The movie, "A Walk In the Woods", based on the book by Bill Bryson, was recently released in theaters.
I have quite the love/hate relationship with Bryson's story.
I have given the book to others as a gift at least half a dozen times and have recommended it as a "must read" many times more.
I have given the book to others as a gift at least half a dozen times and have recommended it as a "must read" many times more.
I, personally, read the tale nearly twenty years ago while living on Cape Cod. It is an incredibly funny story of two friends who made the decision to hike the legendary Appalachian Trail together.
No book has made me laugh more deeply nor caused me to believe, more incorrectly, myself capable of performing a monumental feat.
After reading the book, I actually thought myself capable of hiking the portion of The Trail which winded its way through the State in which I resided. I had no doubt that I was capable of traveling the span of trail that stretched from the New Hampshire border, through Massachusetts, to Connecticut.
No book has made me laugh more deeply nor caused me to believe, more incorrectly, myself capable of performing a monumental feat.
After reading the book, I actually thought myself capable of hiking the portion of The Trail which winded its way through the State in which I resided. I had no doubt that I was capable of traveling the span of trail that stretched from the New Hampshire border, through Massachusetts, to Connecticut.
"A Walk In the Woods" was, in the written form, what HGTV's DIY shows are in the visual- a concept based on the horrific lie that a mere mortal, such as myself, is capable of completing a task that, in reality, can only be accomplished by seasoned professionals- and they only with the assistance of stuntmen and a huge support staff.
While at work and on break one afternoon, I was overtaken by a fit of laughter at Bryson's account of being forced to sleep in the bunkhouse of an emergency shelter in North Carolina when a snowstorm closed The Trail.
Those of us who have shared public mattresses in the military, at summer camp, while in jail for the weekend or by whatever sequence of events found us standing in front of the bare, blue striped sleeping cushions are all too familiar with the inevitable stains left by those who bunked before.
Bryson's account, "It seemed that the person who had used the mattress before me did not so much suffer from incontinence as rejoiced in it," rang so true that the break room soon rang with my laughter.
Tim, a slightly older, rather out of shape supervisor, took note and asked me what was so funny.
I told him about the story and he became sufficiently intrigued that he borrowed the book when I had completed it. After reading it, he said to me, "The experience sounds incredible. Let's hike the Massachusetts section this Fall!"
I told him about the story and he became sufficiently intrigued that he borrowed the book when I had completed it. After reading it, he said to me, "The experience sounds incredible. Let's hike the Massachusetts section this Fall!"
I, never one to apply good sense nor practical judgement when the option to do something completely ridiculous is an option, enthusiastically agreed.
I was so excited about the idea that I shared it with my friend, Mike, who, without even a moment's hesitation nor the benefit of having read Bryson's tale, signed on for the trek, as well.
I was thrilled at the idea of having Mike join us as, to be quite honest, I had reservations about Tim's ability to keep up for even the first day, much less complete the 7 day, nearly one hundred mile journey through hill and dell, over the rivers and through the woods.
While I recognized that Tim was a bit on the plump side, I was, somehow, totally oblivious to the fact that I had packed on nearly 50lbs myself in the three years since leaving the Navy.
That I had gone up four pants sizes while engaged in a life of leisure and physically undemanding government work did absolutely nothing to change my perception that I was a lean, mean fighting machine.
That such a perception of myself was altogether inaccurate, even during the period when I was in reasonable shape, likewise, did not factor into my own sense of reality.
That such a perception of myself was altogether inaccurate, even during the period when I was in reasonable shape, likewise, did not factor into my own sense of reality.
I warned Mike that Tim would most certainly be a detriment to our own walk in the woods. Such a realization prompted Mike to look over the trail map and find several towns not too far off the beaten path at which we could discharge Tim when the task of continuing on became too much for him.
With the plan in place to offload Tim the moment he could no longer hang with us, Mike and I began our own preparations.
Tim, much to the relief of Mike and myself, took the exertion and demands that The Trail would require of us quite seriously. His preparation included loading rocks into a back pack and walking five miles to work several times during the weeks before the hike.
Mike and I, meanwhile, took slightly different preparation routes.
I am, by nature, a worrier and nervous type. Such was evidenced the year prior (1999) when I dug an outhouse in the yard of my rental property and learned to turn salt water (of which the Cape Cod Bay held a plentiful supply) into potable water through a simple steam condensation process using a coffee can, a campfire and a large pot. I had also stockpiled cases of Spam because, vegetarian or not, the potential tragedy we faced on the eve of Y2K called for preparedness, including but not limited to, such drastic measures as eating what may or may not actually be meat.
Mike, who is of the mindset that the very best that money can buy is only marginally adequate, purchased hiking shoes that practically did the walking for the hiker, a backpack and personal gear that would have made those scaling the Himalayas envious and a tent that, while weighing less than two bird feathers, was reported to be able to withstand the heat of Death Valley, the cold of the Antarctic or the winds of a tropical monsoon.
I, a stickler for hydration and totally phobic of germs or even dirt, purchased a special straw with a built in filtration system that would enable a person to suck water from a mud hole on one end and swallow water that was fresher than that sourced from a mountain stream on the other.
The Trail crossed actual mountain streams regularly, of course, but my research indicated that mountain water was anything but pure.
In truth, mountain streams are, at very best, "iffy". I intuitively knew this before the days of the Internet and its ability to add worries galore to my arsenal of things to fret about.
During my brief, one month tenure as a Boy Scout, I completed a hike through the mountains with my troop.
It was a hot summer evening and the Scout Leader insisted that we all drink from a narrow stream that gurgled up beside the trail. I was skeptical of drinking from the water source as I had turned over enough creek rocks to know that crawdads and, much worse, slimy salamanders made their home beneath the water's surface.
When I hesitated, the Grand PooBah of the pack told me that the pebbles acted as a natural filtration system and that the flowing water was as pure as any which I'd ever find.
I was skeptical but thirsty so I trusted and followed his lead and did drink.
We resumed our hike and immediately turned a corner on the path. We all came to a grinding halt at the sight that lay ahead. There, not 20 away feet from the point where we had imbibed, lay the bloated carcass of an opossum.
Its dead body doing the very opposite of filtering the water that passed through its corpse.
The other boys began laughing and poking the rotting creature with a stick.
The Scout Leader, meanwhile, turned to look at me. I imagine that his face held a look of apology but I was unable to see clearly as I was doubled over, vomiting into the bushes.
While a dead animal steeping in the water only a few feet from the potential drinking source may be an anomaly, the presence of bacteria is most certainly, not. My research indicate that virtually all mountain water sources contain Giardia.
Initially, the name sounds absolutely delightful, bringing delicious chocolates to mind. Giardia and Ghiardellia, though, could not be more different.
Giardia bacteria, once consumed, immediately get to work in the gut of their host and, in very short order, produce bouts of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea, often simultaneously.
To face either, and particularly the latter, even while in the comfort of my own home with absolutely no plans for the day, is horrific to imagine. To face such on a public trail is beyond mortifying.
In addition to water, there was the need for a way in which to transport the gear necessary for trail survival. Unlike Mike, I take the approach that free, or at least deeply discounted, supplies are perfectly acceptable.
I was fortunate enough to have another coworker whose 12 year old, Cub Scout son had outgrown the usefulness of his current back pack and the kid's castaway satchel was offered to me to use on The Trail.
The bag was much more suited to the frame of a prepubescent boy to use on a day hike than to a grown, more than somewhat overweight man to use on a week's mountain journey, but it was free!
Now that I had mud hole drinking straw and a child's back pack, I began my search for food.
As a former National Guardsman, I was more than a little familiar with military Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs, the food of choice for those in the field. MREs consist of dehydrated sponges that, when water is added, change into some sort of food, be it meatloaf, spaghetti or strawberry shortcake.
I was delighted to stumble upon a case of MREs at the local Big Lots store, where items that have failed to sell in absolutely any other venue, get one more chance at purchase on the eve of their expiration date. I had almost a full week post hike before those rations, which were most probably packed sometime during the Korean War, were set to expire. I bought the entire case.
I turned to Ebay, still in its infancy at the time, to purchase a used tent. It weighed several pounds but it was cheap and, unlike Mike's one man shelter, could accommodate three other campers who were willing to risk going bump in the night.
Having secured food, shelter, a magical drinking straw and a free backpack, I visited a hiking store to purchase boots. The choices ranged from those comparable to Mike's "do the walking for you" brand to multipurpose hiking and snow shoveling boots. Being ever practical, if nonsensical, I chose the dual purpose pair. They weighed several pounds but I counted the added weight that would be on my feet as providing the benefit of strengthening my calves. I had little doubt that the week in the woods would leave me thinner and with legs of steel.
The salesman at the store, himself a hiker who had completed the portion of Trail which was my goal, tried to persuade me to go with a lighter pair and also cautioned me that our goal of hiking the required 13 miles per day in order to meet the distance and time frame that made up our plan, was more that a little ambitious.
I, though, deaf to warnings and suspicious of an attempted up-sale, disregarded his nay saying.
While covering the distance of a half-marathon was, perhaps, ambitious I knew it would be absolutely, if not easily, attainable as we had nothing to do all day long other than to walk.
The only potential obstacle to the goal, in my estimation, was Tim. With planned points at which we could abandon him along the way, though, I wasn't overly concerned with the impediment that he presented.
Just days before the long anticipated start of the hike, Jo-Ann had a family emergency back in Virginia and had to return home. She planned to return the day after our start date. Mike and I decided to simply delay the hike by a day and make up the distance by covering 15 miles per day once in the woods.
Tim opted to go on his own the night before the start of the actual hike, to back hike from the closest Massachusetts town to the New Hampshire border, camp there over night, and start the hike precisely at the New Hampshire state line. Mike and I would simply cut off the five miles of the back hike, start at the nearest town to the border and catch up, quickly to Tim along the route. That, assuming that Tim didn't call it quits as soon as he had made it back to the town at which his car was parked.
Once Jo-Ann's plane had touched down at Boston's Logan Airport, with reasonable assurance she would soon be home to care for the dogs, Mike and I hopped into the truck and began the five hour drive to the Trail head.
We stopped at a small town cafe along the way and had breakfast. We would be on The Trail for the next six days, subsisting only on what we carried on our backs, so I took full advantage of the "last meal", eating all of the pancakes, eggs, hash browns and toast that I could hold.
We arrived at The Trail mid-morning an began readying or gear. It was then that I realized that all my prepping for ways to overcome contaminated water, had been for naught. I had, in my rush to get out of the house, left not only my magic mud hole straw behind but also my two canteens.
With few choices available to me, I went into the local IGA grocery store, bought a couple of 1 liter Rubbermaid containers, filled them with water from the bathroom sink and put them into the leg pockets of my cargo pants. If the heavy shoes did nothing to strengthen my calves, it was apparent that the weighted, bulky and awkward water bottles would.
I then hoisted my tiny back pack, which was almost ripping at the seams from the 40lbs I had stuffed into its 30lb rated capacity, onto my shoulders for the very first time.
If not for the solid weight of the water bottles in my pockets keeping my anchored, I am certain I would have toppled over backwards. That 40lbs could feel so heavy upon my back was mind boggling and a bit concerning to me as I had nearly 100 miles to travel and I was having trouble even staying sufficiently balanced to take the first step.
Mike gave me a push, activated the hover rockets on his boots, set the anti-gravity gauge on his own backpack, and we were off.
After a few feet of stumbling, I got into the rhythm of walking along the sidewalk with my back pitched at a 45 degree backward angle.
Once off the pavement, things became a bit more difficult. I had to grasp tree trunks, tree branches, Mike's ankles as he levitated along the trail, whatever I could grab to assist me in inching forward rather than rolling backwards.
Mike found a couple of sticks for each of us and, with the makeshift trekking poles in hand, we made progress upwards. Slow, painful progress.
After an hour, we reached our first road crossing up the mountain. By up the mountain, I mean perhaps 1/4 mile from where we had begun our hike.
We crossed the road and immediately lost sight of the white blazes painted upon trees to mark the route. We did, though, come upon a wide path that was, obviously, the way to continue on. Shortly after walking down the path, we came upon a gate with a sign which read, "NO TRESPASSING". We were convinced that the sign only pertained to non-Trail hikers, went around the gate and continued on for roughly a mile before the trail ended at an enormous reservoir which supplied Giardia laden water to the town below.
We turned, and hiked the mile back to the road. More than two hours into our hike we reached the road again, a point at which we could have yelled and been heard at the starting point of our hike. We, though, had no breath left to yell.
We continued down the road, relocated the white blazes and made our way down a narrow path and back into the woods. The Trail went downhill for just long enough to come upon a swampy area. I was reluctant to get my new boots muddy but there was simply no way to successfully navigate the wooden beams, which were more suited to a world class gymnast to perform upon than to me, lugging a heavy pack and water buckets in my pocket. My boots became horribly soiled and my socks completely soaked with barely a mile's progress into the hike made.
At last, the swamp ended and we were, once again, trodding uphill.
I was more than a little surprised at how quickly I became exhausted and completely out of breath. I began to count steps and required a set amount before allowing myself to pause for a rest. Initially, 100 steps were necessary before I stopped. All too soon, though, I was only forcing myself through 10 paces before stooping over, holding tight to a tree lest I slide into reverse and gasping for air.
The belt of my back pack had ridden up to mid-stomach level. My stomach's girth spilled out, both beneath and over the top of the belt.
Mike suggested that I might breathe better if I undid the strap for a bit. I did so and immediately realized that the constriction provided by the belt was all that had been keeping the morning's enormous breakfast down.
No sooner had the belt been unbuckled than I was retching into the bushes, not unlike one who had just become acquainted with Giardia nor unlike I done two decades previously when sighting the 'possum in the stream.
Much in the wilderness, I have discovered, leads to personal bouts of vomiting.
I glanced over at Mike, between my convulsions, to see him snapping photos with the high dollar camera which he had purchased to document the trip. We would, in the days ahead, see little worth capturing on film but he did manage to capture shots of me spewing breakfast potatoes in high resolution.
Feeling oddly better following my purge, we continued to the summit of the first hill.
We arrived precisely 4 hours behind schedule and accepted that we would never make the first designated campsite by nightfall. A Trail lodge was another three miles up the mountain and our hope became, simply, to make it to that shelter.
We fully expected to catch up to poor Tim prior to the lodge and were a bit surprised to have not already done so.
With mere moments of daylight left, we reached the cloud covered peak where the lodge was located.
We went inside, explained our situation to the Ranger and were granted authorization to spend the night in the emergency shelter, which consisted simply of some concrete slab picnic benches beneath a covered but open air pavilion.
During the night, I became very happy to have a roof over me as the rain, which would fall for the duration of our trip, began to pour down.
The next morning we awakened, more sore than I had ever been at any point in my life, ate indisguishable MRE rations, filled the Rubbermaid water containers with rust colored water from the hose on the side of the shelter, reloaded the packs and started down the mountain in high hopes of reaching another shelter by nightfall.
Surprisingly, the downhill section between ridges was equally as difficult as the uphill portion had been. Staying upright became an even greater challenge as I leaned backwards while flailing downhill.
The back pack, not the least bit waterproof, became even heavier as the clothes inside became soaked.
I had packed clothing as if every night would present social opportunities that would require a change of attire rather than realizing that I would have neither the occasion, the will nor the strength to change clothes even once during the journey.
Shortly after beginning the day's hike, we came upon a small cocktail umbrella littering the trail. I would have carried it out had I been able to accomodate the extra weight. I knew, though, that I could not.
I was encouraged, though, at simply seeing a sign that other humans had crossed the area previously, evidently, with mixed drinks in tow.
We made our way, eventually, to the top of a crest with a designated scenic overlook. At the overlook was also the first Hiker Journal, into which hiking liars could make log entries about how glorious their journey had been. Mike and I looked in the book and found one such entry made the day previously,
Hey, Shawn and Mike,
Isn't this fantastic? Having the time of my life!
See ya soon!
Tim
Mike and I groaned and headed back to The Trail.
About a mile into our resumed journey, having stopped numerous times to squat down, rest the bottom of the backpack on one of the craggy rocks and push it upward to provide, if but for a wondrous moment, some relief to my blistered, raw and weary shoulders, we happened upon yet another tiny cocktail umbrella.
"Some litterbugs were certainly having quite the Trail party, drinking and tossing their little umbrellas" I remarked to Mike who was trailing a bit behind me.
After progressing a few weary steps forward with no response from Mike, I turned to see him staring at the tiny drink ornament.
"It's the same one," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"It's not a different one. It's the same," Mike said again, his voice sounding forlorn as my innards felt panicked and defeated in the midst of absolutely nowhere. Giardia or not, I feared that my worst trail nightmare was going to occur.
"What?" I asked again.
Mike: "It's the same umbrella."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "Not different. The same."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "We went the wrong way when we left the overlook."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "We have backtracked for an hour."
Me:"What?"
As the only word which I felt capable of speaking, hung in the air, Mike turned and, in spite of his magical boots, dragged his feet as he headed back up the mountain.
Not knowing what else to do nor say, I cried out, "Mike!?"
Mike, "What?"
Me: "What?!"
Then, with little else in the way of options, I followed.
The rain continued to fall, packs became heavier as the contents became even more waterlogged and moods soured.
Mike nor I spoke for the next miles, which is to say for the next couple hours or so at the pace to which we had been reduced.
Eventually, we reached a level valley and came upon a large lake. The sight would have, no doubt, been beautiful to those anyone who was not Mike nor I.
It was a peaceful setting, fog draping the water, the only sound the geese that honked to one another from the water's surface or the birds singing in the trees. I loathed that those feathered creatures could be so happy while I felt so miserable.
The water would have provided a much needed source of hydration for those who had not forgotten their filter straws or who were mercifully ignorant of the threat of that nasty Giardia that I was certain lurked in every inch of the pool just itching for the opportunity to throw my tumbly into a rumbly.
The lake was not a welcome and serene sight for two such weary travelers. It was an obstacle that had to be circumvented.
From my standpoint, a repeat circumcision would have been preferable to a circumvention at that moment so we, in much need of rest after having not taken a break in nearly five minutes, made our way to the small dock which held yet another hiker's log.
We found, in large happy letters, a note to us from Tim,
Shawn and Mike!
"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!
Catch up and we'll share stories over a campfire tonight."
We would not be catching up to Tim, neither before nightfall nor at any time in the near future. The entry was made on the previous day. If anything, Tim was ahead of schedule. I hated Tim.
Mike and I returned to our silent trudging forward and, as nightfall approached, we made our way from the woods and found ourselves at a small country road. Across the road was a three step platform emblazoned with the white Trail marker.
The platform was built so that hikers could make their way over the fence and into the pasture where the pathway continued. Into a pasture filled with bulls.
Perhaps they were actually cows My vision was too blurred from fatigue and near faint, to examine anything closely other than the fact that platform, with its three steps, was completely insurmountable in my current state.
Other than mumbling how much I despised Tim under my breath several times, I hadn't spoken in quite some time and I now dreaded to speak the truth to Mike: There was no way I could climb that platform.
Fortunately, Mike spoke first and said, "There is absolutely no way I can climb that platform."
Rather than speaking, I removed my kiddie pack and collapsed beside the steps. Mike was soon in a miserable heap beside me.
I suspect we were both hoping a car would happen by and a driver would take pity. Cars, though, were as scarce on The Trail as were happy thoughts.
Eventually, we rolled onto all fours, grasped the rail of the platform, pulled ourselves upright, tossed the bags over the fence, although mine snagged and hung on the top rail as I had not enough strength to clear the four feet high hurdle.
Using the railing, we slowly and painfully pulled ourselves up the flight of stairs and bracing ourselves with the railing, descended the steps on the other side.
The bovines, of whatever sex, chewed their cuds and ignored us entirely. I suspect they were accustomed to seeing hikers cross their field. I silently hoped that a stampede would form and run me over, freeing me from the misery of the hike.
Unfortunately but not surprisingly, luck was not on my side and I made it to the far side of the field untrampled.
We were not totally without fortune, though, as the far side of the field had a swinging gate.
The two of us, mustering most of our remaining strength, pushed the freely moving gate open and headed down the dirt road to a larger road that was on the outskirts of a town.
The only business visible was a septic cleaning company and, as I had collapsed yet again, Mike left me to guard the bags and headed to the sewer folks to ask about any lodging that might be available as we were certainly in no condition to continue to the campground where dear old Tim had spent the night before.
Mike came back and said, "There is a hotel and a B&B in town."
Me: "Which is closer?"
Mike: "I don't know."
Me: "In which direction are they?"
Mike: "I don't know."
I left Mike to guard the bags as I made my way to the sewer folks to ask about lodging that might be available in town.
As a testament to how badly I looked, I walked in and the man who made a living cleaning sewage said, "You are an absolute mess. You must be with that other fella who was just in here."
"I am," I acknowledged and then pleaded, "Can you help us?"
"I'm just getting off from work," he said. "I pass the B&B on my way home. I'll drop you gents off."
With the same amount of effort which I imagine is required of one during their last few steps at the apex of Everest, I climbed into the truck.
We drove by and picked up Mike. The sewage man, a precious soul, loaded our bags into the truck and dropped us off at the front door of the B&B.
We knocked, hoping that there would be room at the Inn,
There was a room. It was on the second floor. I would have, out of necessity, refused it had I any other option, I simply doubted that I had yet another stair climb in me.
Mike grabbed the rail and pulled himself upward, planting one foot onto a step where the other foot then joined it. After gaining his balance, he hoisted both feet, one at a time, onto the next step and repeated the process until he was at the top.
I had not nearly so much grace nor strength in me as did Mike so I returned to the crawling stance and began my ascent upwards.
The Innkeeper, her husband and several guests gathered around the base of the grand staircase to watch the pitiful show which I provided.
Little more than half way up, the Tupperware water container slipped from my pocket, tumbled down the steps, spilling water along the way.
The Innkeeper, with an obvious look of second thoughts at having permitted us into her home, said, "Go, I'll clean it up."
I loved her as much as I despised Tim.
Mike had already showered and was snoring by the time, I reached the room.
I contemplated skipping the shower and just curling up in the fetal position on the floor but I persevered, showered in water that wasn't rain for a change and then slept more soundly than at any point in my life.
The next morning, we were awakened by a rap at the door and the announcement that, if we were still amongst the living, breakfast was ready.
Encouraged by the sound of laughter from guests rather than groans from ourselves and enticed by the smells of non-MRE rations, we made our way down to the buffet table.
Much as rescued castaways or as one anticipating a week long hike with nothing but MREs to eat, we began shoveling eggs, pancakes, berries, coffee and such in as fast as it could be served.
The other guests tried to include us in conversation but, with only grunts and nods from the two of us, they finally found the good table manners to let two hungry men eat.
When we finally leaned back and caught our breath, the Lord of the Manor asked, "Do you two plan to continue on or would you like a ride back to your car?"
I had mentioned to him the previous evening that our journey started near the state line and was humbled by his generous offer to drive us such a distance.
I told him we couldn't possibly impose upon him to such a degree.
He responded, "It's not a problem, really. The town where you fellas started is just a twenty minute drive."
"Twenty minutes?!" I exclaimed. "That can't be right. We've been walking for two days!"
"Two day walk across the mountain, well for you gents anyway, but only a twenty minute drive around the base."
The realization that we were totally whipped after covering a distance that could be completed by car quicker than my tent could have been pitched had it ever been removed from my pack, totally stripped me of any hope that our goal would actually be accomplished.
I looked at Mike and said, "I want to go home."
"Me, too," he replied.
With that, dollar bills were swapped amongst guests. Wagers had been placed before our arrival at the table as to whether or not we would continue on.
I couldn't even feel sorry for the idiots who believed in us.
We made it back home and I returned to work a few days ahead of schedule. Right on schedule, though, Tim made his victorious appearance.
"What happened?" he asked. "I kept waiting for you guys to catch up."
Since we had not ever caught up, Tim and Mike had never actually met and I had no reason to believe that they ever would. Therefore, no matter how shameful it was, I did the only thing which I could do if I were to continue to work alongside Tim, I put the blame squarely and wholly on Mike.
"Mike," I said, "he just couldn't do it. By day two he had completely given up. I couldn't leave him, you know."
"That's a shame," Tim said. "Next year, though," he continued, "you and me and the Trail! New Hampshire border to the finish at Katahdin, Maine!"
"Absolutely!" I responded with false enthusiasm and immediately submitted paperwork for a transfer to rural Ohio where the land is flat and the only challenging hikes are through the fall corn mazes.
The Trail crossed actual mountain streams regularly, of course, but my research indicated that mountain water was anything but pure.
In truth, mountain streams are, at very best, "iffy". I intuitively knew this before the days of the Internet and its ability to add worries galore to my arsenal of things to fret about.
During my brief, one month tenure as a Boy Scout, I completed a hike through the mountains with my troop.
It was a hot summer evening and the Scout Leader insisted that we all drink from a narrow stream that gurgled up beside the trail. I was skeptical of drinking from the water source as I had turned over enough creek rocks to know that crawdads and, much worse, slimy salamanders made their home beneath the water's surface.
When I hesitated, the Grand PooBah of the pack told me that the pebbles acted as a natural filtration system and that the flowing water was as pure as any which I'd ever find.
I was skeptical but thirsty so I trusted and followed his lead and did drink.
We resumed our hike and immediately turned a corner on the path. We all came to a grinding halt at the sight that lay ahead. There, not 20 away feet from the point where we had imbibed, lay the bloated carcass of an opossum.
Its dead body doing the very opposite of filtering the water that passed through its corpse.
The other boys began laughing and poking the rotting creature with a stick.
The Scout Leader, meanwhile, turned to look at me. I imagine that his face held a look of apology but I was unable to see clearly as I was doubled over, vomiting into the bushes.
While a dead animal steeping in the water only a few feet from the potential drinking source may be an anomaly, the presence of bacteria is most certainly, not. My research indicate that virtually all mountain water sources contain Giardia.
Initially, the name sounds absolutely delightful, bringing delicious chocolates to mind. Giardia and Ghiardellia, though, could not be more different.
Giardia bacteria, once consumed, immediately get to work in the gut of their host and, in very short order, produce bouts of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea, often simultaneously.
To face either, and particularly the latter, even while in the comfort of my own home with absolutely no plans for the day, is horrific to imagine. To face such on a public trail is beyond mortifying.
In addition to water, there was the need for a way in which to transport the gear necessary for trail survival. Unlike Mike, I take the approach that free, or at least deeply discounted, supplies are perfectly acceptable.
I was fortunate enough to have another coworker whose 12 year old, Cub Scout son had outgrown the usefulness of his current back pack and the kid's castaway satchel was offered to me to use on The Trail.
The bag was much more suited to the frame of a prepubescent boy to use on a day hike than to a grown, more than somewhat overweight man to use on a week's mountain journey, but it was free!
Now that I had mud hole drinking straw and a child's back pack, I began my search for food.
As a former National Guardsman, I was more than a little familiar with military Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs, the food of choice for those in the field. MREs consist of dehydrated sponges that, when water is added, change into some sort of food, be it meatloaf, spaghetti or strawberry shortcake.
I was delighted to stumble upon a case of MREs at the local Big Lots store, where items that have failed to sell in absolutely any other venue, get one more chance at purchase on the eve of their expiration date. I had almost a full week post hike before those rations, which were most probably packed sometime during the Korean War, were set to expire. I bought the entire case.
I turned to Ebay, still in its infancy at the time, to purchase a used tent. It weighed several pounds but it was cheap and, unlike Mike's one man shelter, could accommodate three other campers who were willing to risk going bump in the night.
Having secured food, shelter, a magical drinking straw and a free backpack, I visited a hiking store to purchase boots. The choices ranged from those comparable to Mike's "do the walking for you" brand to multipurpose hiking and snow shoveling boots. Being ever practical, if nonsensical, I chose the dual purpose pair. They weighed several pounds but I counted the added weight that would be on my feet as providing the benefit of strengthening my calves. I had little doubt that the week in the woods would leave me thinner and with legs of steel.
The salesman at the store, himself a hiker who had completed the portion of Trail which was my goal, tried to persuade me to go with a lighter pair and also cautioned me that our goal of hiking the required 13 miles per day in order to meet the distance and time frame that made up our plan, was more that a little ambitious.
I, though, deaf to warnings and suspicious of an attempted up-sale, disregarded his nay saying.
While covering the distance of a half-marathon was, perhaps, ambitious I knew it would be absolutely, if not easily, attainable as we had nothing to do all day long other than to walk.
The only potential obstacle to the goal, in my estimation, was Tim. With planned points at which we could abandon him along the way, though, I wasn't overly concerned with the impediment that he presented.
Just days before the long anticipated start of the hike, Jo-Ann had a family emergency back in Virginia and had to return home. She planned to return the day after our start date. Mike and I decided to simply delay the hike by a day and make up the distance by covering 15 miles per day once in the woods.
Tim opted to go on his own the night before the start of the actual hike, to back hike from the closest Massachusetts town to the New Hampshire border, camp there over night, and start the hike precisely at the New Hampshire state line. Mike and I would simply cut off the five miles of the back hike, start at the nearest town to the border and catch up, quickly to Tim along the route. That, assuming that Tim didn't call it quits as soon as he had made it back to the town at which his car was parked.
Once Jo-Ann's plane had touched down at Boston's Logan Airport, with reasonable assurance she would soon be home to care for the dogs, Mike and I hopped into the truck and began the five hour drive to the Trail head.
We stopped at a small town cafe along the way and had breakfast. We would be on The Trail for the next six days, subsisting only on what we carried on our backs, so I took full advantage of the "last meal", eating all of the pancakes, eggs, hash browns and toast that I could hold.
With few choices available to me, I went into the local IGA grocery store, bought a couple of 1 liter Rubbermaid containers, filled them with water from the bathroom sink and put them into the leg pockets of my cargo pants. If the heavy shoes did nothing to strengthen my calves, it was apparent that the weighted, bulky and awkward water bottles would.
I then hoisted my tiny back pack, which was almost ripping at the seams from the 40lbs I had stuffed into its 30lb rated capacity, onto my shoulders for the very first time.
If not for the solid weight of the water bottles in my pockets keeping my anchored, I am certain I would have toppled over backwards. That 40lbs could feel so heavy upon my back was mind boggling and a bit concerning to me as I had nearly 100 miles to travel and I was having trouble even staying sufficiently balanced to take the first step.
Mike gave me a push, activated the hover rockets on his boots, set the anti-gravity gauge on his own backpack, and we were off.
After a few feet of stumbling, I got into the rhythm of walking along the sidewalk with my back pitched at a 45 degree backward angle.
Once off the pavement, things became a bit more difficult. I had to grasp tree trunks, tree branches, Mike's ankles as he levitated along the trail, whatever I could grab to assist me in inching forward rather than rolling backwards.
Mike found a couple of sticks for each of us and, with the makeshift trekking poles in hand, we made progress upwards. Slow, painful progress.
After an hour, we reached our first road crossing up the mountain. By up the mountain, I mean perhaps 1/4 mile from where we had begun our hike.
We crossed the road and immediately lost sight of the white blazes painted upon trees to mark the route. We did, though, come upon a wide path that was, obviously, the way to continue on. Shortly after walking down the path, we came upon a gate with a sign which read, "NO TRESPASSING". We were convinced that the sign only pertained to non-Trail hikers, went around the gate and continued on for roughly a mile before the trail ended at an enormous reservoir which supplied Giardia laden water to the town below.
We turned, and hiked the mile back to the road. More than two hours into our hike we reached the road again, a point at which we could have yelled and been heard at the starting point of our hike. We, though, had no breath left to yell.
We continued down the road, relocated the white blazes and made our way down a narrow path and back into the woods. The Trail went downhill for just long enough to come upon a swampy area. I was reluctant to get my new boots muddy but there was simply no way to successfully navigate the wooden beams, which were more suited to a world class gymnast to perform upon than to me, lugging a heavy pack and water buckets in my pocket. My boots became horribly soiled and my socks completely soaked with barely a mile's progress into the hike made.
At last, the swamp ended and we were, once again, trodding uphill.
I was more than a little surprised at how quickly I became exhausted and completely out of breath. I began to count steps and required a set amount before allowing myself to pause for a rest. Initially, 100 steps were necessary before I stopped. All too soon, though, I was only forcing myself through 10 paces before stooping over, holding tight to a tree lest I slide into reverse and gasping for air.
The belt of my back pack had ridden up to mid-stomach level. My stomach's girth spilled out, both beneath and over the top of the belt.
Mike suggested that I might breathe better if I undid the strap for a bit. I did so and immediately realized that the constriction provided by the belt was all that had been keeping the morning's enormous breakfast down.
No sooner had the belt been unbuckled than I was retching into the bushes, not unlike one who had just become acquainted with Giardia nor unlike I done two decades previously when sighting the 'possum in the stream.
Much in the wilderness, I have discovered, leads to personal bouts of vomiting.
I glanced over at Mike, between my convulsions, to see him snapping photos with the high dollar camera which he had purchased to document the trip. We would, in the days ahead, see little worth capturing on film but he did manage to capture shots of me spewing breakfast potatoes in high resolution.
Feeling oddly better following my purge, we continued to the summit of the first hill.
We arrived precisely 4 hours behind schedule and accepted that we would never make the first designated campsite by nightfall. A Trail lodge was another three miles up the mountain and our hope became, simply, to make it to that shelter.
We fully expected to catch up to poor Tim prior to the lodge and were a bit surprised to have not already done so.
With mere moments of daylight left, we reached the cloud covered peak where the lodge was located.
We went inside, explained our situation to the Ranger and were granted authorization to spend the night in the emergency shelter, which consisted simply of some concrete slab picnic benches beneath a covered but open air pavilion.
During the night, I became very happy to have a roof over me as the rain, which would fall for the duration of our trip, began to pour down.
The next morning we awakened, more sore than I had ever been at any point in my life, ate indisguishable MRE rations, filled the Rubbermaid water containers with rust colored water from the hose on the side of the shelter, reloaded the packs and started down the mountain in high hopes of reaching another shelter by nightfall.
Surprisingly, the downhill section between ridges was equally as difficult as the uphill portion had been. Staying upright became an even greater challenge as I leaned backwards while flailing downhill.
The back pack, not the least bit waterproof, became even heavier as the clothes inside became soaked.
I had packed clothing as if every night would present social opportunities that would require a change of attire rather than realizing that I would have neither the occasion, the will nor the strength to change clothes even once during the journey.
Shortly after beginning the day's hike, we came upon a small cocktail umbrella littering the trail. I would have carried it out had I been able to accomodate the extra weight. I knew, though, that I could not.
I was encouraged, though, at simply seeing a sign that other humans had crossed the area previously, evidently, with mixed drinks in tow.
We made our way, eventually, to the top of a crest with a designated scenic overlook. At the overlook was also the first Hiker Journal, into which hiking liars could make log entries about how glorious their journey had been. Mike and I looked in the book and found one such entry made the day previously,
Hey, Shawn and Mike,
Isn't this fantastic? Having the time of my life!
See ya soon!
Tim
Mike and I groaned and headed back to The Trail.
About a mile into our resumed journey, having stopped numerous times to squat down, rest the bottom of the backpack on one of the craggy rocks and push it upward to provide, if but for a wondrous moment, some relief to my blistered, raw and weary shoulders, we happened upon yet another tiny cocktail umbrella.
"Some litterbugs were certainly having quite the Trail party, drinking and tossing their little umbrellas" I remarked to Mike who was trailing a bit behind me.
After progressing a few weary steps forward with no response from Mike, I turned to see him staring at the tiny drink ornament.
"It's the same one," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"It's not a different one. It's the same," Mike said again, his voice sounding forlorn as my innards felt panicked and defeated in the midst of absolutely nowhere. Giardia or not, I feared that my worst trail nightmare was going to occur.
"What?" I asked again.
Mike: "It's the same umbrella."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "Not different. The same."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "We went the wrong way when we left the overlook."
Me: "What?"
Mike: "We have backtracked for an hour."
Me:"What?"
As the only word which I felt capable of speaking, hung in the air, Mike turned and, in spite of his magical boots, dragged his feet as he headed back up the mountain.
Not knowing what else to do nor say, I cried out, "Mike!?"
Mike, "What?"
Me: "What?!"
Then, with little else in the way of options, I followed.
The rain continued to fall, packs became heavier as the contents became even more waterlogged and moods soured.
Mike nor I spoke for the next miles, which is to say for the next couple hours or so at the pace to which we had been reduced.
Eventually, we reached a level valley and came upon a large lake. The sight would have, no doubt, been beautiful to those anyone who was not Mike nor I.
It was a peaceful setting, fog draping the water, the only sound the geese that honked to one another from the water's surface or the birds singing in the trees. I loathed that those feathered creatures could be so happy while I felt so miserable.
The water would have provided a much needed source of hydration for those who had not forgotten their filter straws or who were mercifully ignorant of the threat of that nasty Giardia that I was certain lurked in every inch of the pool just itching for the opportunity to throw my tumbly into a rumbly.
The lake was not a welcome and serene sight for two such weary travelers. It was an obstacle that had to be circumvented.
From my standpoint, a repeat circumcision would have been preferable to a circumvention at that moment so we, in much need of rest after having not taken a break in nearly five minutes, made our way to the small dock which held yet another hiker's log.
We found, in large happy letters, a note to us from Tim,
Shawn and Mike!
"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!
Catch up and we'll share stories over a campfire tonight."
We would not be catching up to Tim, neither before nightfall nor at any time in the near future. The entry was made on the previous day. If anything, Tim was ahead of schedule. I hated Tim.
Mike and I returned to our silent trudging forward and, as nightfall approached, we made our way from the woods and found ourselves at a small country road. Across the road was a three step platform emblazoned with the white Trail marker.
The platform was built so that hikers could make their way over the fence and into the pasture where the pathway continued. Into a pasture filled with bulls.
Perhaps they were actually cows My vision was too blurred from fatigue and near faint, to examine anything closely other than the fact that platform, with its three steps, was completely insurmountable in my current state.
Other than mumbling how much I despised Tim under my breath several times, I hadn't spoken in quite some time and I now dreaded to speak the truth to Mike: There was no way I could climb that platform.
Fortunately, Mike spoke first and said, "There is absolutely no way I can climb that platform."
Rather than speaking, I removed my kiddie pack and collapsed beside the steps. Mike was soon in a miserable heap beside me.
I suspect we were both hoping a car would happen by and a driver would take pity. Cars, though, were as scarce on The Trail as were happy thoughts.
Eventually, we rolled onto all fours, grasped the rail of the platform, pulled ourselves upright, tossed the bags over the fence, although mine snagged and hung on the top rail as I had not enough strength to clear the four feet high hurdle.
Using the railing, we slowly and painfully pulled ourselves up the flight of stairs and bracing ourselves with the railing, descended the steps on the other side.
The bovines, of whatever sex, chewed their cuds and ignored us entirely. I suspect they were accustomed to seeing hikers cross their field. I silently hoped that a stampede would form and run me over, freeing me from the misery of the hike.
Unfortunately but not surprisingly, luck was not on my side and I made it to the far side of the field untrampled.
We were not totally without fortune, though, as the far side of the field had a swinging gate.
The two of us, mustering most of our remaining strength, pushed the freely moving gate open and headed down the dirt road to a larger road that was on the outskirts of a town.
The only business visible was a septic cleaning company and, as I had collapsed yet again, Mike left me to guard the bags and headed to the sewer folks to ask about any lodging that might be available as we were certainly in no condition to continue to the campground where dear old Tim had spent the night before.
Mike came back and said, "There is a hotel and a B&B in town."
Me: "Which is closer?"
Mike: "I don't know."
Me: "In which direction are they?"
Mike: "I don't know."
I left Mike to guard the bags as I made my way to the sewer folks to ask about lodging that might be available in town.
As a testament to how badly I looked, I walked in and the man who made a living cleaning sewage said, "You are an absolute mess. You must be with that other fella who was just in here."
"I am," I acknowledged and then pleaded, "Can you help us?"
"I'm just getting off from work," he said. "I pass the B&B on my way home. I'll drop you gents off."
With the same amount of effort which I imagine is required of one during their last few steps at the apex of Everest, I climbed into the truck.
We drove by and picked up Mike. The sewage man, a precious soul, loaded our bags into the truck and dropped us off at the front door of the B&B.
We knocked, hoping that there would be room at the Inn,
There was a room. It was on the second floor. I would have, out of necessity, refused it had I any other option, I simply doubted that I had yet another stair climb in me.
Mike grabbed the rail and pulled himself upward, planting one foot onto a step where the other foot then joined it. After gaining his balance, he hoisted both feet, one at a time, onto the next step and repeated the process until he was at the top.
I had not nearly so much grace nor strength in me as did Mike so I returned to the crawling stance and began my ascent upwards.
The Innkeeper, her husband and several guests gathered around the base of the grand staircase to watch the pitiful show which I provided.
Little more than half way up, the Tupperware water container slipped from my pocket, tumbled down the steps, spilling water along the way.
The Innkeeper, with an obvious look of second thoughts at having permitted us into her home, said, "Go, I'll clean it up."
I loved her as much as I despised Tim.
Mike had already showered and was snoring by the time, I reached the room.
I contemplated skipping the shower and just curling up in the fetal position on the floor but I persevered, showered in water that wasn't rain for a change and then slept more soundly than at any point in my life.
The next morning, we were awakened by a rap at the door and the announcement that, if we were still amongst the living, breakfast was ready.
Encouraged by the sound of laughter from guests rather than groans from ourselves and enticed by the smells of non-MRE rations, we made our way down to the buffet table.
Much as rescued castaways or as one anticipating a week long hike with nothing but MREs to eat, we began shoveling eggs, pancakes, berries, coffee and such in as fast as it could be served.
The other guests tried to include us in conversation but, with only grunts and nods from the two of us, they finally found the good table manners to let two hungry men eat.
When we finally leaned back and caught our breath, the Lord of the Manor asked, "Do you two plan to continue on or would you like a ride back to your car?"
I had mentioned to him the previous evening that our journey started near the state line and was humbled by his generous offer to drive us such a distance.
I told him we couldn't possibly impose upon him to such a degree.
He responded, "It's not a problem, really. The town where you fellas started is just a twenty minute drive."
"Twenty minutes?!" I exclaimed. "That can't be right. We've been walking for two days!"
"Two day walk across the mountain, well for you gents anyway, but only a twenty minute drive around the base."
The realization that we were totally whipped after covering a distance that could be completed by car quicker than my tent could have been pitched had it ever been removed from my pack, totally stripped me of any hope that our goal would actually be accomplished.
I looked at Mike and said, "I want to go home."
"Me, too," he replied.
With that, dollar bills were swapped amongst guests. Wagers had been placed before our arrival at the table as to whether or not we would continue on.
I couldn't even feel sorry for the idiots who believed in us.
We made it back home and I returned to work a few days ahead of schedule. Right on schedule, though, Tim made his victorious appearance.
"What happened?" he asked. "I kept waiting for you guys to catch up."
Since we had not ever caught up, Tim and Mike had never actually met and I had no reason to believe that they ever would. Therefore, no matter how shameful it was, I did the only thing which I could do if I were to continue to work alongside Tim, I put the blame squarely and wholly on Mike.
"Mike," I said, "he just couldn't do it. By day two he had completely given up. I couldn't leave him, you know."
"That's a shame," Tim said. "Next year, though," he continued, "you and me and the Trail! New Hampshire border to the finish at Katahdin, Maine!"
"Absolutely!" I responded with false enthusiasm and immediately submitted paperwork for a transfer to rural Ohio where the land is flat and the only challenging hikes are through the fall corn mazes.
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