p.m. Walking Home, now alone in Fail Craft (the raft which was now sporting many gorilla-taped holes) being towed by Chinese and Danger Muffin (who had lost her paddling partner), Fail Boat continuing to sink, and the rest of the navy still doing well. That night we pulled up to a field, 2 guys and 2 girls went to find the house that owned it (Wheels could not believe the sweet-heart I unearthed for the job from under my tough-girl exterior, which I found highly entertaining), and we proceeded to drink heavily in the canoes pulled up to shore until dark. Made it about 6 miles down the river.

I, The Phlo (haha, switched again!) was unreasonably distressed after the departure of Goucha. Although I was in no way the leader of this rag-tag mob, I still felt a responsibility for having assembled this flotilla of doom, and the loss of one of our members was saddening, especially because we had only just reached the deeper, swifter waters of the Shenandoah. As we paddled on, I maintained a surly and generally silent demeanor until the end of the day, when we finally beached in a grassy area on the western shore of the river. Group morale seemed low, so we did the only reasonable thing and proceeded to sit in the beached canoes for several hours, drinking warm Budweiser. About halfway through the case of Budweiser, I managed to gracefully, and with much skill, fall into the river, climb out, and eat soggy Subway sandwiches and promptly fall asleep. I awoke the next morning to find that all of my beer had disappeared, and some scoundrel had replaced it with empties. Imagine my dismay (though not surprise) when Graveyard informed me that the scoundrel was... me. But, I was in good spirits, and no worse for the wear, and I even managed to conduct myself respectfully (except for the part where I climbed into the tent wearing all my wet clothes, soaking both our sleeping bags... whoops).

And so we paddled on, 233 years to the day after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. We did the wake up at 7, and were on the river by... 11. Oh, well, progress is progress. Walking Home, Chinese, and Danger Muffin opted to deflate Fail Craft in favor of a 3-person canoe, which worked out surprisingly well. We began the day in good spirits, sure we would accomplish many miles that day, and it seemed that we would... until we encountered our first class 2 rapid.

The thing about not having a professional along is you have no idea what's coming. We knew there was a Class 2 ahead somewhere. We thought it would be easy. No one knew the right path to take through the rapid. No one was wearing life jackets. We came upon two islands; the deepest route was to the far left, the shallowest to the far right, and the center looked like you'd end up dragging your boat. As we spent the first 3 days of our voyage doing that, we naturally thought the deepest route was the safest course. Chinese, “Floating” Home, and Danger Muffin went first, followed by The Phlo in the kayak. The threesome, with their added maneuverability and experience (Walking Home has spent much of his life on the water in kayaks, can't speak for the others, but they certainly always seemed to know what they were doing), made it through fine, as did the buoyant kayak, but they knew it had been a close call. The rapid dropped about five feet, and the clearest shoot appeared to be between 2 rocks about 8 feet apart from each other. However, the rushing water between the two hid the menace at the bottom – a huge rock, right in the center. They barely avoided it, and turned quickly to warn the next boat, but it was too late. DizzyBoat, containing DugOut, DizzyBat, and Einstein, hit it strait on, stopping them dead and throwing Einstein from the boat. The rushing current quickly swung the back end of the boat around, turning it sideways so that the top of the boat faced upstream, thus filling the boat with water, while the strong current rushing into the boat completely pinned it against the 2 sharp rocks they had been attempting to pass between. DizzyBat got knocked out of the boat, sucked under the boat, and out the rapid, thankfully uninjured, though in a state of complete shock. She surfaced to Einstein licking her face and being completely unhelpful, though he was also uninjured. The Phlo hopped out of his kayak near shore and pushed it off towards Dizzy Bat, which she used to steady herself and make her way to solid ground. DugOut managed to keep his seat and got out to attempt to free the boat. Meanwhile, TrioBoat stopped in a shallow part near the center. Chinese and Floating Home left to help DugOut; Danger Muffin held the boat in place and warned incoming canoers of impending doom.... or just take the center instead of the left through the islands. It was too late for Fail Boat; they had already passed the point of no return, but tried a different approach through the rapids, landing them grounded in the shallows farther left than DizzyBoat had approached. On the South River, that was not a problem; just get out and drag. Here, though, the current was much swifter, and it took them quite some time to free themselves. Plus, their sinking boat was full of water.

I was in a canoe with Cookie that day, and as we approached the islands, we could just make out Danger Muffin waving frantically, alone with a canoe and a kayak in the middle of the river. We couldn't really tell what she was signaling, though stop was definitely part of it. We took the center route, as we knew the others had gone left, though we couldn't see all the commotion because of the island in the way. We got through safely. Had to drag our canoe part way, but safely. The others followed us. We got down to Danger Muffin and saw that Einstein, soaking wet, was in the canoe, and turned around to see the boat, completely sideways in the water and being pried out by The Phlo, Chinese, Floating Home, DugOut, and 3 locals who happened to be fishing at the base of the rapid (thank goodness for small favors!), not to mention Jr. and Wheels struggling with their own stranded and flooding Fail Boat. The force of 7 men couldn't move it, so they started detaching the packs (read: all of Dizzy's and Dug's worldly possessions, everything they've needed or wanted for the last 3 months and will need again for the next 3) from the craft and throwing them downriver, where a dazed DizzyBat (now wearing a life jacket) could catch them. With less weight in the boat... they still couldn't make it budge. So they all moved to one end of the craft, and finally all 7 of them were able to force one end up and out of the water and over the rock... leaving the other side pinned still against this very sharp rock, with the current now bending the boat between the two. From my downriver vantage point, I could literally see the boat cracking in two; one long gash running down the side. I mean, this boat was bent. It was done. The Aqua Blaze was over.

To be continued.... (hahaha, it's not over yet)

Pictures!!!

2009-06-27T19:12:00.001-07:00

We're in Waynesboro, excitedly anticipating the Aqua Blaze, waiting for the whole crew to arrive.

Here are pictures:) I found out, after creating a gmail, that Google is way more awesome than I previously assumed. You can create a blog, an email, a calander, online documents (like Word or Excel, but accessible to anyone you invite) AND you can post pictures! Lots of them! Quickly and Easily! Without downloading additional software! Hooray:)

Yes, there are a lot of pictures of plants, and, yes, there are a lot of pictures of mountains, but if you scroll through the mountain pics quick enough a lot of them link up to form a panoramic image, so just imagine you are turning your head and looking around.

http://picasaweb.google.com/jkmuench

Photos will continue to be uploaded to this location, but I'll keep including the link at the bottom of every blog so no one who's interested will miss it.

Also, in case anyone missed them, here is the link to some of the disposable cameras I developed that couldn't be uploaded from the Wal-Mart disc.

http://photos.walmart.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=130035006/a=90169006_90169006/otsc=SHR/otsi=SALBlink/

http://photos.walmart.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=127839006/a=90169006_90169006/otsc=SHR/otsi=SALBlink/

That's all for now, folks. I'm sure we'll have an exciting update post-Aqua Blaze:D

ps - Joe, really appreciated your last comment:)

Responsibility?

2009-06-21T09:14:00.000-07:00

After leaving Marion, where Jess's mom dropped us off for DugOut's birthday, we didn't make it very far before Jess got some kind of awful stomach virus. We assume he caught it from a bad water, as he drank untreated water from a stream that I didn't drink from. We had run out of Aqua Mira, our water treatment method, and were almost out fuel (so no boiling our water clean), so we didn't have much of a choice. We spent the day laid up in a shelter. Luckily, the weather that day was pretty terrible, so our tribe didn't make it that far, and we were able to catch them the next day. Upon catching them, we learned that Jen's mom was driving down from PA for a visit. Jess was still feeling ill, so we didn't really move, camping out near Atkins, VA, so that Jen's mom could pick us all up the next day. She brought us to Wythville (ironically, the town my Grandpa Muench broke his hip in, so I had actually spent some time in this town already), and put all of us (Jess, myself, DugOut, and DizzyBat, and of course Jen) up in a motel with a pool for the whole weekend so she could visit with her daughter without worrying about her loosing her crew! By the end of the weekend, DugOut and DizzyBat decided they would take advantage of Jen's mom travelling north and yellow-blaze with her up to Waynesboro so that they could take their time hiking Shenendoah National Park before she had to leave for her brother's wedding in Mexico. They plan on meeting us again in Waynesboro so they can do the AquaBlaze with us. Meanwhile, Jen, Jess, and I got dropped off in Bland and hiked on. The mountains of VA are pretty dull compared with the prior hike. Instead of hiking up 3000 ft in 3 miles or less to be greeted by astounding views, we hike up 1000 ft in 3 miles and then walk a (supposedly flat) ridgeline for another 3, and then find ourselves walking down another hill to a road or a little podunk "town". No views, no reward, but still just as tired. Even when there is a view, instead of being greeted by huge, jagged mountains and impressive green valleys, we only see more flat ridges. Then it started raining, and all reports said it wouldn't stop for a week. We got to a little road tired and wet and stopped for a snack, and threw out our thumbs at every car that drove by just for kicks. Usually this wouldn't result in a hitch, but I guess this woman took pity on our pathetic looking selves, so she brought us to Newcastle, 25 miles from the trail, and treated us to Subway! From there we hitched (our hitch was very nice, and told us of a secret campsite near Apple Orchard Falls) to Catawba, near Roanoke, where Jess's Grandma Rumburg picked the 3 of us up and brought us to her house for showers and delicious home-cooked meals! Jess's parents came down the next day, and we spent the weekend together. Thursday, Russ did us the added favor of picking up a friend of ours (Ninja and Blue the dog) off the trail, who spent the night in the backyard. On Friday, Jen and Ninja got dropped off at Buchannon. We will be meeting them tonight at the secret site near Apple Orchard Falls. We'll be about 90 miles away from Waynesboro, with 10 days till the AquaBlaze, and we couldn't be more excited. 20 miles per day sitting down!!

This next piece is a response to my Grandpa Muench's comment on our previous blog.

We are very glad you have been able to comment on our blog, I know you had been having difficulties figuring it out. I ask, what is a responsibility? It is certainly not responsibility that keep Jess and I together, but love. He hikes much faster than me, and walks away from me multiple times a day, but it is not "responsibility" that gives him pause, it is love. He knows I can take care of myself, and as I am carrying food, water, and the tent, and that the trail is highly populated by friendly people and has shelters every 10 miles or less, he knows that I would be fine if left on my own. But because he misses my company, he pauses and waits for me once an hour or less. We have been hiking with Jen, and now will also add Ninja to our group. She hikes slower than me, but we feel no "responsibility" to wait for her, we do because we want to, because we enjoy her company as well. Since I chose to bring my cell phone and to create a blog, we haven't walked away from the "responsibility" to keep in touch with our family and friends, though I still feel "responsibility" is a coarse word to describe something that I don't at all consider a responsibility, because I quite enjoy keeping in touch with people in one form on another.
So, I would say the only "responsibility" we have walked away from is our civic duty to do something useful for the society that has turned us into the people we are today through the education system and through the norms and values instilled in us through parents, teachers, and friends, not to mention the society that feeds us, clothes us, houses us, and protects us. Despite our criticism of society, we are keenly aware that without this unified "society", there might be warring factions tearing apart the neighborhoods of America, similar to the disunity we see in the Middle East. Because of this "society", some people farm our food, some people make our goods, some people count our money, and even fewer people actually get to make money, but that's neither here nor there. Point being, it is only because of "society", and this division of labor, that Jess and I are able to do this. In fact, it is only because of Jess' Grandparents Kennedy's hard work for their entire lives that we are able to do this, as they are funding this adventure. So we do feel a responsibility to return the favor to the society that they have been a part of, and that we have been raised in and been a part of. However, as we have spent 22 years being raised within the society, we thought the best thing to do would be to walk away from it, for a little while, to best figure out how we can serve society by getting an outside perspective. We do feel, as you may have observed from previous comments, that society has problems, and we hope that we may be able to help them, or fix them, or work with them to lessen them, one day in the future. In the meantime, we're trying to figure ourselves out so that we know the best way for us to go about doing that. Jesus himself walked away from his problems for a time, into the desert, to work out how he could best alleviate the problems of his time, not to mention the period of his life that is absent from the Bible (aged 12-30).
For right now, if we don't like something, we can just pick up and walk away. That's kind of the idea of this whole thing. It's pretty cool, actually, and I recommend it to anyone who feels life's little pressures are bringing them down. With the media bombarding us with fear, and Ashton Kutcher et al. participating actively in the dumbing down of America's youth, and cars and businesses polluting us into climate change and lobbying so that even the most reform-minded leaders are unwilling or unable to force the change we need, it's been nice to walk away. Don't worry. We'll be back.

Love you:) And thanks for the food for thought:)

From the P.H.L.O. (aka. Phantom Hiker Lost Outdoors, aka Party Hard, Live Once)
I hope my previous blog was not taken as facetious. I really do appreciate Doris' comment, their balancing effect, and the insuing dialogue. I never wished to imply that we were walking away from our responsibilities, but rather from situations we found undesirable. We most certainly have the responsibilities of feeding ourselves, creating our shelter, and providing for our personal needs. It is merely my preference and to meet these responsibilities more directly as opposed to the traditional method of working a job and paying others to provide these goods and services. Except for food. Much to my chagrin. But I am in no way claiming my way to be superior or the only right way. I have become very fond of the following bit o' Hindu wisdom: "It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of someone else's with perfection and grace." The Bhagavad Gita

Graveyard here, and I approve PHLO's message

Info on das AQUABLAZE

2009-06-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

We are in Pearisburg, after many soggy miles. Forcast is 5 days of lightning, so we had better get used to it. We have officially set a date for the aquablaze. We will be leaving on June 30, so it looks like that won't time out for my cousin bringing the boats. Thanks so much for the offer Carey! So, if anyone has access to a vehicle with a hitch and a little free time, we would be exceedingly grateful. We should be in Roanoke on the 18th or 19th, and will do a nice long blog, because I'm sick of this sticky keyboard and broken mouse already. Thanks Doris for trying to apply balance to our rejection of modern day living. We are well aware of our necessary reliance on corporate America, or rather the products brought from overseas by ungoverned trans-national corperations. (My whistle is the only thing I have that is Made in America) However, we are trying to move ever so slowly towards freedom and self-reliance. It is truly liberating to not have bills and leases, and other obligations. Once I wasn't wasting brainpower trying to juggle my income and outcome amongst a multitude of needs and wants, I felt freed from something I didn't even realize I was enslaved to. Plus we have had lots of time to discuss how silly many of society's conventions are, but I suppose they exist to protect the bottom 10%. Warning labels on toothbrushes? Honestly. It all seems so simple to us, surrounded by people we trust, free of debt, free of dependants, unbothered by anything anyone else does out here. If we don't like it, we don't whine or make rules, we just walk away. Transient life is stacked with hardship, but I feel more alive than I ever have before. So please excuse us wanderers and dreamers our discontent with average America and the white picket fence. It is, after all, just a matter of taste.

The Magic Bus and Other Misadventures of an Outdoor Nature

2009-06-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

More pics, Walmart is so lame that they put a software on the CD that this computer can't read, so I had to create albums on their website. Fortunately that means I don't have to post 20 times to get them online. These are from Georgia and the Smokies. I still haven't figured out the best way to get my 4 gigs of digital pics onto a computer and online. Any suggestions? Remember, I can't download anything onto a library computer, and facebook won't do since non-members (read: our parents and grandparents) won't be able to view them. Plus, if I open my facebook I'll get lost and booted from the library before I have a chance to accomplish anything real.

http://photos.walmart.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=130035006/a=90169006_90169006/otsc=SHR/otsi=SALBlink/

http://photos.walmart.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=127839006/a=90169006_90169006/otsc=SHR/otsi=SALBlink/

Rewind.

We left Hot Springs the day after Jess's birthday, and we spoke about our birthday celebrations in other posts, which were quite excelent. We got separated from the Tribe before even leaving town, as Jess and I wanted to spend some time at the library. 30 miles later we met up with Russ/Dad Rumburg and his brother, Uncle Ray, who is the first member of the Rumburg half of the family Julia has met. They seemed to thoroughly enjoy the hike, and it seemed (to us) that Jess's Dad has a better idea of why we're here instead of... well... anywhere else. With Trail Days quickly approaching, and many miles to go still, we decided to take the opportunity of having a car around and yellow-blazed 30 miles to Erwin, TN (knowing there was a Pizza Hut there helped convince us;) ). Jess handed off some of his winter gear, and they dropped us off at the trail again. Jess's Dad, on parting, said he was proud of Jess (and me), which went strait to Jess's core (and I also appreciated). Given the feedback from all four parents, it seems all you need to do to get your parents approval is quit your job, loose your place to live, and go wander around in the woods for six months. KIDDING;) I'm guessing it has more to do with our determination to succeed at doing something for no good reason other than because we want to, which is truly a beautiful thing. Feel free to correct me, parents. Speaking of being proud of Jess, it is official: he is a May 2009 BS Graduate from the College of Enivronmental Science and Forestry:). So Mike, we all tied after all.

Up, up, up we hiked to "Beauty Spot", a location that had been talked up to us by past thru-hikers, but it was so cold and windy up there we barely even looked around. It didn't seem like much compared to Max Patch anyway. Up some more onto Unaka Mountain and into a cloud; the day after Russ/Dad visited wasn't even over yet, and Jess was already regretting loosing his winter gear. Julia at this point also discovered that she had left her rain jacket and hat in the car, which was probably/definately worse, since wet-cold is way more of a problem than just cold. Another 20 miles to Roan Mountain, the top of which was, again, in a cloud (first time above 6000 ft since the Smokies). Walking in a cloud is sort of like walking in the rain but worse. The cloud condenses onto the trees and falls as a lightish rain/mist that gets into everything, and it's much colder and windier. Also, no view. We walked right by the shelter at the top without even noticing it. Down the other side, out of the cloud; 2 miles past the shelter, there was a road, which was our first clue that we had passed it. We arrived at the road at sunset. Gnarly, who I mentioned in the last blog, had been bunny-hopping with us (we pass him, he passes us, over and over) throughout that day, and we 3 decided to hike into the night to the next shelter. Up, up, up from the road onto bald mountains (grass only, no significant population of trees or bushes), and the setting sun behind the wispy clouds covering the mountain we had just descended from was so spooky and beautiful and perfect... it looked like some kind of weird Edvard Munch painting (see "The Scream"). We hiked into the night and into the mist, which makes headlamps pretty useless (although I was quite happy to have a brand new really awesome super blindingly bright headlamp), and the trail was pretty poorly maintained so we each wiped out badly, but only once apiece, so the Trail was just letting us know to be careful, which we were thankful for. The 3 of us arrived at the shelter at 11:30. Now, we 3 are late night people, people who enjoy the occaisional night hike, and don't usually get up before 10, and we have been scolded by the self-considered "respectable" hiker for keeping them awake past 7 pm (that is not an exaggeration - the sun doesn't even completely set till 9), so we were understandably ecstatic when we found the shelter was empty - the first empty shelter we have come across this entire hike. The next day was a beautiful, blue sky day, absolutely perfect for the series of balds that we climbed. Balds are beautiful and green and have fantastic panoramic views - see "The Sound of Music" for a more accurate description and a good aerial shot of one. On one bald we came across a herd of longhorn cattle (each horn 2-3 feet long, at least), which were really intimidating, standing on the trail in front of us and uphill. I figured "someone owns these domesticated cattle, I'll just be confident in walking towards them and they'll move". Then the big one stomped his foot, and I saw a calf behind him. We went around them, braving the sticker bushes. As soon as we stepped off the trail, they chilled out and kept doing their thing. I hear the ATC leases these mountaintops to local ranchers to keep the balds bald. That night we camped in a field of 3-ft grass, and ended up talking with Gnarly until 5 am about the nature of the universe and the planet and the species and the society we are trying so desperately to escape, which I believe I mentioned in my rantish blog (I notice no one commented on that).

The next day, with 3 days to the start of Trail Days and 80 miles to go, Gnarly took off to try to make it on foot, figuring he'd at least make the end. We had promised to meet The Tribe, so we continued to amble at a slow steady pace, past several beautiful waterfalls, into Hampton, where we yellow-blazed to Damascus, and found our Tribe again. Liz and Marc acquired their trail names, DizzyBat and DugOut. I'll leave their stories for them to tell. We met and refound many good people, including and not limited to Moe!, Gnarly, Sky, Red Lion, 10x10, Father Time, Muscles, N Da Wind, Giggles, Ezra, Kalamity Kate, Stone Skipper, Ten Sticks, Boofer (Jess' namer), Night Moves (Julia's namer, formerly One Step), Basher, Zuma, Blow-Job Carney, Oden, Heather, and it gets really hard to remember these names, especially if you haven't seen them in a while, so any 09ers who come across this and are sad that Graveyard didn't think to mention them remember I have the memory of a dead rat!

The Phlo, Graveyard, DizzyBat, DugOut, and Einstein (Jess, Julia, Liz, Marc, and Einstein the dog) set out from Damascus after Trail Days together, trying to hitch-hike back to Hampton, largely so we could see Laurel Fork Falls (otherwise we probably would have hiked out of Damascus so as to keep up with the above list, who mostly had arrived at Trail Days by foot). We got an offer for a ride to Mountain City, 1/3 of the way to Hampton (which is an hour from Damascus by car). She stopped at a random road halfway to Mountain City, saying that she had groceries and couldn't take us the next 6 miles, but that we were sure to get a hitch. An hour and a half later, the sun was setting, and we were still dancing for every pick-up truck that blared by. One honked, waved, and turned down the wrong road (actually, most of them seemed to get a kick out of waving and honking, especially if they were going the way we needed to go - which I don't understand because we were clearly stranded in the middle of nowhere). About 20 minutes later, he came back. He was a super friendly guy named Max, who couldn't take us to Mountain City tonight, but he could tomorrow, and if we'd like we could come stay at his cabin on his beef farm. Small miracles never cease to amaze me. So the five of us hop into his pickup truck, Dizzy & I in front & the 3 boys in back. Max drives us up onto his property, touring us around, telling me & Dizzy a million stories about anything and everything, and shows us amazing view after amazing view, finally pulling us up next to an old, dilapidated, rusted out bus he calls "The Magic Bus" at the top of his tallest hill with an incredible panoramic sunset spilling in every direction in front of us (meanwhile Dugout & Phlo have no idea whats going on, and are kind of freaked about this pickup ambling around on a roadless field - but the man knows his farm), then drives us down the hill into a small valley, hidden from the world, with a little cabin with a woodstove (and wouldn't you know it was below freezing for the first time in a month that night?).

I am not kidding you. This is real. We were absolutely blown away. And the next day, when Max brought us coffee and invited us to stay another night, we jumped on the offer. We spent the day wandering around amongst cows and donkeys and horses, playing fetch with Einstein, dunking our heads in the water trough from the spring up the hill. Max had promised he would hang out with us that night, but he was a no-show till 2:30 am, when we were already in bed. The next day, when Max brought us coffee and sausage gravey and biscuits, he told us it was because a friend of his had rolled in his tractor (lucky to be alive!) and he had been with him in the hospital all day and into the night, finally coming to check on us because we were stranded in the middle of his farm with no idea of where we were and no resources but our packs and spring water. Not a situation we were unused to lol, but his concern was much appreciated. But, because of the accident, he hadn't gotten any work done the day before, so had to spend that day catching up, so he didn't have time to take us to Mountain City. Oh no! Another day on the farm, how sad. HaHA! The next day, when he heard us debating how best to pull off the hitch from Mountain City to Hampton, a resupply, and showers, he brought us to his house for showers, to the local grocery for a resupply, and all the way to Hampton. MAX IS AWESOME:)

I should note that the 3 days we spent at Max's was about how long it would take to get from Hampton to Damascus, so we debated just going back to Damascus, eventually putting our options in a hat and picking one at random (call it the Trail's will), and we picked Hampton.

We 5 hiked on, Laurel Fork Falls was beautiful. We got as far as Watauga Lake, on Memorial Day weekend, so we were surrounded by grilling burgers. Sad (from feeling like we were backwards, not forwards) and starved, we were understandably blown away when a Mt Rogers van pulled up right in front of us, with an offer to shuttle us for free to a country restaurant. Note: Mt. Rogers Outfitters is located in Damascus. Wasn't a hard decision, really, since we could go with him for free back to Damascus, as he had to go back there that night anyway.

Another 3 nights in Damascus later, we were really sick of towns. Example: Dizzy and Dug were staying in the only dog-friendly place in town, and we were quietly (yes, we were really being quiet) hanging out with them on the back porch (we were staying at a cheaper location). Phlo and I were sharing a beer, Dizzy and Dug and some other guests had a few of their own, and the owner asked us to leave because it was a rule that non guests couldn't drink on her property, and proceeded to scold Dizzy, Dug, and the other guests that we didn't even know prior to this for disobeying her rules. Which she had never told any of them, nor was it posted on the list of rules outside the house. Peace out Damascus, thanks for Trail Days, and could you please tone down the hostility next year? I mean, the people are great, but the cops were intrusive and unhelpful... Red Lion stepped on a whittled stick that went through his sandel into his foot, and laid there in pain until a friend found him and hobbled him over to the police station... and it took an hour for any help to arrive. That's the story anyway, haven't heard it from his mouth. Meanwhile, there are cops roving through campsites asking to see wristbands to make sure everyone had paid for their campsite. Interesting method to "serve and protect". I guess they were "serving and protecting" the landowner...oh wait... it was a public park.... I guess they were just "serving and protecting" themselves... especially since the whole Damascus police staff recently got replaced, as the last bunch was caught for making and dealing Crystal Meth.

Anyway.

Stone Skipper (Jen) caught up with us at this point (she had gone back to Erwin), and we six (don't forget the dog!) hiked on. It rained and we all got freezing cold for the first time in a long while, especially my soaking wet, rain jacket-less self. The next day we met up with Lorri/Mom and Rob (Jess's brother), who had driven down so that Rob could see Jess (and me) before taking off for his job in Colorado in a few weeks, at Grayson Highlands, which was an absolutely beautiful area full of ponies that bug you for food. Despite the fact that I had just been freezing the night before, I gave up my winter gear, as she had brought me back my rain jacket and hat:) She also brought six sandwiches with fresh bread and tomatoes and ham and cheese and deliciousness without even knowing we'd have a Tribe with us (Max has named us the Bad News Bears by the way), and she happily gave them out to the hungry hikers, keeping nothing for herself. The next day was Dugout's birthday, so we were trying to figure out some way to get all six of us to Marion, the closest big town. Lorri/Mom went above and beyond, ferrying Dugout, DizzyBat, Einstien, and Stone Skipper up to Marion and coming back for Rob, Phlo, and myself (also Zoe, the Rumburg's dog), half hour each way. THANK YOU!!!

Dugout's birthday was a happy one. DizzyBat has a wedding to fly to from DC at the end of June, so, sadly, it appears the Tribe is going to be separated again as they are thinking about yellow-blazing up to Bland or Pearisburg so that they don't have to average 18 miles a day to make it to Front Royal, where she thinks she has a ride. We will be hiking on from here with Stone Skipper still, and we hope that we've yellow-blazed enough that we may have caught Gnarly, Moe!, and other assorted faces that we miss. We are entering the green tunnel - seeing the pictures that are posted on WalMart's site reminded me of what we used to see, 'cause we're sure not seeing that anymore. The forest has come alive, and as the ridgeline through Virginia is supposedly relatively easy (compared to the Smokies or the Whites anyway), so we're hoping to crank up the miles to 15-20 per day. Roanoke is 200 miles away, where we will be visiting the Rumburg family. The Aqua Blaze is approximately 300 miles away, and is slowly coming together. We have Manner's approval, and an offer for a canoe shuttle. Just need to get the timing ironed out, but we won't be too sure about that till we know how fast we can hike this ridge. By the next post, we'll have set a date, and if we don't get there by white blaze, we'll just have to get there by yellow. Or blue.

Peace & Love to all.

10 Min. in Damascus

2009-05-16T11:59:00.000-07:00

Hello, hello. We are in Damascus alive and well. I'm clean. I can't emphasize how awesome that is. Just got my first shower in 2 weeks and my first time doing laundry in 3 weeks. Why do people like thru-hikers? I have about 10 minutes to throw something down, so pardon the brevity. Trail days is great. Julia and I didn't realize how many friends we had made on the trail until we were all in one place. There are ~25,000 people here for the festivities; hikers, past hikers, friends of the trail and vendors galore. The owner of Granite Gear said he would fix my pack for free (he was a little inebriated at the time). A great pack, but I have every strap tightened as far as it will go and its still falling off my hips. And its a medium. Dry food and copious exercise: the ultimate diet plan. We're finally hitting sub-par water sources, so we're purifying again. Boo. My kilt is great, a bit drafty, but great. There's no resistance when hiking and keeps me ventilated. I'm playing with the trail name The Phlo, but I may not keep it. People like Mr. Anonymous aparantly. We didn't quite make it to trail days, we caught a ride out of Dennis Cove from the Kinkora Hostel about 50 miles south o' Damascus. On monday we're headed back there and get a double dose of Damascus. Shoot, getting booted.

The Aqua Blaze: From Waynesboro to Harpers Ferry. 200 miles that cuts off 150 miles of white blazing. Oh well. Purism went out the window a while ago. I would love to have some friends meet us for that stretch, partly because somebody needs to bring boats. Lenny, I know you got a truck and nothing better to do. This will take place around the middle of June. I will have an exact-ish date by the begining of June. Anyone who wants in should shoot me an e-mail at jessrumburg@gmail.com The whole thing should take a week to a week and a half, and there is the town of Front Royal halfwaydown the river in case people can't make the whole thing. Thanks Manner for the tentative aid, I look forward to a visit out to camp.

Ok, wish I had more time and cell service. There are a lot of people I want to call. And Mike D, any time you want me to wipe the floor with you in Goldeneye, you got it. Love to all, I advise a long stint in the woods for all that ailes you. Peace

The First Quarter

2009-05-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone who wished us happy birthdays:) For Jess's, we took a "zero" day with our "tribe" (Marc, Liz, Katy, & Jen), who we happened to run into again the day before in Hot Springs. We were able to spend an hour in the natural hot springs mineral water privately owned jacuzzi, which we're pretty sure was absolutely amazing for our bodies, so that expense falls under "health". For Julia's we hiked in the rain, but it was a nice warm rain (and a beautiful day and area) that cooled us after a sweaty morning, and I (Julia) discovered that if you don't wear a rain jacket when its raining, the rain replaces the sweat and you totally don't need to drink OR carry water, lightening the load by like 10 pounds. For dinner that night, Jess took a packet chicken, some crushed oyster crackers, and some honey and fried it with a little olive oil...wow best dinner ever! Also got oodles of goodies from Moms & Dads. PS - Doris/Mom, a pound of Twizzlers is too much!
Rachel, happy to hear from you:) I got your holiday greetings but at&t service SUCKS down here, only local networks get any coverage. But it def made us smile:) & Drew you should fully come hiking with us, forget the Ant Farm! We were so sad when we realized by how short we were going to miss you when we went up last time, but you know how spontaneous we are and how bad at communication we all are, lol. But it was like "Darn, if we had just called we could have worked something out:(...boo." But that's ok; Commune's totally going to happen, the longer I ride this ride called life the more I know that is going to be a destination. The Rat Race is a lie, and life is so much better than that once you leave it where it belongs: In A Town! Leave it to the crazies that feel like a paycheck makes their life worth living. You see them out here: they bring the Rat Race with them and wake up at the crack of dawn, hike till 5 pm ("workin' nine to five, can't get any better, you just move ahead, la da da-da daa da daa da..." dolly parton i'm thinking?) and get to a shelter and spend two hours trying to find cell phone service just so they can call someone and complain about the weather. I know we're all going to seperate corners for a while, get the travelling bug out, get some experience under our belts, but someday, we'll all be tired of wandering aimlessly and want a campfire we can all sit around for the next 50 years or so... sounds like a plan to me anyway;)

So we're almost at the quarter mark. We're at Trail Days right now, a commercialized hiker help-out hot-house, but good for finding people we know. We have once again reunited our tribe, met some new folks to add, and are saying a sad farewell to many that only planned to make it this far, including In Da Wind, who's getting back on her bike and riding to Alaska with her son or some such craziness. People have been dropping like flies since the Smokies; we think it's because they think "Oh the hard part's over, this is going to be cake.......oh wait......no, this still sucks........ forget it, I'm out." We have also come to feel that we recently crossed some kind of invisible transition point. We are no longer "camping" at night and "hiking" is no longer our job... we live outside, and we hike on because staying in the same place gets boring. We're nomads. I think it was because we went a week without showering or laundry and I couldn't take it anymore so took care of those things in a stream. So over two weeks without indoor plumbing of any kind made this whole thing a lot easier someh0w. It's not our "job", it's not just what we "do" for the sake of "doing", we just are and this is how we roll now. When we come to towns, the whole thing just seems bizzare. People watch us as if we're weird, but we know they have to get up for work in the morning. Why? So people can make more money to buy more stuff that they don't need? So they can work off the debt they were fooled into getting by the millionaires in the first place: look at my life, don't you want all my stuff? don't you want this lifestyle? It's been shown in some scientific study that money only buys happiness up to $50,000 because then what you actually need is taken care of: food, shelter (quoting the Time Magazine Doris/Mom sent in our Birthday Package). Past that, it's up to you. You create your own reality, and not with money, but with the way You choose to approach Your life. The people that we're out here with have only reinforced this...belief? understanding of workings of the world? whatever you want to call it. I asked Moe! why real life can't be like this when we were talking about how coincidences often lead to amazingly good things along the trail, and she responded "This is real life. What makes you think that other world is more real than this one?" Here's an example of such a coincidence: On the way to Damascus, the location of Trail Days, we were still south of Hampton so we had to find a ride. There was a hostel on a forest road .2 miles away from the trail, before the main road we were hoping to hitch hike from. Note: this is an hour ride. As we're hiking, we find a sweat shirt on the ground, and we think it may be this couple's we shared a shelter with the night before. We knew they were planning on going to the hostel to get a shower before hiking on to the road to hitch. So when we got to the forest road, Jess dropped his pack, left me with it at the trail, and ran up to the hostel to give back the sweat shirt. They didn't even realize it was missing, and was very excited as it was the only warm thing the guy had. They had already arranged a ride with someone there, and we got to hop on with them. If they hadn't dropped their sweatshirt, we would have passed right by the hostel and had 4 more miles to hike, plus a hour long hitch is hard to find. Quite a "coincidence". Hikers says that what you feed to the trail, the trail feeds back to you. Karma I guess you could say. Or just life. That works too.
Then you get involved with other conversations, like one we got into with Gnarly one night until 5 am (waaay late for hikers). Why don't people just go with that flow? (Jess's trail name, by the way, is now unofficially possibly The Phlo). Can we wake people up, to choose Love instead of Fear? A woman recently asked us if we were packing heat, which some of you may recall we considered before coming out here. Now that seems like a joke! Why choose to be afraid of that one in a million, when the other 999,999 are not only harmless, but are probably perfectly friendly happy people that you could hang out with around a camp fire for hours? And suppose the worst did happen? This is just a ride, so don't ever be afraid, because this is just a ride, and when it's all over, either you'll collapse on the ground shouting "never again!", or your hair will be a mess and your eyes will be a little crazy, and you'll say "let's ride again!" But most "sane" people in this world would say that I'm the crazy one. As Bill Hicks would say "Look at my big bank account and my furrows of worry! This must be real!" And maybe someday I'll have kids and I'll want the house and the security of a steady job and a paycheck and benefits and all that insanity. Or maybe I'll just build a little farm in the middle of nowhere with me, my love, my friends, and a field where I grown my own food. What more would I need for personal happiness?
For the rest of the world to wake up, stop fighting wars, stop with all the poverty and BS that leads people into lives of misery, and realize: This is Just A Ride.

So what have we learned from this first quarter? You tell me.

*My name's The Phlo, and I approved this message.

Pictures IV

2009-05-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

First Flower

12 of our first 14 hiking days were this. Just this. ~Every day. For two weeks.

Rhodedendron are the only green plants here at this time of year. Luckily they grow in abundance - along river beds, on tops of mountains where other trees can't grow. What a sad and desolate place it would have been without them.

There's probably a great view behind the mist...

I just got a digital camera (hooray and thanks Doris/Mom:) Happy Birthday to me:) ), so there will be many more to come, but my cord is buried in my pack somewhere and there are mad thru-hikers wanting to use this library's 4 computers (Jess included), so I'm going to vacate the premisis and get some food. Will hear from us next in 4-5 days from Erwin, TN. Peace and Love to all!

Still alive and literate (something from Jess)

2009-05-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

Howdy all. In case you were wondering, I am on this trail and no, I have not forgotten how to type. (Not entirely, anyway.) The issue is that we've only been able to use computers in hotels, of which there is only one and usually has a half hour time limit. Thus, Julia's superior typing skills allow her to type more than "Hi, we're alive and in the woods." in that time period. It took me an hour just to check my e-mail today. Then, as I started to type, I got kicked off the library computer in Hot Springs, NC. So I bought a paperback copy of Jaws ($.50)and relaxed for a bit. Now I'm back and ready to elucidate.(think that's a real word)

First, Mike, very cool about Alaska. Glad we're not the only nature nuts. Don't pawn my bass amp and I will be needing the various N64 things of mine back. I intend to play the Legend of Zelda all the way through after the trail and before I move off the couch. Check out http://www.zenstoves.net/ or http://www.vargo.com/ for light-weight cooking options.

Next, the Fam. Thanks so much for your support and well wishes. Love to you all. And Aunt Andy, we appreciate the animal sacrifice. We got through the Smokies with clear skies, so it must have helped. The forecast is calling for rain, thunderstorms, and tornadoes for the next 5 days, though, so break out the old headdress and and stoke the bonfires.

A special shout out to Mr. Baxter, the man who started me on the path of the Environmental Scientist. God willing, I'll actually get my degree one of these days. The check's in the mail, as it were. Thanks for everything.

And to my scattered and eclectic mob of Friends, I miss you. I'm looking forward to whenever I see you next, the wedding at the latest. Less than a year to go, so mark your calenders for April 16-21 at least. Your all involved, 'cause I need a brute-squad. Somebody's got to build bonfires and act as roadies for the Mariachi Band. Maybe circus tent construction, we're still sorting out the details... But don't just wait till then! Why not step outside for a bit and come on a luxurious guided tour of the east coast! The aqua blaze would be my recommendation, but more about that later.

So to catch up from Gatlinburg to here, we hitched a ride out of town and up into the mountains. We stood there for a while until a guy with the mulletiest mullet ever pulled over and told us to hop in the back, because the front was full o youngin's. For those of you who don't know what a mullet is, I have provided a picture. I'm pretty sure it's the same guy and truck.

He took us half way up the mountain and stopped at the trail he and his rascals were hiking. He apologized for not being able to take us all the way. We said we were glad for what we got and would find our way. We always do. Ten feet down the road, a truck pulls over, asks if we're going to Clingman's Dome and we were off. If there's one thing hitching has taught me, it's that there are some really great people in the world. With all the garbage you hear on the news and all the stuff you are told as a kid about not talking to strangers(good advice for the age group), you sometimes develop a dismal view of the human race as a whole. But there are a lot of people who will help out total strangers for no personal gain. I guess they may have been in the same sort of situation before. I know I plan on picking up every hitcher I see from now until I get stabbed. Its an interesting trust dynamic. You trust they aren't going to kidnap you, they trust you aren't going to rob them. It's exhilarating and comforting at the same time. Plus we're a couple, which helps with the rides. What are the odds we're both serial killers?

So we got to Clingman's dome and started Hiking. There were trees, etc. Lots of flowers, which we can now take pictures of, thanks to Julia's new digital camera. We got out of the Smokies and bid a heart-felt good riddance. They were nice, but I really don't like staying shelters and not being able to hike whatever mileage i feel like in a day. Plus, its all downhill from Clingman's. Clingman's was awesome at sunset. It was like a gigantic ruby shining through an emerald screen of red spruce and Frasier fir. We had reached a major milestone in our quest to become thru-hikers. All the non-hackers are gone, we have triumphed over the cold weather, and summited the highest point on the trail. Maybe it was the altitude and the endorphins, but when we climbed that tower, I was filled with such exuberant energy that I let out a primal yell that echoed across the mountains and through the valleys. At least all the way to the parking lot half a mile down the hill.

So we left the Smokies and found a place called Standing Bear Farm. I could have stayed here for years. Good vibes sprang out of the ground like invisible wildflowers. As soon as we set foot on the property, I felt a sense of safety and peace. We also ran into a friend of ours that we hadn't seen in weeks. He had been laid up with a bum knee for a while. Plus, we met Rockhound. That's right, THE Rockhound. When we hiked the Smokies in 2007, we met one thru-hiker named Tito, Tito, the Taco Eating Bandito and he told us one story about the craziest person he had ever met. Rockhound. He was everything the stories implied. We have his picture, and will include that sometime in the future. We were going to hike on after a lunch of DiGiorno pizza, but Rockhound, who was volunteering there, was a persuasive salesman. I think he had a sprinkler rigged up because as we were on our way out, it started to rain, and stopped the second we agreed to stay. He cut us a deal though and let us stay in the old chicken coop. It had three walls, a wooden pallet instead of stairs or a ladder, and the best view of any lodging I have stayed in previously. It was perfect. We did our laundry by hand with a washboard and sat around the campfire all evening. I think I might have to take a vacation down there and just hang out for a while after this is all over. It was like walking into my daydream. For those of you who don't know, My ultimate goal in life is to have my own self-sustaining organic farm/brewpub/hostel. (And you thought I went to college so I could get a job) It was reassuring to know that I could support myself just off the hostel.

Now back on the trail, we had a killer up, which we dominated, fueled by Mountain Dew and Snickers. Then there was a nasty caffeine crash and we camped out. We were shooting for Max Patch, but it wasn't happening. We woke at 7:45 alert and ready to go. At 7:50, there was a torrential downpour and we went back to sleep. At 9:30 things looked more favorable, so we saddled up and headed out.

We had been hearing about Max Patch for the last 100 miles. When we got there it was like a scene out of The Sound of Music. You know, twirling around, "The hills are alive...." Well, you get the idea. On the Patch we ran into 2 guys named Gnarly and 10x10 who told us of a Bluegrass festival in Hot Springs and they were planning a BBQ. So we tried to pull 20 miles and get to town. On the way I thought I had broken my foot, but once we got here, a fellow hiker and former radiologist diagnosed it as nerve damage. Now I have expensive inserts in my shoe, so I hope that does the trick.

The Library is closing soon, so I have to spare you a large part of my philosophy and the details of Hot Springs. I had an awesome birthday and soaked in a mineral spring bath. Then had dinner in a honkey tonk place with Lynard Skynard and a pool table. What more could a wayward hiker ask for. And best of all, we had caught up with our tribe.

Well, that's it for now. I really want to make this aqua blaze happen, so if your reading this Mike Manner, I would like to borrow some canoes. If your not reading this, you should be. Maybe we can work out a trade of rentals in exchange for Julia and I putting in some time at Camp.

Pictures III

2009-05-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

Our tent isn't the roomiest place in the world. Hoping to get the 5-man version someday. Otherwise, once it was seam-sealed, the sketchy off-brand 1.1 lb floorless tent is working out pretty well

Ye Olde Crapper. They use "mulching privies" here, whereby you throw in a handful of leaves after you do doo-doo to increase aerobic microbial breakdown. In Georgia, they wouldn't let you pee in them, which is BS because moisture totally assists in this method of waste management, and once we were in NC that restriction was (thankfully) lifted. Jess, ps by the way, has stated that he has a new appreciation for the difficulties of being female. Peeing with a pack on was a fun and interesting adventure which, after several failed attempts, I think I have finally mastered. Stupid boys with their posable parts.

Our awesome stove at work. We're the only ones with this kind that we've seen, and everyone else is either having no fun at all with their homemade version or lugging a stove thats 3x as heavy. Go Team J&J:) (and thanks Lori/Mom:) ) The silver thing is a windscreen, and there's also a reflector piece under the stove that speeds up the process nicely.

Pictures II

2009-05-04T11:54:00.001-07:00

All of our stuff: 2 weeks of food (ziplocks at top center) including but not limited to oatmeal, pop tarts, peanut butter, honey, cous cous, powdered mashed potatoes, angel hair pasta, chicken packets, spam packets, tortillas, extra sharp chedder cheese, powdered milk, olive oil, "fiber plus" granola bars, trail mix (including nuts, raisins, granola, dried fruit), salami stick, and hopefully if we're lucky some packets of mayo and mustard; 1 per person sleeping pad, sleeping bag, silk liner, rain pants, rain jacket, fleece jacket, fleece pants, down jacket, hat, bandana, camp shoes, hiking shoes, 1 set silk longjohns, 1 set 50% cotton longjohns, 2 pair underwear, 2 pair hiking socks, 2 pair liner socks, 1 pair camp socks, emergency blanket, aquamira (water purification drops), pocket knife, lighter, and reading book; 2-L pot and 1.5-L pot; 2 spoons, 2 cups, 1 alcohol stove and wind shield, 20 oz. denatured alcohol and 12 fuel pellets; first aid kit, vitamins, cell phone and charger, sunscreen and aloe (still haven't used either since the sunburn in Atlanta), anti-bug-bite-stuff, Dr. Bronner's Miracle All-In-One-Biodegradable Soap, Antibacterial hand gel, 100% DEET (which we have since tossed because it contaminated our hands, which are necessary for eating off of, and doesn't work on gnats, the most annoying of insects); 1 floorless tent, Seam Sealer for tent, tyvek for floor; 1 journal, 1 set colored pencils, 2 pencils, 1 sharpee; caribeener, rope, and 3 stuff sacks for bear bags; extra rope (used to lash tyvek onto Julia's pack); nail clippers; "Appalachian Pages: Guidebook to Hiking the AT", deck of cards, "Cosmic Wimpout"; and I'm totally forgetting stuff.

A 12-Man Shelter - sizes vary from 5 to 20

Cool thing about sunny days when there was no foliage was that through the trees you always had a view, even if the camera couldn't pick it up. Probably the worst part of rainy days is the mist, blocking any chance of a view, and making the hike pretty dull. I guess once the "green tunnel" has filled in we won't mind as much 'cause we'll never have a view.

Pictures

2009-05-04T11:46:00.001-07:00

Michelle's car in the shop outside Athens Springer Mountain (the beginning)

Springer Mountain

AT Plaque marking beginning of AT;

Jess writing in Springer Mountain Register

Another plaque on Springer; we've seen this one a couple of times along the trail

I guess this is going to take a while if I only get 5 pics per post...

Hike Your Own Trail

2009-04-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

Mike - love you long time. See you in the fall. Don't get eaten by grizzlies (and everyone's been worried about us and the bears. Hah.)

Wow. It's been a while. You know, while I'm hiking I spend a lot of time thinking about this blog... all the little things I can't wait to report on, all the little literary tricks I can use to really get my point across, how I'll word this and that, and then I get here... The glowing screen overwhelms me and I'm at a loss for words. Not to mention the fact that the figurative ups and downs are almost as frequent as the literal ones. But for every figurative down I've encountered, the Trail has given me a threefold up in return. Luckily, the literal ones are about equal. So I can't complain.

"Hike Your Own Trail" is a saying that is popular among AT hikers, particularly non-purists. "Purists" are people who choose to hike every inch of the AT to get from Georgia to Maine. This seems like the most sensible way - if you're going to hike the AT... well... hike the AT! Pass every white blaze (trail markers)! There are a few problems with that theory though. For one thing, the Appalachian Trail itself is just a path that people have stamped down enough times to make it visible - but not every chooses the same path, and different paths form around obstacles, such as fallen trees... meaning that there is no real trail, just white blazes. In Virginia, the AT runs parallel to the Blue Ridge Parkway for about 100 miles. Since we will be at that section during summer, vegetation blocks any views from the trail, so many hikers choose to walk the road instead (or hitch-hike - "yellow blazing" for the yellow line). They're walking pavement, but still technically passing every white blaze. Does that count? You may recall from my previous post we were tempted to "blue blaze" - take a shortcut. We didn't because we are aiming to walk the entire AT. But, on our way out of Franklin, we were hitch-hiking and our hitch could only take us so far - causing us to miss 3.7 miles of Appalachian Trail. Thus ends our attempt. You can't exactly turn down a hitch. And were we going to hike south 3.7 miles of what we knew was an unexciting stretch just to pass every blaze? Nope. Thus, "Hike Your Own Trail". I'm sure we'll still qualify for the "2,000 mile" club by the end.

The people who started at the same time as us were... well... different from us. Apparently, the ones who start before April are the real "go-getters" - "I'm hiking the AT, past every white blaze, and I'm going to get up at the crack of dawn, hike exactly the number of miles it says on my itinerary, be done hiking by 5:30, eat dinner by 6:30, in bed by 7:30." Well, as you've all met me and/or Jess before, you probably know that's not exactly how we operate. They did make us feel guilty though, like we were doing something wrong. We'd roll out of bed around 9, sit around and eat and drink tea, take our time packing our stuff, and probably be on the trail by noon. The only people we got to know were the ones that stopped to eat lunch with us while we were eating breakfast, then we'd stop and eat lunch while they were eating dinner. We slowly overcame this discomfort by reaffirming that we're not here to complete an assignment, we're here to have an adventure. We also started avoiding shelters, which helped a lot. We just weren't jiving with that crowd (though they were all good people).
I'd also like to point out that most of those "go-getters" got their gear by going to Eastern Mountain Sports and asking the employees to sell them a bunch of stuff because they're hiking the AT without doing any research themselves before hand. Pretty fancy stuff, no idea how to use it, way to much, and way too heavy, or just plain useless. One girl had a 20-lb. limit pack stuffed with 50 lbs. of stuff because she bought 10 lbs. of food before picking up the 20 lb. mail drop she had prepared for herself months ago. Literally split the seams less than a week in. Real "go-getter". Said EMS recommended it, and the tag said "most used by AT thru-hikers". Yea when they drop all their winter gear and are doing 30 miles a day in July in PA, sure. Not in March in Georgia.
Whatever. Hike Your Own Trail.

We spent 2 nights in Franklin, successfully avoiding the snow, and hiked on. The sun finally began to peek out and give us a hint that the rains of early spring were almost over, and little green things started appearing. We started seeing flowers lining the trail that eventually spread over every hill. Short plants taking advantage of the spring sun before the trees leaf started popping up everywhere. But this warmth induced weather we hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing yet - thunderstorms. It was about 4:00, we were half-way to our destination, and suddenly the sun was gone. The skies opened and it poured. Thunder sounds in the distance and some primal instinct is triggered in my head: SHELTER. Suddenly I'm running up the hill I was just staggering up. The storm moves closer and closer and I'm getting closer and closer to the top of the mountain and before you know it we're at the top with the storm directly over our heads. Overwhelmed with adrenaline and I don't even know what as the lightening flashed I stopped and screamed at the sky, and the answering thunder was the loudest I've ever heard, and the lightening would flash and I would scream and the thunder would boom and my insides would shake and I would go running up the mountain dancing and screaming at the sky for more, more, give it to me NATURE, let me bear witness to your incredible power, and just when I thought it couldn't get any more intense, when I thought the electricity running through my veins would connect to the sky and NATURE would overload my circuits past the point of no return... Hail. And even through the pain still we yelled and danced our way down the other side of the mountain. As we got to the bottom, the hail stopped, the clouds parted, and, behold, there were 5 people from Atlanta with burgers and beer for hikers. And that's why it's trail magic.
Oh, yea: the views were nice, too. We could see Fontana Lake from the top of one mountain, and it looked so far away, and you're thinking "Wait... we're walking there?!?!?!"

The next "town" we came to was Wesser, NC, though they recently "lost" their post office, so it's not technically a town anymore. Really, it's a white water rafting/kayaking resort with a hiker hostel. In need of town food, we chose not to stay at the nearby shelter and continued down the mountain, less than a mile, but in the rainy dark. My $5 Target headlamp is no good for hiking at night as it turns out (shocking I know). Our little guide book said there was a pub in town with live music on weekends. It being a Saturday night ~9 pm, we were surprised to find that everything in "town" shut down. We knocked on the local restaurant and a waitress, closing down for the night, told us that the pub was shut down this week only for renovations. Go figure. She felt so sorry for our pathetic souls that she gave us her dinner! 3/4 of a pizza she got from her restaurant, 20 minutes old, free, and absolutely delicious. That's a real trail angel.
On our way back up the hill to the shelter, we ran into another thru-hiker (who we had met at the trail magic mentioned previously), who told us there was free camping down the river in town. The next day we woke up right on the river, sun shining, and the trees leafed out in response to the first really sunny day we'd had, and it was so beautiful we decided to stay there for the day. By that night, 10 more thru-hikers had found our spot and we had our first little party. Unfortunately, Jess is unaccustomed to having a low hiker tolerance to alcohol (something I thankfully already had and have finally gotten used to), and woke the next morning feeling quite ill, so we stayed for another day. We wandered up to the hostel part of the resort and got to use their showers and laundry for free:) Go Stealth Camping! Good thing our tent is green! That night we hung out with Gary, who has thru-hiked 4 times, and he gave us several tips for up the trail, including the "Aqua Blaze". From some point in Virginia to Harpers Ferry we may choose to take the Shenendoah River instead of the AT - it'd be nice to be able to throw our packs into the bottom of a boat instead of on our packs, and to be able to use our arms instead of our legs. Hike Your Own Trail!

We hiked on, now on much tougher mountains as we worked our way into the Smokies. By now, many of the people we started with that we weren't jiving with were ahead of us, and we started meeting April people. This new group is a lot chiller. We also met a few people who started before us and kept to a similar schedule to us, which was a huge breath of fresh air. Instead of having to silently cook dinner for fear of waking the shelter, we actually had a few people to hang out with around campfires.

We got to Fontana Dam. Our little guide book had labeled the general store there as a good resupply, which it was not. We spent $100 on less than 4 days of bad food. Luckily, we had decided to stealth camp rather than stay at the resort (yes, another fake town). Though we thought we would be in Fontana weeks too early, our slow pace had landed us right in time for the Hiyak "Festival", which was a local band and a handful of thru-hikers. Someone really dropped the ball on getting the word out. We met a ton of awesome people. Finally! We had been feeling so lost - where is our crowd? Where are our people? When I described this feeling to the people we met while at Fontana, they knew instantly what I was talking about - one even called us a Family, and a biker-temporarily-turned-hiker-chick named In The Wind refers to us as The Tribe. If I could describe better what I'm talking about I would. I guess the best I can do is to say that these people aren't out here to complete an assignment either. We still didn't have trail names, and we were wondering if it was because we weren't cool. Well, we met a group that didn't have any either - Marc & Liz, Katy & Jen - but by the end of Hiyak I had been named Graveyard. Yes, Syracuse, it's because of you. Because that crew did get a room, we were once again able to get free showers.

We hiked on, but not on the AT. We knew of an awesome campground on a trail that ran parallel from our previous trip to the Smokies with Syracuse friends over Spring Break of 2007. This particular campground is a huge green plain surrounded by a river with huge granite rocks stacked into 8 armchairs and a fire pit - let me tell you, a chair with a back is no small thing out here. We were so excited to go back, remembering its beauty. The last time we were there, there were 8 people to sit in the chairs. What a lonely place for 2 people to arrive at. We sat down and looked at the empty chairs and were suddenly overcome with such an intense feeling of loneliness and isolation from our friends... I cried for a while. We miss you guys. And we are sooo happy that we found each other, that we're not really alone, and that we'll always have each other, even when we're worlds away from everyone else we love.

The next day, April 20, just as we were almost done packing up our gear, Marc, Liz, Katy, Jen, and In The Wind come waltzing up. What a beautiful thing life is. For life to give us one day to remember the friends that aren't with us and to really meditate our separation with those empty chairs staring at us, and the next to give us 5 new ones so that we know loneliness is a temporary condition...wow. Hike Your Own Trail. We'll see you on up the way.

We walked up Eagle Creek with them, taking the first 9 stream (read RIVER) crossings April 20 and the other 6 and the 2000 ft 1.5 mile up hill April 21. When we got back to the AT it was only 4:00 so we decided to hike on to the next shelter because we were low on the bad food we got in Fontana so we could get to Gatlinburg ASAP. Our little guide book told us the elevation change wasn't that bad. Marc & Liz had friends to meet, so they hiked on with us. Turns out, our little guide book scaled down the Smokies. Hey Syracuse, you remember that really baaad mountain? Yea that's the one we climbed. We got to the top at sunset, absolutely beautiful, but I once again got stuck hiking with my Target headlamp. We got to the shelter at 11:00 pm. When we got there, I was tired and angry and cold and Liz goes "We're ROCKSTARS!" and BAM I felt 100% better.

The next day we didn't leave until 2:30, putting us at the top of Clingman's Dome, the highest point of the AT, exactly as the sun was setting. (Marc and Liz left much earlier to meet their friends at Clingmans Dome.) Wow, what a beautiful sight. Unfortunately we have no pictures - I guess we get to keep that one for ourselves. We hitchhiked down to Gatlinburg, go to one of the motels, and who's signed into the register ahead of us? Marc and Liz. Their room was right next door to ours. We were sooo happy to see each other - we survived! The next day, Katy, Jen, and In The Wind were all there too, not to mention Tent Sticks, Jedi, Knuckle Pancakes and Improv who we hadn't seen since March, and tons of other thru-hikers, and Marc and Liz's friends Anna and Collin. Yea we partied hardy and yea Jess was sick again and yea we're still here. My mom did me the huge favor of adding up our speed and determining that it would take us a year and a half to finish at this rate. Don't you love moms?

Whatever. Hike Your Own Trail.

The First Hundred

2009-04-08T09:38:00.000-07:00

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.

The Journey Begins...

2009-03-31T13:17:00.000-07:00

The sun rose that morning like it always does. Early. And Bright. As usual, I did not witness this event, despite its implications for me. The difference was that this morning two people, with nothing better to do, were about to start hiking the famous Appalachian Trail, a much anticipated trek. We figured that when you’ve been planning a trip for 5 years, what’s the harm in a few extra hours of shut eye? No one else seemed to share this sentiment, however, and even the 27 Boy Scouts had already packed up and vanished without alerting Julia and I to their departure. We proceeded to eat a warm oatmeal breakfast and leisurely packed our meager belongings into backpacks about to get their first taste of trail life. By leisurely, I mean at the same rate as glacial motion. Four hours leisurely. And them we were off. It was a grueling 2.5 mile hike. If you don’t see the sarcasm in that, we did 15 in the same time frame on Sunday. We planned to take it slow at first, I goal we mastered easily. This seems like the best approach, because everybody else was exhausted and miserable when they got to camp the first few days. At some point we realized that this trip isn’t really about reaching Katahdin or doing so many miles every day. It really is about the journey. Otherwise it’s the same rat race that we left behind. You can see it reflected in the faces of people who hope to find some great peace out here, but can’t leave that “goal oriented” mindset behind. The true peace as far as I can tell comes from a clear mind, not one obsessing about their mileage and speed. Those people with nothing to talk about but how fancy their gear is. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t say I’ve met a single person out here I had a problem with. Even the guy who hung a bear bag in a shelter. But we’ll get to him later.
Anywho, we hiked along at a gradually increasing pace for several days, sorting out the best way to pack, how to divvy duties, etc. I still do all the cooking, and Julia is the homemaker. We avoided the shelters, because they are always crowded and infested with really cute, destructive mice. Then, the rain came. We knew a storm was coming, but had been told it was a few days off. That morning, we awoke soaking wet and getting dripped on. Apparently the seams on our tent were not sufficiently sealed. Woops. My fault. We were cold and wet, so we turned on Julia’s phone and called the hostel down the road. They had just received a cancellation and we took it. Lucky us, because they were booked up for days due to the crappy weather. We then hoofed it 6 miles in the rain to the nearest road for a ride. Hiking in the rain is fine, you stay warm and don’t mind little discomforts. Leaving a tent, even a leaky one, and getting ready in the rain is a miserable experience, however. But you know there really isn’t another option and you deal with it. So we got to the hostel, dried off, did laundry, went to Wal-Mart, and fell asleep. The hostel was awesome, with chickens, bee hives, and composting. The breakfast of pancakes and fresh eggs was delicious beyond description. Everything tastes better out here, but this was pure decadence. The next day, we headed back to the trail. Julia made the observation that people don’t quit the trail while they’re hiking. It’s once they get to town, sleep in a bed, and eat a meal prepared by someone else that they question the logic of carrying on. We resisted the draw of creature comforts, at least for now, and were happily hiking on. In the rain. We stayed in shelters for the next 3 days, where we really got to know some of our fellow hikers. Nothing brings people together like foul weather in the wilderness.(literally and figuratively)
It was on our trek to the second shelter that I experienced my first stress since being out here. I had hiked ahead of Julia and was waiting for her at the top of a mountain. I walked around a bit, because someone had built a campsite at this spot. As I bent over to pick up some litter out of the fire pit, Julia walked past me. I continued to wait, then hiked back to see what was taking so long. I decided she must have passed me and ran (in the rain with a pack on) for about a mile and thought I should have caught up with her. I then freaked out a bit, possibly because we had seen many warnings about aggressive bears in the area, and our last conversation had been about a 7 yr old who was pulled out of his family’s tent and devoured by a bear. So I dropped my pack and ran to where I had seen her last, shouting her name. I made it to where we had seen each other last and was forced to accept that my options were now limited. She was either on her way to the shelter, which I would now be lucky to make it to by dark;(I wasn’t lucky) or she had been pulled off the trail and eaten by a bear. So I moved with all speed to the shelter, trying to avoid thinking about anything at all, realizing that worries I had in the ’real world’ were absolutely frivolous by comparison. I made it to the shelter just as twilight turned to full darkness. I’ll spare you the details, but it was a happy reunion. And no, I didn’t cry, there was rain in my eyes.
I then passed out promptly, sans dinner. A truly unheard of thing out here. The next morning, I woke up and saw some stuff sacks hanging from the center beam of the shelter. I assumed it was clothes, because who would be stupid enough to string up their food directly over their own head. I laid back down and closed my eyes, glad to be taking a zero day to wait out the worst of the foul weather. Then I heard Julia say, “Oh my god, is that your bear bag?” The brilliant outdoorsman replied that it was more of a mouse bag. For the record, there are really nice, convenient bear bag hangers at every shelter made of steel cables. Julia started yelling at him and rationally explaining his stupidity, to which he argued that he wasn’t afraid of black bears and he had never had a problem with bears. At this point I got pissed off and made him the second person in years that I have actually yelled at. I colorfully explained that I didn’t care if he cuddled with his bear bag when he was by himself, but how dare he endanger the lives of 4 other people he doesn’t know. I also explained that he was endangering his relatives as well, because if a bear had so much as scratched Julia, I would have murdered his extended family while he watched. Then I suggested a new place for him to store his bear bag and that was about the end of the conversation. I felt bad later, recognizing that I was still a bit on edge from the day before, and by the time he left, we had engaged in civil conversation and he turned out to be an alright guy. I also doubt he’ll be hanging his bear bag in public shelters anymore. We found out later that they actually closed that stretch of trail because of bear problems only days later. I spent the rest of the day reading and Julia worked on the itinerary.
The next day was rough, because we had finally given our muscles enough time to realize what we were putting them through. In spite of our protesting bodies, we hiked 13 miles to a shelter near the road that would take us to Helen GA. When we got to the shelter, it was beyond full, but we were greeted enthusiastically by a few of the people we had met earlier. This really turns into a sort of loose traveling family. We appreciated the welcome, but decided to try and find a campsite down the trail. Two miles later, we reached the road. It was pitch black, windy, and frigid. We tried to hitch a ride for an hour and a half with no success. Julia got out her phone and tried to call a hotel in Helen and ask them for the number to a cab, but her phone was out of batteries, despite having been turned off and fully charged at the last hostel. Julia was getting really frustrated, having never hitched before, and we decided to camp out by the road. As we turned to set up our tent, one last truck came by and we dutifully held out our thumbs. To our surprise, the truck slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road and a guy about our age yelled for us to hop in the back because the cab was filled with who knows what. We asked if he could take us to the Best Western in Helen and he said he’d take us somewhere in Helen, and that was good enough for us.
The next 9 miles are difficult to explain. They were over the kind of winding, twisted roads that only exist in the mountains of the south. The kind where the road is on a 90 degree angle around turns to keep you from flying off the road. This is a desirable condition, because flying off the road would mean running into a shear cliff or sailing off of one. The turns were inclined much like a NASCAR track, which is my explanation for why our chauffer chose to drive at almost double the 35 mph speed limit across all lanes of traffic. Did I mention it was a cold and windy night? As Julia and I held on for our very lives in the back of a near-out-of-control pick-up guided by a maniac through a frosty damp night in a place that seemed very similar to the middle of nowhere, we found a new cognition somewhere between exhilaration and madness. I have never felt so close to death.
He dropped us off at the local Super 8 and we thanked him, though we were more thankful for him stopping than for giving us a ride. We must have looked pitiful walking through the door; windburned, soggy and with a look in our eyes that told of experiences beyond the scope of sanity. The woman inside was the most pleasant person I have ever met, no exaggeration. (Sorry Arlove, your title has been taken) She loaded us with complimentary cookies and OJ, gave us maps of the town, and hooked us up with a King-Size Jacuzzi Suite (read SWEET!) for the hiker rate of $35 dollars. And she was even aptly named Joy.
So we’re here in Helen for our second day, checked out from our wonderful temporary abode, at the public library, about to get lunch and return to where we belong. Hope to see you out there.

Itinerary

2009-03-31T09:26:00.000-07:00

Finally, the itinerary. Be aware that we have no idea of knowing when we'll actually get to any of these places. We will be running behind schedule, as for every day it rains we'll probably take at least a day off to let our stuff dry, plus we haven't included any completely 0-mile days in this plan (some stays in towns have been included, but we still have to hike to and from the town). This plan has us peaking Katahdin September 10, which is good because that gives us 36 days to play with before the park in Maine closes (Oct 15). If you are interested in mailing us something to a town that is listed on the itinerary, please let us know in the blog what town you're sending it to and when you sent it - no suprises b/c we won't be stopping in post offices just to check. Please give the letter/package at least 2 weeks to arrive because some of these towns are very small/backwoods so it may take a while to get there, because we may arrive early (or decide not to go to that town at all) and won't want to wait around, and so that we can see your message in the blog from a previous town. If we miss it we can have the post office forward it a town or two forward, so it won't be the end of the world. Please use this format for mailing to post offices: "Julia Muench or Jess Rumburg : C/O General Delivery : Town, State, Zip : Please hold for AT Hiker : ETA Month, Date, Year". They are used to this sort of thing, as mail drops were once the only method of resupply and the trail has been around since the '30's.

And remember: if you're bored, sick of your daily routine, want to get in shape, get outside, get hiking, or are just in the mood to try something new, come meet up with us! A day, a weekend, a week, or 2, or a month, or hey stick with us til Katahdin (keep in mind - we can only afford keep you fed for a few days, then it's ($) up to you)! We know your schedule is probably more regimented than ours, so we can be flexible to your needs (ie wait a few days for you to show at some random shelter outside bumf PA). Julia has her phone, so send a text or leave a voice mail letting us know:)

3/21 - Springer Mountain, GA - Start
3/31 - Helen, GA 30545
4/4 - Franklin, NC 28734 - Hiker Fools Bash
4/10 - Fontana Dam, NC 25425
4/15 - Gatilinburg, TN 37738
4/24 - Hot Springs, NC 28743 - Trailfest
5/1 - Erwin, TN 37650
5/9 - Hampton, TN 37658
5/15 - Damascus, VA 24236 - Trail Days (largest "event" - hiker reunion, talent show, hiking-related exhibits, music, arts & crafts, & hiker parade through town)
5/20 - Atkins, VA 24311
5/25 - Pearisburg, VA 24134
5/28 - Daleville, VA 24083 - We plan to visit with Jess's extended Rumburg family, who live in or near nearby Roanoke, until 6/1
6/9 - Waynesboro, VA 22980
6/18 - Harpers Ferry, WV 25425 - We plan to visit Jess's hometown of Frostburg, MD,
until 6/22. Jess, Julia, or Julia's parents can give you Jess's parents' address.
6/29 - Duncannon, PA 17020
7/4 - Danielsville, PA 18038 - haha legal fireworks on the 4th!
7/7 - Delaware Water Gap, PA 18327
7/9 - Unionville, NY 10988 - the trail isn't in NY yet, but it's so close we're gonna hop across the border 'cause who wants to crash in Jersey anyway?
7/13 - Bear Mountain, NY 10911 - Hey LI amigos - we sort of planned from here to Wingdale as a meet-up hike, there's a walk-through zoo free for hikers which sounds cool, problem being we're so far away from this date and place that we have no way of telling if we'll actually get there at this time lol. Of course if you'd rather somewhere/when else it's your call. PA is more rocky (ie more likely to twist an ankle/fall and land wrong), and the farther north you go the bigger the mountains get but they're not bad till VT. If you're down, figure we probably won't actually get to Bear until at least 7/20. If you guys plan vacation time with work or whatever ahead of time, let us know when and we'll be there.
7/18 - Wingdale, NY 12594 - there is a Metro-North station with service on Sat & Sun, from which we plan to visit Julia's hometown of Hicksville, NY until 7/22
7/30 - Dalton, MA 01226
7/31 - Cheshire, MA 01225
8/7 - Rutland, VT 05759 - Long Trail Festival is 8/14-8/16. The Long Trail is NOT the Appalachian Trail, and it's not nearly as long, but if we're in town at the right time, why not?
8/11 - Hanover, NH 03755
8/16 - North Woodstock, NH 03262
8/20 - Gorham, NH 03581
8/25 - Rangeley, ME 04970
8/30 - Caratunk, ME 04925
9/1 - Monson, ME 04464 - south end of 100-Mile Wilderness
9/10 - Mount Katahdin - Finish. Bam-shaka-laka.

We're There:)

2009-03-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

Hey:) So the train was miserable, but we got to sit in the sun all day by a fountain while waiting for Michelle (friend from Alabama) to pick us up and that was nice (see Rumburg's comment for more). The first climate-related misery is... sun-burn, not frost-bite! Good thing we threw in some sun-screen at the last minute or we'd be blistering lol.
So Michelle picked us up and we traipsed around Atlanta for a while. First we spent 45 minutes hunting for the Sweet Water Brewery, which we had seen from the train on the ride in. We found it and there was chill music (Beatles covers and so on) and a ton of people, so we got into an exploratory mood. We met these cool guys named Ryan and Kurt - broke bread with them, and they recommended this town called Athens that's an hr away from Atlanta, said it was "mad chill". Then, we ate at an AWESOME pizza place called "Mellow Mushroom" and drove off to Athens. Very much a college town (think Thursday night on Marshall St. times 50), a ton of bars, but not so much our atmosphere. We saw a flier for a band (on the flier there was a dude wearing a Primus shirt so we thought the band would be cool), wandered over there & the headliner was done but "Laminated Cat" played and WOW they were AWFUL, sounded like a cat getting laminated to death slowly. Shocker. Rolled back up to the main area and found a really chill basement bar where two guys on guitar were covering Sublime and chill music like that. Stayed at a Day's Inn, so me & Jess got one last taste of a mattress:) (we've had a fouton for the last month).
So we're at the Public Library in Athens, heading up to Blairsville where the secret back 1/4 mile back entrance to the trail is (our other option would be 8.8 miles), so we end up back on schedule (on the AT Saturday) despite our random shinanigans. Next town stop should be Helen, GA, approx. next Sunday or Monday (9 days). If you don't hear from us they may not have internet access, but we will be in touch w/ our parents by phone so leave it to them to call the cops lol. By the way, give us till Wednesday cuz we're Out of Shape lol. By the time we get there we'll have our itinerary finished (we figured we'd hike a bit and see how fast we're going before we try to predict the next 6 months of hiking lol).
And just so everyone knows, this blog is a) totally public, b) being read by extended family and friends, and c) elementary school classes are keeping tabs on us (the kids won't be reading this from school, but the teachers will be reading this and sharing info with them, and you never know what kind of access they have from home - they may take it upon themselves to keep tabs on us over the summer or something). So please keep comments appropriate:) In the future, we will include a section entitled "Fo' the sho'ties" that includes more educational type information about our hike, so feel free to ignore it entirely if you don't care about such things.
Final gloating note - our packs are only 25 lbs. and we have nearly 3 weeks of food! Thanks Lorri/Mom (she used her nervous "we're-leaving-soon" energy to make us a bunch of AWESOME trail food!) :D

Creation of El Bloggo

2009-01-05T21:27:00.000-08:00

WELCOME to Julia & Jess's official Appalachian Trail Blog (woohoo blogging, I feel so contemporary). This will be the only log (or is blog the correct term at this point?) for a while since we haven't written up the itinerary yet, so this is just for all you people that I've already told about this so you know this is fo' rizzle;)

Jess and I are doing well. He is working at the Draft Zone, a bar/pizza place, so I'm sure you all know he's loving it. I'm working at a hoity toity french restaurant called Au Petit Paris and a bar restaurant that wishes it was as hoity toity as Au Petit called the Hanger (as in airplanes, not as in death and mayhem unfortunately). I'm also looking into getting some overnight shifts with Friends Aware, which works with mentally handicapped people. They run programs to improve basic skills (they do puzzles w/ them for reasoning skills, help them w/ job applications, etc.), but, as an overnight person, I'd probably be caring for the people who are incapable of taking care of themselves and are living at the houses. Hopefully 3 jobs will be enough to fund this little adventure of ours lol. In the meantime, Frostburg isn't the most exciting place in the world, so we just keep repeating the mantra "2 more months, 2 more months, ye gads, 2 more months".

Anywho, as soon as we plot out our itinerary we'll get it posted. Peace:)