[at-l] Reentry Journal: this morning's rain; "Ants Marching; "the real world"

[sloetoe@yahoo.com (Sloetoe)]

So let's see, this is August 23rd, and a month ago dem SmallBoys(c) and I
were traversing the area of (iirc) Mount Horrid within sight and three
days' march from Camel's Hump and the completion of our Long Trail
hike...... We were dealing with energy-draining heat and sun, doing 5-7
miles before 16:00, and our best miles (6-8) *after* that -- between 16:00
and 20:30....basically moving from water source to water source, dipping
bandannas to our heads and watching the tide of salt spread across our
pack suspensions. And it was the first time our views down to the lands
below had been impeded by haze, even though the sun above our heads shown
in a lurid blue sky. So......

Here we are this morning; it's August 23rd. There's a light rain left over
from last night's string of thunderstorms. Kind of a heavy mist, and
little more than that. Refreshing. I want to say it looks gray, but it
just strikes me as *clean*. I'm looking around the big-housed cityscape,
but my eyes slide only from one spot of green to another, pulled by...
what? I really *want* to say "Gray Day," but my first reaction is to the
water's reflection off of the waving leaves and trees and bushes -- "Car
wash." Again the conscious mind says "Ugh. Gray." The subconscious reels
in with "Cleansed world. Mud. Slippery. Watch the gaiters. Take care.
Watch the footing. Good water today. Cool day for hiking. Wet chest." But
I'm driving an automobile while doing all of this, and there's a
not-inconsequential battle waged between these entrenched forces of urban
consciousness and the guerilla intrusions of the trailwise subconscious,
cautioning me of life-issues that are .... from another time, it seems.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And then comes the radio, playing a live Dave Matthew's "Ants Marching"
with the repressed-impulse chorus of "Take these chances, wrap them in a
box until a quieter time... Lights down! (You up and die.)" And just as
I'm hitting downtown, "all these cars and up on the sidewalk, people in
every direction. No words exchanged -- no time to exchange them. And all
the little ants are marching, red and black antennas waving. They all do
it the same! They all do it the same wayyyyyyyy!"

Yeah, like I need that right now. I feel like the stranger in a strange
land. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you *odd*." So
what kind of hike *is* it that takes you out for three weeks and leaves
you dangling -- *floundering* really -- going on *four* weeks later?
There's a woman in the car to my right putting her make-up on between
stoplights. The beastmobile to my left has somehow syncronized their
pounding music to their own missing muffler's notes. None of this makes
sense to me, I'm thinking.

Out on the trail, it all *has* to make sense. Don't mind your gear and you
freeze, or soak. Don't mind your water? Your thirst brings you down.
Probably hard, too. Sloppy in camp? You don't go anywhere, or you dash,
haphazardly, and loose equipment, and falter, and quit. You *have* to make
sense, every minute, or you die. (As a hiker, anyway. And if the weather's
wrong, maybe you die physically, too.) "Long distance" is a stage race
with entropy, and the race goes to the swift. And the swift make sense --
they're economical in all they do. Nothing, not time, foodstuffs, ziplocs,
cool sunny days, *nothing* is wasted. The swift are up and out of camp in
a flash, but they never hurry. Their trailsense is all directed toward
keeping things tight: let the trail be hard, *my* life will be easy,
clean, efficient and tight, and I'll be ready for [the hard trail].

Ants Marching. "We all do it the sameeeeeee wayyyyyyyyy." A way stacked
with artiface upon artiface, unexamined, impractical, but adopted
wholesale by masses. Including me. And in weaker moments, I enjoy it (I
fear).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since returning from the LT, I've seen a couple of poignant references to
"the real world".... Pooh. Tuesday, July 31st was my first day back to
work. As I was coming into the building, I walked towards an open elevator
and a woman brushed lightly past me on the right. She was not all dolled
up in some outrageous outfit, nor was she reeking of some piercing cologne
or jangling with decorous metals or painted with pore-cloggings. No, she
was just moving purposefully (more than I was doing) on her way to work. 

Her only crime was that she was the first human from the workaday world
with which I'd had contact since my return from the LT. (I'd been able to
block out much in the unremarkable 1000 mile travel from Camel's Hump.) So
there I was, *forced* finally to consciously interact with someone all of
two feet away, waking me from my (still) hiking reverie. My mind took one
of those mental snapshots WHOP! and froze the picture of her brushed hair,
her clean and impractical sweater, her light but useless make-up -- even
her subtle but environment-masking cologne. And the thought came whistling
into my brain:
"There ain't nothing *real* about this at *all*!"

Miles and smiles to you all.
Spatior! Nitor!
Sloetoe

(Not back on list yet, but trying.....)

=====
Spatior, Nitor, Nitor, In Nitor!

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