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.
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