Dirty Girl Hikes

We had been camped out in the McDonald’s for nearly three hours now.  We were busy charging our phones, ordering gear online, and fielding the disgusted looks of patrons who wandered too close to us and caught a whiff.

Lazy as it was, we were actually quite productive that morning.  Stumbleweed had contacted Big Agnes and had a new tent pole on the way.  I called Altra and inquired about the sizing of their Lone Peaks 2’s compared the Superior 2’s I was replacing.  In the end I went ahead and replaced what I had.

Ladybug worked out the logistics of having his winter gear sent in, and I too had some phone calls to make in that regard.  AWOL had misprinted the address of the outfitter in Hanover, NH I was trying to mail to, and UPS had placed my shipment on hold.

A half-dozen McChickens down, and feeling lethargic, I heard Sasquat mention that he needed to take a trip to the outfitter in town.  Eager to take a walk, I offered to join him.  My pack was actually at the outfitter’s, as they had offered to keep it there for me while I made my town errands that morning.  While the ladies working the morning shift at Eastern Mountain Sports were accommodating and offered great service, the men on the afternoon shift had much to learn about customer service.

Sasquat purchased some Darn Tough socks, which are the beloved standard foot-underwear of AT hikers everywhere.  Made in Vermont from a blend of synthetics and merino wool, you will not find a better hiking sock.  Their warranty is iron-clad, offering lifetime replacement in the event of wear, which justifies the sixteen to eighteen dollar price per pair.  Both pairs I took on this trip are hole-free after 900 miles each, and I’ve owned them long before the AT.

Hikers like to talk, but we found the conversation here to be curt and impatient.  Essentially shooed out of the store, I grabbed my pack from the front and left.  As we made our way back to the golden arches, we stopped to chat with two Long Trail hikers.  They warned us that previous Nobo’s had pissed off every hotel owner in town.  Supposedly all of them refused to accept hikers.  I was refused at two hotels down in Virginia for the same reason.

Safely back at our wifi enabled base of operations, we found the Long Trail hikers to be correct.  Every hotel in the guidebook was either “full” or coming in at $50+ over the listed hiker rates in the book.  One property remained, and it seemed the least likely of all to be hiker-friendly.  An indoor and outdoor pool, golf course, etc.  The guide book did not list pricing, but instructed us to call instead.  Sasquat made the call.

“Fifty-five a per person?  Okay…  We each get a queen bed?  Oh cool, the house is on the green.  So, we’re getting a house to ourselves then?  Right on!  Well thank you!”

We could not believe our ears.  To the Palmer House we walked.  Of the group, Ladybug, Sasquat, Gandalf and I decided to take up lodging.  The property had long since seen its full glory, but it was still very nice.  The ladies at the front desk mused at the opportunity to see the faces on our IDs versus how we looked now.  The surprise on their faces put a smile on ours, a badge of honor for our long miles and months.

Sure enough, they gave us a house to ourselves.  Two double rooms with a shared wrap-around porch.  It was the best lodging value I had had on trail.  Gandalf and Ladybug took one room, and Sasquat and I took the other.  I opened a closet and was delighted to find an iron.  I produced the North Face button-down I purchased in Waynesboro, VA, and set to work.  Just because I am hiker-trash, does not mean I need to look like hiker-trash all of the time.

Sasquat emerged from the shower, saw my task and raised an eyebrow.  A thru-hiker ironing a shirt?  I can understand his surprise.  While I hate this activity in normal life, the two or three times I got to iron this shirt on trail left me with a sense of pride, and frankly, control of my situation.

Soon enough we found the loaner clubs, and were on the green hitting balls.  I’ve never played golf before, but Gandalf was a patient teacher.  He’s also a fellow iaidoka.

“Why aren’t your wrists breaking?  Oh I see.  Dirty Girl, stop holding it like a katana…”

We had a lot of fun.  Ladybug made a beer run, and we made our way around the course with a large brown paper bag full of Budweiser.  After nine-holes we were pretty buzzed and feeling quite satisfied with the place.  We went out for food and called it a night.

One of the best things about the AT, is that you never know how a day might end!

 

 

I will be spending this first week back in “civilization” on my bike and with my sword.  Long Sensei teaches that the sword is a barometer, and often ripples in life will be noticeable in your technique, before the full wave is upon you.  I’ve found this to be very true in my studies.

After four and a half months on the trail, I am hoping the lax feeling in my shoulders will help my technique improve.

I am hoping to enjoy new fitness on my bike, and a welcome change from hiking every day.  Essentially, I’m trying to take my time in getting back to the daily grind, and not rush into the wrong job.

I’ll be working on some fun and hopefully informative posts for anyone wanting do a thru-hike in the future.

If anyone wants to go backpacking or biking within the next two weeks or so, please let me know!

I walked into the bathroom.  My brother-in-law had purchased soap, shampoo, epsom salts, a loofa, tooth paste, and a toothbrush for me.  The items were arranged neatly on the counter top.  When my eyes assessed them, my first thought was “trail magic!” and I literally broke down into tears.

I was completely overwhelmed by this simple kindness, and equally grateful to be among family.  I knew the roof overhead was solid, and would not be stripped from me at 11am, like so many others had been before.  My tears continued as I bathed.  I thought as I so often had, about the baptismal back into society.  Hopefully, this would be the last one for a while.

Roughly forty hours previous, I walked out of the hostel atop the Yellow Deli in Rutland, VT.  The course of events which brought me back here will be exposed for inspection someday, but not today.  Game Warden informed me that I had left my shoes here, and so I came, arriving around ten in the morning.  I met the Twelve Tribes member who helped me the night before (sadly, I cannot remember his name at this time) in the hallway.  I shook his hand firmly and thanked him for his help during the wee hours of that morning.

Casper had my shoes, and Game Warden asked me about the events of the previous night.  I told her I was probably off trail at this point.  The Twelve Tribes member gave me a generous helping of food for the road, and despite repeated invitations for me to stay, I knew I had to be on my way.

I left the hostel, but paused for a moment outside.  Realizing how hungry I was, I dove into the bag of goods, and wolfed down two bananas.  Game Warden came down to check on me.  I told her I was going to try and get myself together, and get back on trail, but she knew it was goodbye.  We bid farewell and she went back upstairs.

After this, I decided the trail was worth one more try.  I resupplied at Walmart, and took the bus out to Killington where I left off.  It didn’t feel right.  I found a field, one I camped in a couple nights ago, and took a lengthy nap.

When I woke, my intentions were clear.  I walked across the road to the Inn at the Long Trail, hoping to get a ride.  I was invited to sign their log book, which I did, and dated 9/3.  In the comments section, I simply could not write down that I was leaving the trail.  The pen was poised, but I could not write the words.

Three hitches got me to the bus station in White River Junction, the driver of each leg congratulating me on my accomplishment.  Soon I boarded a series of buses headed for my sister in Columbia, where I was greeted by the kindness described above.

I made it a bit over 1700 miles before calling it.  I have much more to write, so stay tuned if you care to.

To those who question why I left the trail, I leave the account above.  When your mental state is so eroded that you cry at the sight of hygiene products, it’s time to go home.  When you miss your family to the point of tears, yet push past that for weeks on end, it’s time to go home.  I had roughly 485 miles left.

I will bag the Whites, Washington, and Katahdin.  A mantra I developed early on for myself on the trail was to “take care of myself today, so that I can have a tomorrow.”  This justified every hostel stay, shower, meal, etc.  All of them seemed needlessly extravagant at the time.

The truth is, each of those peaks will be there tomorrow; long after all of my tomorrows are gone.  I will face them in the future.  Now it’s time to take the best care of myself, so I can give them my best, when the moment is right.

My intention in writing this has been to be honest about the realities of my thru-hike.  In reality, very few make it.  This will not be my last thru-hike.

Words cannot accurately express the gratitude I have for having taken this journey.  So many people ask:

“Are you hiking alone?”

The beautiful thing is, no one does.  I have been bestowed such innumerable kindnesses in the past four-plus months, I often wonder if my karma will ever recover.  This has been the single most challenging, wonderful, soul-wrenching, and rewarding experience of my life.

If you’ve ever desired to do a thru, just do it.  At the worst, you’ll make a friend and learn a few things along the way.  Why not go for it?

Thank you for reading as always!

 

 

 

A few days ago, while hiking through ankle-deep mud, Gandalf told us about some advice he was given early on the trail.

“You see, I was told that the first seven hundred miles are about the physical body. The second seven hundred are about the mental aspects, and the third is about the soul.”

I’ve been thinking on this for days. A challenge like this has to be compartmentalized in phases, less one lose their sanity. While I agree with the categories above, I feel that they are all overlapping all of the time, in varied levels of concentration. Crossing the Smokies was a very mental and emotional time for me. There were many times where I thought about everyone I had wronged in my life. Other hikers I’ve talked to have had the same experience.

“I love you, thank you, please forgive me.”

This is a mantra Pretzel used to repeat while he hiked. When we separated at the NOC that rainy morning, I adopted it as well. About halfway through the Smokies I ascended a ridge with this mantra and literally burst into tears when I reached the top of the mountain. I wanted nothing more than to call Tracy, and ask for forgiveness, but my phone was blessedly out of service at the time.

I’ll be picking up my divorce papers in Killington the day after tomorrow. When she told me she was sending them, I got angry. Not for what they were, or what they represented, but simply for the intrusion on my trail life. I wanted to wait till after Katahdin to deal with this. How incredibly selfish of me. I still had the nerve to be curt and pretentious on the phone.

It’s this very lack of consideration to her feelings that got us here. I’ve realized now that I should have thanked her instead, for taking the initiative on this. It was difficult for her to do this, really difficult in fact. Instead I responded like an angry child. Sad that it’s taken this trip for me to become fully aware of how much of an asshole I’ve been to her for so many years. Maybe this is that “soul” part of the trip.

I’m ready to bring this journey to a close. Five weeks of cruising, I will make it. Tomorrow the distance to Katahdin will have a four before the last two digits. The trail will teach what it will though, and class is far from dismissed.

I found Gandalf’s solo camp spot this morning, and sat with him for a while. We mused about what our emotions might be like upon summiting that final mountain. The only thing we decided with certainty, was that it really didn’t matter. The only wrong feeling would be indifference. I’m probably going to bawl my eyes out, and that’s okay.

More often I’m getting asked about how I’m getting home. The truth is that I don’t know, and I know better than to try to know this far out. Planning more than two days ahead of anything out here is disastrous. Maybe I’ll hitchhike, maybe I’ll share a car or get a bus. The trail will provide, and staying open leads to adventure. Why worry?

I still have five hundred miles to clear. I still have things to see, people to meet, and much to learn. The last one there wins, and oddly, I already find myself missing the trail. That doesn’t even make sense, but there it is.

Sometime in October I will be headed back to Woodstock. I’m moving in with my friend and brother Tyler. There will be space for me to swing my sword, shoot some arrows, and build things. I’ll be finding work of some kind, and going to night school for welding. Somewhere in there I will be making trips down to Florida to see my sword teacher. Within two years I want to move to PA and train with Long Sensei full time. Every single night on trail I’ve dreamt about training at Hombu. I might pursue a degree in Japanese history.

Kind of an odd post, but an accurate representation of where my head is at. Now to sleep and pull twenty in the morning. Here’s hoping my shoes can make it till the new pair in Hanover!

HiC Trail Magic.  It was really tough to only drink one.

What are intimate ridges?  If you think it’s a recent innovation in condoms, you have a dirty mind, and should probably thru-hike in the near future.  For me, a very special type of terrain comes to mind, and that is the best summary I can give.

An intimate ridge is a special place where you’re winding up a narrow mountain pass, switchback after switchback, on a narrow tree-lined path.  You know there are steep drop offs ten to fifteen feet away, but the trees hide the peril from you and hug close as you ascend.

The air is often still, and beautifully quiet. Thousands of brown needles from various conifers cushion your every step, and the scent of pine, spruce, and fir permeate the air.  You know you’re on a mountain top, but instead of a wide sweeping expanse of a vista before you, there is a small but cozy place to greet you.

Today I hit the first of these in a very long time. My nose recognized it and drew images from mind of Tennessee and North Carolina.  My skin remembered the cool air with equally sharp acuity, as did the quiet settle my ears with memory.

Sometimes I forget how many experiences I’ve had out here.  Sometimes I forget how much I’ve grown with each northward step.

In New Jersey I was dropped on the side of the road by newly met bar friends at 1:30am.  I’ll get to the full story of how that came to pass one day, as it is quite worth telling.

The point is, it was the middle of the night, I was less than sober, out of water, and only vaguely aware of my location, or that of the AT.  I remember thinking how much this scenario would have unnerved me just three months previous.  As the headlights disappeared into the darkness, I was overcome by excitement at new challenge before me.

I thought about skills that potential thru-hikers should practice, like changing headlamp batteries in the dark, or pitching a tent at night. In reality, a Nobo should be prepared for the very real possibility of having to not only pitch at night, but also ten beers under.

I found the AT easily enough, it crossed near a parking lot a half mile road walk away.  Blazes in sight, I verified northbound path with my phone’s GPS.  I’d worry about water in the morning.  It was cool out, and not a priority.

I walked till 4am, not realizing a shelter was only three quarters of a mile away.  The trail became one large twenty by twenty foot rock face, which was very flat.

Physically spent, I set my pack down as a pillow, and laid back on it. I haphazardly spread out my sleeping bag and crawled in, putting my small foam seat pad underneath me.  The wind batted away all intruding insects.  I began to fall asleep beneath the expanse of stars, the skyward image framed by the silhouettes of surrounding pines.

The crickets chirped and I found myself quite at home in this wilderness. I thought on who might discover me in the morning, as I was literally sleeping on the trail.  To my surprise no one did, and I slept till eight the next morning.

Tonight in Vermont, over 1650 miles in, I’m sleeping haphazardly again.  This time I’m 3400ft up and the wind is gusting to fifteen miles per hour.  I’m in a 55-degree sleeping bag and I have no water.  Again, things which would have worried me months ago.

I’m so very happy to be back in the mountains though.  It’s going to be a cold night, but I’ll live.  The cold means I can enjoy coffee and tea again.  Best of all, I can pack out cheese!

There’s a recipe I’ve been waiting to try, and I feel that I’m at the correct point in my hike to give it a go.  It’s a simple sandwich made from two pieces of chocolate with a piece of cheese in the middle.  Dreamt up by a friend of mine, I think it should be known among hikers as a “Kincaid.”

I could eat an entire 8oz block of cheese right now without a second thought.  I could probably get a quart of chocolate milk down with it.  Recently, I walked into McDonalds and ordered the entire value menu for dinner.  McChickens are my crack…

Well, off to have recipe dreams of my own.  Thanks for reading my blabbing as always.

It’s pretty surreal. I’m in Vermont, lying in my tent during a rainstorm. I can hear the muffled voices of Gandalf, Boobytrap, and Tumbleweed nearby. I think Ladybug is asleep, and Sasquat is camped out of earshot. That I’ve made it this far, and that I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours with this particular group of people again amazes me. I’ve known them all for well over a thousand miles. Miles are the best way to quantify the duration. Days. Weeks. Months. They feel much longer out here.

Three people I’ve hiked over eight hundred miles with went home last week. All of them have helped me get through tough days. All of them are part of the reason that I’m still out here.

Many days ago in one of the shelter logs, I drew a tea cup with “Kava” on the paper tea tag. Next to it I left a note telling Firebird that I missed her. I had been sipping some that night, and thought about the many other things she had introduced me to. I knew she had taken some time off trail, that she was a few days behind, and would probably stop here in the near future.

Sadly, she was one of the three who left last week. I wish she could be here tonight, with this group, in this place.

The shelter nearby is full of Southbounders, a problem we’ve never faced before. We started hitting the legit Maine-starter Sobo’s in New York. Before then I ran into many who identified as such. Upon further investigation however, I learned that they had actually started in New York or New Jersey. The shelter crowd tonight is so energetic and enthusiastic; Pennsylvania hasn’t taken the wind from their sails just yet.

They’re a kind bunch though, having made room for us to rest and escape the cold deluge for a few moments. We used that time to regroup, and wait for a break in the weather to pitch our tents. That break never came. Adept after four months of practice, my Protrail went up in about forty-five seconds. It rarely goes that well, but the ground tonight was a Goldilocks mixture of soil; hard enough to hold the stakes, but soft enough to drive them in hand.

All said and done, maybe three tablespoons worth of rain made it in. Not bad at all. I closed myself in the vestibule and stripped. I was thankful to have the cold clothes off of my skin. I was equally thankful that it was still relatively warm today.

In an effort to shave weight, I left my rain gear with family in VA. At the time, lows were in the 70’s, highs were in the 90’s, and hypothermia wasn’t a factor. Tonight however, I would have been in bad shape if it were just ten degrees cooler. At the moment I have a fleece sweater and a 55-degree bag for warmth. I did have the foresight to pick up some cheap synthetic long-johns, but with altitude increasing and fall looming, I need to get my real winter gear back.

Sasquat has been having stomach issues for days, and Gandalf started running a fever this afternoon. On the way out of Williamstown yesterday, I vomited a few times out of nowhere, but felt fine later. There must be something going around. We kept walking.

We cleared thirteen miles today. We’ve been keeping our minds occupied by playing a hiker version of Dungeons and Dragons, with Ladybug as DM. Instead of rolling actual dice, we call out a number, and our success depends on a number the DM has in mind. Ladybug is a wonderful, boisterous, and creative DM.

Dirty Girl: “I cast volley!”
Ladybug: “Roll a D20!”
Dirty Girl: “7!”
Ladybug: “All arrows miss, and you, Gandalf, and Boobytrap are now being charged by fifteen very angry, very slimy, very well armed Goblins!”
Boobytrap: “I cast fog!”
Ladybug: “Roll!”

I’m fairly certain all passing Sobo’s, and perhaps even Tumbleweed think we’re out of our minds. To be honest, we probably are by now. But hey, it helps the miles pass!

Tomorrow looks like more rain, but hopefully everyone will be feeling better. Vermont is known as “Vermud” among thru-hikers, and it starts at the state line. I just got a text from my Aunt, and my all important rain jacket will be on its way to Killington soon. I’m under 600 to Katahdin now.

 

Sorry for the lack of updates!  I’m currently in Williamstown, Mass with Ladybug, Gandalf, Boobytrap, and Tumbleweed.

I returned Ladybug’s lost thermals to him by skipping ahead a few miles on the BRTA bus system.  I haven’t seen most of these guys since Harpers Ferry, so I think I’m just going to hike out from here with them.

I should be hitting the Vermont border within two or three days, and the weather is finally starting to cool down!