Terminal Impermanence

The Long Trail, long overdue.

2011-09-07T20:48:00.011-04:00

August 29, 2010 (Journey’s End Camp)

Welcome home to me. LT day 1 (or T minus 1). Met great guys, with good people, ready to kick some mountain ass!

August 30, 2010 (Jay Camp)

And what a welcome it was! I’m so sore. Energy is good, except during the huge climbs, when I can only count on my endurance. My back is sore, my feet started to raw, I stink. Overall, I dove in head first to a new trail and it couldn’t be going any better, unless there was more water. So that challenges my planning. Camaraderie is good: three is a great number for independent long distance hikers, because there’s usually someone to talk to if you want that, and no one to get their feelings hurt when you want to be alone. MudD is the common thread, and he handles that with ease, and ever so slowly Derek and I understand each other. I know my brain is still scattered and I’m still impatient. Soon, the woods will slow my mind, ease my step, and simplify everything else.

August 31, 2010 (Tillotson Camp)

Great hiking day. Hard. But rewarding. Lots of peaks, including Haystack, in under 12 miles. My mind wanders while I hike, tumbling and exploring at great speed over many subjects and concepts, admiring friends and pondering trysts, examining how once inside the green wild I never seem to connect to anyone outside of it. On the days to come, I hope my mind wanders into better catchy songs (I had “Fancy” by Reba McEntire, or actually, two lines from “Fancy” stuck in my head on replay for hours today “I might have been born just plain white trash but Fancy was my name / She said ‘here’s your once chance Fancy, don’t let me down’”). Charlie Brown is at the shelter- just hearing him harshed my mellow- I knew from his voice he was lonely, talkative, and not interesting. I decided that that assumption shouldn’t have such power, so I gave him a chance. Let me play it out for you.

With a few remaining miles to the day, and for all of us, barely any water, we took a long break at the first stream in hours. A serene babbling brook in the lush col between two mountains, there was plenty of good seating and a deep enough stream for all of us to pump at separate pools. After filling my camelbak I pumped a liter into my nalgene and added a nuun electrolyte tablet. I chugged the cool mountain water, the best water on the planet (I swear, it’s all about the water, that faraway look backpackers get when you talk about one of their trails, they may say it’s the memories of the people or the views or the exertion, but it’s triggering the trace memory of drinking water filtered out of the land, pure and clean, exquisite), while we talked about our sore muscles and the heat. I know the power of the heat by hydration best: on a day like today, when you sweat so much you smell the liquid fat excreted through your pores, when my eyes fill with sweat if I blink too slow, and then drip drips off of my chin, when I drink a liter of water in under five minutes, hoist a 25 pound pack onto bruised shoulders, and start walking without getting a cramp, that’s when I make a mental note to chug another liter once in camp and again after dinner. That is heat. With that heat comes immense gratitude for the dependable water source at a shelter. Expecting that water was ahead very simply determined that we could continue to live out here. Rumors of water scarcity met us via Northbounders. I dissected the rumors and examined them like a detective. A hiker could lose all credibility for false water information.

And so, full of water but most comfortably so, I was dawdling into camp, with a happy spring in my step, singing “Fancy,” surprised to see the privy first and the shelter roof next, I thought ‘oh joy of joy I’m done for the day! And what a glorious day it was! Tonight my friends and I will dine with a view over the northwoods landscape, and discuss our highlights, our frustrations, and rest easy on tired bones.’ Then I hear the voice.

“You guys must have just started, eh? Yeah, I did the whole trail myself, the wife is picking me up on Wednesday, I’ll be taking my time to finish, you know, might as well make it last, am I right? See, guys my age, we aren’t out here for the exercise. No sir, we’re here to get out of the house…” And I stopped listening because I knew the boys were there, they were ahead of me, and they would be smiling for someone else to be doing the talking, but I was not interested in this man. I heard in his voice, his tone and his easy sentences the hum of a recorded tape, a worn repetition for a lonely man with little to say. These guys are all the same, I practically said out loud, instead let escape a loud sigh, just feet from camp. He waits for company, the captive audience of tired hikers, to pontificate all his predetermined sentences and stories, jumbled together without form or connection, using us for our ears but never really caring about our parallels, our shared footsteps or histories. They’ll ask you a question, sure, but they’re waiting to give you their favorite answer. And then I paused. I walked in and greeted my friends and coolly introduced myself to the man who had not yet ceased to speak. An older adult, he was wearing shorts and crocs, and his eyes were full of me. He had the hair of a snorer, so I pulled out my tent and looked for a flat area in the piney clearing on the other side of the trail. The courage and confidence that comes from pitching my tent is hard to describe. Like these gentlemen who miss something long gone, I am guilty of nostalgia, when the reenactment of my routine mitigated my tension and reminded me of one great lesson of the woods: not all people are as they seem. And so, when Charlie Brown walked over to watch me pitch my tent and talk to me, I listened.

“So you’re hiking with those guys, eh?”
“Yup.”
“Yeah, I did the whole trail myself, the wife is picking me up on Wednesday.”
“That’s exciting.”
“Yup, I started the 6th of August, and let me tell you, it’s been a hell of a trip. You think you’ve been working hard, the miles to come are, heh, well, because you’re a lady I’ll watch my tongue, but you’re looking at pretty bad trail.”
“You didn’t enjoy your hike?”
“Of course I enjoyed my hike! What are you thinking? I’ve been thinking of what I’m going to do next year. See, out here I haven’t met many people. There’s my buddy Andy, he should be getting here soon because we were in town together two days ago and I lost him in town and so I’ve been waiting for him to catch up, he’s a younger guy, you know and so it should be no problem for him but I haven’t seen him yet and figure it’ll be tonight that he catches up, but anyway, lots of people going your direction, from time to time I get a shelter to myself of course, but that’s why you go out here, right? To be alone. They say it’s hard and it is, now, I also carry a lot more than you young kids but let me tell you something you should know: Don’t go to the grocery store hungry. That’s something to remember. I did that in Johnson, had to unload all this extra food outside of town, see, because I bought too much. So don’t do that. That ground doesn’t look too flat right there. What did you say your name was again?”

Well, maybe he has some good stories at least. Stay positive.

And eventually he walked away. At dinnertime he gave us the gift of a fire. Then he started talking about doing the PCT.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about doing that next year.”
“Do you go off on a long-distance hike every year?” I asked.
“No, not every year. I did the AT in 2003, and I’m finishing the LT now, so, no, this has been it. My wife doesn’t really understand, she’s supportive you know, let’s me go from time to time.”
“Oh.”
“But I think for next year what I’ll do is go out there and my wife can follow me in an RV. I can hike and she can meet me at all the roads and have water and food ready.”
“Wow, that would be really nice of her.”
“Well, that’s why you get a bride.”
I scoff. MudD and Derek are both suddenly consumed by their food.
Charlie Brown laughs at his reflection, his fortune, and leans a little closer to the fire and myself. The low flames danced and cast a shadow into his smile lines.
“That’s why you get a bride!”
“Oh, is that it?” I finally manage, an attempt to freeze over the fire between us.
“She doesn’t really understand why I do this, you know? She doesn’t like this sort of thing, ‘why do you want to live in the woods?’ she asks me.”
So maybe I was right after all.

We also met some very nice older ladies, and I found myself cutting them off with my own observations. I need to slow everything down.

September 2, 2010 (Bear Hollow Shelter)

I totally forgot to write last night! It was a big day, 15 miles, which I felt pretty good for most of. And we went swimming in Belvidere Pond, which was my highlight. At Corliss Camp, we ate and swatted mosquitoes, then looked into the woods until Derek’s friends Shelly and Anastasia met us with cokes, snickers, and energy.

Today was terrific! Almost 3 miles per hour! And Laraway Mountain was so beautiful, a steady climb, I felt terrific, and it has a lookout that was a great rock outcrop, hazy but good view, where we took Backpacker cover shots. The name of the mountain is beautiful to my ears, I exclaimed to the boys, with the emphasis on the first syllable, the word floats off your lips like a soft breeze: laraway. They were very polite.

We were in town by noonish, resupplied wicked efficiently, then hung out at the library, where I got the shits and spiraled into a deranged headspace. Is something wrong with me? Did I contract giardia? How? That could take me off the trail if it persists. Just like Hellbender and Stud the Dud in Colorado. Then we went out for pizza and beer with Shelly and Jamie and Alyssa, Biscuits’ (Derek has a name!) friends.

At the restaurant, I happily guzzled a pint of local brew and ordered far too much food. Oh how the prideful fall, when I expected to eat not only my deep dish heavily cheesed vegetable pizza but help my friends with their doughy charges, we were all left with the heavy leftovers to carry, on account of our shamefully small bellies. The light lost its warmth and a rain shower scuttled over town. Then it was time for a return to our trail. How foreign! The thought of leaving this quiet town, filled with happy pizza chefs and inquisitive camp counselors, grocer and post office down the road, for the winding corridor of protected woods, exposed lean-tos and rugged mountain passes. Then to be dropped off on an old logging road, sure we were in the right place but unsure of the condition ahead, rekindled a bold fear, the discomfort of intrepid travelers, who are at the mercy of more elements than most, with more than enough stubbornness.

My pace slowed with the extra burdens I carried. The woods around us were green and lush, a dense undergrowth covering the forest floor below towering birches and oak, maybe? As though aware of their flourish in the purpling sunlight, ferns extended perfect fronds among cabbages and shrubbery. My pace seemed to tug at the hands of time, warping how far I thought I’d gone. The shelter was so far, so high up, beyond me ever beyond. Any restless joys from a luxurious day were imminent and due at the sight of a sign. Along the rolling green trail, restlessness resembled discomfort until that destination.

Sign!

Tonight we’re at Bear Hollow Shelter. My shirt smells so bad. Bolt is here, his two companions just quit the trail. But he’s really cool. Looking forward to hiking tomorrow! I’m so strong!

September 3, 2010 (Taft Lodge)

Probably the hardest day, but I feel great now! I go back and forth, feeling strong and able, or fantasizing about a slight enough injury to take me off with pride intact. I think about my trip to California and regular life- things I crave and what I don’t. That means, I suppose, that the trail is getting inside me. Which is good. Just north of here the trail decided to take on a most impressive angle, requiring trail crews to build almost a mile of rock steps taking these dainty and impressive switchbacks up the beginning of Mansfield. We were in no hurry, and I could hear the boys sweating enthusiastically above me on the stairs. Every quarter mile or so they would sit, and open their ziplocks of skittles and munch. I did the same and gladly, as we have accepted the candy as our most favorite crutch. Like Pavlov's dog I salivate at the sound of opening ziplocks, with that little question mark bubble "skittles?" materializing above my raised eyebrows.
Tourists with daypacks passed us and my pride sunk.

Kevin, the caretaker here, is really nice. He passed around the whisky, yum! I’m loving everyone I meet. All good news!

September 4, 2010 (Buchanon Lodge)

14.2 today, got the shelter all to ourselves. Ups are still so hard for me- I can’t go fast, I can barely go, and my muscles burn in protest. It’s been 6 days living in the woods, we’ve gone 80 miles, and tomorrow we’ll be a third done with the trail. I had a realization today, that I will finish the book, that I have the will (as this trail must prove!) to get it published. I should look into the website Biscuits told me about for a part time job. Looking at the trail book, at first thinking about how tired I am, thinking about being done, I almost started to cry- for mourning this trail. The miles we covered today included the famous Mansfield bust, from forehead to neck. Because we woke up at dawn, and on the scalp, waiting for clear skies was vetoed two to one. The mountain was covered in wispy fog and opaque, too, hanging heavy against the wind that blew an illusion at the summit: for all its blowing, the clouds still hung like paintings on the curves of our irises, these ethereal strands of milky gas. But did they whip! We had no view and didn’t miss it. The slick volcanic rock on the forehead demanded all of our attention. We traversed a rock garden lost in time or place. For all we knew the wardrobe had been the lodge, and we set out into Narnia, a landscape more fairy than modern.

This is going to be interesting: over before I know it, I can tell.

September 5, 2010 (Bamforth Ridge Shelter)

I would have shit my pants today if the Richmond town park didn’t have a public restroom. Camping tonight, a little under 4 miles from the summit of Camel’s Hump. Today I lost track of the boys, they took a scenic view I didn’t notice, and just flew into town. Then they weren’t there. I’d asked some guys at the shelter 2 miles back if they’d seen them, who said no, and I knew that must mean I’d passed them but I couldn’t believe it. So I texted MudD and moseyed along, found a spot to sit and sat. Then he called.
“Where are you??”
“I’m at the road, didn’t you see my message? Where are you?”
“At the road? We went by the road!”
“You went into town?”
“No, we checked the road and went back to camp.”
“You went back to the shelter?!”
“Yes. We were so worried. I thought that guy with the stupid dog killed you. I was sure.”

So they were 5 miles back. He sounded pissed and relieved. They ran to where I was waiting, and we went into town, where I purchased enough food for 5 days, which turns out to be what I need, in addition to a quart of fruit puree. I ate an apple and drank the green goodness while we packed our bags. Then we went to the Bridge St Café, and I ate a bacon cheeseburger with two eggs and toast. Then we walked to the park and I talked to my parents for a while, until I realized I needed to, as Snarl would say, make boom boom. Panic seized hold, nearly, as I walked past families with small children playing in the playground, laughing on the swings, running across the open green field, the stone building looming towards me, a storage facility, or maybe, just maybe, a public restroom that could maybe, just maybe, be unlocked. I walked up to the building, aware of my exposure, planning an embarrassing and disastrous plan b. The cattails at the edge of mowed park? The café there, no it’s not open! One house after another on the same street? It must have a restroom. But! Would it be locked? No! Hooray! I said that out loud: ‘Hooray!’

The hike to here was beautiful and steep in parts and ambling in others. My pack is heavy with high protein food, but I’ll manage, and regardless of my shameful pace, I sang and made excellent time. I really like this life, when it all comes down to it, but I’m excited to channel the goodness that comes from living simply- my calmness, lack of rushed speech, eye contact, confidence, assuredness, presentness (I was totally in the hiker zone today. The trio hiking pack we are allows hiking alone every single day. I treasure this time, and wish I’d had more of it on the AT)- excited to channel it into my life back in Mass, imbue my routine with these efficiencies, simplify my life with these lessons. Because this backpacking must be the thing in between things. It cannot be the main thing. I look forward to making my other lifestyle better. Now I have to get an LT AT tattoo.

100 miles tomorrow!
It just occurred to me, getting into my tent, that as an adult, since I was 18, this tent is the only shelter I’ve considered home- loved as my own, looked forward to for privacy, slept well in, whatever home means to me, this is it. Whatever am I going to do about that?

For now, sleep in my home.

September 6, 2010 (Birch Glen)

Hard day. I struggle to find reason in these miles. Maybe today was grueling for all of us, but I worry our morale is in trouble. MudD was tired today, which doesn’t help- I’m concerned about Biscuits because he’s quiet (is he a quiet guy or upset into silence?) and I’m expending my energy in making the miles. My brain as leader is suffering. I’m in the odd limbo between presentness and mania. Or maybe not mania, but hyperactivity. The minute after I stop moving I’m smiling and joking and can form sentences. But not the minute before. My mind is slowing, slowly. There’s a powerful nagging that wants to be done already. I don’t care about the miles after the Long Trail Inn (except thinking about telling someone whether I did the whole thing or quit). MudD and I talk about the Inn whenever we talk. We certainly need a day off. Maybe after a zero we’ll be refreshed. Yes, that must be. Refreshed and ready to do the easier miles. Hooray! Oh, Camels Hump today. Gorgeous.

We got to the top before 9 am, before the tourists, after the clouds had undressed the summit, leaving a hard wind and a gorgeous view. I made a bagel, cheese, and sausage sandwich sitting behind a large rock for cover. We took some pictures, looking cool against the wind, standing tall with the gray spine of the Green Mountain Range winding behind us.

September 7, 2010 (Battell Shelter)

Much better day. Went only 12 miles over the Lincoln Ridge, morning was raining. Tomorrow is our biggest day yet, over 16. Then Thursday we’re going 20. I’m thinking of calling Bob to see if he wants to do Trail magic Thursday. I’m hungry. The family who’s staying here at Battell is eating tons of food in front of us, my stomach is going to start rumbling. What’s better about being supported? I would feel ashamed with all that assistance and smelling of Tide. Anyway, these new plans will put us at the Inn by the early afternoon, which will be the beginning to a much-deserved day and a half off. Sunday starts biggish days, just 17 or so after a big Patrick breakfast. I’m counting on the last days to fly, because the most interesting section may be done. Or, I can hope for a little heatwave, to make all the ponds more attractive.

Something happened to morale today. It was exactly what we needed. Today we laughed and made jokes and giggled and played games and smiled to each other. Maybe it’s all changing. Maybe it was too hard- because we all fell or hurt ourselves today, and it was the best day in a week. Or maybe we’ll be miserable with our huge miles forever. We’ll see.

September 8, 2010 (Sucker Brook Shelter)

Gah. 23.6 miles today, because it was cold. Originally, at 16.2 it was going to be our longest day yet. Then it was 12:30 and we’d gone 12 miles. And it was so cold. The temperature couldn’t have been higher than 60 with strong winds from Hurricane Earl, so taking a break wasn’t really an option. We knew that we had to keep going to stay warm, and when we were done we’d be ready for bed in our sleeping bags. Or, rather, ready for nothing but bed. So someone, can’t imagine who, haha, suggested we go another 7.7 miles. No matter how little I wanted to hike over 20, I knew he had a good point. The day was chilly enough that we wouldn’t get dehydrated (there was literally one spring after 5 miles) so we went. And it was smart, because the original plan was for Boyce Shelter, where the water was dry. So we descended into Middlebury Gap and my knees ached, then we climbed Mt. Worth, which I was done with long before it was done with me.

A mountain meandering along an abandoned ski resort, the trail took us over wooded ridges and tops that felt like peaks every time, rustic and brown like a hermit’s neglected back yard. Following another mile of ridge-walking over densely packed pine forest we observed another rise, and then another. Somehow the trail seemed haunted, the firs were so close on either side the path was shrinking, fighting against the shade and the isolation of old Mt. Worth. When the descent began, we still didn’t know if another rise would appear, but all I could think about were my screaming feet. My feet trembled and ached and throbbed with the impact of thousands of steps. I knew I was lucky nothing else bothered me, that tomorrow my feet would be fine, if a little angry. The irrational fear of a thru-hiker is that they have lost the trail. Where intersections are poorly marked, confusion is possible. However for most hikers, when you think you’ve gone far enough, and there’s no sign of an expected landmark, you imagine ghost trails that trick you into following a ridge walk with no shelter, or an old logging road without water, and sometimes you turn around to check whether you missed an intersection the map just happens to leave out, and at the very least you worry and check the map obsessively.

Pulling the elevation profile out of my pocket, delicately unfolding the sweat-logged paper, I checked how far we had going down. It looked like a few jagged miles. This could not be right. Worrying for Biscuits, who must be quite concerned at how long this is taking, I would call every ten minutes or so, ‘we’re knocking on the door, getting closer, I can feel it.’ The path kept going, like there was no shelter to mark, like it had disappeared or the book was lying and I realized I was half-crazed and quite loopy. And starving. My water was running out. I could tell by the lightening of my pack. And then he called up to me ‘sign!’ and my body burst with relief and began to pump the tiredness through my veins. Down a short side trail to a small shelter, and I ‘caw-caw’-ed to greet MudD, who was pumping water. Water. I had rationed tiny sips every 5 minutes for the last 8 miles. ‘How’s the source?’ I managed. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ He smiled back.

Relief. Going through the motions: unpacking the bag, changing into warmer layers, eating a protein bar, setting up a bed, gathering bladder and nalgene and platypus, pumping water, preparing to cook dinner; these were interrupted with giggles and strange comments that I have no recollection of speaking or whether they were at all funny. MudD made some comment about me being weird. Whatever dregs of caloric energy were keeping my limbs moving and brain completing complex tasks were not familiar vapors. These were the death rattles of exhaustion merging with heavily processed protein supplements. And a body in starvation mode inviting a liter of cold mountain water. I felt strange all night. My feet screamed until the wee hours of the morning. I laid silently in my sleeping bag, aware only of the pain and that I was not asleep. But of course, I nearly was.

The boys compared their blisters that night and I passed around the iodine. The plan for tomorrow is 20.6, and a morning hike into Killington. Wow.

September 9, 2010 (Rolsten Rest)

1 year anniversary of finishing the AT- and it’s bittersweet. Not because of the time, or that I’m missing something out here (in fact, I’m happy to be acquainted again with this ‘otherness’ which gives perspective on my life back home). I just miss it. If I were done with the book it might be different.

Anyway, it rained all day. The only vista that stops my near-run (fighting the good fight to prevent hyperthermia) is that brilliant green of a moss bed drinking the rain and creating its own light source of color. Otherwise I just go. And fast. I’m filthy with mud. Yesterday I saw a fisher! I was wet and cold for most of the day. Then after lunch I put on my tunes and flew! Listening to Yeasayer made me happy, and gave me new energy. We did over 23 yesterday, almost 21 today. I was so tired when I got to the shelter, but the terrain got so much easier that my feet aren’t screaming at me. Tomorrow is the Inn at Long Trail. Can’t fucking wait.

September 10, 2010 (Inn at Long Trail)

Laying in a bed under covers. It’s not ‘til you get close to the way things were that you realize how far out you had been. I love being on my own. I’ve made a new friend, Roxy (what a kickass name), and befriended two sisters who are here grieving their mother and reconnecting. They bought me and MudD and Biscuits a round and I talked to them about hiking and gave some advice about a hike tomorrow. These women carry themselves with the comfort of a favorite couch with perfect ass-grooves. They can settle themselves into new territory with the assurance of vulnerable kindness- a quality from which few people react recoil. I admire their open demeanors and ass-groove confidence.

Even the guys here at the Inn remembered me and called me a celebrity. I’m near tears swelling with happiness. I just don’t get into these kinds of situations when I’m home- like I’m not proud enough of what I do to put myself out there alone. Maybe. Which is why I think I’ll call AJ tomorrow and tell him that I’ve been thinking on the trail, and have decided to try the adult world again, and if I had a choice, it would be working for him again. I’ll do Hanover, whatever; I’m ready for change. Wow. I can’t believe this might happen. Might. With my luck he’ll have already offered it to someone else.
Sleep time.

September 11, 2010 (Inn at Long Trail)

What a day. Talked to Natalie, Erin, Bob, and AJ and Ash. Natalie helped me with my resolve to accept a job from AJ and AJ told me there is no job for now. But, there will be a job, and we’re going to talk about it when I get home. I was disappointed because I got so pumped up about moving and a job and my own place and being close to Brigid and having friends visit me. But this will be a good exercise in patience because if I can get the job it is worth waiting for. It would be a hell of an opportunity for me and it’s likely a place I could make my own. It’s lucky this happened while I’m on trail. I’m so much bolder and more confident. 6 days left in the woods. 106 miles. I have so much to look forward to.

September12, 2010 (Clarendon)

You just can’t beat being back on trail! Got a stomach full of noodles, a brain full of plans (tag sale, building cabinets and a new kitchen table, seeing Anju, etc) and a body fresh and strong. I felt terrific today. We’re going to finish early. The rest of the time at the Inn was splendid, besides losing my underwear. Tom O’Carroll sang such luvly songs, ones I must buy once home: Long Black Veil, Caledonia, Dirty Old Town; and find other music with the ten penny and that amazing goat-skin drum: bodhran. The Seymour sisters are wonderful- they just loved me, happy smiling women off to have a good time, boisterous, friendly.

Then today I proposed we change the last week around and the boys were willing, God love ‘em. I’m so in charge, and I’m good at it. Looking forward to everything!!

September 13, 2010 (Lost Pond)

19.4 miles today, felt great except the climbs. Started in the rain, saw a deer, had a good hiking day, not much to report. Into Manchester tomorrow!

September 14, 2010 (Green Mountain House, Manchester)

Exhausted. Because it’s almost 11. Beth and Bob came into town for dinner and they’re slackpacking us tomorrow. They seemed excited, hoping for the same magic as last year. I dominate the group because MudD and Biscuits are so quiet, and the energy never elevates the way it could with a big group of folks like ‘Sota and Fly-By and Ahab. Not that I wanted to recreate the magic. But I think they miss that flavor that they got as angels to Joker’s Merry Men. Anyway, done Friday, into Boston Wednesday morning. There’s plenty to look forward to! I’m ready to be done with the trail, even though there aren’t any other ways of spending a day I can think of that I like more than hiking all day. That may be significant.

September 15, 2010 (Story Spring)

Interesting day. Ate 2 donuts and a muffin after a slice of pizza for breakfast, hiked way too fast in the beginning of the slackpack, so my left foot screams now all day. Had a blonde moment at a yellow left turn sign and went a half mile out of my way, then backtracked to keep up. Felt much better climbing Stratton. I love going up and over mountains. That’s my favorite. Then Beth met us after 17.5 with Gatorade, chips, cheetos and beer. I ate too much junk and felt terrible- after 3 miles or so I vomited orangey goop. Gross. Then I felt terrific! Old section hikers were at the shelter, just 3 but they took up the whole place with their shit. I made a full meal despite the junk food binge/purge, and ate while the light faded to nothing. Time for sleep. I’m ready to be done I guess, I was in a pretty terrible mood for most of today. Hopefully a full night of sleep here (it can’t be much past 8) will restore my smiles.

September 16, 2010 (Melville Nauheim)

Changes noticed and absent:
-instinct to multitask remains
-ability to multitask gone
-calm in public settings
-eye contact easy across board
-lots more patience, aided by better attention span
-as I read Comfort Me With Apples, it occurs to me that writing, the outdoors, and food are my three great loves (not including people).. And, if I can help it, I would like to backpack at least 3 weeks a year, not split up, to stay in shape and challenge my body and restore my mind.
p.s. I hiked my own pace today, found it to be happiness-inducing, and tonight I’m positively gleeful in the woods.

Having a hard time- well, fighting the urge to go to sleep. Want night to last.

Mount Cardigan - March 20, 2011

2011-04-11T22:40:00.006-04:00

When we made the final turn onto the road that led up to the Lodge, the top of the rise was so washed out that a line of hoodoos seemed to block our way. Driving over the crest, they gained a dimension and stretched into rows of ruts, dug out from the backcountry ski season. The car tires found valleys of milk chocolate frozen mud, and onward we jostled slowly and with much bumping around. At the top of the hill, as far as the road would go, parked trucks and Subarus appeared along a field. So, there are a lot of people hiking Cardigan today. I looked up at the bluebird sky, the expanse of glacial blues interrupted by a few wisps of edelweiss white. The snow gleamed in the early afternoon sunshine. Ahead, bare trees and evergreens filtered the glare in the old woods. There was still a chill in the air, but the sun warmed our skins to feel like upper 40s.

The Lodge was open. An older gentleman walked with a dog in the front yard of the property; he watched as I talked to myself about snowshoes. The number of cars in the lot on the first day of spring, the rutted road, an AMC Lodge erected smack-dab at the trailhead, indicated a packed trail. As I decided, possibly out loud, on wearing the Microspikes, the man with the dog was glaring into the sunlight, possibly looking away to the mountain or quickly away from me. “Hello!” I called. He gave a greeting with a certain finality about it, and turned. When Brigid returned from the Lodge she saw my choice of traction and agreed. “The trails are probably pretty packed. The Lodge was nice inside, with pretty new windows.”

Brigid had scribbled a quick map of the few trails up to the mountain. “My friends around here say it’s a rite of passage, your first climb up Mt. Cardigan.” The beginning of our approach was a singular trail. Then a Y introduced options. One route, Cathedral Forest, took a meandering 3ish miles to the top. The other trail, Holt, jumped to the top in a surprising 0.8 miles. “We can take our time up Cathedral Forest and then scoot down the Holt Trail. There was a sign inside the lodge that Holt is pretty steep and iced over.” Thinking about the thick spring air through the forest and a rocky top full of tourists, I agreed. The trailhead began an easy sweep along a stream, ascending slightly with the natural rise of the mountain base. We chatted about easy things, friends and family. We met one couple at a stream crossing, smiling from an accomplished summit. I’m liking this state- a date during the day is a hike. We proudly agreed that snowshoes would have been a burden over this icy white road. Then the sign at the Y. Holt Trail is Icy and Steep. “Brigid, if the trail is really steep, I would rather go up it than down. Cuz if you’re gonna fall, it’s better to fall onto the mountainside, than off of it. Then we can go down the nice easy trail. We’ll have plenty of time. But if there’s an icy section, it’s really better to go up.”
“Ok. That makes sense.”

After we turned onto the Holt Trail, the conditions changed suddenly. This route obviously got less traffic. We hiked on softer snow, sometimes postholing a couple feet. Hooray! As usual, the mile we had hiked had awoken the, I don’t know what to call it, reserve power, hardwired habit, woodsy spirit, which makes hiking supremely calming. The mere act of walking in the woods releases the stories of the AT, the memory of power and strength and ability, which my muscles revert to- it’s the corny version of muscle memory. When I’m hiking, my body is happy, simple as that. “I’m so happy!” I told Brigid. It was true. I was happy.

Almost a half mile later, I was wondering when the trail was going to get steep. With not much more than a quarter mile remaining, as far as I could tell, we had most of the elevation to go. The rocky pate of the summit rose above the trees like a balloon held out in front of us. The trees ahead appeared darker, and as the trail rose ever slightly, we could see an abrupt change in pitch. Scrawled in the snow was a message, an arrow pointing ahead to three squiggly lines, stacked atop each other.
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Didn’t you guys have code and stuff you wrote to each other on the trail?”
“Not really code, nothing more than an arrow. But we didn’t have enough snow.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s probably telling us this is where is gets icy and steep.”
“We’re going to find out.”

And just like that, we were scrambling up a very different trail. The ice stuck like glass leeches to the pitted rock face, pointing their slick foreheads to the heavens. The slope of the mountain had taken on an expeditious grade. The final 0.4 miles of the Holt Trail account for 1,000 feet of elevation gain, but we didn’t know what was coming. The snow seemed to grow out of the ice like a fungus, and hikers before us had settled footholds into the mushy bits. While the trees lasted, the refrozen steps carried us up, as rungs on a ladder.
“I am so glad we’re going up this” was about the least expository statement I uttered. A discussion of footholds over the varying thickness and softness of ice eclipsed the easy conversations during the ambling section of the approach trail. We could pull on the thin conifers growing out of the nooks for extra leverage. Climbing steep terrain is like doing long lunges with acrobat arms: our stride was steady until it wasn’t. The few times I postholed, near the base of a larger tree or in a patch of sunlight, the snow swallowed my entire leg. But that only happened a couple times before I learned better. Then we had a conversation about tree holes and that skier who just died out west. Bring a Buddy was more broadly apt in winter than we had previously considered. I had broken a sweat. Our words were scarce and important. After a couple hundred feet, the trees opened up to the final climb- a sort of forehead. The mountaintop ahead of us was rock patchworked with snow and alpine mosses. We were getting beyond steep- the snow and ice covered the natural rock stairsteps, leaving a smooth silhouette at an angle I would never want to descend. Footholds required handholds for stability.

“I guess we know what those squiggly lines mean now.”
“Yeah, future reference: squiggly lines on top of each other mean slick ice.”
“Must be.”
We learned quickly- avoiding the sunny spots and big trees after my adventures in leg-swallowing snow, watching for exposed rock where the snow and ice couldn’t stick, using the established footholds until, sadly, we spotted deep handprints dotting the edges of thigh-deep postholes. The route was compromised. So we zigzagged across to shade, then back to bare rock. About fifty feet up two figures were scooting down the sunned ice. We had left the trees and they were among the sparse alpine shrubbery. I wondered whether they were having any fun. The climb ahead struck me as needing some ropes and anchors. The warning bell of ‘we might want to turn around now’ rung dully in my hyperactive brain and ceased. My brain in the middle of a climb wants to solve puzzles: safety was a priority, sure, but the challenge was surmountable. We stayed to the side of their line of descent. I thought, gosh they could get some serious momentum going down that way. When the two, who were a man and a woman, likely on a disastrous date, reached their first tree higher than his head, they ceased to scoot, sat down, and tried to smile.

“Oh, okay” I shouted politely, weighing whether to explain that mountain etiquette gives the right of way to hikers going down. They sat precariously in the sliver of shade, holding the sapling, squinting up at us. Looking the dude over I saw cheap softshell pants and a thin windshirt darkened with moisture, traction no better than Get-a-Grip studs on his sneakers, and fancy sunglasses. The lady was looking into the distance but not at any mountains through her fancy tortoise-lensed sunglasses. Maybe she was traumatized from the terrible adventure, but at least she had on a hardshell jacket and thicker pants. Brigid whispered to me as we dug our toes into grainy stairs, approaching them, “they don’t look local” and when I attempted to describe the trail they were descending into, there was little response. Instead, the guy asked “is that Lake Winnipesaukee?” I looked at Brigid.
“Umm, I think that that’s Newfound Lake. Because the two are both southeast from here, right? Newfound is first and farther, past those hills, you can see Winnipesaukee.”
“Uh, yeah okay, and is that ski mountain over there Whaleback?”
“Well, that’s way southwest, and this one is pretty close and more south, it’s probably Ragged Mountain. Yeah I was thinking it was Ragged Mountain before, it’s pretty close by.”
He lowered his arms, thinking, and raised to point again “Oh, so what about that big mountain right there, is that Mt. Jackson?” I followed his point, which found a lonely mountain speckled with snow like powdered sugar, rising high above the other peaks in the range.
“Oh, well, the presidential range is farther away, and it has a tree covered summit.”
“Could it be Mt. Cube?” Probably not, but it was worth a shot.
“Mt. Cube is farther west,” Brigid corrected.
“Oh, you’re right, when I saw it a few months ago it was pretty substantially covered in snow. I bet it’s Moosilauke. And look at that white range way out there, do you think that’s Mt. Washington?” I asked.
“No, it’s too close to be Washington,”
“Of course, there’s nothing on top, silly me,”
“But it actually might be the Franconia Ridge.”
“Beautiful, look at that.”
The couple seemed to be respectively seething or disinterested in our corrective geography lesson. So we wished them safety and caution, and kept making our stairway to Cardigan.

Within another fifty feet, handholds were necessary again. I would grab edges of refrozen ice lifting off the rock, or pockmarked grooves in the softer ice or palm the curving rock. Then we left the blazed trail. It followed a hump of ice smooth as metal, shaded by its precipitous pitch, where without real crampons and an axe, we would be walking on water. So we stepped laterally into the shade, looking for another route. Brigid took ten extra steps while I attempted to scurry up a nodule with an icy base and sunny top. My first slip pulled my right leg down a few feet on glassy ice to remind me to be careful. Steadying for a moment, I lifted a foot to a flatter node, tested some ice for a right hand grip, and pulled up on an edge. I wished I had an axe just then. My left foot was next. Alpine moss covered the node I chose for it, concealing the reliability of my foot placement. With a crunch I scrabbled the gnarl with the teeth of my Microspikes, and called to Brigid-
“I’m afraid of hurting the Fragile Alpine Zone Species!”
“Our elevation isn’t high enough for the protected species, you’re ok!”
But I wasn’t. Surveying this slippery base, I determined that climbing the nodule would be closer to bouldering and therefore unattemptable.
“Uh, Brig, this way isn’t gonna work. How’s yours?”
“I think I got it, come on back this way.”
I paused. From here I had to pivot my right body left, where I had a tentative foothold on my front leg and a right handhold, so that to step forward would cross my legs and turn my hip into the rock. Briefly, I was nervous: the jump of adrenaline in my gut quickened my inhale, the raw exhilaration of presentness soothed my exhale. Then I looked across to where Brigid was inspecting her climb, and maneuvered my right foot to be perpendicular to the mountain, twisted my front body to face the rock, and holding steady with my two hands swung my left leg into a crunchy spot. Sashaying across I reached Brigid’s nodule, where she nimbly climbed, appearing to almost glide up like a spider.
“I just sort of spidered up, using all my limbs! That was awesome!”
“When we get to the top, we have to high-five!”
“Yeah!”
But I wasn’t exactly sure how to get up there. Again the nervous surge reminded me I was not on a soft plane but a hard hill, that I should be careful. My fingers were burning from holding the ice and my palms were red. A vision of a swinging axe connecting to ice offered the same false relief as the sleep-deprived imagining a pillow. Then the puzzle mode kicked back in. The handholds were infrequent and rarely bulbous enough for a secure grip. The ice was not soft. How had she done this?

I breathed for a full minute, just leaning against the rock. There is no rush. Then I decided to trust my strength. I took my left foot six inches above the right and chewed into the ice. I felt around the shaded rock, granite-like but fairly even, and cupped a wide ripple. Expecting to lose grip, I pulled, isolating my steady leg, my left hand on snow, and the muscles straining along my right arm from the cup down my side, and pulled my right leg up another six inches from my left. Amazed at the machinery of the movement, my left hand quickly found another hold across the flatter part of the rock and pulled my torso up with that arm, my right now splayed on the leveling surface of the platform, and my right leg, evening out my hip. When I could lean onto the rock and use the weight of my shoulders and chest to anchor my body and raise my legs, my hands felt like epoxy on the Kinsman Quartz Monzonite. The chance to fall was overtaken. We had found a new route. The summit was less than a hundred feet up. It was still too steep for a high-five.

Using our new spidering skills, we scrambled up the remainder. When we could walk, we crunched up to the fire tower. I wanted the first person we saw to say ‘Wow! Did you just go up the Holt Trail?’ but no one was nearby our route. Our own glory had to suffice. There was enough.
“So, I think it’s safe to say that what we just did was called free climbing. Most people would have wanted ropes and an ice axe and all that for what we just did. That was intense, maybe not very safe.”
“Wow, really? That’s pretty crazy. I was thinking that, when I had to shimmy up to find a new route, whether it was actually safe. I trusted my Microspikes, and I felt strong, wow.”
I wondered about all those cars in the parking lot. Where were all the people? Did we miss them on the Forest trail? Look at this 360 degree view! I expected all the traffic of Camel’s Hump up here. But the wind, it carried the frozen edge of the mountain cover, and it came from all directions. On the first flight of stairs to the tower, a shed blocked the whipping wind enough for a sit. We had sweated through our baselayers, so we put on our spare outerlayers. In exultation we passed around twizzlers and cheese and drank water, grinning with our summit.

A young high school couple appeared, and judging by the Vermont Camo flannel/wool jacket, he at least was a local. He pointed to each peak in the distance and named them. We had been right, about Moosilauke and about Franconia ridge. Nothing else that kept a snowpack like that was close enough. The distant ridge looked like bleached teeth, incisors jutting out of the gumline of tree-covered mountains before it.

Brimming with accomplishment, adrenaline, and the bitter taste of knowing that we were lucky as well as strong, we marched down the mountain. Cathedral forest was beautiful, bright, and well-packed. The trees stood apart for lush spring and summer groundcover, and sunlight spread through spaces left by the fallen leaves of autumn. Serious negotiations receded for easy conversations with the regular recurrence of the yellow blaze. At the Y, approaching the balloon’s string on our hiking map, the unhappy couple appeared. They were not jolly. We smiled and greeted them, reported on the mountains he had requested the identification of and failed to inquire about how they made it down the mountain. Slowly, was the answer we didn’t have to ask for, and probably the only one we could have gotten. In an awkward intersection, Brigid and I took the lead and the unhappy couple agreed on a short break. If this was a date, it was probably the last.

Oh Neglected Blog Part II

2011-04-11T22:39:00.001-04:00

In the last 8 months, I have not been writing, for reasons you don’t care about. Now, I have decided to begin again. Call it spring cleaning of all the words stuck inside my brain. As an exercise for habit and practice, I will be posting about every hike I take in the next few months.

There was Hair in my Mouth and Glass in my Pants

2010-08-10T17:02:00.007-04:00

A dinner passed in easy time, old friends telling stories in a nostalgic haze of eating after a day in the Rocky Mountains. We knew each other best as hikers, who had shared a trail and destination, where identity was simply behavior, while our journey kept from time to time in parallel pace.

Now Will and I crossed the small-town street corner and encountered his friends who were walking towards us, a rambunctious group of high-spirited men, who headed to dinner after a how do you do. Distracted by the energy of friends and charisma of creative men, I unlocked the car. The passenger side was arranged for the single traveler, me in a nutshell, so I made room for Will. A pinkish dusk settled over the little valley. The lateness of the day dulled the contained landscape of a narrow riverbed meandering the floor between brown, steep mountainsides, which lost depth from the meager reach of the sun. The road that wound with the river rose above a small pond, hugged a blasted hill that was now more of a cliff, and we shared the view of a town with more wild amongst it than civilized. We chatted amiably. We savored the view. We were satisfied. The road turned to avoid a jutting on our right. Compulsively I checked the speedometer again to see my speed below the limit. I took my chapstick out of my pocket, removed the cap, applied it, put the cap back on, and slipped it back into my pocket, keeping one hand on the wheel. At this moment I remember, my easy state of mind was prideful for my chapstick-while-driving skill, until Will exclaimed in a loud voice.

He had spotted what appeared then at my window: this tall scruffy elk whose eye caught mine in surprise, a sentiment I shared with the animal, which cranked up to shock as the vehicle and the creature collided. I heard a pop. A million tiny balls of shatterproof glass appeared in the air about us. Will's voice deepened with fear as he spoke ‘oh my god’ after an object flew into the car before our bodies. I slammed the breaks. I brought my hands from the wheel to my head.

That was three seconds.

I drove the car to the side of the road. The elk lay on the ground behind us. I reached into my mouth, fingers searching for the foreign pieces I felt on my tongue, and tweezed out pieces of glass and hair. My back was scratched from all the glass between me and the seat. There was more hair in my mouth. Disaster. Death? Irresponsibility. The hairs were thick and musty and carried a coat of the woods and wild dust of the valley.

Our eyes focused. The car was full of glass and hair. Will reached down to his feet. As he lifted the sideview mirrow, he said ‘I thought this was the head.' I apologized for what felt like recklessness. I should have seen it. I should have stopped. Will managed words of comfort. Shivers of guilt and stress crept through my shaken hands, holding the wheel, into something like purpose. I had to fix the car. ‘Let’s find somewhere to get this fixed.' I put the car in first gear and made a u-turn to return to town. The elk was gone.

Will said nothing that I heard. The responsibility settled on me, the car needed shelter overnight so the bears and raccoons and skunks didn't find it and make a nest or rip the interior apart in search of the trail mix that I spilled a week ago between the emergency brake and the driver's seat. If it was too late for repair, I must drop off the car at a garage. The first sign Will read was Auto Glass Repair. The doors were locked. In the parking lot, next to a family restaurant, I called AAA for a recommendation. Will picked the hairs from my fleece jacket. Then his face formed concern as he picked behind my left ear. There must be a cut, I realized, from the impact, and I couldn’t feel any pain, until he picked. It must be bloody. Then I saw the tick between his fingers. ‘You should seriously check yourself tonight, I already found two on me.’ But I was explaining to Tom at AAA that I did not need a tow, the car worked fine. Tom seemed confused at my call then, and volunteered to check on approved mechanics near my location. 'Of course, nothing will be open now.' How strange, I thought. There wasn’t a thing in a twenty-mile radius. I hung up.

Then we surveyed the damage and I took pictures while Will texted his friends. Inside, glass and hair had found their way into every crevice, every wrinkle, into my clothes and pockets and into the to-go container from the restaurant, but I didn’t check that until the next morning. The mirror was gone, there was no window left except a rough corner where a little blood congealed near the roof among the tiny shards stuck to the doorframe. On the ceiling, two ticks clung to the upholstery, dead from the impact or distance traveled. I continued to apologize to Will, to communicate my embarrassment, my shame, which he calmly alleviated. Slowly the shock was wearing off. Then I realized how that tick had come to stick behind my ear. Will reminded me then that it was past 7 on Memorial Day and all the businesses were closed. Tom's comment made sense. ‘Oh, well we better just park it at your camp tonight and I’ll get it fixed in the morning.’ He nodded in agreement; relieved I had finally come to that most rational of conclusions.

Back at camp Will helped me tape plastic to the door for a makeshift window and I talked to my insurance provider. Then I lost at monopoly. In the morning, just after dawn, I was awake.

The story ends happily. I got the car fixed and insurance covered it. I still blame the elk.

Brimming with love, and bliss sits a little closer by

2010-05-18T14:42:00.003-04:00

Busy as I was at Trail Days this weekend, I only took the time to write down the two sentences that sum up my weekend anyway:

I'd forgotten the love.
How much more it is than what I've known.

This is an easy statement to misunderstand. I do not wish to undermine other love, from my family to my older friends. The "more" is not that it's better, but that it is expressed, intact, without the interruption of insecurity, embarrassment, or sexual innuendo- well, mostly, on that last one.

When I attempt to explain the difference between town life and trail life to my dear ones who have known only the former, I tend to fail. Because I've built up the latter to be this other dimension, operating free of certain rules that we take for granted as easily as gravity. And yes, I've talked about it in terms of another dimension, as Narnia- and it is using this analogy that is striking or disturbing, because this world of ours in the woods is not the stuff of myth: indeed, its reality makes it more potent. However the myth makes it inaccessible, as it should be. There is still an otherness we cannot put our finger on, trail family.

In school I studied socialization and the impulses, processes, and incentives that make behavior, and the utility of rules and praxis that bind a culture. Needless to say, then, the culture of life in the woods remains fascinating, inviting of analysis. There can be no real vacuum for humanity, but as a control, the woods come closer than a lab. Except the control is no control, it is advantaged with what E.O. Wilson called biophilia, the "innately emotional affiliation of human beings to other organisms," and the reason we as a species, as animals, find peace in nature. So my struggle to treasure the trail and live in town is abstract: my division of these two arenas, two methods of lifestyle I have experienced, is unnecessary.

Reading those lines again, I realized how the sentiment, written in bliss and gratitude, could cause others hurt- they are not belonging, they are less than. I considered an entry without inclusion, merely referring to the words. Then I understood: it is not the quality of the love, but the channel and delivery. For example, I know my parents better than all my trail family, yet that does not make the sentences false. When they visited me on the trail, the channel, the delivery of expression was unimpeded. That's the difference then- my reflex to dull what I want to convey (saying 'love ya!' instead of "I love you dearly" or holding back on a compliment) is assuming honesty makes me vulnerable; a reflex that is either abandoned at the outset or washed away with the passing of every blaze. Did I ever tell my friends every time I saw them how much I cared for them and why I treasured them in my life? No. Does my trail family? Yes. Now I do, and now I try to make that a part of this town life.

It seems there's a lot of stuff going on all the time. But there really isn't. And letting go makes room for bliss to settle down close by, so that as I sit here, looking out the window to a green meadow, where a Japanese maple with its brilliant plummy leaves stands offset to the kiwi-colored wall of leafy oaks behind it, and the plummy branches move in concert with the lush kiwi branches, sharing the breeze and moving like arms waving, I am brimming with gratitude, love, and blissful, because I had forgotten how to wash away the stuff that interrupts the honesty. And I am able to wave back sincerely.

Just another day on the road.

2010-04-08T22:00:00.003-04:00

Eyes on the road. Windows down, warm wind twisting through the car. Bright sun shining, song with a gentle beat got my lazy right foot tapping. The open road ahead, my arm resting on the window. Can't help from smiling. Sway with the ease of it all. Green signs point north south and east. Yellow lines stretching on for miles. Power lines sag and taut, out in the country, they lead back into town. I drive past their direction, out into the spacious solitude of wild. Trees with little buds, grass greening on the shoulder. Hills rise and grow, mountains tower around me, inviting peaks and granite slabs to climb. Cars and trucks pass me by, somewhere to be. At the moment, I got none but the road ahead, heading west.

Clouds swarm and pass, storms can't go as fast as me. Roll up the windows, turn down the music. Listen to the rain. Watch the lightning stretch from night into earth. Reach the darkest center, keep on going. Skies lighten up ahead, keep on, find the sun. Roll down the windows, let the springtime in all around me. Smell the moistened ground, the living flowers, smiling again. Tap out a new song, sway with the pounding drumbeat, sing a few lines, look around. Trains thrumming next to the highway, numbers for the hobos to follow, share the straight line for a while. Turn away from the mountain, into a col, a blasted valley, look out to the north and south, new places to find. Someday I'll ride a horse across that plain, someday I'll climb that mountain, follow the ridge, a subtle crest of rock on top of everything as far as I can see. Look back to the road, open gray track to follow, wave to the truckers, watch the dusk take the light away.

Turn on the lights, take a drink of water, turn up the volume and watch the quiet sunset. Noiseless pinks and oranges cover the treetops, paint the sky, streak glare on the dusty 18 wheeler sides. Stars appear through the moonroof, moon shows up next, out the passenger side window. Clouds carrying the sunset thin out, cooked into oblivion. Enter the gloaming, take a last look at the shimmering asphalt, the sky is eaten by stormy sea grays and purples, brake lights glow alone along the horizon. The road empties out, everyone going home to dinner.

Historic district at the next exit. 3 miles to company, food and drink. Always that hesitation- drive all night? Miss the prairies and the hills, the grazing elk and the colorful landscape. Signal right and take the turn. Road narrows into streets, yellow lines splinter and buildings light up a town. Choose a pub with an old sign and a couple of tables. Park and grab the map and a book. Take a seat at the bar, order a draught and a menu. Greet the proprietor, ask for the kitchen's best, about their town. Take a sip and let the locals stare and sit down nearby. Let them drink you in and ask about that weather. Use your manners, don't eat too fast. Share some stories, refuse hospitality and get a water. Thank the cook and buy someone a beer. Spread out the map on the bar, varnish in layers as many years as the town's been around. Choose.

Let the engine turn, pull out and get some gas. Follow the business route back to the highway. Horizon spreads, buildings make a landscape in the rearview mirror. Next exit, no services. Just truckers now sharing the road. Pick the beat up on the stereo, sing for good digestion. Brown sign says state park 10 miles. Make some noise, shout and whoop for a song or two. Call a friend and wish them well. Signal right and turn, shut off the stereo. Old pavement hums under hot tires, birds whipper, the night smells like dewey heat, cool and full. Brown sign points to camping. Keep the lights on, pitch the tent, pull out the sleeping bag, a book and a headlamp. Close up the car, pocket the keys. Snuggle into bed, read a few pages, click off the light. Breathe out, push out the air and the day, breathe in stale nylon and open night. Just another day on the road.

Stranger Freedom (or, My Flat in Bismarck)

2010-03-27T12:53:00.005-04:00

Around noon as the sun was finally beating the cold of the morning, my front driver's side tire popped. Now, I've never experienced driving with a flat before, and it wasn't the first possibility to pop in my head, but just as a friend had once assured, "if you get a flat tire, you'll know immediately something is wrong." The dashboard went haywire as I pulled over.

The next hour went like this: lying to AAA, calling my father to ask him to lie to AAA, realizing that plan will end in being fined for AAA fraud, getting my name into the family plan, and calling AAA and telling the truth.
"Hello, this is Henry how may I help you today?"
"Well, Henry, I need to ask you a favor: I have a request for road service suspended, which is in my father's account number, and that was just getting too complicated. Can you change the request to under my number?"
"Hmm, well, can I ask you whether you are at the vehicle?"
"Yes, I am!"
"Well, alright then, I suppose I can do that for you, but only for you."
"Thank you Henry!"
"But it has to be our little secret, ok?"
"Deal."
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
"No, that was it, thank you so much, have a great day!"
"I hope you have a better day."
A few minutes later I was outside unscrewing the spare from beneath the trunk when Mike showed up. A simple, kind man of few words, he set about helping me before he called to verify my membership. I paced around the van and glimpsed peeks of his worn hands gripping the tire iron, knuckles strained against the resisting rust, and I pretended not to hear him gasp with each rotation. The spare, once on, looked like a pitiful understudy burdened by lack of pressure.

Ten minutes later I strolled into Tires Plus of Bismarck. I caught the gaze of an older man with margarine-yellow hair slicked back like a plastic ribbon, who was standing at a podium and made no effort to welcome me. To his left, two younger men and two computers were waiting at the counter. Jason and Jonas stood alert as I talked back and forth to each, making eye contact from one to the other.
"Hi, I called about twenty minutes ago, I got a flat tire and hoped I would be able to get a new one today."
"Yeah, we can help you with that." Jason responded.
"Oh phew! I was worried no one would be open today, thank you guys so much."
"We are the only place open today."
And as Jonas took over my case and I joked about getting all weather radials on sale, Jason watched me, like there'd be a test on it later. I set my keys on the counter, walked outside, sat on the curb to make a call. When I stood and slipped my phone into my pocket, Jason walked out the door into the bright Dakota sun.
"Let's see if we can figure out what tire you need, and I'll check availability." We walked slowly around my vehicle. I pointed to the sagging spare and noted that it would be kind of them to inflate that one. Jason turned, a look of mirth about his smoke stained, ovular face.
"Oh you think that tire needs air?" He shook his head. "Yeah, maybe just a little,"
"So what brings you to Bismarck all the way from Massachusetts?"
"I'm picking up a friend who moved to Montana from Massachusetts a few years ago. I told her if she ever wanted to move back east, I'd pick her up. So here I am in the family van, ready to fill it up and drive back."
"Why would anyone want to leave Massachusetts? There are so many trees!" Jason was obsessed with trees. Whenever he planned a trip, destinations with lots of trees held some serious sway. Whether he was going to be ATV-ing somewhere or taking his bike out somewhere- he's crazy about off-roading, he said- the places he went and the roads he took with the most trees were the favorites he mentioned. Thus, with an eager, nostalgic flare, he started talking about biking to Massachusetts, and the lush forest roads of the southeast.

After he stubbed out his cigarette we walked inside and he informed Jonas the size of the tire. I filled half a styrofoam cup with coffee. I meandered. Jason found me. "Got enough coffee for you?"
"Yeah, but I shouldn't have any more, I don't like to drink coffee after noon, keep it working like it's supposed to, you know." Again that mirthful shock.
"What? I need it all day long, I can't tell you how much coffee I drink. Pots."
"Yeah, my brother is the same way. He can drink coffee after dinner. I can't do that, I'll be awake til 4. This" I pointed at my cup, still a quarter full of the old, burnt brew "is dangerous. I don't know when I'll get to sleep tonight."
At that the conversation lost slack and he wandered off.
Jonas and Jason turned to the workshop and I entertained myself around the strip mall for an hour. At my return, Jason wanted me to see Gary, who was working on my tire. He escorted me to the back, where a guy who wore that look of stressed concern so many mechanics like to wear around young women, said to me "well, we got the new one on but the others are looking pretty bad, too." I brushed it off, used to fear mongering.

Back at the waiting room it occurred to me this could happen three more times during the road trip. I found Jason:
"What do you think about the other tires?"
"They're cupped, you have four different tires on that van." My brow furrows to take in this interesting information.
"Hmm. What does cupped mean?"
He pointed at a handy illustration on the wall of tires with chunks of tread missing in different places. "The tread is wearing out in different places and at different stages because the tires are all different. You're going to start feeling the vibrations of the road."
"Will they last another 3,000 miles?"
"Yes. But the vibrations are going to drive you nuts."
"Well I can handle nuts over another three hundred dollars."

So I sat down and took up reading, or looking at, a Parade magazine. Jason walked over. I kept my eyes on the magazine. He shifted his weight from left to right, then walked away.
I read about a few celebrities and their troubles, let my mind wander to all the people I needed to call, wondered what the weather would be like for camping around the Montana border that night. Should I drive all night along 90 with the truckers? Would I miss the Painted Canyons? Then Jason's shoes appeared next to a picture of Kristen Stewart looking stoned. This time he said:
"Sara, do you want us to put that tire back in under the car or just slide it into the trunk where it was?"
"Uh, can you please put it back under the car? I would but it's a little rough with all the rusted bolts."
He casually extended his arm, took ahold my bicep, "yeah, I think we can take care of that."
"Hey, I'm ripped, you don't even know!" I retorted at a decibel over my inside voice. He stepped back in mock threat, then doubled over, his head dangled by his waist, ears just inches from that coffee cup in his hand.
"Ripped, she says! hah! Oh the boys are gonna love that one."
And then he walked to the counter, "you hear that? she's ripped!" I walked to the counter.
"Dude! I just walked over 2,000 miles, you better believe I'm ripped." He looked at me, and asked
"Driving? I'd, I'd believe that." And I tell him-
"I don't think I've driven as far as I've walked, recently. I've been hiking for six months, I did the Appalachian Trail. I am ripped."
"I believe you must be!" And with that a shift, closer to familiar.

Jonas reached out his hand to shake: "I don't think I could do that. I'd like to shake your hand."
Baffled and flattered, I blustered "oh there are shelters and privies along the way, it's impossible to get lost on, too."
"Well, maybe I could do that."
Jason turned to me, determined: "next time you do something like that, I would love that, next time you do something, you call here and you ask for me and I'm going to come with you."
"Sure."
Then he talked about walking down from St. Louis through the wilderness, about two and a half weeks, doing a couple hundred miles, living off of the earth, no trails, just hunting and living in the wilderness. And I could tell it made him real happy to think about that. And he said that if he could, he would do that all the time. Just build himself a house in the middle of nowhere, enjoy the deafening silence. I was impressed and smiled big, but we'd lost Jonas, so after some comments on the agreeable nature of quiet, I walked back to the waiting area, sat down and went mum.

A few minutes later he was back.
"Do you like country?" I didn't know whether he meant music or the area, so I asked and it was music. And I thought okay, gotta play this careful, because he wants me to like country, I can tell that.
"Well, not really, I like the older stuff."
"You don't? I'd of thought you would like bluegrass at least."
"Oh, I do, I thought you meant, like, uh, Big and Rich. I very much like bluegrass, and the old standards like Willie Nelson."
"Yeah? That's great." Despite how smoothly the rest of the conversation went, I couldn't stop myself from wondering why he would ask such a question, settled on his regimented method of eliminating women from being a future Mrs. Jason as the only possibility. Or maybe he was bored and making conversation. He continued:
"I grew up in western Missouri in the Mark Twain Wilderness. Every day, I sat on the porch with my mother and my grandmother, and we would play bluegrass together, every day, all afternoon."
"What instruments do you play?" With that question a smile.
"I played the banjo, the door-bow, the piano, the ukelele, slide guitar, and fiddle."
"Wow! What's a door-bow?" He told me. I don't remember. Something about a slide guitar is sitting, a door-bow is standing, fixed to a door. Or something entirely different.
He must have the best memories of those musical afternoons; I could see this far-off glint in his eyes when he thought about it. It was very neat, I got a little glimpse. And of course I was impressed. We talked about bluegrass, and I told him about the concerts I missed on the trail, the places with bluegrass sessions every weekend or the concerts I walked by. He described how much he'd like that cabin in the woods. I told him it sounded lonely, he told me he doesn't get lonely. And there was safety in this disclosure, something freeing in knowing we wouldn't see each other again. Lying, even embellishing, served no purpose. By talking, we knew ourselves. The freedom we have when we meet someone, who is disconnected from everything else in our lives, and we're able to be completely ourselves, is this stranger freedom. With the people we love the most, sometimes we wish we had that stranger freedom.

As I walked to the van, he opened the door of Tires Plus and reminded me to bring him along, on my next adventure.

Once out of town, I watched the exits change from developed to "No Services," and realized my misfortune was perfectly timed: just an hour later my day would likely have ended at a hotel in the middle of wheat fields. And I wouldn't have met the stranger. So it was a good day, despite the flat tire.

Define Happiness

2010-02-07T01:10:00.007-05:00

There are a number of ways to approach the question: how are you?
My reflex is a matter-of-fact 'yes!' that elicits a surprised 'whoa, that was quick' retort from my best friends. When cornered with such a personal question, one we probably either don't ponder enough or ponder so much the state of your mind is less explored than the precision of your scrutiny, what reflex do you resort to? Is it the easy 'good' that you won't question, a mere initiation to the conversation about to be crafted? Or do you favor blunt despondency, you opportunist, you, and list off your ailments of the week, be it head, body, or both? Or, for those present and impervious to impulse, do you wonder, and ponder, and answer truthfully?

Lately the quality of my happiness has fallen into question. By me. And 'quality of' serves an important qualification: I am a happy person, who sometimes wallows in bouts of geniality. To continue, then, happiness as I understood it defies definition, because it is so often trumped by a greater happiness. That is to say, what you once thought happy was, is only level 2 on a scale that now goes to 10 but could unravel further as the years wear on. (Sidenote: the opposite of this, the misery scale, tops out around age 14 and we steadily move down until wallowing in adult angst means nothing close to the end of the world. By that time we know the world cares nothing for us, and most people don't remember our name after meeting us. Oh I'm joking.)

In my correspondence, in daily life, I've sensed a rift between the ease of frivolity and its authenticity. Meaning, I'm always affable, yet I'm not always aware when that's just reflex. However, if the action of smiling triggers nerve impulses that generate actual good feelings, couldn't the character of happy, as an act, prevent melancholy? Heh, this, dear reader, would be a good example of the precise scrutiny taking over the original question.

And so, the awkward question. In the Lonely Planet USA guide, a few do's and don't's are offered to aid the foreign traveler in social situations stateside. One of the first is, be positive when asked "how are you?" Americans will ask, but will be surprised if you say anything beyond "good, thank you." This speaks volumes of our sympathy, and of our self-pity. Looking out the window at flurries of snow, in this easy life of mine, I am not burdened, and am aware that my characteristic ebullience on the trail was fleeting, like New England snow this year. Happiness, as I knew it just three years ago, well, this is it! Now I am hooked on that greater stuff, the lingering moments of elation after a rough day of hiking, once the boots are off. The mojo propelling you up a mountain as an endorphin buzz composes plans for a propitious future. The warmth of sharing love with friends who never shirk from honest expression. Or, what Rolf Potts describes as the "narcotic tingle of possibility" (Vagabonding), a phenomenon I had only known as when you think about winning the lottery and what you would do with the money and then for that split second forget that you haven't won yet. Now I know it as the surge in excitement when planning the next adventure, when you know you can make it happen, when the future opens into a great blank canvas, and anything is possible. That happiness.

So how to make it last? Does it ever really last? I remember days on the trail when I was nervous about a mountain, or about a fellow hiker's feelings about me, or the difficulty of hiking after a bad night's sleep, and I remember plenty of moments during those days when a good view or a smile or a special dinner could turn it all around. String along hours of easy daydreams and passive appreciations as miles of beautiful trail are walked, bind them together with salient moments of triumph or frustration, and with alert reflections on contentment or jubilation, and this describes the experience of happiness. Is it zen detachment? No. Is it a constant euphoria so powerful that little else can be accomplished besides recognition of said euphoria? No. Somewhere in between, in retrospect, it's all happy. I'm amnesic about the pain. My memory neglects the woeful obstacles all eventually sorted out. Lasting happiness as composite recollection.

The problem with this experiential definition is whether it can be applied to instruct in other conditions. We would have to deconstruct the trail life piece by piece to find which are responsible, which are building blocks of happiness. And we would fail, because we treasure the trail life as much for what is absent as what is around us. John Muir called the people stuck in capitalist doldrums "time-poor," carrying heavy coats that burden the journey instead of mitigating, what? its rawness, its immediacy? its caprice? I talked a lot about the rush of city life, the ubiquitous pressure to feel that you are late and behind, that you haven't checked off enough things on your list, that the car or person in front of you is holding you up... sound familiar? I went on the trail to walk that out of me. It worked. So now, what do I do surrounded by it again? Will it keep me from sustaining a new happiness? Can anything do that besides my own resolve? I don't know. But the news I hear from thru-hikers is a lot of missing the trail, and the only ones reporting regularly smiling faces are the occupied ones, working towards accomplishing something of pride and merit.

Therefore, my only option is deconstructing the two lifestyles to find possible parallels. Like George Clooney's character in Up In The Air, I thrill at the prospect of successfully keeping everything I need in a backpack. In the great words of Tyler Durden, "the things you own end up owning you." So I purge stuff. I practice disconnect: even a calm life is full off-trail, so I mindfully choose what to care about. It gets easier as days go on. I try to do fewer things every day- not necessarily sitting around like a turd drying on the couch but choosing a few activities to give my all to- and do them without distraction or multitasking. The most obvious parallel is the one I struggle with most, because it is so close and yet I'm ill-prepared. Outside. It's beside me, I am not in it. After all this rambling, I know this: I walk out into the woods, find some quiet, lie back onto the Styrofoam snow, and absorb that quiet calm. All I needed was winter boots.

This exercise grew out of a night of discontent. A few days ago I wanted to explore why I couldn't feel like I did on the trail. And it was a silly thing to read over when I woke up, because obviously I cannot feel the same living in a house. But something about the exercise lingered in my mind, like a challenge: how can I characterize happiness, when it is as diverse and subjective as the people experiencing or missing it? Obviously a futile process, it is the process that sheds light on the subject. We all know, the journey is the destination. I won't seek happiness, I will craft a lifestyle more conducive to calm and quiet and climbing mountains. Pretty simple really.

A Look Back to a Punch in the Face, and Haiti

2010-01-21T10:41:00.006-05:00

A few weeks ago, when Haiti soared into the international consciousness (and out of the murky space where objects of denial are stored), my trip to East Africa was already on my mind. I'd been working on the website of a woman I got to know while there, who runs a touring company. She needed the language on her site translated from King's English into succinct, marketable prose. As I revised the blurbs and referenced my journal entries from two years ago, I was consumed with emotive memories of what I have since termed my 'punch in the face' cultural experience. It was the trip to the Genocide Memorial Museum in Kigali, Rwanda that colored a worldview just coming into focus. There isn't an awakening when you let in the people you have not seen before: when you just accept that there is incomprehensible struggle and pain all over the world for millions who have no access to that great ladder of opportunity Americans love talking about, that's merely when the empathy starts. It is one thing to know it. It's another to see it. To try and change it, to grow the ladder down, honestly it looked possible from the bottom.

A few weeks before, we drove down a dirt road to a settlement in the outskirts of Kampala, Uganda. We were visiting a satellite of a nonprofit that offered classes in trades and mentors for the enrolled teens. Someone asked if we could walk around the village (all shacks and clay floors), but our guide said that the rivulets flowing in front of the homes, was sewage, and we would not be safe. Inside the open room of the organization's outpost, we sat on the floor and talked with the girls, most younger than me, all former sex workers. They were shy but kind, probably used to this type of strange visit.

A few days before that, in the van driving through Kampala's unmarked streets, my friend noticed a woman at a rotary. "A woman with the signs of age wrinkling her face, gray on her head- but likely in her forties, such is the degradation from poverty here (see I am angry now, not sad) and she begged at the cars driving by, near a child no more than three asleep on the red clay curb, covered in grime and sleeping inside a diesel fuel quilt, under the midday sun. Then I hung my head lower, and grieved for my ignorance."

The next day we drove past a small park with trees and a sunburned field. I noticed there were men lying all over the grass. "Prostrate, bending the grass beneath them, the men pulled their bodies to the earth with gravity. And they prayed, fingers to the dirt. Face down, they would wait longer. A single plea articulated from this position- take me back. From the tissue kissing the ground, cells parted periodically, abandoning the men for the hope of distant futures. As the men pleaded, resolving the body beneath them to earth, there lasted a moment of dissolve. Energized cells to unite terrestrial bodies, countless more granules of earth than cells of these men, which were deafening against the silent red clay, who wished to leave their years."

I called it a punch in the face because it should hurt. It should leave a mark. It might even break something, just enough cartilage to heal differently. It won't make you ugly or anything, just altered, like you're seeing out of sharper lenses, smelling out of keener nostrils.

Look at the globe, in terms of resources. Where are the puppet governments? Where are the occupations? Where have the British been? Now look at it in terms of genocides. And poverty. And natural disasters. Where does the aid go? When does the aid go? How long until we stop paying attention? We are a strange species, incredibly adaptable, and yet drawn to the status quo. Someone said to me yesterday, it's easier to be afraid than to learn. What do you do more?

So when all of a sudden people started caring about Haiti on January 12th, I thought of Rwanda, and Yugoslavia. To those who devote their voices like ventriloquists to amplify the muted clamor of neglected populations, who watched as a disaster (regretfully common, actually, for this tiny nation, if not in this scale) catalyzed the media to bring microphones galore to the Haitian people, you must have been frustrated. Like the big red warning light was always on but no one else would see it until the quake. That's a bittersweet surprise, after working for Haiti and other forgotten countries, for it to be picked from the international cause lottery.

Suggested Reading/Viedos:
"Mountains Beyond Mountains: Healing the World: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer" (Haiti) By Tracy Kidder
"We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda" by Philip Gourevitch
"Bush Was Responsible for Destroying Haitian Democracy" Randall Robinson on Democracy Now! (transcript and video)
"Confessions of an Economic Hitman" (Corporate, World Bank, and CIA involvement in international 'coups') by John Perkins
"King Leopold's Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa" by Adam Hochschild
TED Talk: James Nachtwey's Searing Photos of War

That Balancing Act

2010-01-12T15:41:00.007-05:00

Today I laid down on a table and let skilled hands hold my neck. They coaxed the spasm out of my muscle fibers, and the competing sides of my psyche into the diplomatic arena of my core. Together, my core, my pragmatism, my, for lack of a better word, wisdom, and her hands and careful words began to unwrap my resolve and thus, my energy, from its visceral constraints. With two words I felt skin, tendons, muscles, veins, bones dissolve into sand and spread across the table. No longer wound into a space, I was expansive.

I can.

A few minutes before I had confessed: "I crave the woods, that blankness, that silence. And yet I have all but avoided them. My body itches for escape. All I want, many times a day, is to see nothing but the interstate rolling out ahead of me. Or the trail."
"Why aren't you on the interstate right now? Why aren't you on the trail?"
"I have to be working. Because I don't have the right gear; I don't want to spend that money on the gear. I have to work to afford my next escape."
"How often do you need to escape? Listen to your body."
"I don't know, I wait until I have no choice. Maybe once a week would even be enough." My brain was stubborn, ignoring the pain in my neck, exercising my stamina for discomfort.
Then, as I felt my fingers become rocks off kilter with my body, weighted down by unfamiliar arms, the mischievous current of a plan negotiated the fibers of my body, gathering toward fruition. She waited for me to speak. Then, as though something inside me fell asleep and another part awoke, muddy patterns appeared behind my eyes. These unfocused black holes for the light shining in the window accompanied a blankness. My thoughts eroded, emotions receded, body weighted merely by gravity on the table.
"Wow. That was a huge blankness." She waited.

"I feel the need to exhale. Like something is going to happen that will open my days, so that they are not constrained and defined and shrunken by obligations and routine and expectations but as open as the woods or the road. I'm waiting for something to happen, I'm practicing patience for the moment when I can breathe out."
"What do you think that will be?" Her fingers loosen, find new targets of pressure.
"I know it's something I have to make. Patience is a good exercise, but I think I have to make that exhale."
"You just answered from a different place. Let me ask you this. Can you balance your pragmatism, that you need to work now, with your craving for the woods?" And of course I knew. That was the thread of exhilaration, the plan whose course through me was unwrapping all the bindings of routine, the absorbed, artificial urgency of those rushing around me.
"I can use my work to get the gear I need. I have enough time during the week to spend the time I need out in the woods. I can have control over my day just by falling asleep outdoors in silence, and waking as my body needs."
"Did you feel that?"
"It felt like my body let go and spread like sand onto the table."
"Your energy just became so expansive." With my eyes closed, a yellow light was radiating out from my heart.
"Where did that come from? The 'I can.'"
"My core."
"Good, now, what will give you control about sleeping outside?"
"I've felt my body want to change its circadian rhythm. I think I'm just craving silence. But sharing the house as I am prevents that change." As I laid there, a tear of relief gathered volume in the corner of my left eye. Her hands hovered over my skull, fingers touching the hood of the tissue connected to my spasm-ing shoulder. The pieces of my life I thought I might have to let go, the obligations I worried were sources of my stress, were not mutually exclusive with the blankness I crave. Sure, simplicity at the house I live in isn't going to happen, too many people who create clutter live here. But this isn't really my home. The trail was/is home, and nothing had earned that title since I was a teenager. The quiet calm of windy winter woods, the crisp vacuum of urban stimulation, could afford me something similar, if not identical to the trail. And those hours of solitude, that rest in the open air, that I have known I needed since September, might just balance out the rest of it. Because I also need to work, and play with friends, and write and write and write.
And then our time was up.

A Beginning

2009-12-06T22:49:00.008-05:00

March 25, 2009
Day 1. Rained all day. Still raining. Stopped at Springer Mtn Shelter, probably should have gone on to Stover Creek, 2.8 miles downhill, but there are a couple nice guys. One creeper, used to be a cop, goes by Spider. Harmless, should be. If the rain goes off and on tomorrow, I might hoof it to Gooch Mtn Shelter, 15 miles. Should remember to get gaiters and another layer for the Smokies. Anyway, Jim and Mofo are cool. Jim goes by Allegheny, nice older gent. But here I am, walking, feeling great. Nothing can stop me in my power.

Hah. I walk up to the frontage of this strange 3-walled structure, peering through rain-impaired spectacles, at the three men standing around their packs. Here they are: the other thru-hikers. Hard not to look at them and think they're already better than you, getting there before, maybe even better prepared. But then a tall one of the bunch leans over and extends his face towards me "Hi, I'm Spider. What's your name?"
Red flag. Who calls himself Spider by choice who isn't a creeper? OK, he could be a climber.
"Sara" I had chosen not to name myself, in hopes that I might meet people who could draw out some core characteristic to cleverly name me, and also because I couldn't think of anything clever to name me.
"Are you doing this alone?" RED FLAG! The one question that everyone told me to lie in answer if asked, and the one time I agreed.
"Umm, I'm meeting people farther up north." Admittedly, I am an awful liar. Good enough to cut the interrogation short and walk into the shelter and climb up into the loft.

The day began much differently than it ended. I woke up in a cozy bed, surrounded by embroidered matching pillow sets under a heavy comforter, looking out a window to a wet and gray morning. At Amicalola Falls Visitor's Center, I had blinders on. I couldn't find the hook to weigh my pack, I didn't see the displays of indigenous poisonous snakes, didn't find words to greet the other hiker who walked in as I was filling out my information in the logbook. Connie asked if I should have a picture of myself filling out the logbook. That seemed like something I'd want to remember, so she photographed me pretending to pen my information, wearing a big goofy wide-eyed grin. Then the Ranger asked if I had noticed the flier on bear activity around Blood Mountain.

"Bear? No I didn't see that." The flier stated sitings around the mountain's Shelter, and gave a number to call if the animal was seen again.

"Oh, I better write down that number, do you have a pen and scrap paper?" He obliged and I carried that post-it with me for the first week in my camera case.
Connie walked over to me, "Sara, are you going to hike up to the Falls? Because there's a road, I could just take you up there." Tempting.

"Thanks Connie, but it's kind of a tradition, I wouldn't feel right about taking a ride now."

"So are you hiking to the Approach Trail?" He was listening!
I nodded. The Ranger spouted his memorized directions.

"To get to the Approach Trail, walk out of the visitor's center, go around to the left, take a left and follow the green blazes. When you see blue blazes, follow those until you get to the white blaze, you're on the Trail."

"Thank you." I had retained none of that besides green. So Connie and I walked outside through one of the many exit doors (making the Ranger's directions all the more confusing) and she asked if I would like a picture of myself under the entry gate. Yes, that also seemed like something I would want to remember. The picture is of an awkward figure dressed head to ankle in black, with a small glimpse of a goofy smiling face visible under the rain slicker brim, and I appear to be making small fists with my all too eager hands. Connie had picked up my poles from the pack-weighing hook; I'd left them there in my over-focused, unobservant state of mind.

Turning around after thanking and hugging Connie goodbye, I walked along the path that led straight up into the fog. I remember there being three paths to choose from, and I don't remember a single sign directing the way I meant to go. I turned around, pointed the way I saw another pack-laden hiker choose, and Connie and the hiker's father nodded and pointed that way.

There were no blazes. I walked up the switchbacks, thinking, I'm hiking and I don't know where I'm headed because it may not be Maine but I'm hiking! I soon passed the other hiker, who I never saw again, gasping on a rock.
"I'm already out of breath. That's a bad thing, isn't it?"
"No, it's okay, you're listening to your body and taking a rest, that's good!" I smiled and bounded along. The steepness was not easy, certainly, but there was adrenaline pumping. The trail to the approach trail was supposed to be stairs, and this was not stairs, but I could hear water, and I was climbing, so I *must* be getting closer to the Falls. The trail emerged upon a gravel drive, where a civilian couple were descending. I turned uphill and greeted them, passing and forgetting them.
The blue blazes began at the Falls, which I couldn't see through the rainy haze that had descended on my ascent.

My recollection of the trail up to Springer Mountain is not exactly fresh. Thinking went something like this: oh this is hard but it's going to get easier, and my shell isn't waterproof anymore, why don't my poles feel natural? left right, get a groove, left right. I'm doing it! I'm alone and will walk alone to Maine. I'm hiking the trail, I flew to Georgia and will keep going, won't stop til Maine, this is it this is it this is it this is it this is it. Oh my god a person! Talk to him, talk to him!
"Hi!"
"Hi, I'm mofo, are you hiking the Appalachian Trail?"
"That's the plan" I had months before that stopped expecting everyone I met to believe I would finish, and wanted to believe it was okay not to finish, so that was the answer I gave. "I'm quitting my job to hike the AT" or "I'm going to not talk to you for six months because I'm going to hike the AT" and when they asked "Are you going to hike the whole thing?" how could I say yes? "That's the plan" was all I ever managed.

"Well you're embarking on an incredible journey. I hiked it years ago." We chatted some more as he waited for his friend Allegheny to catch up. He motioned that I should go on ahead. The rain drove on, I kept walking, wondering how fast, then all of a sudden I was at the top of Springer Mountain. I took pictures at the rock. I took a picture of the first white blaze. It was 2 in the afternoon. To go on or stay? My shell was obviously not waterproof despite the tech wash and dry, and I was colder the longer I lingered. I wasn't tired. But staying at Springer Mountain had become the beginning, a night I would share with so many legends before me. So despite the time, despite Spider, despite the other kids I glimpsed from between the loft floorboards going on to Stover Creek, I stayed and ate undercooked couscous next to Allegheny and Joe.

Before I left for the trail, a number of apprehensions took form. The biggest one was that I would be mocked for not using my stove appropriately, thereby judged as not being prepared for the thru-hike. Strange, as I had had the stove for years. But that's the one that took.

Leftover couscous weighed down my pack until Neels Gap. I made far too much, had tried to make less. And who undercooks couscous? So 5pm on the 25th found me laying in my sleeping bag, trying to sleep, racked with gas pains from the expanding grains in my belly, but I was on the fucking Appalachian Trail. And that's exactly where I would be for a while. How long? All the miles? Until October 15th? Somehow that night I slept.

In the morning, I dressed in my clothes and wet jacket, tried to warm my icy fingers, gathered water (which I vowed never to leave for the morning again) and hit the trail before everyone else. Most I never saw again.

An Introduction

2009-12-05T22:18:00.005-05:00

March 24, 2009
The drive here to the airport was all nerves. It was a very nice hug good-bye to Bob, without tears, then I walked through the automatic terminal doors and was on my own. And I'm feeling good. So good. Through that portal, and the journey was mine. The nerves changed- more familiar, apprehensive of an adventure, rather than the nerves around friends and family, reminiscent of anxiety as a child- dread. I'm going to take all the nerves and visualize them as champagne bubbles giving me buoyancy and momentum to go ahead.

I handed the Delta Lady my precious backpack, gleaming with shiny reflectors, stuffed awkwardly with all the finalists from my gear spread that had filled the floor of my parents' guestroom for the last week. The green Stop & Shop reusable shopping bag that was my carry-on held a book (Mountains Beyond Mountains), my phone, the Patagonia R2 fleece my friend Ash gave me, a nalgene, and a few more pounds worth of miscellaneous things that I somehow knew I must not live without in the woods for six months. These did not include three items that were imperative for a successful hike: lighter (illegal), fuel (illegal), chapstick (forgotten). At the gate I listened as my plane was switched from B2 to B8 and back again. I walked calmly, knowing how I was leaving all this commotion, determined to let it slide off my new resilient hide. I called Mariya, my god-sister, to tell her I was going to hike for a while, and hoped to see her in 8 months at Thanksgiving. Then they called my flight to board. Was this it? Was this no turning back?

Off the plane I navigated the huge Atlanta Airport's walking boardwalks and tunnels and shuttles, Boston-speedwalking what takes most people 30 minutes in maybe 20 (I knew this because I remember a LED sign with estimated times to reach various gates and terminals). There were three things I needed to do before I called the woman who would make my thru-hike possible: pee, buy chapstick, buy a lighter. I spent $8 at the newsstand on Burts Bees flavored chapstick, and a lighter that read ATLANTA. I hoisted my bag onto my back, finding myself quite the badass (I was in the Atlanta airport on the 24th of March for Chrissakes, where were the other thru-hikers?? ), and walked out the terminal doors into the warm winds of the city proper.

Connie M is the beautiful, poised, generous mother of my friend Trent. Trent asked me if he could hike the trail with me when I told him my intent (for the record, half the people I told asked me if they could accompany me and the other half told me I was crazy). Then a few months before I departed he decided to one-up me and join the Peace Corps. Yeah, you win, Trent. So Connie is incredibly and deservedly proud of her son, and somehow also willing to pick me up at the airport, drive an hour to her new home, make me dinner, leave me to think about the rain about to pound the region for a while (how long, I could never have guessed), and drive me the two hours to the trail early the next morning. She told me about her decision to move to a new city alone after retiring (I'd never gauge her a day over forty) served me a salad and heated up the stuffed manicotti she'd gotten for me because Trent was kind enough to tell her my (past) dietary restrictions. Ooh, fun aside.

The week before I left for the trail I was a vegetarian, or, if you want to be technical about it, a pescatarian. So I knew I'd need a lot of protein hiking, and because I really, honestly, wasn't sure I had it in me to hike 2200 miles without significant interruption, and didn't want any sort of personal preference against eating animal flesh to handicap me more than whatever shortcomings I possessed but knew nothing of yet would inevitably challenge me. This is how my mind works. So I trained myself to eat meat again. I began with a simple chicken salad: combine a third cup of cooked shredded chicken with 3/4 tablespoon mayonnaise, 1/4 tsp curry, 1 tbsp golden raisins, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, garnish as desired. Then, because I didn't get sick from that (my iron stomach may have been an advantage in the next months), I moved onto some smoked turkey meat. I forget how I ate this, but really, isn't smoked turkey a forgettable food after all?

Once before, I had moved to meat after a bout with mononucleosis left me too skinny. My roommate at the time was so elated at the chance to feed me pork he cooked up his famous collard greens and chicken 'n' dumplin's. My task was to stir the greens and watch the boil. The long handled, wooden spoon I used had a small indent, the kind of spoon you use to stir not scoop. No matter, the smell wafting from the pot, thick steam like flavored air gripped me like shackles and I stood stirring, scooping meager spoonfuls of thick stew, blowing and sucking the broth, like bacon water but better than any memories of bacon anything. I stood there an hour, happily sipping away, then feasted with my dear roommate. All night I laid awake as the digestion pains racked my body like angry, tiny seizures.

Needless to say, I did not want to repeat that history. I started with the white meat for practice. Then, one day I was working at the outfitter I'm perpetually employed at (despite long breaks for travel and a move to the Big City), and decided it was time for beef. A burger joint had opened in town that got a nod from the Times Travel section, and was known for using responsible beef. So I walked in, chatted with the cutie behind the counter, telling him I hadn't really eaten beef in 8 years, so this burger was kinda important. On impulse, overwhelmed by options (dry-aged or grass-fed beef??) I ordered the eponymous Local Burger with sweet potato fries and sat down. Cutie brought me a double patty covered with bacon, mushrooms and cheese. Well, that was cows and pigs in one sitting. I took a picture of the thing to show my friend who never supported my non-meat-eating-ness how I had changed, and dug in. It was sublime. I returned to work. For the remaining three hours of my shift, as a dozen or so customers perused our store, my coworker liked to remind me that from her post some thirty feet from mine, over the alternative rock station on the stereo, she could hear my stomach twisting and gurgling like a baby discovering and tasting a new toy. But I didn't get sick. Back to Atlanta.

After dinner, Connie invited me to watch "On Golden Pond" with her, as we had discussed how it struck her personally. Usually I would be up for a film, but something she had mentioned earlier had me a wee bit distracted: "Sara, I'm not sure you've heard the weather forecast, but it's supposed to rain pretty hard for the next four days."
Four days.
That's a long time without indoors. What do I do? I had selected the 25th as my start date because the flight on the 24th was the cheapest flight I found after the 15th (a very popular start date) and before the 30th (how could I hike fast enough to finish without those extra five days?). Somehow, I had decided how long it would take me to walk these miles, decided not when I wanted to finish by (the northern terminus is a capricious mountain with its own weather system and the great state of Maine closes it, persistently, by the 15th of October), rather when I wanted to start -in order not to worry, and also figured into the plan that I would not want to be surrounded by other hikers starting when I was (I mean, really, what could we possibly have in common?), figured that I would prefer a more isolated beginning.... was all this rain something to avoid? My mind covered my two options, back and forth, a wave over sand and water. Or was tomorrow just the beginning, in whatever form? Eventually, after talking with friends and making them check the weather, I accepted the shitty forecast, embracing that I would invariably walk in rain, why not begin in it.
I slept.

When I woke up to my alarm, the windows were stenciled with gathering raindrops, tinted slightly by the gray morning of an approaching storm. I couldn't eat much, so I let Connie pack me a tuna sandwich for lunch (Hell, I knew it wasn't what I was supposed to eat, but I was carrying 30 frickin pounds on my back, what would another 1/2 lb in my coat matter, right? Right? How little I knew). She got on the highway, wipers moving at that rate above intermittent, and said to me "Are you sure you want to do this today?" Thankful for her to give me the opportunity to ask myself, I privately enjoyed my resolution.
"I'm going to walk in the rain eventually, I guess I just have to start in it. I decided on this day, to delay would feel like quitting a little."
So she kept driving.
"Sara, I don't know you very well, and don't want to say you can't do it, but if you ever feel like you don't want to keep going, you have my number. I can meet you, in Georgia, North Carolina, wherever you might be. If anything happens, I will pick you up."
"Thank you." And so I knew there was an out. As we drove on through the, now driving, rain, I thought: this is it. This is the point of no return. I am delivered to my entry to the woods. There is no turning back now. This is what I chose. I choose to walk in the rain.

Open Doors

2009-10-30T16:07:00.003-04:00

The end of the trail is passed. The blazes turned to blue and the knife's edge carried me back to the world I used to live in. Weeks spent poring over pictures went by, as a mourning of this brief lifetime in the woods, from where nothing short of a rebirth, it seems, emerged in the end.

The sadness consumed the triumph, and left me antsy, restless, but mostly tired. I slept for a few days; and packed my bags.

After a day on the road, alone (the way I thought the trail would be), I returned to my old diary and read about my motivations to hike. Within minutes I felt energized, inspired, the sadness washed away. The mourning was genuine, but avoided the simple fact that the trail had been a success. Not for the completion of it alone, but for walking Boston out of me, and letting go of the anger and stress that marked my temperament for a good year. How simple it was, to realize I reached my most treasured goal. How simple to look back now, knowing that beyond one goal, those months in the woods gave me so much more. From this new orientation, I have found peace outside of the woods, contentment with myself, an openness to the society I didn't miss on the trail, and the tenacity that accompanies a powerful faith in your own capacity.

After visiting my trail buddies, folding their friendships into our present- without a shared path, I cried. It was the loss of my only community, now scattered across the continents. Despite that reaction, as I commute from old friend to new friend, the blessing of these connections clarifies the picture. There is so much love in my life. Even the love in my life is clarified. The appreciation, support, drive, and understanding among these anchors on my precious web have refined and redefined concepts previously tarnished. For all you are, I am grateful. For all I have, I am blessed. For how simply I lived, I was happy. Exiting the wardrobe and stepping out of my Narnia, holding the hands of my fellow daughters of Eve and sons of Adam, together and individually we are finding our way without any blazes, and these are exciting times.

When I was on the trail I often said "we're all in it for one person alone but we're in it together." Now, today, nothing about that has changed.

The End in Sight

2009-08-30T10:49:00.003-04:00

A few days ago I was standing on West Peak of Bigelow Mountain. Beyond the range in view, behind a haze, Katahdin sat, peering over the tops of all the other mountains. 100 miles as the crow flies and 51 more on the trail, it will take us 10 days to reach the summit.

I have lived in the woods for over five months. I have camped and tented and enjoyed a bed here and there. I have walked over 2,000 miles. I am accustomed to the simple pleasures of climbing to a peak, feeling the wind and smelling the changing seasons, walking to the next peak, and enjoying the camaraderie of the most supportive group of men I know outside my family. We sleep, we eat, we hike, and we laugh. That is my life.

But in ten days, on top of that mountain, it will no longer be.

Recently we've begun listing what we're looking forward to, slowly preparing our minds and hearts for the transition to the normality of our parents' basements.

Above all I cherish my one inevitability: proximity to friends and family.

With the end in sight, the miles will fly by against our better wishes. And it is hard to reconcile all this, in my blessed life.

Oh Neglected Blog!

2009-07-23T10:00:00.002-04:00

When did the urge to type leave me? Only a few weeks in, sitting at a computer became less fun. I expect it will return.

The last months have flown by, unlike the first weeks. Soon even if I were moved to write in town, there was too much to convey, too many stories to choose from.

So I have less than 600 miles left. By the time I finish hiking tomorrow, I will have less than a quarter of the total miles remaining to hike. The last entry I wrote on this was before I had walked a single quarter.

How much have I changed? What of this experience will color my life when I return? What the hell am I going to do when I'm free of the white blaze? Some of the distance I feel to these questions, and the discomfort that washes over me searching for answers, is because at some point, many hundreds of miles ago, I stopped saying 'I.' This culture is a collective, and I have learned more from the camaraderie than from the miles I walked alone. We have abandoned the individualism that I used to cling to. All this is connected, then.

The hike has grown a momentum in me, one I remember from returning after East Africa. It has pulled my comfort outdoors- I find my body close to the door, my mind missing the clarity of fresh air.

So I give you these poor, scattered thoughts. We hike on tomorrow; the final stretch is bittersweet. The end is gaining a superstitious quality: it has been safely far away for so long, it's proximity now appears fragile, capricious. We dropped the K-word from our normal vocabulary, now referring to our 'end' feels more polite, as though we do not want to anger the fates determining our future in these worn and weary bodies we have pushed to limits we did not imagine when we set off from Springer. As these final days pass, and some push for deadlines chosen before bonds formed, more bodies are breaking. Many of us slow down, now.

And from here, we are careful, somewhat. We are excited, but nervous. We hike on. Together now.

Brief Post

2009-05-15T11:34:00.004-04:00

I originally hoped to write the first story that I experienced and jotted into my tiny notebook, however time is creeping by and I'm not very quick anymore.

So as an update, another piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. Recently, I started hiking shorter days. Specifically, fewer miles. I take a long lunch, talking with friends, doing some yoga at a waterfall, taking in the views, and walk 9-16 miles a day. It's like the most gentle awakening; walking far enough to get home at a reasonable time, but also slow enough to let your body heal. It makes perfect sense, but the people closest to me, and myself, have figured this out, and are happy for it. I talked with a middle aged hiker yesterday who's planning 75 miles in 3 days. I feel sorry for his shins!

Yesterday I left the Woods Hole Hostel, and the proprietress, Neville, told us that she was thankful for the hikers coming through because they bring in the spirit of the woods. I'm going to ponder this for a time.

Ohh the yearn to write has passed. I have too much to say! I will write more when I visit my cousin in two weeks. However, I have a feeling the adventures and misadventures will start to increase, now that I'm in no rush, and I have medical insurance! hooray!

Thank you everyone for your overwhelming support. I am so blessed. Truly blessed.

The Next 550 Miles

2009-05-01T13:32:00.003-04:00

To look back, and see an actual trail behind you, which you have been meandering along, step by step, for 463 miles, is an experience unlike other memories.

I have 550 more in the state of Virginia alone. Do I feel disappointed? Like, 'what have I accomplished in three states?' No. It's elation that comes over me. There's this rush, when my feet are quiet enough to ignore, and I'm comfortable, and fed, of pure joy. It's simple joy, but energizing. I feel like a balloon filled with champagne bubbles. I talk miles a minute, feel like anything is possible. Sort of a moronic mania.

I've been enjoying pondering how, everyone here, around me on this trail, thought about hiking it, some from as far back as 1968 when at Dartmouth the AT was officially celebrated as a national and complete single trail, and then set out to hike it. We all made the dream, made the plan, and left. Not many people get to do that. And many who can, don't. I'm not saying we're better than people who dream about a thing but don't risk their job and security to follow it. I'm just saying to have that in common adds to the solidarity of our group. We all know each other, by two degrees of separation at most. We know everything about everyone. We support each other. We're in it for one person alone but we're in it together. Damn I'm corny.

So I've completed 20% of the trail. I may finish in August. I may finish later. It's more to go than I can fathom, and I've already walked more in the last 5 weeks than I'd ever fathomed. Because although I planned to hike 2,200 miles, it was not a number that related to anything in my previous experience. It was a scale beyond. My expectations were fiction. The last 5 weeks are a curious blend of hardship, body-breaking and muscle-building (I've gained weight and lost inches), that culminate daily at the shelter.

Like when I call home or a friend, and all I have are simple, children's words for my joy (love, awesome, cool, amazing), despite the fact that I'm nursing an aching and swollen foot, I gush. Gush with that mania. Like residual endorphins. Or a release of seratonin and adrenaline after merely remembering what it feels like to hike. And every night when I sight the shelter 100 yards ahead, though I've walked alone all day long, there are my friends ahead of me, and we smile to see each other, and we cook our food and talk about our aches and sing songs and fall asleep joyfully. All the roughness, the shit around the edges when you trip over 20 roots and curse the trail for being organic or get soaked feet, those feelings pass. Triumph takes its place.

So the next four months must be held as a mystery. Because although I have done 463 miles, and after a month my body has finally started complaining, but not badly; another 1,715 is a whole other can of worms. Who knows what misery and glory awaits?

Freedom in an Institution: Self-Actualization and the Trail

2009-04-30T12:16:00.005-04:00

In my last post I mentioned a few ideas about the lifers. Since then the conversation has come up on the trail. The concept of institutionalization - what happens to inmates who spend so much time in prison that they are unable to assimilate once released - seems appropriate in this community. Because I have a mild form of institutionalization, I welcome your comments. In the book I'm reading: Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why, the neuroscience discussed is applicable here. Our brains are not static, and so by spending so much time in a completely different environment, our brains change. It will take time for me to remember how to be normal after the Trail. For instance, I am already forgetting to flush toilets. In a room, I'll reach for my headlamp before I reach for the lightswitch. Table manners are no longer motor reflex. For some, the freedom of the trail (and this is a flexible definition) is too tempting to leave.

What I'm playing with here, is whether it's possible to be free within an institution. Do the people who hike the Appalachian Trail and then decide they want to walk, for the rest of their lives, feel free? Is the concept of self-actualization possible within a narrow community like this? (from Goldstein via Wikipedia, the "motive to realize all of one's potentialities.") No matter how awake I am on the trail, no matter how expansive my views, this life is truly insulating. With therapeutic potential. But insulating nonetheless. So, are the lifers soothed within an institution that is safe for them? I would like to offer the conclusion that they feel freedom, out there in the wilderness when they please, living on the fringe of American society. Yet the alcoholism among this population is troubling. This is what I'm wondering about.

Comments welcome. More posts about happy things, soon.

The lifers

2009-04-24T22:08:00.004-04:00

The number of hikers on the trail, over the last weeks, has diminished and they've spread out. However, I meet a handful of new people every day. Sometimes I meet one of what I've started calling the lifers. When I stop at a hostel or hiker-friendly town, I meet a LOT of lifers.

These are the guys (I met one lady lifer a couple days ago) who hiked the trail ages ago. People hike the trail for all sorts of reasons, but it's pretty safe to assume that they're searching for something, often hoping for some sort of realization. For this group, it takes more than once. Or, it occurred to me the other day after meeting CB, maybe they experienced that sought-after epiphany, and it is this: hike more. Some are out on their fourth or fifth thru-hike. Some do a couple hundred miles of the trail every year. The vast majority are perpetual section-hikers who live around hiker-friendly towns, helping out the hikers if they have their wits about them, or just trying to party with the young ones and share their expertise.

When I was at Standing Bear Farm, which I raved about last entry, the supply room/store had an intriguing box on display. The return address was politely crossed off, and on the blank part of the priority mail box, was written:

"This was a re-supply box for Minnesota Smith. If you have not yet met Minnesota Smith, you will. He is an expert on most things, according to himself. He will tell you about how to hike better and how you're hiking wrong, and keep in mind the weight of this box."

The box weighed 53 pounds. My pack, with 3 liters of water and four days worth of food weighs 32 pounds. The message was: Minnesota Smith doesn't know Jack and you shouldn't feel like you gotta listen to him.

When I met him three days ago, he fit the mold of the typical lifer:
Doesn't fit in society any more.
Loves the trail like I love pissing in the woods.
a) did so many drugs in the 70s that his ability to discern most social cues rubbed off, or b) somehow maintains a life back home but gets kicked out a few months a year so he can 'go bother the new hikers.'
Didn't want to do anything else after finishing the trail.
Loves his stories from hiking.
Wants, more than anything else, to help the new hikers by imparting his own knowledge-from-experience.
a) heavy drinker/smoker or b) went on the trail to quit.
Not to say that all guys re-hiking part of the trail are lifers, and certainly most section-hikers are not lifers.

A few days ago, at the singular Nolichucky Hostel and Outfitter, I met a whole boatload of lifers, and the experience got me thinking a lot. Now, I have eight to ten hours every day during which my thinking goes something like this: "whoa that's a big hill, okay here I go... not so bad... that was great! I feel terrific! Oh I bet I can get to Chicago when I finish during a road trip, that'll be an awesome time to see the city- rock garden! left foot there, right foot there, careful, careful, ooh downhill, easy knees... I wonder why these guys keep on hiking the trail over and over? They did it, if they didn't get the big epiphany by Katahdin, shouldn't they try something else to answer the big question? Or maybe that's just it! Roots! Too many roots! Shit, left foot there, right foot there, balance, I hate roots, slippery roots are hard! what was I thinking about? Oh yeah, the lifers figured out that what makes them happiest is walking. So is that realization a burden for them? Are they stuck following the white blaze?" That was fifteen minutes in my head. So I'm at the hostel, and I meet CB.

Alcoholic, chain smoker, has lived on or near the trail getting work for the last ten years. He's missing a good number of teeth on his left top row, and likes to point the gap near the person he's speaking to when he laughs. He also has the tic of repeating his last phrase after a pause. CB has hiked the trail 3 times. When I find him talking to my friend Scout late that evening, knowing he's been drinking for about 7 hours, I join the conversation. He asks why I'm walking. Then he chuckles to himself, and spurts "I respect all hikers, for whatever reason they're hiking, whatever gets them out here, you know? I have total respect, cuz it's all types of people, comin to do the same thing. the same thing. and I have respect, heh heh heh" and with the hand holding his cigarette he makes an encompassing arc, to show his acceptance. He grins towards me with his tooth gap. I never got to tell him why I was hiking, he started on about how the 1,000 mile mark, that's when the mind games start, when the 'fuck it, my knee' or 'fuck it, my ankle' quitting gets people off the trail. As he reminisced, warning us of the woes to come in his jolly drunken way, he would lean, shuffling his feet imperceptibly closer to me, so that as I listened, I would slowly step back from his cigarette tracer and gapped smile. Then, aware of his travel, he would step back, regain his spiel, and swerve again. This dance lasted a few back and forths and side to sides until I knew I'd heard all he could tell, and went to bed.

This encounter is the bread and butter of a lifer. They move slow or camp out somewhere friendly, so that every day they can meet new people to share their favorite stories and maybe give some of the advice they carry with them. But those they meet are transient, and move along, so that the next day new hikers come to town, and it all starts again.

I think it was said once before "holy shit I have knees!"

2009-04-16T10:56:00.002-04:00

So I'm 272 miles in. That means I'm over 10% done, and have fewer than 2000 miles left. These are great milestones.

Other statistics include: 2 sunny days, 2 half sunny days, all other days wet or snowy.

Two obscene care packages and one "anonymous" postcard. High fives all around you mischievous planners you!

Words of wisdom: if it snows and then gets warm, you get mud. If you have mud and it rains all day, you get rivers and lakes. If you have rivers and lakes and it freezes all night, you get skating rinks! And that is the Smokies.

I hate the Smokies. From what I learned in one sunny day there, it is usually very beautiful. But when it is foggy and muddy, it is not beautiful. And you have to sleep in shelters, but if a weekend tourist wants to sleep in the shelter, they tell you to set up your tent in the mud. But sometimes the Smokies are very beautiful. The end.

This is really an indescribable experience. My first journal is already almost full, blathering on about emotions and exercise and plans and joys. After a day or two, every single challenge that wasn't immediately rewarding, becomes a landmark. Time goes very slow, even when I hike 3 miles per hour. We do not multitask. We talk about our feet, and our packs, how far we plan to hike that day, try to keep track of our friends days ahead of us and behind, and the food we plan on eating. We talk about why we're here and why we'll stay. We hike for 8 to 10 hours, find a place to camp, crawl in our sleeping bags at 4 pm and start making dinner. There's a community along the trail of people who still like living in this other-ness, who have started hostels and stores or shuttle services to help us out, and we are insulated from normal laws and etiquette... and hygiene.

I feel like a year has passed in the real world. I've covered so much ground and met so many people and filled my days with moments of pure bliss and then moments of animalistic exertion. In the last four days I hiked 20, 18, 15, and then 18 miles. I'm losing weight because I won't carry enough food to cover the calories I burn. My knees suddenly started talking to me yesterday, so I'm taking today off. I've planned all of 2010 for myself and a few other people. I have no idea when I'll finish, but some have told me at this rate it'll be August. September seems more likely.

This is a simple life, but it is the hardest lifestyle I have ever maintained. Every day is an achievement in my simple little brain, in my tiny little life. When people who help me along the trail show me pictures of the past hikers who sent them photos of Katahdin, I get choked up. Imagining being free of the white blaze is an odd idea. Terrifying. Powerful. Unparalleled. And I've only just begun.

With love, and hours of apologies for not being able to maintain my treasured friendships- to all my friends, I wish I could stay in your lives, updated and constant; so thank you for understanding that I cannot, and supporting me anyway. I am so lucky to have you all in my heart.

100 Miles, 1 State, and Onward!

2009-04-03T14:00:00.003-04:00

So I was completely wrong about updating this thing often. Two reasons: I'm never near internet, and I don't want to be near internet.

Strange thing, this trail, that although I love and miss my dear ones, there is an otherness to my life during this adventure. I feel as though I'm in some sort of Narnia, removed from your reality so that I'm missing nothing, and also, not missed myself. So I will be behind, but that's alright; it will make the reunion so much sweeter!

This hiking is wonderful. I have marks on my shoulders, a couple healing blisters, I'm often wet and cold, and I exhaust my body every day. And I am so happy. I am happy on this trail. Sometimes I hike along with a group, meeting that night at a shelter or camp, or find my way to meet new friends.

They call me Joker.

I'm in North Carolina, there's a weekend-long hiker party thrown by the generous and creative Ron Haven, who is letting me use his internet right now. So I'm on my third town-stop. Funny, I've been gone what, about 9 or 10 days, and had three nights (including tonight) in hostels. But every day on the trail is it's own little universe, full of this simple, intensive journey, that I feel as though I've been lingering a long while in that otherness I was trying to describe up there. All we think about is water, food, warmth, and shelter. I don't worry (for those of you who know me well, I'm not 'picking'), I just walk. I walked 19 miles yesterday. I felt like shit, then I climbed Mount Albert (5,750 feet or so) in the rain and wind, a rock-scramble of a summit, and I felt like a million bucks. Those are my highs and lows.

Love to you all.

Fortnight

2009-03-11T23:35:00.003-04:00

Today is March 11th, 2009. In thirteen days, I fly to Atlanta, and a stranger will pick me up from the airport, drive me to her house, feed me, let me sleep in her guestroom, and in the morning of March 25th, will drive me to Amicolala Falls, where I will weigh the backpack I have been building for months, don the courage that is failing me tonight, step forward onto a white-blazed trail, and attempt to walk for 2,178 miles all alone. It will be the hardest, rational endeavor of my life. To date.

To idle the days in between, I must gather my belongings, the little necessities I'm learning about, choose my food and do my taxes. I must cancel my gym membership and get a new license. And of course, work, attend a party or two, and hug my dear ones time and time again. These are the activities that will fill my time. But what will fill my head are alternating bursts of anxiety, panic, excitement, and bliss. I wonder how I'll get used to no privacy in the loo and worry that the experienced hikers will judge me visibly. I panic that I will befall a tragedy that my friends present as possible. I live out little possible moments. I catch that sensation of isolation, and realize that part of what makes me miserable and pained here is that I am not there. I think about the months of isolation I have already lived, and the bold creativity, birthed from the luxurious liberty of traveling solo, that mark those times of my life. I allow a little wave of bliss to kindle a long, tired sigh, knowing what I'm in for: six months of vacation, if only I can get my head out of my ass. So I worry, and in a fortnight, worry won't have a place anymore: there will be blinding fear and that weightless disposition of one who has come unstuck.

Nevermind the months of neglect.

2009-03-11T23:30:00.002-04:00

So three months have passed since I last posted. Switching gears from politics, this blog will now be the sometime home of my musings about my Appalachian Trail adventure. Beginning March 25th, 2009, I will walk north from Springer Mountain, Georgia, aiming to reach Katahdin Mountain, Maine, before the autumn takes its hold. To reach me or get in touch with those who are keeping better tabs than my neglected blog, email me at terminalimpermanence@gmail.com.

Back in the Saddle Again?

2008-12-09T13:12:00.000-05:00

I've taken a couple weeks to regain my usual political legs, that is, to reeducate my hands' motor memory to pre-campaign surfing: old reliables, new-blogs-of-interest, and far less wonkette (*sigh*). But yet! although I was prepared to wean myself from the DC Gossip, the Saxby episode and Nate Silver's predicted nail-biter in Minnesota alone kept me going until today's Illinois DISASTER guarantees continued jovial politickin'.

My heart is still exuberant from November 5th, while there is that smidgen of mistrust for politicians like a cloud of spores, growing in the great foundation of hope and pride the election built. So my daily dose of news includes happy articles about how awesome I still believe our president-elect is, how nervous most picks for his cabinet make me (leave it to Ezra to put my inner turmoil in a single blogpost), as well as all the other sources of civil rights; international crisis and political upheaval; the Web of Death global financial catastrophe, connected by the thread of greedy myopia; and movies.

Skipping the tappings for now, let's move to Zell and Blagojevich. NY Times coverage here. Oh, and Blackwater indictments ring of Abu Ghraib. And what's up with Detroit?

I forgot about women's rights until the UNFPA reminded me.

Brevity today, possibly back to writing tomes again tomorrow.

The Invisibles

2008-11-03T14:19:00.000-05:00

Sometimes when I want a problem to go away I'll wait and do nothing, just in case it solves itself.

He's Still President?

As has often been his forte, Greenwald's readers are reminded how the need for balance is not always about reporting an objective reality:

What if the actual facts -- i.e., "reality" -- are consistent with the views of "the hard-core left" and contrary to the views of the "hard-core right"? What if, as has plainly been the case, the conservatives' views are wrong, false, inaccurate?

Glenn Greenwald reminds us also, that we still have a president, and he sucks at his job. But he still has the job. For another two months and 18 days. Dubya worked both terms to be invisible, to lead behind locked doors. Rather than learning from Watergate and employing transparency, his administration beat the old coot with better secret-keeping. And now nobody is paying attention. I wonder if he has any idea how bad things really are out here.

Goma

Right now, East Central Africa is on the radar of the international news media. Not that anything erupted out of the blue. But in a region that hovered around steadily shitty, some of the scariest rebel fighters (many are the lingering refugees responsible for the genocide in Rwanda, who remember they have no reason to fear UN Peacekeepers) have 17,000 Peacekeepers to look out for in the Democratic Republic of Congo (a real joke of a name)- which is nothing when they are stretched throughout the 905,000+ square miles this massive state envelops. So, five million people have died from the conflict that began twenty-two years ago, why do people care all of a sudden about DR Congo?
Do you have a cell phone?
In addition to the exclusive rights to an ore everyone "needs," this mining haven is built on cobalt, copper, gold, molybdenum, and, wait for it, diamonds. Mining allows for an economy that has disappointing oversight in international trade. And it funds the continuation of hellish conditions for anyone stuck surviving nearby.
This is heartbreaking. And it has been for some time.
Christian Science Monitor
New York Times
Human Rights Watch
BBC
and more BBC

I can't handle more. Read the links, please.

18 Days to Go!

2008-10-16T12:40:00.008-04:00

Today I need to link one exceptional piece from RHRealityCheck.org that really made me uncomfortable. And I watched Standard Operating Procedure last night.

In "Can There Be Justice for Pregnant Women if the Unborn Have 'Human Rights?'" Lynn Paltrow challenges the complacency that I think too many of my generation swing to- throwing support behind the right to choose to keep or abort, but losing interest there. The slippery slope of restricting the right to choose is now inextricable from the rhetoric debate seeking to define the moment of citizenship. My discomfort while reading the cases Ms. Paltrow presents went from mild frustration to downright anger, knowing that in some areas of my country, being pregnant would obstruct my civil rights.

The complacency affects comfortable twenty-somethings who support the right to choose on principle (many principles, really), and forgo that there are many choices still very precious to us women (and our families), and the right to make those choices are often taken away. I sat back and thought, of the women I know who have given birth in the last year, how many of them were forced out of their birthplan? The answer was 4 out of 6.

Like Laura Pemberton, "who wanted to have a vaginal birth after a previous delivery by Cesarean surgery. Because no hospital would admit her unless she agreed to deliver again by surgery, she stayed home to give birth. While there, in active labor and near delivery, an armed Sheriff knocked on her door. He had orders to take her into custody. He strapped her legs together and brought her to a hospital to determine whether she could be forced to have the Cesarean surgery. A lawyer was appointed for the fetus, but not for Ms. Pemberton. Ms. Pemberton vehemently opposes abortion, but she nevertheless believed in her right to evaluate medical risks and benefits to herself and her unborn child. She was forced to have the unnecessary surgery. When she later sued for violations of her civil rights, was told she had none."

Keep reading.

Internationally, those pesky borders are just really getting in the way of the War on Terror. Juan Cole, as usual, offers his adroit evaluation of the U.S. talking points. Here's a taste:

Washington also tends to over-estimate the importance of individual leaders such as al-Zarqawi and al-Mazidi. Mostly they are fairly easily replaced. It is not as though they have been through a military academy or anything. When al-Zarqawi was killed, it changed absolutely nothing with regard to violence in Iraq. Others than Mazidi can smuggle North African volunteers into Iraq.

Here are some links I wanted to post last week:

First, The New Yorker once again has an excellent political piece, this time on Biden, the forgotten VP, and the seat of Vice President in general. I enjoyed the review and the perspective.

Second, Bob Herbert is my hero. This is everything I wanted to say, but more concise and kinder than I could ever manage.

Alright, back to work.
And please, wear red on Thursday the 30th for the Be Bold Wear Red campaign to Stop the Violence Against Women of Color!

Not as sick as the economy...

2008-10-10T13:28:00.005-04:00

But the polls are lookin' good!
I gotta say, checking out fivethirtyeight first thing in the morning has done wonders for my mood.

So on this gorgeous New England, autumn Friday, I am comfortably writing my first entry in bed. With a snazzy laptop and despite an awful cold, I couldn't neglect the blog any longer.

Reading the New Yorker's excellently concise if unbalanced (for the sake of brevity) endorsement of Barack Obama for prez, I was reminded once again that he spoke last March about stuff. Searching for a speech Obama gave in New York in March 2008 results in articles from papers in New York reporting on the famous (which I believe is a good thing) race speech he gave in Philly. Search deeper, and there is the speech given a few weeks later on the economy. I watched it this morning, and am now conflicted both with a 'na na na na na na' third grader's response and the disappointment one feels when faced with prescience like this. Here's an excerpt via the campaign website:

[T]he American economy does not stand still, and neither should the rules that govern it. The evolution of industries often warrants regulatory reform - to foster competition, lower prices, or replace outdated oversight structures. Old institutions cannot adequately oversee new practices. Old rules may not fit the roads where our economy is leading. There were good arguments for changing the rules of the road in the 1990s. Our economy was undergoing a fundamental shift, carried along by the swift currents of technological change and globalization. For the sake of our common prosperity, we needed to adapt to keep markets competitive and fair.

Unfortunately, instead of establishing a 21st century regulatory framework, we simply dismantled the old one - aided by a legal but corrupt bargain in which campaign money all too often shaped policy and watered down oversight. In doing so, we encouraged a winner take all, anything goes environment that helped foster devastating dislocations in our economy.

Deregulation of the telecommunications sector, for example, fostered competition but also contributed to massive over-investment. Partial deregulation of the electricity sector enabled market manipulation. Companies like Enron and WorldCom took advantage of the new regulatory environment to push the envelope, pump up earnings, disguise losses and otherwise engage in accounting fraud to make their profits look better - a practice that led investors to question the balance sheet of all companies, and severely damaged public trust in capital markets. This was not the invisible hand at work. Instead, it was the hand of industry lobbyists tilting the playing field in Washington, an accounting industry that had developed powerful conflicts of interest, and a financial sector that fueled over-investment.

A decade later, we have deregulated the financial services sector, and we face another crisis. A regulatory structure set up for banks in the 1930s needed to change because the nature of business has changed. But by the time the Glass-Steagall Act was repealed in 1999, the $300 million lobbying effort that drove deregulation was more about facilitating mergers than creating an efficient regulatory framework.

Since then, we have overseen 21st century innovation - including the aggressive introduction of new and complex financial instruments like hedge funds and non-bank financial companies - with outdated 20th century regulatory tools. New conflicts of interest recalled the worst excesses of the past - like the outrageous news that we learned just yesterday of KPMG allowing a lender to report profits instead of losses, so that both parties could make a quick buck. Not surprisingly, the regulatory environment failed to keep pace. When subprime mortgage lending took a reckless and unsustainable turn, a patchwork of regulators were unable or unwilling to protect the American people.

The policies of the Bush Administration threw the economy further out of balance. Tax cuts without end for the wealthiest Americans. A trillion dollar war in Iraq that didn't need to be fought, paid for with deficit spending and borrowing from foreign creditors like China. A complete disdain for pay-as-you-go budgeting - coupled with a generally scornful attitude towards oversight and enforcement - allowed far too many to put short-term gain ahead of long term consequences. The American economy was bound to suffer a painful correction, and policymakers found themselves with fewer resources to deal with the consequences.

That's just five minutes of the half-hour speech. Oh, and if you haven't yet, why not go on and watch his speech on education.

So it would appear, as the polls are favoring the Obama-Biden ticket, and the press, anxious to make a living, follow that lead, there is room for hope. That's not to say that my generation isn't sick with worry about all these old white guys talking about taking your money out of the stock market. My generation, er, peer group, doesn't have any money in the stock market, but we want to some day, and also would like to believe that we can someday move out of our parents' house. To someday, thanking the American Dream, put our parents into assisted living. But perhaps the economy, despite the crises, is salvageable. Perhaps the Bush era can be buried along with tax breaks for the wealthy, interventionist overspending overseas, lackluster incentives for renewable and hybrid energy, while regulation rises from an early grave and the socialism we know and love can reinvigorate our schools and repave our roads. And we won't have to wear barrels held up with suspenders for long. (*big inhale*)

Comics curmudgeon has a fantastically witty cartoon guide to our great New Depression on wonkette.
A Children's Treasury of Poverty Iconography

Also thanks to my new fav site, the so-called classy conservative, Christopher Buckley, son of William F, and author of "Thank You for Smoking," has written that he'll be voting Obama. Not on his family periodical, the National Review's backpage, due to the reaction of readers (12,000 of them, he asserts) to Kathleen Parker's icky, but still timely denouncement of Palin, he writes at a fresh new blog, "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama". Which is funny, because he seems assured that his readers, or at least those that share his party affiliation, are scary, and should not be upset, like a great vile mob of "gut" reactionaries. As wonkette writes, "mid-20th Century conservative intellectualism... is 100% dead forever now." Huzzah!

*****

Remember Bush's urge to push weight against the Paulson plan, foreshadowing "financial panic" and a "distressing scenario," because fear-mongering never fails?! Well thank goodness a plan passed, because I guess the $700 bil already worked! Nothing to see here! Please move along! Bush today urged Main St Americans like me and you to resist fear, because all this bad stuff that's happening on Wall St is because of uncertainty and fear. And that's no place for sissy behavior. How irrational! Not only is there nothing to worry about anymore, because the government has the tools to fix the problem (I love it when his analogies reference things I understand like tools and shopping rather than illuminating what's actually going on down there in the Executive Bunker of Silence and Secrecy), but everything will go back to normal "swiftly."

And that crafty still-president reminds me that the wool has been over my eyes for some weeks. Remember all those other countries deserving the world's immediate attention? Yeah, me too.

Worldly Roll-Call:
Zimbabwe: Despite power-sharing agreement, leaders' dialogue leaves a lot to be desired.
Iraq: McClatchy covers daily violence.
Thailand is a regular shitstorm.
India: The nucear deal with America is featured in an interesting analysis at BBC, highlighting the spread of this odd idea- that nuclear energy is totally clean. I have to say, McCain's idea to build, like, another nuclear reactor for every state, brought the question to mind: does NASA get enough funding to send nuclear waste to the moon? Where are we going to select 4 more Yucca Mountins? The Times piece brings up something rather predictable: subsidies, tax credits, and pork.

Desperately trying to bring this behemoth of a thing full-circle, I present you with Laura Rozen's look into how lobbyists tie the most interesting people together! Well, one lobbyist in particular.

Enjoy your long weekend everyone.

Broken economy, broken computer.

2008-10-01T16:58:00.003-04:00

My PC's processor passed a few nights ago, which means that I only get internet at work. Surprisingly, I have not been staying current, preferring to stay productive at work than sneak news in between memo-writing and stuffing envelopes. I know, my job is so glamorous, what kind of choice is that anyway?

As always, check out fivethirtyeight for current polls and poll analysis. Things are looking good.

But there have been a few articles I've appreciated recently, and my blog was neglected, so here's a quickie:

Robert Kuttner at the American Prospect has an interesting and rather brief article comparing 1929 to today, and he has some good, albeit broad, ideas.
Learning from 1929

Here are some related commentaries from fav sources Talking Points Memo and Mother Jones:
Kevin Drum at Mother Jones: More Notes on the Bailout
and here is the TPM Cafe link he references in the beginning, keep reading for his chilling insight about 3 megabanks: A "Bailout" is Cheaper than the Status Quo
Drum gets all psychoanalytical about Paulson's better nature, which puts a lot of faith into a stereotype without really addressing how dangerous it could be to make Paulson "The Decider of Decisions". And as Ezra Klein reminds us, that first draft was really scary.

For those of you who actually follow any of my links, I hope you don't mind that the scale is favoring the economy. I am over my head with this crisis, and have so little at my disposal besides gut instinct (which doesn't seem to work so well for predicting good policy, if you ask me or Stephen Colbert) to make informed decisions. Instead, I fill my brain with enough commentary from people with souls who seem pretty knowledgeable in hopes that my gut will no longer be so stupid.

Most offer similar recommendations for strengthening the bailout plan, so the next step is finding an economist who writes about why the plan will not be amended with said recommendations.....

p.s. Eddie Murphy's prophetic bit (that bank scene has me cringing) also helped steer my opinions.

*****
I just got a link to another take on Palin, who I'm really tired of hearing about (read: being disappointed for the species all the time), this one from Salon, so I'll share it pre-read: The Sarah Palin pity party: Everyone seems to be oozing sympathy for the fumbling vice-presidential nominee. Please. Cry me a freaking river.

And to finish, without having covered anything international, again, here's a widget thingy to compare the health care policy plans of the two candidates. Thanks to Ezra, of course.
http://www.health08.org/healthissues_sidebyside.cfm

Lunchtime Digestion of Yesterday's Reading

2008-09-23T12:19:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, I printed out the following articles/op-eds for the day's reading:

Matt Yglesias' Sept. 18th article: Obama's foreign policy advantage
NY Times: Democrats set terms as bailout debate begins
NYTimes (as recommended by the lovely staff of the American Prospect): Conservatives Try New Tack on Campuses
NYTimes: 2 Candidates Urge Greater Oversight in Bailout Plan
Robert Reich at TPM: What Wall Street Should do to Get Its Blank Check
Economist: Global Finance is being torn apart; it can be put back together again

I know, these weren't the bulk of my usual sources. But the bailout is so out of my comfort zone I was testing the waters in the mainstream.

Oh, this one is from last week, but on a gray cloudy day like yesterday, a newsreel like this one left me with such a warm, hot-cocoa-and-breakfast-in-bed comfort: Palin's Transparency Proposal Already Exists in DC (the punchline fills you with joy!)

I think Yglesias puts foreign policy discussion (and specifically its recent absence in the campaigns) into a single, beautiful sentence:

"Pocketbook concerns are always dear to the electorate, but it would be nice for voters to give some consideration to the question of whether the right lesson to learn from the Bush years is that we need a president who believes strongly in the power of war to solve problems."

I do so appreciate the earnest and well-researched opinions of my like-minded sources here, but wonder, considering how explicitly the Obama camp is drowning out all other issues with the booming economic wails of today, would giving voice to Matt's distillation above really ring so poignant to the swingvoter?

In moments of cynicism like this, I'm happy to report that in the last week, the greatest most sobering go-to is FiveThirtyEight, which means the pretty site is plastered with blue. Today there was a link to the blog of the professor that my brother recommended but whose name I'd forgotten: Tom Holbrook. He supposedly knows his shit with election stats and trends and bumps. I recommend checking out his site.

Now, because my lunchbreak is almost over, I also wanted to get out a comment I read last night at Echidne of the Snakes. She's writing about the bailout and Paulson's heinous proposal to BE the invisible hand, the sentiment rocketed me back to October 2001 and the Patriot Act.

"One part of me thinks that the draft had those totally unacceptable bits about no laws allowed for the very reason that people would get up in arms about them and then any compromise would seem like a victory, while in reality the industry and its cronies got exactly what they wanted." Read her post here.

So it seems, from my timid gauge of "what's happening out there, man," Paulson and Bernanke will not exactly get their way. Is it a sign of not being jaded enough that I almost want to giggle at their ridiculous backing: "yes, it's not the perfect plan, but we need to do something right now! now! really, this very instant! do it! do it!" Which really begs, quis custodiet ipso Paulson?

more later.

Weekend Laundry List

2008-09-20T15:50:00.009-04:00

OK, because I'm a nice person, my first reaction when I read that after McCain's new anti-Obama ad attaches the Fannie Mae CEO to the latter campaign as an advisor, said CEO retorted that he had no such connection, was to wonder while shaking my tired little head: who is feeding McCain his information? I mean, the amount of lies that are coming from the campaign voicebox is staggering. Could it be a strategy? That the masses will absorb the talking points, and when the talking points are exposed as fallacy, it won't really matter? Or is there a staff out there who just keep forgetting to factcheck? I'm surprised that campaign managers and staffers aren't getting fired like clay pigeons.

But then again, reading about McCain's embarrassing blunder on the Spanish-language radio show (which was in English and then translated), one could worry that a combination of hubris, exhaustion, and interventionist reflexes motivated that response. Of course, that's pretty alarming in itself.
Here are the articles I referenced above:
"said CEO retorted"
(note how it was the Post that first linked Obama to Raines. Bad Post! Very very bad!)
"embarrassing blunder"
Talking Points Memo summary of the whole thing.

A couple other pieces I wanted to add:
Obama is not only fighting voter suppression in Michigan (lost your house, lose your vote), but is actually filing a complaint that extends to the GOP tradition of suppressing the votes of various demographics that typically vote dem. (Prof. Farley has a whole section in his blog GOP Disenfranchisement.) Remember the voter card scam from 2004? Wow. Here's the whole complaint.
If you don't remember the voter card 80-pound scam in Ohio, I suggest a lexis-nexis search for Blackwell, 80-pound, 2004.

I heard an interesting take on TrooperGate on the Rachel Maddow show, which really needs a better clip editor, regarding the nature of the trip to DC Monegan was supposedly fired for, and then found this on cbs. It irks, that Palin's advisors are puttin' the raucus on Monegan's traveling to DC, saying that the trip wasn't authorized (it was). Which leads us all, I hope, to ask: what's wrong with seeking federal cash for a program to prevent sexual violence? So that's the real reason, eh, not that he wouldn't fire the trooper. Great PR kids.

Please do check out the facts page of Alaska's domestic abuse and sexual assault stats, available here.
Then check out the Alliance for Reproductive Justice in Alaska, which also features a story on Palin not being the women's candidate (scroll down home page). Thanks to RH Reality Check for the links.

Taking this to the next logical step, it's illuminating to take the following together:
a) as the states' leader in rapes, Alaskan enforcement agencies have jurisdiction over native populations
b) a recent amnesty int'l study reports: "The

United States

government has created a complex maze of tribal, state and federal jurisdictions that often allows perpetrators to rape with impunity -- and in some cases effectively creates jurisdictional vacuums that encourage assaults.... Due to a complex set of laws, state, rather than federal, agencies provide law enforcement. [Alaska] has sought to restrict tribes from exercising criminal jurisdiction while at the same time failing to provide adequate law enforcement."
c) Palin's rape-kit charging in Wasilla (which would've been illegal observing the Violence Against Women Act)....
That leads a reader like myself to see her policies as not only anti-women but passively oppressive of the native population.

So because Alaska's funding for victims of sexual assault comes from the fed, and state agencies in Alaska enforce the law, does that mean they could get moneys without observing the VAWA? Hmm.

Well, take a breath. How about some uplifting news?

My brother pointed me to FiveThirtyEight today, which has the first report I've seen on the cell phone influence in national polling. And it's hard not to feel better: "Six of the seven [] cellphone-friendly pollsters have had a Democratic (Obama) lean, and in several cases it has been substantial. On average, they had a house effect of Obama +2.8 []. By comparison, the control group had essentially zero house effect [], so this would imply that including a cellphone sample improves Obama's numbers by 2.8 points. (Or, framed more properly, failing to include cellphones hurts Obama's numbers by []2-3 points)." Read the findings here.

Juan Cole's coverage today of the huge Islamabad bombing and the day-to-day in Iraq, is a must-read as usual.

I'm in over my head with the bailouts and the new mysterious expenditures Bush is requesting, but Dean Baker usually helps in this arena.

Because I enjoy reading about McCain being wrong, this one (McCain's Stem Cell Position Contains Scientific Error) was nice to see, and includes my favorite quote so far today: "The vote mentioned in his statement came on the Fetal Farming Act of 2006, signed into law by President Bush. But though the bill was unanimously approved in the House and Senate, its sponsors were criticized for failing to make clear that "fetal farming" doesn't exist."

Did you forget about Iran for a couple days while the economy went down the shitter? Some people didn't. This got an embarrassingly small note in the Boston Metro paper.

Do you have friends who think they might have to pay more taxes under one candidate or another? find out with this awesome widget Ezra Klein linked America to: Will Obama Raise My Taxes?

articles and analyses I'm reading this morning

2008-09-16T13:06:00.001-04:00

Newsreel:

This is the side-by-side presentation of Barack Obama and John McCain's answers to the 14 questions that would have made up the science debate, but will not be televised, like the Scientific and Technical Awards that nobody watches before the Oscars.

Analysis of how the histories of the two candidates offer some insight into their reaction to the flailing economy.

"A Look at McCain's Economic Council: The People Who Tell Him 'The Economy Is Strong"

The Post's coverage of Palin, who I am really getting tired of. Let's move on, shall we?

TAPPED has a brief on Obama's following up with the MI GOP and their nasty voter suppression.

More later.

optimism

2008-09-15T20:14:00.000-04:00

Not to be a jinx-y mc-jinx, but I have to say it's nice to report that certain practices of the Mc"factually challenged" Campaign are getting the spotlight. So I'm feeling optimism today. Optimism and anger are not mutually exclusive.

TAPPED has my favorite quote from the Republican primary debates, from McCain: "I am prepared. I am prepared. I need no on-the-job training. I wasn't a mayor for a short period of time. I wasn't a governor for a short period of time."

First off, there's Rove saying there's a "100 percent truth test" that McCain's ads go beyond. I love that he believes there's a test, and that he has a duty to remark when the line is crossed.

This is tied into all the coverage of McCain lying. A lot. = actual, if tentative coverage. Like the press is the oft-abused child to the manipulative fear mongering of McCain's unbalanced step-father. Finally finding its voice! Anyway, finally a few reporters have remembered their f-ing job. And the gentle nature of Barack Obama's campaign response irks the liberal blogosphere. Although the memo released to the media has the best line not on television: "McCain would rather lose his integrity than lose an election."

So the great maverick went on The View and lied, and then was accused of lying, and said he didn't. Which is a lie. And that's getting attention today, which is something, eh? Thinkprogress has a page on all of his flip-flops (he claimed to the Ladies that no one could pin one on him). There's also a fact-checking link machine for all the lies. Lots of fun bouncing around the "series of tubes" reading about these!
And isn't it a little pathological to actually say out loud that Palin has never accepted earmarks as governor?

Talking Points Memo had a great comment about how the press is handling the lying. The distinction is made between media striving for accuracy in reporting, the communication of a balanced and fair story, and the media outlets more concerned with balance than accuracy. This offers some explanation for what has happened to 24-News and major newspapers in the country weakened under the force of Rovian fear-mongering. The classic example of balance over accuracy when some stories don't need both sides reported is that when a story about the holocaust gets coverage, there is no obligation to give any time at all to the groups who believe it didn't happen. Because those groups are wrong. Therefore, an arena where balance is the most important will likely fall victim to inaccuracy or at least dependence on less-than reputable sources. Am I going too far? After all, I don't watch a lot of 24 hour news, or read USA Today...

Linking back to present coverage, last week there was a lot of the-truth-is-always-stretched-during-campaigning, like there's less obligation to report inaccuracies when they happen regularly, or when most people are expecting to be lied to. Then, in order to not get accused by the McCain ~~whiners~~ camp that reporting is unbalanced, speeches from the Obama camp are scraped for lies too. But McCain lying doesn't obligate a report on lying in the campaign. It could, with sufficient evidence. But going on about future republican reform and how "the fundamentals of the economy are strong" is its own story. Screw balance. He lies. That's a great article. Period.

OK, here are the articles I printed to read last night:
The extensively-researched article from the Sunday Times that everyone is talking about. It links perfectly to the painfully witty cartoon with W.'s Dr. Evil to Madam Palin's Mini-Me. Once Elected, Palin Hired Friends and Lashed Foes

On my To-Read-At-The-Gym list (yeah, I'm wicked cool) is this report from Philip Gourevitch in the New Yorker: Letter from Alaska.
Gourevitch wrote "We Wish to Inform You That Tomorow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda" which is a heartbreaking and important book about visiting Rwanda just after the genocide ended in 1994. For that he earned my respect, and I look forward to his perspective on Palin.

so..... there's much that should be added, or at least disseminated. but this was going to be about optimism, and I'm still feeling pretty good.

Because I didn't have a blog when the POW thing was going down hardcore

2008-09-11T20:29:00.000-04:00

Although I never thought it would come to this, I think after all the interviews, references, ads, and temper tantrums, I now understand that being a prisoner of war (and especially, not having a table) is the greatest preparation for being president. ever. Who would have known that being "starved, beaten, tortured, and maimed for life" would actually prepare a man to preach the gospel of foreign policy and lead the country rationally, when many would conjecture that so many years of the same would cause "lasting psychological trauma"?

Last afterthought: if you missed John Kerry's speech at the DNC, you missed the trump card. As I was watching MSNBC the next morning covering Clinton's speech, you could hear him and the cheers in the background. They skipped over the best speech of the night. Not that Bill's speech didn't offer the essential quotes to round out the evening of acclamation. Kerry was on point! And he makes a great point about the two McCains. Young McCain = guilty pleasure of Daily Show fans. Old and Prickly McCain = would "make Cheney look like Ghandi."

The One... story about Sarah Palin that I got all riled up about with no one to talk to

2008-09-11T20:19:00.000-04:00

Of all the stories getting attention, then getting fact-checked, and remaining in some spotlight (the AP tells me what the world follows) about Sarah Palin, I'm surprised that this piece, via feministing, hasn't entered the arena.

While she was mayor of Wasilla, victims of sexual assault were charged ($300-$1200) for the rape kits at the hospital/clinic. Someone on opedna commented that Illinois also did. Some research from other readers unearthed that Illinois actually has coverage for up to $27,000 for rape victims, insured or not, for care- and they'll never even get a bill. Guess which Senator running for prez was behind that?
Read on... http://opedna.com/2008/09/08/wasilla-police-billed-sexual-assault-victims-for-rape-kits/
and about the Illinois part: http://opedna.com/2008/09/09/important-updates-to-wasilla-police-billed-sexual-assault-victims-for-their-own-rape-kits/

Articles I'm Reading This Morning

2008-09-11T12:45:00.000-04:00

This is my first blog post. Very exciting.

The impetus to start the blog, however, was a whole bunch of news that got me all worked up.

Not a Homeowner Anymore? We Think You Shouldn't Vote!

Sometimes even reading how "factually challenged" the GOP was at the RNC can be frustrating.

Paul Farmer talked with Amy Goodman about Haiti. thanks for the link Tida!

And I just found this one, written by Laura McGann about Palin and Alaska. Haven't finished it, and it's a couple days old, but I've been waiting for it.

Back to work!