This blog is a little time capsule now. But I’m posting new pictures and hardly any words here:http://walkingkap.tumblr.com
I’ve got hiking on the brain, not enough to shape the last two thirds of my trip into a narrative, but enough to want to share my gear list and gear acquiring tips to all who want them. I’ll assume that you’ll be starting backpacking with as much experience and equipment as I did: zilch. For starters I’d recommend beginning a persistent craigslist search for camping gear.
But look to the original hikers for inspiration. The first man to complete the Appalachian Trail in a thru-hike, Earl Shaffer has a gear list here:
http://www.earlshaffer.com/advice.html
Peace Pilgrim hiked the entire AT before beginning the journey which would take her across the US seven times. She vowed to “remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace, walking until given shelter and fasting until given food.” On the trail she carried more than the toothbrush and correspondence she took on her pilgrimage, but not much. The unlimited ambient energy of the universe isn’t enough to nourish everyone, but knowing it exists and kept this silver haired angel burning for so long is my definition of inspirational.
“I lived out-of-doors completely, supplied with only one pair of slacks and shorts, one blouse and sweater, a lightweight blanket, and two double plastic sheets, into which I sometimes stuffed leaves. I was not always completely dry and warm, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. My menu, morning and evening, was two cups of uncooked oatmeal soaked in water and flavored with brown sugar; at noon two cups of double strength dried milk, plus any berries, nuts or greens found in the woods.”
http://www.peacepilgrim.com/
Here’s my list. If I was going on a short trip I’d leave behind as much of the vile digital tech as I could. If you’re in the woods for a week its doubtful you’ll really have time to read, better to bring a little notebook and pencil. I hadn’t realized how unnecessary it is to bring entertainment into what happens to be a very engaging world.
SHIP’S MANIFEST
HOME STUFF
*sleeping pad
*sleeping bag w/stuff sack & tyvek water proof envelope bag
*plastic or tyvek groundcover
*poncho (shelter w/ stakes and cords)
*1 liter wide mouth Nalgene
*2 water bladders (1 liter each)
*knife
*spork
*aqua mira water purifying drops
*cooking pot with 2 inner bowls
*stove, fuel canister, wind screen
*notebook, pencil, pen
*ukulele and case
*tabac and pipe
*headlamp w/AAA batteries
*flip flops
*sun/rain hat w/mosquito net
CLOTHING:
Super Dry Bag:
*balaclava
*long underwear top and bottom
*comfy camp t-shirt
*2 pair wool socks
*3 pair light socks for wicking
*light wool gloves
*2 pair underwear
*wool sweater in cold weather
Less Dry Bag:
*long sleeve button down wind shirt
*wind pants
*shorts
TECH:
First Aid:
*tweezers
*needle
*band aids
*tape and gauze
*moleskin
*anti itch cream
*anti-bacterial gel
*pain relievers
*pain killers
Everyday Aids:
*hand sanitizer
*talc powder – dry feet are happy feet
*toilet paper
*toothbrush, paste & floss
*bio soap
*absorbent tiny towel
*tiny scissors, mirror, and itty bitty comb
*compass/ magnifying glass
Anti-Life Tech:
*iphone
*kindle
*external battery
*wall charger with two usb outputs
*3 short usb cables (mini, micro, & apple)
*headphones
*voice recorder/mp3 player w/AAA batteries
FOOD:
*1-2 lbs peanut butter
*8-12 packages of ramen
*tuna packets
*darkest chocolate available
*olive oil
*red pepper flakes
*sesame seeds
*garlic
*oatmeal, flax, and brown sugar
*burrito wraps
*nutella, dark chocolate peanut butter
*broccoli, onion
*pepperoni, salami
*triscuits
When I hiked I had my EMS Velocity 1 tent, but I’m going to attempt to use my poncho as a rain fly for my next few hikes and eventually switch to a Hennessy Hammock:
http://hennessyhammock.com/
I used a breathable lightweight shoe from Merrell. During the long days on rocky ground I kind of wished I wore boots, but I don’t know how I would have felt dragging extra weight the rest of the time. My shoes were quick drying rather than water proof. I generally recommend aligning yourself with the unyielding power of water. Plan for its victory and you’ll never feel real defeat.
I had a fancy very lightweight internal frame backpack from Six Moon Designs which broke four times under all the weight and work I expected from it. I’d recommend looking for an older external frame pack from craigslist. The external frame packs I saw in the wild looked durable and comfortable and not that heavy.
I met a lot of people who had their shit way more together than me. I was meeting thru hikers in the middle of their 2200 mi journey, so they had some serious experience at this point. But I didn’t see most as people I could learn from. Lots had given up their stove and pots in an effort to get their pack lighter and lighter. I wanted to learn from them, but I couldn’t look past the hunger in their eyes as I ate a delicious hot meal. But there was a man I met who made lightweight hiking seem realistic and honest and not like the weirdos drilling holes in a spoons handle to cut weight, or crying into their dry ramen. There were so many amazing people on the trail I feel guilty for not profiling them all and instead keeping their stories to myself. But fortunately this awesome man has his own site, a wikipedia class source of pure information. If you’ve got hiking on the brain, you can use his site for trepanning:
http://hikinghq.net
I’m on a southbound train on my way to my final destination. My three months in the woods has ended. The train is magnificent. It’s not just the legroom, it’s also missing the edgy desperation that clung to the Greyhounds and stations I spent the past 18 hrs in. I’ve been missing the trail since the moment I stepped off it.
I spent the past three months eager to meet new people and learn about how they perceive the world. I tried to stay open while also staying open to the idea of protecting myself. But I was never really worried for my safety. I may have been wary that someone was angling to take advantage of me, but that was just their angle and I felt forever in control. As I crossed Tennessee and was forced to exit the bus at each layover, the powerlessness of this existence swept over me. It seemed impossible that all these dejected marginalized people could be shuttled from one miserable space to another without riots. I’d heard folks in the woods make this claim about cities. How can the thin blue line prevent the backlash of violence which seems inevitable given the institutionalized psychological violence of the situation?
Presumably, many of the passengers, like me, had retreated into a form of shock, like a cat in a cage on the way to the vet. Nothing to do but tune out. Even after three months of tuning in, it wasn’t hard to do. But I didn’t do it quite as comfortably as before. I felt more aware of the surrendering of my freedom, different from the surrender when I accepted a stream was dry or the lightning close. I wasn’t in control in the woods, but I was intertwined with control. I was as actively engaged with my destiny on a daily basis as I’d ever been in my life. I do not know if it is possible to live constantly like this. But I will strive to.
I will strive to stay awake and remember all the amazing, generous, and unique people I met on the trail. I will also strive to finish sharing all those encounters here. In total I hiked somewhere around 700 miles, and I’ve some neat pictures to share. But it is the people who made it a journey. I want to respect the way each person I met has changed me, and I think the best way to do that is to tell you about them in as much excruciating detail as possible.
So stay tuned, if you haven’t already, I invite you to subscribe to this blog so you’ll be notified whenever I do get around to writing about months two and three.
I really have too much to begin retelling at this point. I am in Damascus, VA right now and as I approach my October 31st finish date, I fear I will arrive in New Orleans without having caught up on my documenting. Such is life. I’ll do my best to write more soon, but as I often say on the trail, “no promises.”
This week I took two zero days. What can I say, I am a taskmaster.
On Monday I lingered at Bear’s Den Hostel and was pulled into the orbit of Ireland’s lackadaisical morning and then midday. I was also pulled deeper and deeper into The Dispossessed, and my departure was always a chapter away. And being a procrastinator of some renown, and a helpful one at that, I threw myself at the computer problems of the caretaker, Scott (Redwing). This earned me a free stay that night and made my zero cost-neutral which helped keep the guilt, known well to the lazy, at bay. Scott and I also had some great conversations which made where I was the obvious place to be. Staying the extra day also meant I got to see Steady and Deal who I’d met on my first night out and kept up with for all of two nights before they blew past me. Another great part of skipping Pennsylvannia is that it allowed me to catch up with them if only for another night. Them kids is fast.
The next day I left in no hurry, even pausing occasional in some inviting glade to read more. Hard to argue that a line on the ground is more engaging than all those characters and connections, so why wouldn’t I keep reading. I believe life is really a collection of realities, and the art comes in juggling them all in a balanced manner which places value in the harmony more then in any one truth. That being said, I am a terrible juggler. And if life is not a collection of balls, but a car with a manual transmission, I’d be heard a mile down the street. Each dream, each book, each new person I meet is enough to throw me from my course. Often into seas without wind. For days. Which would be terrible if I hadn’t already built a little home office in the doldrums. From there I can plan my next move, and it’s always the same move, which helps. Find the wind. Even a faint wind. Anything that can get the clutch to catch, to bring the next ball down, to let the larger metaphor that is my life move on.
The trail is the drudgery I dreamt of back when my job was one big unpredictable social situation in which I represented myself, my coworkers, my store, and the vile blood thirsty company who’d sewn their insignia into our clothes. I dreamt of the simple winds that would propel my feet on, instead of the complex and subtle seas I navigated each day. While I under appreciated how dull the drudgery I dreamt of might really be, I knew a faint wind is easier to follow when it need only blow you forward.
So I followed the line in the ground south and after a night camped at Rod Hollow Shelter, I came to Sky Meadow Park. On the way to their center, off trail but with it’s promise of water, I passed what they call the Paris view. It looks east over Paris, Virginia and is a phenomenally beautiful. I thought it was just the sort of place I’d love to wake up. Boy do I love doing what I want. After getting some water way downhill at the center, I went right back to that view and made dinner and my tent. Prohibtions be damned. If I only camped where I was supposed to nothing would ever feel like the trail as I’d imagined. The sunset was beautiful and the sunrise was as well. Though after I watched the red sun cut up into the sky I went back to the realm of my dreams. If my dreams weren’t so damn good maybe I would rise sooner, but the harmony between intensity and drudgery is a delicate one which needs to be played out over broad swaths of time. Even a week is too tight a judge.
The next night I spent at the Jim and Molly Denton Shelter with Mulligan, who I’d met at Bear’s Den and stayed with at Rods Hollow, and Handy with his hound, Roxie. Handy was in the infantry before and during the invasion of Iraq. He was the radio man for his company and described flying towards Iraq in a helicopter with tanks and helicopters, beneath and beside, in a line which stretched to the horizon. Made me think of Gilgamesh and Enkidu in Babylon and that brings balance between my waking and dream thoughts, which is good. I was happy to spend that night and much of the following day hearing his stories. When he left I decided to do a little yoga before rolling out. This turned into a little reading, and before long I was earning another zero day and welcoming some southbounders to the shelter I was all sprawled out in. We fought to build a fire and kept it alive with endless breathe, but the process engendered no real affection or trust between us and I feel gloomy about the prospect of meeting them again. Hopefully, they’re fast too.
The next day I pressed on, again too late a start to do anything but drag myself to the next shelter. It was thoroughly occupied by a band of middle aged section hikers who were kind enough to share their fire and vodka with me and give me some extra oatmeal and bars. Anything that comes my way in bar form does not last long. I gobbled them down immediately.
I’d camped in a little patch of mostly-flat below the shelter. In the morning I heard voice’s above and after packing up my gear, walked towards them with a new found sociability I’ve developed on the trail. Half safety, half hunger, half loneliness, all agree, it’s always good to know who’s around. This was a meeting that prove to be a triple crown. I got food (apples, brie and another soft but strong cheese) and a hiking buddy, with a dog. Ayla had started in Harper’s Ferry a week ago and was now meeting with her parents to resupply and take on her family hound, Szabo. We left the shelter and for the first time so far I wasn’t hiking alone. So I could walk and talk, not just walk and sing like a crazy person.
It is proof of the grace of the trail, that after a solitary glum week I would find a Kimya Dawson appreciating hiking buddy, with a friendly goofy dog no less. The solitariness was greater felt with no cell service. I revile myself for how much I let the absence of my portable community effect me. That I couldn’t share what I’d been seeing, by texting a photo or just some words about a meaningful moment or new goal, chilled me and my progress. But I forget that the cell phone is a new kind of blanket or fire. One which keeps a coldness at bay we thought unavoidable in the past. And everyone gets cold. Fortunately, I didn’t have to hike alone anymore, so this all becomes theory.
Ayla, Szabo, and I hiked into Shenandoah National Park that day. At some purdy view we meet a couple in their sixties, with bright white hair and beaming smiles. They were high powered types before hiking the trail in ’91 and becoming the Cheerios: Oma and Opa. The closeness between them, the contented glow they shared as survivors of haste, reminded me of what-if episodes of Daria. When Jake and Helen Morgendorfer would evolve out of their roles as Daria’s work obsessed parents and return to their youthful innocence. They talked to us on that mountaintop like wrinkly grinning Buddha babies, eyes twinkling away like St. Nick. I spent the rest of the day thinking of them and laughing.
That night we stayed at Gravel Springs Hut and it rained and rained. I used the remaining cheese (the brie being entirely devoured on the apples during the day) and made spicy cheesy noodles which were, not surprisingly, awesome. Ayla is a flutist and had a little bamboo flute with her, so I plucked my uke while she played, and for brief moments my music dyslexia stayed out of the way and it sounded real nice. And I was grateful for the harmony and the company.
Monday morning I left my heart in New York City for the third and final time, and got on a bus to Baltimore. Waiting at the Greyhound station to go to Hagerstown, I met a young man who was just returning from the Philly Folk Festival. He’d camped there 4 days listening to the likes of Tom Paxton and Arlo Guthrie. I asked him if he knew Bill Morrissey, a folk singer from New England I’d listened to for years who died just before my trip. He did and I was happy to have someone to share my sadness with all though I couldn’t really express it.
Bill Morrissey was a songwriter in a league of his own, and it wasn’t until his death that I learned how much he suffered. I have some other stuff to listen to on my phone, but I have nearly every album by him. For awhile in Maryland his songs of weary travelers were breaking my heart and bringing me to the immortal river of terror which runs in both directions from whatever sad place a man drops his feet.
I’ve since started reading the Ursula le Guin book, The Dispossessed. It has been immensely helpful already to get feminine prospective on the mystical matters of comfort and pain which seem at the root of any bipolar complaint against the universe. She is a fantastic writer and I look forward to taking it so easy for awhile that I have time to read.
The walk from the Hagerstown bus stop back to the trail is what is known in non-literary circles as long as shit. At the very end a man named Jim, with a lump of tabac under his lip, and an old sick dog behind the front seat gave me a ride for the final few miles. And this too is a Bill Morrissey song.
That night I made a fire to drive the darkness away, and keep the nearby howling dogs at bay. I checked the map on my phone just to confirm I was as close to people’s backyards as I felt. And the dirt bike sounds and barking dogs were where they belonged, as was I, and none of us was getting closer to anything.
Maryland is beautiful and brief, and has the nicest newest shelters I’ve seen. But I generally prefer to camp out because I like my tent’s zippers and screens and the boundary that is created each time they join forces.
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Between the original Washington Monument and the Civil War Correspondents Memorial built by GATH, I camped out with some kids from John Hopkins University. They were backpacking for a week as their freshman orientation. They weren’t the only school I bumped into in MD, Delaware State and LSU had roving gangs as well, but they were the only kids I sat around a fire with and the only ones who gave me any food. Six packs of tuna which is now my new favorite trail food. Mixed with the chili seasoning from my ramen and you’ve got a million dollar meal.
My smart ass cellphone and my tent are the two things which keep me from really experiencing the wilderness, but I love them both. I was able to watch Irene approach every time I had 3G. At the time it felt like the definition of cheating, as well as a way to pull me into the fear game that is born when storms have women’s names. But the trail can be dull sometimes and a game is a game.
Harper’s Ferry is a weird little civil war tourist ghost town which the AT passes thru. I started reading a plaque about the abolitionist who tried to start an insurrection there and the black man he killed, but trying to get my footing and understand the plaque’s perspective on the matter was more than I could handle. I may have studied comparative literature, but without a better understanding of the events all I could really grok is that the south is a complicated place. How’s that for synthesis? Harper’s Ferry has a strip of expensive restaurants, but every shop I wanted to go in was actually a facsimile of an old time shop from back before the town had been stuffed and mounted. My needs mirrored a 1800s man perfectly. I would say I have nothing in common with history’s voyeurs, who loitered around these landmarks like vultures who get to drive home, but I think we all probably liked the sausage at Hannah’s.
“This scene is worth the voyage across the Atlantic.” – Thomas Jefferson writing about where the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers meet, not the paintings on the side of this weird house.
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I spent that night in the woods with another southbounder, Southpaw, who’d come from Maine and already been outdoors as long as I plan to stay out total. He had a inflatable mattress which I made a note of. The note was, ‘screw this half inch bed pad, get one of those and don’t dawdle.’ The next night I arrived at the Blackburn AT Center which gives as much as you could dream of while only providing shelter and water. There was a hiker cabin, a solar shower, and ample space and quietude. I spent the night on a couch on the porch of the main house, which was screened in and brighter than the cabin and empty. charged my phone, wrote some posts and watch Irene creep closer. Confident the storm would serve as a moat to keep me the only one enjoying this restful estate.
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The next morning was graced with that foggy rain light, but Irene hadn’t passed. I made my best decision since skipping PA and decided to spend another night.
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I was sad when the storm passed, as I am anytime wave of collective fear passes without fully manifesting itself into pure existential lasting dread, but I guess that’s what I get for following the news. Also, I was sad not to have an excuse to spend another night. I only saw the caretakers a few times at a distance and if I carried a disguise kit maybe I could have stayed weeks, who knows? Of course you can’t carry everything no matter how useful it might be from time to time.
The ukulele proves its usefulness endlessly, especially when I can give a fellow hiker, who plays guitar well, a chance to flex his string plucking fingers. As I did with a Charles (Blister) Wallace, a northbounder I paused with at a nice rock. We were passing each other from cushy stay to cushy stay. He’d just come from the luxurious Bears Den Hostel, where pizza, a mattress and a hot shower awaited me.
There I met Caveman and his dog, the Captain, a mix of German Shepard and half a dozen other good outdoor dog/wolf breeds. And a man from Ireland with the unimaginative sort of trail name given to travelers from small foreign places: Ireland. I stayed up late by electrical lamp light, reading long after the sun had set, imagine that. I spent the morning catching up writing and now you know everything that was and for the first time to date my blog is in the present. Nothing to do now but fall behind. Thanks for reading so far, I do appreciate the digital company.
I want to hurry up and get to the present day, so here’s week two, the fast version.
When I was leaving the shelter in the morning I saw a little black bear, ten ft away from the back of the shelter. It galloped into the bushes the moment I stepped my noisy self out.
New Jersey is beautiful.
That night I slept inside my tent within this thoroughly spooky shelter. It was haunted by the ghost of a recently deceased and wrongly accused bear.
New Jersey has bears! I saw four total in Jersey. One close enough for him to seem big. And two far away enough for me to film their tiny selves. There is a link to YouTube at the top of this page with some other bits of wildlife. Like a Black Rat Snake who’s too cool for me.
The ghost bear that haunted me was destroyed because of some lies these kids told. Makes you wonder about the whole bear judicial system. A bear is described as a nuisance bear, so to solve this they find a bear in the area and destroy it. Presumably the same bear but who knows when the only lead is, ‘a bear did it.’ Justice like Lightning I guess.
New Jersey is really beautiful.
This is from the outrageously awesome sunset I enjoyed on Bird Mountain with a Scottish hiker named Jim, who’s wife was vacationing in NYC while he had his fun for a few days in the woods. I made a fire and whooshed it to life as the stars came in to focus. My breathe grew the flames and the light poured back out towards the beaming stars like some sweet savage call and response song from way back when. ‘Hi stars, I’m here.’ Then the moon climbed the mountain and the night was lit up like a 711 parking lot. My fire didn’t seem as impressive next to the moon so I went to bed.
I woke up as a breeze blew in and clouds started to cover the moon. This was the beginning of the development of my instincts. I thought, ‘I wonder if it will rain.’ Then I went back to sleep. Like I said only the beginning, now when I think that I act and go ahead and put the rain cover on the tent. That night I needed to wake up with water in my face.
Jim was a cool dude. He gave me a pin of the Scottish and American flags, and spoke my name the way it was meant to be said, like a fancy Irish city. I’ve always had trouble introducing myself. My name sounded like marbles in my mouth. But then I realized it simply sounds strange without it’s native Irish/Scottish flourishes. English doesn’t suit it, especially American English which rounds down the natural mountainous terrain of my name until it’s the doughy hills of Iowa. Anyway, I was happy to have someone to share the mountaintop with. The company and the fire helped distract from having only peanut butter and dried apples for dinner, along with my emergency candy bar.
The next night I was on a mountaintop alone with a tremendously large and close thunderstorm to keep my mind off having only had peanut butter all day. It worked wonders and I awoke to a beautiful morning, alive as only one unstruck by lightning can be.
I drug myself the 6 or whatever miles into Delaware Water Gap, PA and went right for the diner to fulfill all my starving fantasies. I successfully overdid it with a short stack of pancakes with apple pie filling on the side, sausages and as much whipped cream as you wanna use dearie. Then feeling completely stuffed I ordered the farmer’s omelette, which was even better, except for maybe the sausages which were the absolute best.
I spent the night in the Church of the Mountain hostel, a well tended basement with nice carpets, bunks, big poofy couches, a guitar named Fang, and the Tolkien quote: “Not all who wander are lost,” hung above the door. It was there at the beginning of Pennsylvania that I decided to skip all of Pennsylvania. If I wanted to be in New Orleans by Halloween I would have to miss something. PA sounded like the thing to miss. And the best way to skip it? Why to go back to New York City one more time of course. I’d spend the next day with my sweetheart in the city where you can always eat and then bus to Baltimore and Hagerstown on Monday. Brilliant!
The morning after a beautiful rainy Sunday spent with my boyfriend at the Cloisters, I hopped on another metro north train. While on the train I tried to listen closely to chance, fortune, and destiny so I’d know which stop to get off at. I stuck with my guns and left where I’d been planning, at the end of the line, Port Jervis. This meant no more metro north temptations, and it meant skipping some 50 miles of New York hiking. It’d been raining for days and New York 1 promised more, so why stick around.
But it was a long walk from the train station to the trail, over eight miles, mostly uphill, along a two way highway with rain on top. Early on I had some good songs, but eventually I was just repeating the words, “teenage mutant ninja turtles.” It was an effective mantra and maintained a balance between the boringness and scariness of that mountain road. High Point State Park HQ sat atop the trail. Inside I found three southbounders drying off and awaiting a ride. They offered me a permission slip they’d gotten allowing stay on the pavilion behind the HQ, since they’d found better lodging elsewhere on this dark and torrential afternoon.
This didn’t sound so great to me. I wanted the full woods experience after a week in the city. I didn’t want a note to give some potential park ranger. So I said farewell-all as I bounded towards the path. Sometimes in the week previous, I’d go off trail, following a dried up stream for a few meters. Then I’d sing a jingle about knowing the difference between a footpath and the watercourse way. Even then I knew there was little difference. In that torrent of rain I realized I’d always been walking in dried up streams for years. I wonder how many times a year all these pathways become ankle deep streams, like they were doing for me. It feels like walking thru the woods on a midsummer’s night when all the fairies chance come out. My poncho kept me dry and this feeling of being in something surreal kept me happy.
But not quite as happy as the newts. They were thrilled with the water and had a party, which made me happy to watch. They didn’t look as silly as usual. Now they transitioned effortlessly between land and water, their goofy waggle almost looking graceful. They were built for days like this. I was built to watch them. And to walk thru streams regardless of depth or temperature. Something I learned as a boy on family hiking trips around a slippery tide bound hunk of fossil filled rock in Quebec: keep your feet on the flat ground, no matter how cold or deep. To get to the Rutherford Shelter I crossed a waist deep stream, and it took me back to those happy carefree days of yore. I set up my tent inside the shelter confident no one would cross my moat. People had left a varied collection of granola and fruit and nut bars in the bear box, which I helped myself to like one smarter than your average bear.
After a brisk walk to Tuxedo, NY, and a few trains later, my mind was being blown open like never before as I walked out of Penn Station. I have never gotten more looks in the city, or felt so strange being there, around so many. One week in the woods is all it took to change ever atom of my being. The city and I were meeting for the first time. Fortunately, several small serendipities kept leading me on, telling me I was in the right place, that I was still with the trail. Such as finding this shell sticker on the wall beside my seat on the train from Hoboken. At the Rubin Museum this summer, I learned how the scallop shell became a symbol worn by pilgrims of the way back when. So clearly I was still in the right place and time, to be finding such a gift. Nothing like a sticker to reinforce ones identity.
I wish I could have caught up with all my friends in the city. If your reading this I’m sorry not to have been in touch, but I was slightly embarrassed to be back so soon after saying goodbye. And I wanted to devote as much time towards my sweetheart as time would allow. I spent a whole week in the city and it was restful as hell, but I made no mileage during it. Hikers call days without progress zero days. Had I the wits I would have planned this zero week from the start. I should have done some backpacking before, but I hadn’t so this pause was important for adjusting what I was bringing and getting some key things I forgot: flip flops, fuel. The food, rest, and abundance of love weren’t bad either.
This is all I ever want to eat again, mangu with the three smacks: fried eggs, fried cheese, and sausage. Mangu is boiled green plantains that have been mashes like potatoes and mixed with red onions that were cooked in a little white vinegar. Some oil is added to taste, and you have the best food ever. Mangu, when I have a kitchen again I am going to eat the hell out of you.
There were also lunches while my sweetheart was at work. The beer pictured here is Messiah Bold by He’Brew. Their tagline is: the beer you’ve been waiting for. Still laughing about that too. When I get to be an old man, I will be a mad old man constantly chuckling over jokes and funny moments that passed decades ago. Doesn’t sound so bad really.
One thing I will never stop chuckling over is this:
I leave it to you to explain what this is and what it means. New York shops can have amazing things in their windows, but that doesn’t even come close to explaining anything. Good luck brave reader!
And on the seventh day, I got lost. Again. Way off course this time, and discouraged, without supplies. So as a thunderstorm rolled in towards the Sebago Lake Park (which isn’t even close to the trail) I decided tomorrow I would restock in NYC. I was still just a metro north hop away. I camped like a ninja in a half abandoned structure at the Lake, warmed by the fact that tomorrow I’d be back in the city with the sweetheart I left behind.
This is the Lemon Squeezer a notoriously narrow passageway I chose not to go thru for fear of damaging my uke. Awhile back I’d overheard a guy named Cope trying to convince a woman named Baby Ruth to skip ahead some, but she wanted to see the Lemon Squeezer. He said, “The Lemon Squeezer is only fun if you’re a lemon.” I don’t know why but I still laugh about that.
Shortcut to New Orleans 