[at-l] Jan Day Six Part 2

[kahley@ptd.net (kahley)]

I will send this along early as proof of life on the dawining of our
seventh day on the Long Trail. The presence of a phone in this warming hut
is too much of a gift not to utilize. I realize acknowledgement of the
presence of instant communication in the woods is politically incorrect in
certain circles, but there it is - that's my Long Trail experience and I'm
stickin' to it. So it be.

I woke up to a roaring wind on Bromley Mountain, but the first slanting
rays of the sun were on the firetower outside my window. I tiptoed through
the sleeping bodies strewn about the floor of the ski patrol hut and
slipped into a breath-stealing wind. I pulled the hood of my raincoat over
my ears and climbed to the top of he tower. The sun was up, just, and
drawing a line of light across the mountains to the west. The cloud ceiling
blocked the light from reaching those western peaks, so this horizontal
streak lined across the mountainside. I tried some distance shots, though
they never turn out like you see. By the way, got a camera battery in
Manchester. I've been lugging the thing for a week without a battery.

On the tower is a likeable male thru-hiker, Valley Girl, so named for his
exquisite command of the words "like" and "as if." He points out Stratton
Mt. in the far distance. "I walked that far in one day?" I exclaim. "Get
out!" It be a far piece.
Clyde clambers up shortly after, and I show him Stratton. We walked from
there," I tell him.

"Well, kiss may ass," he says wonderingly.

It's 7 am, we're packed and Clyde wants to go. I guess we are going. Later...

I realize that somewhere out here I have lost a very important thread: I no
longer know what day of the week it is.
I remember we started on a Thursday up the Pine Cobble and I could do the
math, I suppose, but besides numbers making my head hurt, that's not the
point. The point is that constant awareness of time, always lurking in the
background of my civilized life, is out to lunch here. That's a Good Thing,
Martha. At least in my book.

Thanks to my resourceful transcriber Kahley and AT-L's Kurt Bodling, I know
that I can get water at Mad Tom Notch, and that the pump IS working. Clyde
and I filled up there, since Bromley Peak is dry. I contemplate washing my
hair, but it is too cold even for the Shower Princess.

I hike part of the morning with two ex-Peace Corps workers, Detour and
He-man, that I had met on my March hike. They remembered me coming up
Albert Mountain with a shirt-eating grin (Albert had been such a kick for
me) with a red bandanna tied around my knee. My knees had been killing me
then, but thanks to Mr. Cho-Pat Dual-Action Strap, the knees are doing great.

The Peace Corps couple talked about life in Panama, and how Third World
cultures view the US. Their front pages are all US news, first Clinton,
then Bush as that guard changed.  One interesting tidbit is that Panama
city buses are all from somewhere else, all individual, gaily and
creatively painted by some whimsical civil servant. The rear emergency exit
door always has a picture, usually of a person: Elvis, The Rock of the WWF,
and the local favorite, Monica Lewinsky.
We stop for a snack at Styles Peak. There awaits a fine vista there, and
another thruhiker, Cous-Cous. We compare packs, she's carrying a Go-Lite
but doesn't like it. She is very tiny.

My appetite has come roaring back as the week has progressed. Last night I
ate a smoked-turkey-and-avocado sandwich on a salt-crusted bagel. I hauled
it up from Manchester, along with my breakfast - a berry-studded bagel
spread with honey-nut cream cheese.. mmmmm...food...

I rejoin Clyde at Peru Peak shelter for lunch. I decide to cook, as we will
be taking a nap here. I will, anyway. Chili ramen as a base, with refried
beans and some home-dehydrated organic corn, so sweet I sometimes eat it
right out of the bag like candy.  When I finish, I wash my pot like a
thru-hiker: I pour some filtered water in, stir the leavings around with my
spoon, scraping as much lunch free as I can - and then I drink the pot
liquor. Truly, I do. Hey, calories are hard to come by in the woods!

In the old days of camping, we would just wash our pots in the creek, soap
and all. The impact was small, it seemed. But it adds up. These days, as
more people find their way into the woods, a "Leave No Trace" ethic is
being promoted to keep the wilderness from being loved to death. All
leftover food is packed out, as is trash, of course.

Clyde is a bit more Type A than I am and has trouble sitting still, so I
send him on so I can take my nap. He woke up grumpy this morning, couldn't
find his sock, couldn't find his special bandana, the one his mother-in-law
sewed for him, the one that looks like a hiker/biker doo-rag. Also, his
stuff had been moved, the maps were lying about the climbs, the hills never
ended, etc. etc.

So I am giving my partner Space today. We agree to tent at the burned down
Little Lost Pond shelter. We had though Big Branch two miles beyond, but
even the thruhikers are doing the same miles we are.

I am in a good head-place mentally and don't want to get sucked into any
sock drama, or any tension with at all with Clyde. I secretly suspect the
missing items are somewhere in his pack, but of course, now is not the time
to Say So. Wouldn't be prudent.  The missing items weren't in my gear, nor
were they left in the warming hut. The hills... I can't do anything about.
That's why I don't like looking at the maps. Better - for me, - on such a
well-marked trail, to just put one foot in front of the other and march,
taking what comes. Or maybe it has more to do with the fact I need to fish
my reading glasses out of my pack.

I think we are a little bit worn out too.

After I wake, in walk Mo and Jeanie. I greet them happily, and learn they
are staying at Little Lost Pond as well. They take alot of time off in the
woods to play the flute, swim, nap on peaks, hang out in a river. I want to
be like them next year when I hike the AT.

Perhaps because I didn't look at the map, Baker Peak is a stunning surprise.

Clyde earlier told me a rock face we went down after Bromley was a 10/12
pitch. Well, this Baker Peak shelf of granite and quartz standing on its
side beat that pitch all to hell. What pitch is greater than a 45 degree
angle? It beats Blood Mt, Ga too. At least the rocks there lay compliantly
flat. A southbound hiker, Richard, a guy who has just done the rugged
Whites and Maine, just came thru and stood at the top. His comment:"Oh
WOW!"  What pitch is oh wow?  Richard also tells me that "a woman from your
Internet women's hiking list is waiting at Big Branch shelter with beer for
you." For me? Really? Who?   He couldn't remember her name, but said she
had been keeping track of me on the Internet. There was beer cooling in the
river. She had given him one.

Well, I am not a big beer drinker, but the woods changes one's
perspectives. I could taste the crisp amber bite already.
I pull near Little Lost Pond and there is Clyde walking up the trail to
meet me. On his head is his Special Bandanna. He looks happier.

"You know how yesterday when you saw that bobcat and I said 'Now you've
seen sh#t?" he began, grinning. I nodded yes, cautiously.

"Well I seen sh#t today!"

"No!" I said."Not a MOOSE?"

"Yup, he said, proudly, "at Griffith Pond. And I got the pictures to prove it."

A MOOSE. We are a long way from Old Dixie... we are the NORTH.  I tell him
what's going on at Big Branch, and we agree I should go on the two more
miles. When I left him, he was happily telling stories to the thru
hikers.   The walk north was pleasant and downhill. The Big Branch is a
river I could easily fall in love with, huge round boulders studded the
channel, the water was very clear and cold. I could see every roundrock on
the bottom.

When I pull in, I ask - "is my beer still here?"

A father and three sons tells me, "No, the last guy thru here read the note
in the register about the beer
guy, went down to the river and drank the last three!"

WHAT!  All three?!!

I read the register and saw a note from an unpleasant hiker named Rainbird.
He had bragged :"I LOVE beer!"

How absolutely un cool of a hiker to take someone's last beer!!! I mean,
take ONE, but three...? you wouldn't take the last beer out of a person's
refrigerator, why drink all of them?

Bad form, bad form...

I read the register note, and - hey! - it's Mrs. Gorp! She brought Fritos
too. She left her phone number and wrote : "call if you want a shower."

OH! Oh!  How to find a phone...

I slip into a clean pool of the beautiful Big Branch and have a soapless
wash. I also wring out my hiking clothes.
It's been very cool today, almost November-ish - great hiking weather. Now
the sun has come out and the wind has died. Refreshed, I towel off and wade
downstream. I could fall in love with this river. Someone has set up
whimsical cairns, long, thin rocks standing impossibly on end, atop the
largest boulders. It suggests the work of mountain faeries, the little people.
I think back to the thrill of that spare rock outcrop that was Baker Peak,
with it's sun washed western view.

Oh yeah. Now I remember.

THAT'S why I lug cruel weights up unforgiving climbs, suffer culinary
indignities and serious hygiene degradation.
I fall asleep hard. Life is good.