[at-l] Jan...the missing day seven

[kahley@ptd.net (kahley)]

sorry folks...this one went AWOL

                       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.