Poems from the Trail

4/14, Mollie’s Ridge Shelter, GSMNP

Fire burns

So do you, so do I

And truly, even with the wind

Ripping itself apart outside

In the unpaved world beyond,

It is this fire that has kept me in love

For all these years.

4/17, Peck’s Corner Shelter, GSMNP

The gold and sweet orange of our star

leaning behind the mountains.

Though only barely painting the tips of my tent,

as if with pine paper bristles,

it still warms my solitary hive,

even as the cool of night takes hold.

4/20, Hot Springs, NC

As those two eyes falter

Only saying it’s too late for poetry

The white beam from the center

Indolently shines on--

And rest, despite the rhythmic backdrop,

Definitely wants to win this one.

4/21, Hot Springs, NC

Sitting here, warm and toasty

Thought of you

Whom I love

Mostly

Not that there’s part that I don’t love

Just you’re the best,

And 1 more contrived line

Will make this shit come out just fine

The orgasm is complete and unrelenting

The release changes the man, whereas before,

He would remain stoic and unmoved

4/22, Rich Mtn. Fire Tower, NC

Rumors of meteors convinced me to sleep on top of a mountain tonight.

But the moon was too full—

Like when cake is too sweet,

Or pocket watch chains are exchanged for seashell combs.

And so now, it’s only the wind that pierces the night sky.

4/23, Firescald Knob, TN

Have you ever coughed so hard

You felt like you’re tearing pieces of your throat

Out your mouth?

If you spat those coughs into a can

While trees threatened to fall on you

While relishing in the simple beauty of this life,

you’d know where I am.

4/24, Hogback Ridge Shelter, NC/TN

O Fun Patrol, where art thou?

Where dost thou lay thy soggy heads this evening?

My muse has fluttered on, or so it seems.

For the words before you come apart,

at the seams.

  
4/28 Cherry Gap Shelter, TN

O, Cinco de Mayo,

Come twice a year

Once in a day, and once in a week—

In East Tennessee, rain water is beer—

Come Virginia & Spring,

[that prospect looks bleak]

But who wouldn’t mind

If the next town is dry?

Only lap-dancing Lila

Won’t you give her a try

And spades will draw crumpets

From out of this space

Smashing their pumpkins

Right into your face

Hallowed thy name?

Thy king will soon come

But where is the queen?

In bed with his son.

5/1, just north of Rt. 19E, TN

The grass grows deep

And even though cars whisper,

Unseen, on the ridge overhead,

The groundhogs bustle,

Shielded from teasing drizzlings,

And I, safe at last,

Cleanse my open pores of the dirt the day has brought,

Simply, by closing my eyes.

5/2, Moreland Gap Shelter, TN

Lake of Watauga

burning bright under fire—

Our laughter the fuel,

The sun the match,

And yet, why this dream?

For verily, we won’t even be there

Until tomorrow.

5/9, Big Wilson Creek, VA

Is it a creek or a river?

Crashing through rocks with purpose

Providing a place to wash these tired hands

And listen to its trickling (gushing?)

Until all the world turns blue

5/16, Lazy Fox Inn, Damascus, VA

Creek beckons

Rain’s clouds threaten

But who on this godly Earth

Could taint these sunshine-laden valleys?

5/17, Lazy Fox Inn, Damascus, Va

River whispers softly sweetly

Then roars with the pride

of rolling grasslands and dark hollers

Singing my lonesome feet to rest,

Wrapped in goosefeathers and silt,

To tide off the end of night

Into the breaking of day

5/19, Davis Path Campsite, VA

When you’re lost in the rain

In a valley far from home

And thunder shakes the trees

To remind you you’re alone

Just catch an angel in the water

Before she goes to her throne

And throw back your head and be

Free.

Free: of worry,

Of money.

Be free:

Be something not costing anything

Be a GIFT

Expecting nothing in return—

no strings attached, and also,

Floating, liberated,

With no strings, attached—

5/21, Little Laurel Creek, VA

The thunder of the night

plays fetch with the thunder indoors

“Go get it?” she asks

And answering:

thump thump thump

5/30, Rice Field Shelter, VA

What is Warmth?

Warmth is not simply derived from the sun.

Nor the fire that burns within,

as they say.

But warmth, my friends and loves,

Comes from the peace

That all within and without

Sing as Robins in harmony @ twilight

6/4, Charlottesville, VA

Bootsy

Tuning in

Dropping out

Not flopping in

Never stopping (in)

Pausing

The continuation

Of the journey

Liberal—to be free

Gratuitous?

Aloofedness

Dissolution—

The solution.

Non-minutian

Beautiful mutant.

6/7, Calf Mtn. Shelter, SNP

Shackleton is in the box

Shackleton is not in the box

Eating smoked salmon

cut from soccer-playing companions

Can he reach the Elephants?

Secluded far away?

A life raft for the ages,

Sitting cross the bay.

6/8, Pinefield Shelter, SNP

He who plucked

His last note

Ringing wildly in the wilderness

Made space for a symphony

Uptempo & Vigorous—

The river rolled,

Cicadas on sax

And God bright and in tails

Raising his hands

To conduct the multitudes.

6/11, Grandma’s House, Luray, VA

King of the Road

King of the Highway

Prince of the Nether-Land

Colossus of Clout

Because my friends—

Life is not about fame,

Money or power

Yet instead

The way in which you might take some time

Out of your day

To smell a rose

6/12, Tom and Judy Shelter, VA

Making movements North

And do the bears and bats

Even notice me pass?

The Buck—he does:

Feathers of fur, he bows as I make my entrance,

And then runs to mate

In the sassafras and nettles.

For us, the woods spell

H   O   M   E

6/14, Blackburn AT Center, VA

Love, it does come for free

And this I know, without a thought.

For if you had to take a loan

For a piece of love,

What on Earth could you do to repay it

But love back?

And that, to love, is effortless

6/21, Rocky Mtn. Shelters, PA

Family, like the way of the trees

Harmony—a sappy half-rhyme

But oh, when executed precisely,

What a sensation to behold!

So let the bees sing it

Just like that.

6/23, Jerry’s Fry Shelter, PA

Gotta get some of that stinky hiker trash on my stoop

In my poop

To be there in my life

Ooo yeah child

Gotta get some of that stinky hiker trash

Just to be there for me.

6/25, The Doyle, Duncannon, PA

Train whistle, it blows

And the cogs screech and tumble by my hotel window.

Will this antique wood crumble onto the street

The next time that iron mountain rolls on by?

Or will the lightning and rain topple it from its feet.

I like to think that The Doyle,

With its pinballs and poolhalls,

will breathe yet another day,

reverberating in its kindness,

Through East Market Street and on.

6/28, 501 Shelter, PA

All empty and awake

Sez Ray under the cold Carolina Stars

In a world like this,

Only the 1^st person plural exists—

And that, too, is not.

6/29, Eagle’s Nest Shelter, PA

Tho music rings & fire sings

Hikers scatter

With rain’s pitter-patter

6/30, Port Clinton, PA

A Mandolin plucks on the night air

Or is it a ukulele?

And cicadas—or are they nighthawks?—listen,

verbally, or are they chiming in?

Does this wandering mind sleep or dream?

7/1, Eckville Shelter, PA

My mind is too full

To write a decent poem

This is what happens

When you leave a mouse alone

 7/2, Bake Oven Knob Shelter, PA

Bastard Bugs

Cannot keep

All their kin

Supplied with sheep

So strap yourself

To a tree with boots

If you ain’t goin’ nowhere

7/8, Brink Shelter, NJ

Happiness,

Amongst the rocks and hills

Late night quiet distilled

A solitary buzz on the soundscape

The wave of this silence

peacefully crashes over me,

Cradling me in its waters,

I, safe in its power

7/16, West Mountain, NY

Mountaintop arias whistled by the crickets,

And me, alone,

asleep in the grass,

Watching the sun bleed into the blue

through closed eyelids

7/17, Deniro’s House, Poughkeepsie, NY

The Band rings out

From the Church Downstairs

Strings bursting out dissonance

Intertwined with melancholy yodels…

If I could feel the air from their strokes

Rather than feel to endure their theoretical racket

Perhaps I could sleep.

7/18, Appalachian Trail RR Station, Pawling, NY

Whipped by the train

Rocked to the core

And back & forth

If only poison ivy had flowers

Or bugs had names

Empathy: a theoretical state of being, in modern times—

Still, a nice word,

A façade for Narcissus to slink under

But ah! Let the flowers speak

And the crickets shriek,

Bowing and stringing on those fibrous stems,

Through the whoosh and wail

Of cars passing into the night

7/22, a shelter 12 miles out of Great Barrington, MA

Pat drip pat

Rain on a tent

With the rest of the woods,

Trees sighing and crickets,

Rain makes the duck down inside

Even warmer

7/23, Upper Goose Pond, MA

Trading money
Trading spaces

So quick, so quick

And whoosh—

The tables are turned

Are global economies just a game?

7/29, Congdon Shelter, VT

The creek sings

Cradling this travl’r in its bends and curves

Smoothing the rocks

So as not to poke or jab

The current urges

Under bridges and through the pines

Flowing, glistening yet satin,

Into the belly of the wild.

7/30, Kid Gore Shelter, VT

The Moth

When the moth is this close

It sounds like a drum thumping

Thwacking it does nothing,

It’s stuck struggling in the grass

Its wings could mend my tattered shirt

Dead or Alive

I want it gone, but death is no option—

Not because I’m brimming with love, no

But because killing something so violently alive

Would make me uncomfortable

8/5, The Lookout Cabin, VT

Dust and dirt have settled

On the brand new oak floor beneath me

Just in the manner that I’d like to lay my thoughts,

My whole body—to settle onto this floor and wait for the wind,

A wind, to move

8/6, Thistle Hill Shelter, VT

If the dirt under my overgrown fingernails

Were to represent my happiness,

In quantity of course rather than disposition,

Composition, really,

I’d give it a 10

Or at least a 3 out of 3.

8/8, Velvet Rocks Shelter, NH

Frogs dance and rabbits sound like bears

outside my tent

Here in Outside of New Hampshire,

New Hampshire—and the leaves shudder with rain’s pretenses

And even if I’m wet I’ll still be twirling at dawn

8/14, Beaver Brook Shelter, NH

Clouds won’t lift

Rain won’t shift

Hate won’t mold

If it’s cold

Get your kind

Off wintertime

‘Cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere

8/16, Chet’s Place, Lincoln, NH

This plywood mattress

Is not speckled and freckled with dirt

It’s down—from the ducks

Found on the side of the road.

They have the softest down…

8/19, Lakes of the Clouds Hut, NH

When the water feels luke-warm

A simple dripp-ed foe

Can ripple the sheen across a threshold

Into new color,

New light,

A new scene—

A giggle turns to a laugh,

Surely permitted—

Snores to dreamy sleepland,

And sighs & smiles

Into quiet nothingness.

Like this, a new idea is born.

8/20, behind a bank, Gorham, NH

On sidewalks

In brainlocks

The body does writhe

Sucking up pavements

Squirming with lies

When the pebbles rain deeper

And the scurvy does flow

Don’t ask for a blanket

Or help from below

8/21, Imp Shelter, NH

Ah, when the wave descends

Breaking, sand and shells

Fill my ears

Salt my nose & mouth, hair

Or is it just the wind?

The nectarine sun bakes and tans all

8/24, near the Maine border, NH

When the light

turns golden and green

& the coyotes howl over a kill,

Rabbit or marmot,

We in our duck fur

Pick a guitar

Around the fire

Singing out in mismatched harmonies

The life of the simple man

At home

On the trail in the woods

8/25, Full Goose Shelter, ME

Hands

The first time I ever liked my hands

I was lying in a tent in Maine

That night, they weren’t fat

Weren’t small

But chiseled, strong, knuckly

And I thought to myself,

“What an above average pair of hands.”

I could hear lovers whisper

And chipmunks rustle

Next door in the trees

And if the moon hadn’t been so bright that night

The stars’ glow may have reached me as well,

And distracted me from this newly perceived beauty…

but no.

That night, it was my hands,

Just those beautiful hands,

Writing these words,

For that night is this and the trees & stars & lovers are here, so,

Will I still think they’re pretty in the morning?

8/27, East B Hill Rd, ME

Ride high on the king’s highway

Take the A-train north

Move through fields and deserts

And when your friends

are nothing more than grains of sand

On a prairie dog’s lip,

Time to bite the cactus and piss into the wind,

Find new friends—icicles—dripping and fleeting,

Fragile, but hardy at the base—

Frigid and refreshing, signaling not the beginning nor the end of winter

But the dead of it—

Or just sit alone

In a field of grass & bugs three inches deep

And let her blades crush you

Envelop you

Caress you

Itch you

Switch you on

Shut you down

And then, maybe then,

Your mind can rest

8/28, South Arm Rd, ME

Though the light flickers and dims

The pencil still surreptitiously slithers thorugh the lines

Camping stealthily, but only briefly,

Leaving a wispy shadow

Before moving onto the next word,

Grasping at some sort of meaning…

9/1, Cirque Campsite, ME

On the days when you’re too tired for poetry

Heat up some milk

But don’t let it thicken (or burst)

And pour that fiery sustenance into your crevasses & chasms

And maybe then a poem

Will find its way from the ether to the mind

(soul?)

to page—a dream, too, will suffice.

9/3, Little Bigelow Shelter, ME

When the sun goes down

Earlier than you think

And it’s still bright just miles West,

How can that frigid rushing water nearby not beckon?

For, on that night, it was limbs numb as ice

And exploding hearts

That we hunkered down into our musty homes

And slept restlessly ‘til prickly daybreak

9/4, Pierce Pond Shelter, ME

I saw a dead toad today

Squatting, toadlike, squashed

But intact,

I thought to move it…

--lazy

--justified laziness: it’s nature.

--other people must see this

--did not want to get dirty. could have used a stick.

I don’t know why I recall this toad

Hours later in the safety of my tent

Maybe because I’m loath to write more

About the eternal nearby water

Night after night

Well, now, the toad lives on

9/5, Pleasant Pond Shelter, ME

Incorporate compassion

Walk those woods

Through worlds, night & dark,

Sun & blue, a cloud,

Like Jack Wilinger’s Sunday morning pancake—

Syrup not only sweetens the day,

It fills it right up

9/6, Moxie Bald Mtn. Lean-to, ME

Loons crying in the foreground!

The Hunger: for food or sex,

Those 2 carnages,

Proliferating these spotted night-birds

Through one more Autumn…

And in a night as clear & cold as this,

You can see them dive down,

Into the shimmering depths,

Making love and feasting on fish,

The endless stars above admiring themselves

In her lake’s dark mirror

9/7, Monson, ME

Belly noises join forces with droplets of rain in the quivering leaves above—

The bass and violas, humming and strumming away together,

Eloping, a previous engagement,

To the muddy foot-passes of Maine’s cold interior.

9/8, Gentle Adventures, Willimantic, ME

My wavering eyelids

Cannot block out the flicker

of late night football from inside

But my skin keeps the sharp chill out,

Tho it feels the air’s freshness all around!

The clouds have surrendered to the stars,

So I say, “let the cold in,”

And it sinks, hardening the grass,

Revealing our breath,

And making us feel particularly warm

Once we get there

9/9, Cloud Pond Lean-to, ME

Wind is whipping!

Cold moves in next door.

The ripples on Cloud Pond wave welcomingly,

Right back.

And me, the grumpy bear holed up in my den—

Please don’t invite me to the block party,

I’ll come out next Spring.

9/11, Brook Falls Shelter, ME

Oh, the stream!

Powerful since the storm!

Enough to turn turbines—

But ah—

But ah, but ah—

No turbines out here but the trail

That keeps our feet moving about it,

The sun energizing

And simultaneously draining us

The pines silently looking onto, into, this madness…

All to wind up back in the river.

Heads submerged, refreshed, cold,

We make our offering:

Ready to be thrashed & twirled,

An aquatic circus, circle, all starting again,

On itself.

9/13, Hurd Brook Lean-to, ME

Bones bruised

But still can walk

Mind tired

Still can write

Heart torn

Still loving

Even against my will

Because my soul

Has gone through the ceiling

And touched that (eternal) light

9/17, Lexington, MA

Sitting quietly in a jungle

Ferns and jaguars

Flies, heat, water

All of it.

And I’m just sitting there

Nothing near or far

And I’m doing nothing

9/23, Lexington, MA

Nimbly, the poet waits

Listening with eager awareness

The din of harsh voices, resounding in the hallway

The wind off the flicker of candlelight

Is not enough to fully expose the conversations of his forefathers

And so, silently, the poet tip-toes closer—

And yet, to hear, truly, would surely taint the romance

The romance of such a mysterious evening

And ah, without romance, what is a poet?

9/24, Lexington, MA

Even the recently brightened-by-batteries beam of flashlight

Shining up the otherwise dun but everlastingly soft flannel sheets

Due to multitudes of launderings,

Cannot stimulate this mind enough

To make its hand do what it wants it to.

10/1, Niday Shelter, VA

Crickets converse—

wah wah wah—wah wah wah

The dark leaves, foreboding above

Although the sky looks gray

It’s just simply darkening

Enough to let that first star shine through.

10/4, Wilson’s Creek Shelter, VA

Is there always room for poetry?

But ah, isn’t life but a poem?

(is there room in life for life?)

Stanzas and phrases

Slipping into the cracks within emotions,

beauty, time itself?

But ah, only a poet would say that.

So does that qualify yours truly?

Or is it simply that I write the poem

That’s already there.

10/7, John’s Hollow Shelter, VA

Does solitude apply

when surrounded by crickets?

Or even trees—wind?

The mind itself?

In the Cage, silence ceases to exist—

In fact, it never did—

The mere idea of silence disintegrates

Under the shrill buzzing of neurological impulses

And the ritualistic thumping of blood & heart.

And no, solitude never applies,

For the presence of those Other

Can never cease to exist.

10/8, Brown Creek Shelter, VA

How many poems can a man write about crickets and creeks?

10/11, Charlottesville, VA

Off of hardwood flooring

The red light has that sheen

Non-existent in the woods

Tho the beds here are more comfortable,

I’d rather see that green-black silhouette

Of leaves

  

Katahdin

Thus marks the northern terminus of an extended stroll through the wilderness.
 I thought I would feel more. No real sense of accomplishment or even finality; no grievance, no relief...I honestly feel sedated, numb, and the calm euphoria that accompanies carelessness. 

I cannot account for this, nor do I even have any real theories about it. Maybe the magnitude of completing something so huge has not yet sunk in? Maybe I am mistaken that this event is indeed one of magnitude? Maybe it is all about the journey, not the destination (though that sounds like such a cop-out...)?

What I do feel: I do miss the woods, but I do love clothes, food, etc. I am overjoyed that the Sox are doing so well. I feel changed in some way, though I cannot put my finger on it...the best way to describe it is that I feel quieter. More like a reed than the wind.

I think that adventures such as thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail are perhaps no different than the walk through a day in the life--we are all people, living in this reality that we can't be positive even exists, so why differentiate one journey from another? Yes, I am in love with the trail. Yes, it was an incredibly important experience for me to have. I do not mean to minimize its impact. But in a sense, all experiences can be treated thus.

And so, I'll just say again that thru-hiking the AT is but a section-hike on the thru-hike of life, and the trail ALWAYS provides.

The First Time I Was Really in the Wild

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

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. 

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.

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