[at-l] Jan Day Ten

[icw39@ncfreedom.net (Clark Wright)]

OK, I can't quite put my finger on it, but that was the most fun I have ever
had reading a trip report - and my arm is not even itching for my trouble!
:)

thru-thinker

-----Original Message-----
From: at-l-admin@mailman.backcountry.net
[mailto:at-l-admin@mailman.backcountry.net]On Behalf Of kahley
Sent: Sunday, August 11, 2002 8:02 PM
To: at-l@mailman.backcountry.net
Subject: [at-l] Jan Day Ten


There's always more to say than there is time to say it in.

Yesterday, at Minerva-Hinckey shelter, I discovered I had left my toilet
paper behind near White Rocks! Dang!
I set out to find some non-toxic leaves with which to wipe. "Here!" calls
Clyde, and hands me some paper. Great, paper is better than leaves.

I look closely, and it's the first three pages of the Long Trail maps, the
maps we've just walked off of.
I look at Clyde. He is grinning like a monkey.

"That's the proper end for those!" he hooted. "Better than a map burning."

By the way, did I ever mention that MAF Man found his sock? In his pack? I
didn't? That's probably just as well.
But that was then, an age ago, and this is now. With a belly full of
Guinness Irish stew a the Inn at the Long Trail, Clyde and I raise a glass
of Guinness in homage of that famous southbound hiker, Felix McGillicudy,
whose express instructions we are following, according to Clyde.

In the back ground, a favorite, the Quebec city band Great Deep Sea is
playing: "...six questions you must answer me, and you must tell them all,
six questions you must answer me, roll me over next to the wall..."

The stewy bowl with thick chunks of buttered bread is a nice change from
the four basic food groups: ramen noodles, filtered water, snickers and
Vitamin I.

"...I'm a rover, and I'm bound to sail away. I'm a rover..." sings Great
Big Sea.

We are laundered and showered, and a cheeky two-man Irish band is setting
up for Saturday night. They are switching off Great Big Sea, but they make
up for the intrusion pretty well, getting the pub crowd a singing "Cockels
and mussels, alive'o!"
What IS a cockel, anyway, really?

Several of the AT thruhikers we have been keeping pace with are here too.
Cous-Cous, Foxfire, Cupcake. It is good to see them. The linear grapevine
is operative, and we catch up on the news of everybody.

In between the two scenes, Minerva Hinckey to the Inn, we hiked down
through Clarendon Gorge over the sketchy suspension bridge, past the
ice-cream laden Whistlestop and up, up, (puff, puff, belly pooched out and
protesting), up out of Clarendon Gorge to Clarendon shelter.

We got there early enough to meet a an old fellow a'chug-chugging up an
obscure two-track trail on an ATV. At first we thought he was a GMC site
manager but no, he said he was retired and just liked to keep an eye on
things, haul up wood, haul out trash. There WAS a plentiful supply of wood
for the fire ring.

The gregarious fellow said his name was Poor Boy. He had no teeth, nor
false teeth either, not a tooth evident in his head. He had a ready laugh,
and his ample "belly jiggled like a bowl full of jelly." Poor Boy ran the
local trash route. Clearly, he was local color.

After the obligatory dissection of politics men seem to need to do in order
to take each other's measure, Clyde started negotiating with Poor Boy to
take our packs on the Inn at the Long Trail, since Poor Boy lived only five
miles from there, in Rutland.   I went to bed and I never did hear a deal
struck, but after dark Clyde woke me up to inform me we were slacking
tomorrow, to get a good night's sleep because we were going to walk 18
miles tomorrow. snzzz... uh, huh? ...whatever..

In the a.m., I am skeptical, but sure enough, up comes 'ol Poor Boy back up
the obscure trail in his one-ton garbage truck! He tossed our packs in the
back of his big rig. I was a little nervous about that, and relinquished my
pack reluctantly. But he was jolly and confident, and off he went, for $10
each pack.  We thought we would fly without our packs off, and we were able
to go faster, farther. But fly up the hills we did not. The thruhikers
would still outpace us, easily, sweatlessly, and they toted their packs.

As I mentioned - did I mention it? - we climbed straight puffingly up out
of Clarendon Gorge, and then the fun began, we climbed up Killlington
Mounatian the next morning, 4,216 elevation.   Before we started the
extreme bits of that climb, we came across trail magic, sodas chilling in
creek. I selected a faux Dr.Pepper (Sam's Choice) which the register said
was provided by The Hiking Gnome. As we were enjoying this glucose bonus,
up walks The Outhouse Repair Guy, former partner of the female Hiking
Gnome. The ORG was packing in 24 more sodas. He said he'd spent $169 this
year on sodas.
He kept doing the task even though he and Hiking Gnome had split, he
explained, because he loved her kids and had no formal visitation rights.
She would let the kids come out on weekends to help him though.

"She gets all the credit, but don't really mind," he said, "because I get
to see the kids, and I miss them." I was touched by his connection to these
children, not his own.

We took a lunch break at the notorious Governor Clement shelter, a stone
hut near a road frequented by drunken locals on weekend eves. But al was
quiet this noon.   The shed featured a cool stone fireplace with a cobbled
arch. "Some love and care went into this construction," I said to Clyde.

I took power nap, feet upon bunks above. It helps the footsoreness.

"Hey,"said Clyde, "God was here and wrote his name in charcoal on the
roof." He read a register entry fro a woman hiker named Buddha: "Why would
god do that?"

We slogged and slogged and slogged up Killington. It was beautiful - but
three hours of not-fun. The lovely stone Cooper Lodge was a welcome sight
on the start of the Killington downside. I was well into the second
powernap of the day when I heard Bramble (or was it Rattler?), enter the
shelter with his slighter buddy Squirrel.

This massive fellow, an ex-Ranger was a gentle, tattooed giant, built like
a brick privy. He had arms larger than my thighs and an impressive pectoral
development. What I liked best about him though was his enthusiastic and
utterly charming, childlike pleasure in being put in these fantastic
mountains. It reawakened my enthusiasm for the privilege of being out here.
He was all agog about the beauty of the area. "Wow" this, and "Man!" that.
He was darling,and on top of that, he fed us crackers and cheese.

We slogged on past Pico Camp shelter, where the porcupines play (and chew),
and on down to the welcome sight of the Inn. There were our packs! Poor Boy
came through, bless his heart.

Along with my maildrop is a treat box from my AT-L buddy and fellow Class
of '03 at hiker, Ted Anderson ("Soleman") of Florida. Ted is also hiking as
a fund-raiser for Hospice next year, so we have struck up a correspondence
and internet friendship.

Ted's gifts come in an Amazon.com box, which Ted had sub-labeled in large
block print "Adult Porn Department".

That Ted, I just know he's gonna be trouble next year...Thanks anyway, Ted.
These ARE lonely times. This will give a whole new meaning to the term
"tree-hugger."

Actually, friend Ted sent me breakfast bars and, for some reason, Russian
vodka which he suggested I add to Gator-Ade. Mmmm, yeah boy, Gator-Ade...
Is this some sort of Floridian little-umbrella-ed drink, there, Ted?

Time to retire. One more peek at the stars, then of to rest and retread.



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