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.
Friday, August 23, 2013
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.
--
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Yo-yo-ing, flip-flopping, sling-shotting (I hope)
Ain't nothin' like some good ol' fashion lovin' to call this po' boy back to the South.
You throw in some phunky phresh maneuvers and blam he back in Mary-Land.
It doesn't exactly function to hike 100 miles in 4 days to make up for an upcoming weekend off--the trail needs continuity, and southbounding, especially while following yellow blazes, just ain't got that flow!
And yet--and yet: sometimes (always, of course), things happen because they need to: because of hours spent not completely fruitlessly dilly-dallying with the dysfunctional bureaucracy of the chucklehead-facilitated American Healthcare System, my kind brother and I have been given the opportunity to help some brothers in need as we move back up the coast, and I think in this world of pavement and signatures we forget how soul-nourishing that is.
So basically, even though the trail calls me back louder than ever (it is where I'm going), even though a pivotal moment superimposed across the entirety of my adolescence (the legend of Phish but in the phlesh) feels to have evolved into something before my time (though presence and awareness of this presence generally creates goodness, and damn it's still all a hoot), it's been a formative weekend, just like every moment everywhere.
I love my brother. I love my girlfriend. I love growing within and without these relationships. I love the kindness of would-be strangers turned warm friends (massage included with film, food, and supplies--props to the Schorrs)--
And I must keep moving, through this beautiful blissful void, where the multitudes of empty and awake beings flash their lights only to have blanks fired back in return, and on, and on, and on...
I oughta get a cup of Joe.
You throw in some phunky phresh maneuvers and blam he back in Mary-Land.
It doesn't exactly function to hike 100 miles in 4 days to make up for an upcoming weekend off--the trail needs continuity, and southbounding, especially while following yellow blazes, just ain't got that flow!
And yet--and yet: sometimes (always, of course), things happen because they need to: because of hours spent not completely fruitlessly dilly-dallying with the dysfunctional bureaucracy of the chucklehead-facilitated American Healthcare System, my kind brother and I have been given the opportunity to help some brothers in need as we move back up the coast, and I think in this world of pavement and signatures we forget how soul-nourishing that is.
So basically, even though the trail calls me back louder than ever (it is where I'm going), even though a pivotal moment superimposed across the entirety of my adolescence (the legend of Phish but in the phlesh) feels to have evolved into something before my time (though presence and awareness of this presence generally creates goodness, and damn it's still all a hoot), it's been a formative weekend, just like every moment everywhere.
I love my brother. I love my girlfriend. I love growing within and without these relationships. I love the kindness of would-be strangers turned warm friends (massage included with film, food, and supplies--props to the Schorrs)--
And I must keep moving, through this beautiful blissful void, where the multitudes of empty and awake beings flash their lights only to have blanks fired back in return, and on, and on, and on...
I oughta get a cup of Joe.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Wild, Innocent, and Free
The sun is shining bright as I squat in this mint patch chewing leaves outside of the closed muffin shop in Delaware Water Gap before I head north into New Jersey.
But ah but ah but ah! Jersey already got to feel these recently fortified feet--and how? We will get there.
The conundrum is the desire to express EVERYTHING, in a completely minimalist way. Let's give it a go.
Pennsylvania--your rocks and bugs and poison ivy and humidity will not be missed, but the hospitality of your down-home honky-tonks and bars will be, I'm talkin bout the places one meets fiddlers and brings down the house with a few shitkickin ramblin riots just enough to knock yer socks off but not quite sweep you off yer feet.
And before I forget, let me sing to ol' Patty Butts, our new beat up old boombox friend, found in the woods in the rain, a holy shelter for cigarettes and dirt, all 6 pounds of you are goin to Maine bud and thank you for always bein there.
Independence Day had its thrills--a carnival and fireworks (the latter always producing a peaceful contemplative reverence resembling humility, yeah?) and a bar that let us raid their fridge, cook what we pleased in their kitchen and then denied us the pleasure of cleaning up (oh to be hiker trash!), and of course the usual ambivalence associated with patriotism...
All leading to a cattle-car minivan ride to the Jersey Shore to spend the weekend at the beach. I got oily. I got sandy. I got salty, oh you dog you, and I remembered the sun and sea via true real life action and experience, and the bliss of such magnitude above and below carried me into the nightclub where my hips and shoulders made me friends...
And it was all an absolute blast.
Oh, the balance of self-restorative quiet and group fun! Trotting thru the woods or down the Jersey boardwalk! I search for these balances and am 70% successful I'd say, not bad.
And when thoughts of owning things and remaining stationary scare you, what do you do? You walk north my friends, one day at a time.
Onwards thru, next time you see me, things won't be the same. A weekend of dirty phish musickee and romance with my sweetheart to follow.
All is empty, all is awake.
--Bootsy
But ah but ah but ah! Jersey already got to feel these recently fortified feet--and how? We will get there.
The conundrum is the desire to express EVERYTHING, in a completely minimalist way. Let's give it a go.
Pennsylvania--your rocks and bugs and poison ivy and humidity will not be missed, but the hospitality of your down-home honky-tonks and bars will be, I'm talkin bout the places one meets fiddlers and brings down the house with a few shitkickin ramblin riots just enough to knock yer socks off but not quite sweep you off yer feet.
And before I forget, let me sing to ol' Patty Butts, our new beat up old boombox friend, found in the woods in the rain, a holy shelter for cigarettes and dirt, all 6 pounds of you are goin to Maine bud and thank you for always bein there.
Independence Day had its thrills--a carnival and fireworks (the latter always producing a peaceful contemplative reverence resembling humility, yeah?) and a bar that let us raid their fridge, cook what we pleased in their kitchen and then denied us the pleasure of cleaning up (oh to be hiker trash!), and of course the usual ambivalence associated with patriotism...
All leading to a cattle-car minivan ride to the Jersey Shore to spend the weekend at the beach. I got oily. I got sandy. I got salty, oh you dog you, and I remembered the sun and sea via true real life action and experience, and the bliss of such magnitude above and below carried me into the nightclub where my hips and shoulders made me friends...
And it was all an absolute blast.
Oh, the balance of self-restorative quiet and group fun! Trotting thru the woods or down the Jersey boardwalk! I search for these balances and am 70% successful I'd say, not bad.
And when thoughts of owning things and remaining stationary scare you, what do you do? You walk north my friends, one day at a time.
Onwards thru, next time you see me, things won't be the same. A weekend of dirty phish musickee and romance with my sweetheart to follow.
All is empty, all is awake.
--Bootsy
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Rockefeller Center
Or the Rocky Horror Picture Show, or even just Rocksylvania, but certainly not Rock Bottom.
What I'm trying to say is: Pennsylvania is a surprisingly great state to hike the Appalachian Trail in despite its proclivities towards rocks.
Ah, to be in the north! We write to you from Duncannon, outside of her very own jukebox saloon, pinball and pool hall included, and an upper story hotel to boot--an unadulterated slice on Americana, delivered to you directly in your eardrums...
What preceded? Oh, just some naked hiking, trail magic galore, touch football, high heat, jumping in lakes, rolling and rumbling in the hills, plenty night zazen, and none of that white shit in the kitchen--it's just too darn hot to cook!
I hike too--and my walking generally makes music, only if there's pineapple pizza tonight on the fire? If we can beat the storm..."Don't hug any trees if there's lightning" --Mom
I will never cut my hair. I'm a pacifist for chrissakes!
And with these parting words, I walk north to the Jersey Shore for Independence Day: The woods are my home, my freight train, my womb--deliver me! Let's see how I do.
With Kerouac and attempted mind-space--
B
What I'm trying to say is: Pennsylvania is a surprisingly great state to hike the Appalachian Trail in despite its proclivities towards rocks.
Ah, to be in the north! We write to you from Duncannon, outside of her very own jukebox saloon, pinball and pool hall included, and an upper story hotel to boot--an unadulterated slice on Americana, delivered to you directly in your eardrums...
What preceded? Oh, just some naked hiking, trail magic galore, touch football, high heat, jumping in lakes, rolling and rumbling in the hills, plenty night zazen, and none of that white shit in the kitchen--it's just too darn hot to cook!
I hike too--and my walking generally makes music, only if there's pineapple pizza tonight on the fire? If we can beat the storm..."Don't hug any trees if there's lightning" --Mom
I will never cut my hair. I'm a pacifist for chrissakes!
And with these parting words, I walk north to the Jersey Shore for Independence Day: The woods are my home, my freight train, my womb--deliver me! Let's see how I do.
With Kerouac and attempted mind-space--
B
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Welcome Back, Boots
What defines home?
Is home where you are, or where you go back to? Where you came from or where you feel most comfortable?
And can we have more than one?
These questions seem obvious--but sometimes the simplest musings can be the most noteworthy.
I have my home in Boston--where I'm from. My home in Charlottesville--most comfortable. And of course, that ever-lovin' trail--where I am.
The past week I could never forget.
Thursday: geared up and ready to re-enter as it were, the rain came down too hard so I went to the movies. And yet--a classic hiker move. Transitioning.
Friday: missing my raincoat and shivering in the wet, I walked not 20 minutes before I saw a poncho (and lefty) hanging from a tree. Don't even ask me if the trail provides. Jam sessions and trail pizza ensued.
Saturday: accidentally walked another marathon. I love it when that happens. Saw a bear, 3 bucks, a turtle, 2 rabbits, and a copperhead.
Sunday: hitched to a bar to watch the NBA Finals and hear live music. Night hiked in the midnight rain, where frustration turned to gratitude.
Monday: endured the lingering deluge 16 miles to a resort in the Shenandoahs--and yes, the woman at the front desk did eavesdrop on our quandary (to hike or not to hike?) and graciously offered us rides to her grandma's house for the night--we hiker trashed the town of Luray from top to bottom--thank you Grandma.
Tuesday: our soft-baked companion celebrated 30 years of age--we designed a 30-clue scavenger hunt along the trail, replete with pop-tart cakes, nude photos, and special surprises. Happy birthday, Pretzel.
Wednesday: threatened by rumors of an incoming storm, we not accidentally hiked 32 miles, and liked it.
Thursday: "thayurs a meeeeeen derecho comin' arr way!" No rain, no Maine--but winds like those could keep ya away.
Friday: got our raggedy asses whipper-snapped and trail-magicked up and down, side to side.
How did I find myself bopping my head to dance music at two AM this morning? Let's work backwards: for here, now, we find our hero, yours truly, and your humble narrator, sitting on the steps of our very own national gallery in the Capital, listening to Mozart's 21st in C, yeah, the fucking pinnacle of musical excellence, about to absorb some meaning and reflect upon life--that is what art does.
Tomorrow? Back to the trail to hike 42 miles in 24 hours, crossing 3 state borders into rocky-bottommed Pennsylvania.
Through camaraderie and suffocation, joy and ache, presence and distance--a world of dichotomy--this hiker has found a glimmer of balance in all this chaos--adventure, romance, comedy, EMOTION via the structure of a thin band of brown through green, blazed red, white, and blue, heading north by not-west--and feeling at home.
Self? : approval.
Is home where you are, or where you go back to? Where you came from or where you feel most comfortable?
And can we have more than one?
These questions seem obvious--but sometimes the simplest musings can be the most noteworthy.
I have my home in Boston--where I'm from. My home in Charlottesville--most comfortable. And of course, that ever-lovin' trail--where I am.
The past week I could never forget.
Thursday: geared up and ready to re-enter as it were, the rain came down too hard so I went to the movies. And yet--a classic hiker move. Transitioning.
Friday: missing my raincoat and shivering in the wet, I walked not 20 minutes before I saw a poncho (and lefty) hanging from a tree. Don't even ask me if the trail provides. Jam sessions and trail pizza ensued.
Saturday: accidentally walked another marathon. I love it when that happens. Saw a bear, 3 bucks, a turtle, 2 rabbits, and a copperhead.
Sunday: hitched to a bar to watch the NBA Finals and hear live music. Night hiked in the midnight rain, where frustration turned to gratitude.
Monday: endured the lingering deluge 16 miles to a resort in the Shenandoahs--and yes, the woman at the front desk did eavesdrop on our quandary (to hike or not to hike?) and graciously offered us rides to her grandma's house for the night--we hiker trashed the town of Luray from top to bottom--thank you Grandma.
Tuesday: our soft-baked companion celebrated 30 years of age--we designed a 30-clue scavenger hunt along the trail, replete with pop-tart cakes, nude photos, and special surprises. Happy birthday, Pretzel.
Wednesday: threatened by rumors of an incoming storm, we not accidentally hiked 32 miles, and liked it.
Thursday: "thayurs a meeeeeen derecho comin' arr way!" No rain, no Maine--but winds like those could keep ya away.
Friday: got our raggedy asses whipper-snapped and trail-magicked up and down, side to side.
How did I find myself bopping my head to dance music at two AM this morning? Let's work backwards: for here, now, we find our hero, yours truly, and your humble narrator, sitting on the steps of our very own national gallery in the Capital, listening to Mozart's 21st in C, yeah, the fucking pinnacle of musical excellence, about to absorb some meaning and reflect upon life--that is what art does.
Tomorrow? Back to the trail to hike 42 miles in 24 hours, crossing 3 state borders into rocky-bottommed Pennsylvania.
Through camaraderie and suffocation, joy and ache, presence and distance--a world of dichotomy--this hiker has found a glimmer of balance in all this chaos--adventure, romance, comedy, EMOTION via the structure of a thin band of brown through green, blazed red, white, and blue, heading north by not-west--and feeling at home.
Self? : approval.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Milestones
Not just because this is post 100.
On Saturday, plagued by rain, chafing, loneliness, boredom, and endless sunflower seeds, I got off the trail.
Amidst 5 days of romantic desires to drop it all and go out West, indecision, and good ol' fashion home-time comfort, I have decided to resume my journey north through the woods.
Life never gives up on you. It will always force you to grow (I cannot take credit for such simple eloquence--the words came through a misty evening coolness). So it's true that I could never have rejected such a rich opportunity to travel through the darkness of the soul (thank you, post-synaptic density) to discern the healthful way "to be."
Details are relevant but insignificant--all you need to know is THE JOURNEY provides.
And North through Shenandoah Valley we go.
--Boots
On Saturday, plagued by rain, chafing, loneliness, boredom, and endless sunflower seeds, I got off the trail.
Amidst 5 days of romantic desires to drop it all and go out West, indecision, and good ol' fashion home-time comfort, I have decided to resume my journey north through the woods.
Life never gives up on you. It will always force you to grow (I cannot take credit for such simple eloquence--the words came through a misty evening coolness). So it's true that I could never have rejected such a rich opportunity to travel through the darkness of the soul (thank you, post-synaptic density) to discern the healthful way "to be."
Details are relevant but insignificant--all you need to know is THE JOURNEY provides.
And North through Shenandoah Valley we go.
--Boots
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