Scooting into Rangeley, Maine with only 220 miles left to hike, I realized: this is the first time since leaving Georgia that I have genuinely been in the wilderness. I mean sure--I spend 99% of my time in the woods, pooping in holes and wringing out my dirty rain-soaked socks (of course this is dramatic--the life of a hiker is generally luxurious, involving strolls through nature and swims in the sun), but Maine, my friends, MAINE! The place where you really don't have phone service, and where there are no roads or towns, and where moose and bear and these little woods chickens I see everywhere run free...
So, yes: I am hiking through the wild, this time for real. The leaves are changing. The air is filled with the crispness of autumn. The mountains steep, the birches peeling. The terrain muddy and rocky, but the pines dense enough to provide shelter. This is the final stretch my friends. Katahdin looms near. To be frank, it is an absolute indescribable mindfuck that I have walked this far.
And I am as well as ever. Strong as an ox. Level-headed and calm. Even happy. Sure, I occasionally slip into one of my usual stews of frustration--all fueled by attachments, non-acceptance, and most of all ego, of course, the banes of serenity in this human body--but usually, I feel satisfied and alive.
What am I going to do when I return? I feel less sure than ever, and more at peace with that surrender than ever. I plan on working hard, inside and out, living, and simply receiving the next blessing. My demeanor should not be mistaken for apathy or cool aloofness--the lack of anxiety in my life could better be characterized by a trusting that the trail will provide. 'Cause life is but another trail to be walked. To feel free and easy: all it takes is an assumption of good will and a lowering of expectations, a trusting that all will be well.
This is difficult when flooded with parking tickets and prescriptions, utility bills and DMVs, Christmas shopping and teeth-cleanings--I know. I am no guru, I am no saint, and I don't expect to avoid the realities of an integrated life of the 21st Century.
However.
With this newly developed way to greet the world, I hope to retain some of my sanity. Just gotta work it out, like a muscle, or a kink.
For now, I will just set up my tent and continue to live the good life. That goes for the future too, so to speak.
Northwards to the limit I walk.
--Bootsy
Friday, August 30, 2013
Friday, August 23, 2013
The Real McCoy
This blog generally functions as a creative outlet for me to share some of my more abstract ideas with the community while occasionally inserting fleeting details of my adventures.
It occurred to me that some readers may be interested in what I am actually doing. And more so--I've done a lot lately. So, this entry might perhaps provide some sort of information, rather than the usual ramblings, yet those will surely find their way in as well.
It all began leaving Hanover, NH. I felt lost in the worldwind of people, plans, ideas--still on the eternal spiritual quest to discover how this individual personality fits into the larger puzzle of existence...but leaving Hanover, right in the thick of it--how can I find compassion for my perceived moral reprehensibility in others? Questions of that sort.
And yet, as ever--walking is the cure. Solitarily following the trail to the base of Smarts Mountain, my heaviness began to lift, and basking in the sensation of soaring through nothingness, I could only grin.
That evening took me to White Oak Pond, my family's Shangri-La, where a boisterous evening filled with exotic costumes, flavorful dishes, musical lovemaking, and general revelry met the Funky Town (my traveling companions) and me and left us, again, simply grinning. Yoga the next morning made us quiet and thoughtful, grateful for the world and her opportunities, on the trail or not.
But let us move back to the woods--what I really want to discuss here. Writing of the beauty of the White Mountains is far too removed to deliver any kind of accurate experience--in fact, pictures are equally as useless. You must go. But for now, let the word "breathtaking" wash over you--think literally, and bask in THAT experience. We began our traverse through these northern beauties last week--rocky summits and green underforests blessed by immaculate weather, frigid mountain springs and pools, soft earth, and endless mountains, mountains, mountains...
Our footsteps brought us to Chet's place. Chet is a hiker who, 11 years ago, was injured by a freak accident, and now offers his house, off the grid and beaten path alike, to weary hikers and travelers alike, discerning us from hobos via a series of brief and simple questions pertaining to the most recent mountains we have climbed. Chet's hospitality and love humbled and inspired me, and again, my heart felt quietly content.
(Our bourgeois sensibilities may discern us from hobos, perhaps even our intentionality and purposefulness do as well, yet our ever-moving, always open, babe-in-the-woods wanderings perhaps close the gap between hobo and hiker to some extent).
Out of Lincoln and Chet's home, the terrain grew arduous and sublime--yes, to the point of inspiring terror--that sort of beauty, not your Mom's peach cobbler. One particular instance stands out:
Traversing Mts. Webster, Eisenhower, and Monroe, from Crawford Notch to Lakes of the Clouds at the foot of Her Highness Mt. Washington, trees are unavailable and other-worldliness abounds, flooding the senses. After a long and rewarding day of hiking, the Funky Town began to trickle into Lakes of the Clouds Hut--essentially a tourist destination that will take a handful of thru-hikers on a work-for-stay basis. Upon arrival, the caretakers were stressed and unaccommodating, especially as more of us arrived. Tensions raised, until the cure for anything, a hackysack circle, brought us back to Earth--we surrendered. Cool like the Fonz. We waited, patiently. And before we knew it, our hosts had loosened as well, offering us a feast of gourmet leftovers, drinking and carousing, and the whole fiasco Evolved into a kitchen-wide jam session, voices roaring and glasses clinking, into the night at over 5,000 feet. So, kindness begets kindness.
Mt. Washington feels like the moon. Climbing in the silence of her dawn delivered me right up close to the God-man-spirit within and without. But as the morning progressed and tourists arrived on smoking trains and grumbling cars, and the neons of the snack bar and gift shop overtook my vision, I began to feel sad that humans continuously feel the need to conquer the purity of nature and to be frank turn everything into a goddamn amusement park. Still, I descended the mountain gracefully, yet not without ambivalence.
The Hunger struck as we approached Pinkham Notch. Dusk approached. We could get an easy hitch into town for some nourishment, surely, but getting out? After dark? Seemed unlikely. A surrender. A trusting.
The Chinese buffet provides. Go to Gorham Dynasty. Tier 1 top-notch grade A Chinese food. Though they didn't let us sleep on their floor, they did suggest an abandoned bank on Main Street, conveniently located next to Dunkin' Donuts for the next day's morning coffee+evacuation, and the empty doorway in the parking lot of said bank provided me with a comforting slumber through the night, so much so that the first thing I thought upon awaking was "I could sleep here every night!" (despite its publicness) and even musing that I would pay rent for this doorway if they turned on the water spigot nearby and I was assured that heckling would be kept to a minimum, and yeah, a deal with Dunkin' thrown in would be nice too. What really do I need, anyways?
Needless to say, Gorham treated me so well that after 2 more days of ragged and beautiful hiking, I ended up right back at the China buffet for round 2 (The Hunger has returned!), only to be picked up by a fellow hiker's mother, to be whisked away to her house on a lake with the rest of my motley companions--the spot I currently write you from.
Ah, to be a hiker! What a privilege! What a status! What a joy! To walk, to think, to feel, to strip away the gristles of hard-living and burst with the brightness of serenity!
You can tell--I am feeling VERY good. It isn't always easy out here. But recently, the trail has provided a perspective that has the ability to gracefully carry me through the toughest of moments, the haughtiest of frustrations, physical mental emotio-spiritual, and for this, I can only simply grin.
As promised, some facts: I have walked 1887 miles. I am 298 from Mt. Katahdin. I cross the border into Maine in 2 days. I will finish in less than 3 weeks.
The mortality of this trip? It scares and excites--I mourn and anticipate. And yet, who says I can't carry it back home with me? Why the rift between hiking and not? These comparisons are odious--let the work continue.
I'll leave with that.
It occurred to me that some readers may be interested in what I am actually doing. And more so--I've done a lot lately. So, this entry might perhaps provide some sort of information, rather than the usual ramblings, yet those will surely find their way in as well.
It all began leaving Hanover, NH. I felt lost in the worldwind of people, plans, ideas--still on the eternal spiritual quest to discover how this individual personality fits into the larger puzzle of existence...but leaving Hanover, right in the thick of it--how can I find compassion for my perceived moral reprehensibility in others? Questions of that sort.
And yet, as ever--walking is the cure. Solitarily following the trail to the base of Smarts Mountain, my heaviness began to lift, and basking in the sensation of soaring through nothingness, I could only grin.
That evening took me to White Oak Pond, my family's Shangri-La, where a boisterous evening filled with exotic costumes, flavorful dishes, musical lovemaking, and general revelry met the Funky Town (my traveling companions) and me and left us, again, simply grinning. Yoga the next morning made us quiet and thoughtful, grateful for the world and her opportunities, on the trail or not.
But let us move back to the woods--what I really want to discuss here. Writing of the beauty of the White Mountains is far too removed to deliver any kind of accurate experience--in fact, pictures are equally as useless. You must go. But for now, let the word "breathtaking" wash over you--think literally, and bask in THAT experience. We began our traverse through these northern beauties last week--rocky summits and green underforests blessed by immaculate weather, frigid mountain springs and pools, soft earth, and endless mountains, mountains, mountains...
Our footsteps brought us to Chet's place. Chet is a hiker who, 11 years ago, was injured by a freak accident, and now offers his house, off the grid and beaten path alike, to weary hikers and travelers alike, discerning us from hobos via a series of brief and simple questions pertaining to the most recent mountains we have climbed. Chet's hospitality and love humbled and inspired me, and again, my heart felt quietly content.
(Our bourgeois sensibilities may discern us from hobos, perhaps even our intentionality and purposefulness do as well, yet our ever-moving, always open, babe-in-the-woods wanderings perhaps close the gap between hobo and hiker to some extent).
Out of Lincoln and Chet's home, the terrain grew arduous and sublime--yes, to the point of inspiring terror--that sort of beauty, not your Mom's peach cobbler. One particular instance stands out:
Traversing Mts. Webster, Eisenhower, and Monroe, from Crawford Notch to Lakes of the Clouds at the foot of Her Highness Mt. Washington, trees are unavailable and other-worldliness abounds, flooding the senses. After a long and rewarding day of hiking, the Funky Town began to trickle into Lakes of the Clouds Hut--essentially a tourist destination that will take a handful of thru-hikers on a work-for-stay basis. Upon arrival, the caretakers were stressed and unaccommodating, especially as more of us arrived. Tensions raised, until the cure for anything, a hackysack circle, brought us back to Earth--we surrendered. Cool like the Fonz. We waited, patiently. And before we knew it, our hosts had loosened as well, offering us a feast of gourmet leftovers, drinking and carousing, and the whole fiasco Evolved into a kitchen-wide jam session, voices roaring and glasses clinking, into the night at over 5,000 feet. So, kindness begets kindness.
Mt. Washington feels like the moon. Climbing in the silence of her dawn delivered me right up close to the God-man-spirit within and without. But as the morning progressed and tourists arrived on smoking trains and grumbling cars, and the neons of the snack bar and gift shop overtook my vision, I began to feel sad that humans continuously feel the need to conquer the purity of nature and to be frank turn everything into a goddamn amusement park. Still, I descended the mountain gracefully, yet not without ambivalence.
The Hunger struck as we approached Pinkham Notch. Dusk approached. We could get an easy hitch into town for some nourishment, surely, but getting out? After dark? Seemed unlikely. A surrender. A trusting.
The Chinese buffet provides. Go to Gorham Dynasty. Tier 1 top-notch grade A Chinese food. Though they didn't let us sleep on their floor, they did suggest an abandoned bank on Main Street, conveniently located next to Dunkin' Donuts for the next day's morning coffee+evacuation, and the empty doorway in the parking lot of said bank provided me with a comforting slumber through the night, so much so that the first thing I thought upon awaking was "I could sleep here every night!" (despite its publicness) and even musing that I would pay rent for this doorway if they turned on the water spigot nearby and I was assured that heckling would be kept to a minimum, and yeah, a deal with Dunkin' thrown in would be nice too. What really do I need, anyways?
Needless to say, Gorham treated me so well that after 2 more days of ragged and beautiful hiking, I ended up right back at the China buffet for round 2 (The Hunger has returned!), only to be picked up by a fellow hiker's mother, to be whisked away to her house on a lake with the rest of my motley companions--the spot I currently write you from.
Ah, to be a hiker! What a privilege! What a status! What a joy! To walk, to think, to feel, to strip away the gristles of hard-living and burst with the brightness of serenity!
You can tell--I am feeling VERY good. It isn't always easy out here. But recently, the trail has provided a perspective that has the ability to gracefully carry me through the toughest of moments, the haughtiest of frustrations, physical mental emotio-spiritual, and for this, I can only simply grin.
As promised, some facts: I have walked 1887 miles. I am 298 from Mt. Katahdin. I cross the border into Maine in 2 days. I will finish in less than 3 weeks.
The mortality of this trip? It scares and excites--I mourn and anticipate. And yet, who says I can't carry it back home with me? Why the rift between hiking and not? These comparisons are odious--let the work continue.
I'll leave with that.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
The Final Hoe-Down
First order of business: big thanks to the Dartmouth Outdoors Club and Phi Tau fraternity for hosting this motley crue of raggedy bush people, replete with face paint, limps, smiles, and infections.
Ah, Hanover--the gateway to New Hampshire, leaving the Vermont Greenerie behind and moving into the White of the North Country.
Vermont changed my life--in small, day-to-day ways, but aren't these the changes that impact us the most? For life is but a series of minor events--why search for epic grandiosity? Though the occasional bout in epic grandiosity can replenish the soul...
I am reaffirming my belief that we all exist in nothingness, that in fact our own existence is but a void, empty and awake, since begingless time and for all non-substantial eternity--and so, attachments, be they expectations or materials, never do serve us positively, and perhaps the thing to do is to let go of said attachments and in fact not even cultivate them in the first place...
These beliefs need constant reaffirmation, for spirituality is but a muscle to be flexed from time to time, no? As often as you will, until it just seeps into you.
I walk North, independently as Bootsy Collins Japhy Ryder Doghouse Magnolia Lenderking-Brill, yet also as a part of a group, the funkiest of Funky Towns--defining this identity, a perpetual process, always moving, an individual within the context of a community, a position we all must reckon with eventually--lest I sound even more than even more than redundant, let's end it there--
I think it is time to talk less and listen more.
Stay tuned.
--
Ah, Hanover--the gateway to New Hampshire, leaving the Vermont Greenerie behind and moving into the White of the North Country.
Vermont changed my life--in small, day-to-day ways, but aren't these the changes that impact us the most? For life is but a series of minor events--why search for epic grandiosity? Though the occasional bout in epic grandiosity can replenish the soul...
I am reaffirming my belief that we all exist in nothingness, that in fact our own existence is but a void, empty and awake, since begingless time and for all non-substantial eternity--and so, attachments, be they expectations or materials, never do serve us positively, and perhaps the thing to do is to let go of said attachments and in fact not even cultivate them in the first place...
These beliefs need constant reaffirmation, for spirituality is but a muscle to be flexed from time to time, no? As often as you will, until it just seeps into you.
I walk North, independently as Bootsy Collins Japhy Ryder Doghouse Magnolia Lenderking-Brill, yet also as a part of a group, the funkiest of Funky Towns--defining this identity, a perpetual process, always moving, an individual within the context of a community, a position we all must reckon with eventually--lest I sound even more than even more than redundant, let's end it there--
I think it is time to talk less and listen more.
Stay tuned.
--
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