Im sitting on the floor of Hexacube Shelter, on a raised platform quite damp from the sudden rain. I made it in minutes before some of the scariest lightening strikes I’ve encountered on trail. Literally *flash* BANG! That fast. The shelter shook as the thunder continued rolling its way down the mountain.

I’ve been hiking with a lady named In A Day for forty miles now. She just checked in, and I’m happy to say she was able to get her tent up safely some two miles north of here.

This has put the Whites in perspective. If I were on an exposed ridge, I would have been fucked. One of my mentors Garrett, recounted literally running across a slick granite ridge with his wife during their thru hike. They were in the Whites and the choice was to either get hit by lightning or risk losing their footing and taking a substantial fall. They chose the latter. A nightmare to be sure.

Jelly just broke her digital fast to tell me about the weather she just survived up there. She managed to get into a hut minutes before her own lightning fest. This after twenty miles (including Mt. Washington) with a dog in tow.

I’ve met and hiked with some truly impressive people.

Here’s the view from my bivy on Moose Mountain this morning. New Hampshire is beautiful!

I’m currently camped on top of Moose Mountain’s south peak. You can do these things when you have a little tiny bivy that can be pitched anywhere.

There are bats flying about ten feet overhead, and this makes me giddy happy beyond belief. I love bats. They’re cute, and they eat my mortal enemy; the mosquito. Similarly, I love possums. They’re also cute, and eat my other mortal enemy; ticks! Who can fail to love an American marsupial? Seriously you guys!

My writing has been all over the place, a lot of it is very embarrassing, and I’m just letting it fly. My mental state is a little off right now, but in a good way. An uncomfortable, but growing way.

“Happiness is not always comfortable.”

I’m not sure where I heard that sage advice (some girl on YouTube, but I don’t remember the channel) and it’s become a personal mantra. It sums up the trail experience beautifully.

I do know for certain, that I am way happier than I was when I did electrical work. I think it was the lack of stability in the day to day hours, which really got to me. Hiking is very rhythmic and consistent. My warehouse job also had a set time for every task. I find happiness in repetition.

There’s no way to link 30,000 steel rings together, much less bend and cut all of them by hand, unless you are a repetition person. Chain maille was a hobby of mine, as has been crochet. In light of this, distance hiking makes perfect sense.

I spent the morning with Reverend Anderson, the steward of the parishioners house I mentioned in a previous post. What a fascinating woman, and an open book about it! She was a welder, pile driver, and carpenter for many years. She admitted to me that she had to interchange “fuck” with “blessed” when she started ministry. I almost spit my coffee out laughing at this.

I’m always weary of Christians, too often hiding behind a veil their “element of human rascality” as Watts liked to put it. This woman made no effort to hide her fucked up humanity from me. I made no effort to hide mine, and the discourse flowed deeply. She’s the real deal, and I’m glad she’s in the church. She had a lot to teach, and left me with some book titles too. I look forward to my homework!

Again, if the AT is just a hike, in the woods, over mountains, through the rain, blah blah blah. That’s cool. Having a reverend show me the trailer to the movie “Short Bus,” after explaining some of the most difficult tragedies of her life with me? That’s why I’m out here.

I’m here to learn how to be a better person from better people. That has not changed from my last hike. If you’re not on the trail long enough to start questioning what the AT actually is, do a yo-yo and head back. Or hike your own hike, I don’t really care.

Till next time. Be kind to yourselves out there. Much love, and I hope, a moment’s peace as well.

Today I jumped off the White River Bridge, and yogi’d a dinner at Dartmouth from a student there. Yes, that Dartmouth. The student was an outdoor club member, the school’s being among the oldest in the United States. As for the bridge, and why I jumped, you need only to brush up on your Sir Edmund Hillary. Why?

“Because it’s there!”

As I sit down to write this, in a bed at a parishioner’s home in Norwich, VT; I reflect on two points. The first being how in the hell I found so much time to write during my last hike. Then, even given the time, how do I compress so much into a tiny narrative? It’s a daunting task. Nevertheless, too much content is a blessing. I prefer a deep well to a dry one, and my days have been anything but parched.

That last part works figuratively, even if not literally true. In this heat and humidity, I’ve found myself quite parched in the north Vermont hills. What water does flow here is deep, and clear. The people of Vermont are the same.

I want to write about my friend Sage, but no single post would suffice to describe him. We united in our love of Abby and Kerouac, kept the conversation alive in musical taste, and stopped to laugh when we both pulled Melanzana Hoodies from our backpacks. Sage is my homie, my brother, and an instantly trusted friend.

When his roommate picked him up in Rutland, to take him to a wedding, we both became adamant that a picture be taken of us. People on the trail are transient, but I hope this one sticks. Besides, who else can I sit in a stream eating a grinder with, or on the side of a Walmart downing pomegranate kombucha? Real life dharma bums. We even meditate together.

Fuck I miss Jelly. In a moment of weakness, I asked her if I could bus up to Hanover and shuttle up to hike with her to the end of Maine. She saw this for what it was, and talked me out of it so thoroughly, openly, and honestly. In my deepest heart of hearts I knew it was a terrible idea to begin with. This weak man needed a strong woman to articulate back to him exactly why the idea felt so off. I’m grateful for the transparency between us, but clarity with a strong woman is best accessed as a strong man. She makes me want to be that man.

I listened to Damian Marley’s “Speak Life” tonight. A song Molly and I would often sing and dance to slowly in our kitchen on Merritt St. It made me appreciate that relationship for what it was. I feel myself applying the lessons from that time these days. I have so much more clarity than I had then. What a blessing to find intermittent lovers, and validate a little growth along the way. I’ve been reading some Pete Holmes lately, and he makes that point well.

There’s a lover I’d like to be anything but intermittent with, and the last post was password protected for the sake of her privacy. Maybe with another fifteen hundred miles under my belt, I’ll be closer to the type of man I wish to pursue her as.

An odd thing out here, is that I am as confident in women’s shorts and pink gaiters as many men are in business suits. Walking around the Dartmouth campus in my Marshall’s 3″ inseams and a polyester button down, I felt sexy as fuck. I have this theory about increased testosterone in long distance hikers –thinning waistline, large muscle groups in high use, but I wonder. When I dress like hiker trash I am being my most myself. My weird, goofy, talking to all the ladies self. Because I’m a hiker I am automatically a total badass in my mind. People respond to this most wonderfully.

There’s so much sexual guilt and shame bubbling around in my brain it’s a little startling at times. Yeah guys, “me too” and all that. I’ve never really written about that before. It’s one of the many things I am working through out here.

Where the hell did this post even come from? So much for an AT journal! Seriously though, between No More Mr. Nice Guy and Comedy Sex God, I feel like I am getting a legitimate handle on some of the more fucked up parts of my childhood. Introspection is the source of inner peace and happiness, but no one likes digging ditches. Though, I implore you friends. When you’re ready, grab a fucking shovel!

I woke feeling as stiff as the board I had slowly butted up against during the night. Pitching next to the tent platform Airbud called home, was not without its hazards. My bivy slipped on its ground sheet, and by morning I was wedged hard against the 2×8 beam.

I packed as quietly as I could and made for the McDonalds, where I wrote “Town Stops.”

As I traveled back towards the community center, I found Crotchidile and Jelly sitting at a picnic table. I hadn’t seen either of these lovely people since Duncannon, PA. Jelly and I had kept up via texts, and I had been trying to catch her for at least four hundred miles. We met after her dog Mabel, followed me to the shelter before Boiling Springs.

“I don’t know why you’re following this man?” She asked. Five minutes worth of conversation at the shelter, and it started to make sense. We had some odd things in common. Among them, that all of our possessions can fit in a sedan, and we both sleep on tri-fold futons. She’s also an OT, a profession I’ve been considering for myself of late.

Crotchidile and I bonded over being thru hikers on our second attempt. He too had to bail out due to budget. We discussed this in a bar in Duncannon; he over a dark ale, and me over a dark soda. I’d totally hang with him off trail.

The picnic table we met at today, happened to be located in front of the Travel Lodge. Not one to invite myself, I spoke with my friends and hoped for an invite. Sure enough, it came.

“So yeah, I have a room. It would be $135 split four ways. It’s Jelly, me, and Airbud.”

I agreed. Those were hostel stay rates, and we wouldn’t be seeing one of those for a while. I had intended to zero at the community center, but the increased comfort was worth the cost. I also managed to create an $86 budget surplus from New Jersey thru New York. It was time to cash that in.

It was so good to see my friends again! Jelly stayed in the yard, giving Mabel a haircut, and pulling ticks at the same time. Conversation between us picked up right where it left off three states previous. I took a shower and then we went for town errands.

Crotchidile needed a new loofa. He and his previous hiking partner, Super Girl, had become converts to my secret cult. The cult of people who actually like to to get clean when they take a hiker shower. We carry loofas. The NJ Ridge Runner Sugar Magnolia is an OG loofa user too. Maybe I should cede leadership to her?

Jelly and I finished our grocery shopping, and she managed to find him the perfect one. It was a green plush frog loofa of unmatched cuteness.

“If he hates it, I might keep it.” She exclaimed.

Sure enough, he loved it.

Back at the room Jelly and I fell into conversation about spirituality, and then I told her about my sobriety. Airbud came in around this time, and nonplussed, I carried on. Soon though, her and I left the space. Utilizing the parking lot to dry some wet gear, we kept talking.

She was aiming to hit Upper Goose Pond in two days. I could easily make up the eight miles between us by then. I was glad to know I’d have someone to hike with again.

We spent the evening at the hotel pool with Crotchidile and Airbud. Chai and Pokerface joined us as well.

The following morning a trail angle named Joe drove us back to our respective trailheads. I said goodbye to Jelly and Mabel, and told them I’d see them in two days.

As I hiked back into the tall grass, the road noise dissipating with each step, a familiar sound returned. Again, the mini-vampires were back. This time I had a goal and a friend to catch.

By 7pm that evening I had hiked seventeen miles, enough to catch Jelly and Mabel a day early. Crotchidile opted to stay in town, but I spotted Airbud’s tent. He had made it to Shaker Camp too.

Jelly came over to chat for a few, but I was beat. As soon as my bivy was up I crawled inside and disappeared into well-earned unconsciousness. Tomorrow I’d be going to Upper Goose.

“I am not a fucking buffet!”

I shouted, and slapped the side of my thigh. Three mosquitos lost their lives in a single blow, and I was on a rampage. I dropped my pack to the ground and dove my hand into the bottom of the rear panel. Soon my fingers found a small plastic cylinder, and I triumphantly lifted the container skyward.

I had been carrying this travel-sized death ray with a 40% concentration of DEET since New York.

I frantically sprayed every exposed inch of flesh with it. Then, to further delay my complete decline into insanity, I coated my baseball cap and shirt as well. Finally. The micro-vampires were abated. My confidence grew as each landed and left, until eventually, none dared to land at all. Flies continued to orbit my head, their beating wings dominating the incoming array of sounds.

I took a brief, blessedly bug free breath, and continued on my way.

I was a mile from the first road crossing into Great Barrington. The second crossing was another eight trail miles away. These two points make the base of a triangle, with its apex being the the town itself. This is important to note, because it meant that I’d be interacting with hikers in town who were actually a half-day ahead of me on trail.

I had planned to hike to the second crossing, but the mosquito onslaught took its toll on me. Nearing 7pm, with the next shelter some five miles away, my legs begged reprieve. I had already put down twenty for the day.

“This is it.” I confirmed to myself aloud. On the curb I stood, thumb outstretched. Traffic was thin, the sun was fading fast, and everyone knows that hitches don’t happen after dark. Great Barrington is a ritzy place, and even the Subaru drivers are slow to pick up Hiker Trash.

My eyes caught a blue 5-Series BMW, but she passed too. I payed special attention to the pickup trucks, which account for most hitches, but the drivers barely noticed me. A horn honked and I turned around. The blue BMW had come back for me, an older blonde woman waving me closer.

By the time I approached the passenger side, a peach colored towel was laid out on the front seat. I climbed in and immediately apologized for the smell, lowering the window slightly upon entry. She laughed and off we went.

I explained that it was my second time through this section, and she thought that was quite odd.

“I thought hiking the Appalachian was a once in a life time thing?” She inquired.

I explained that I hadn’t actually hiked the whole thing yet, and that answer seemed good enough to satisfy her.

“GB is a big place, is this okay?” She asked, pointing at the parking lot of a bank. I agreed and hopped out, immediately orienting myself to the nearest Subway. I sat on a bench outside the restaurant, wolfing down my cold cut combo, and watching immaculately pedicured women in heels walk by. Town girls…

TaterTot made fun of my mention of town girls once.

“Fuck no dude! Give me a rough guy with an unkempt beard, and a little sunburn too. A dude who’s done some shit. Town girls!!! Psshhh!”

I made my way to the Berkshire Community Center on the north side of town. It was nearly 9pm and I was coming up on twenty-three miles for the day. I passed a high end Mexican place, which seemed to be piping the smell of carne asada into the air. I should have ordered two subs.

The sun had long set by the time I reached the center, but I was navigating by memory. Beyond the grassy side lawn there was a small kiosk and a dense wall of trees. An outsider would have no idea that twenty hikers were pitched a hundred feet away.

I crossed the small wooden bridge, and entered the tree line. I searched and searched for a spot, but the tent pads from 2016 had become quite dilapidated over the past few years.

I texted Jelly to see if she was camped somewhere with this labyrinth of pine needles and nylon domes. She was at the shelter. I knew I should have hiked on…

In one hammock I saw a cellphone-lit face. It looked like Chai. It was Chai. I hadn’t seen her since northern PA.

“Oh! That’s Airbud’s!” She replied, after I asked about the Quarter Dome pitched nearby. I had known Airbud for two days, therefore giving me adequate license to pitch three feet from his home.

Bivy’s are stealthy things. When Airbud returned to his dwelling, I actually had to greet him to keep from being stepped on.

“Wait! You don’t sound like Spoons?”

“Dude, it’s Dirty Girl.” I assured him.

“Duuuude! Do you want to go bowling?”

I assured him that all I wanted was sleep. It had been a long day. Already, my brain was busy deciphering the to-do list of town errands for the following day.

After nearly being stepped on for a second time, this time by an unknown hiker without a headlamp, I fell into a deep sleep.