This last Appalachian Trail post coincides with me finishing the transfer of my trail journal from a dog-eared, narrow-rule, chub notebook to an electronic file. But unlike when I fashioned a book from my 2013 to 2018 section hikes, I won’t be formally publishing this time around. Instead, I’m offering my journal to anyone who would like a free copy. The journal covers all 165 days and nights I was on the A.T.
There’s quite a bit here. In addition to my usual misanthropic observations, I talk about where I hiked, where I slept, people I met, wildlife encounters, fear, anger, loneliness, joy…even songs that I whistled. And there are lots of photos!
If you would like a free PDF, just give me your email, either in the comments section here or in an email.
Anyway, here are my final thoughts to wrap up this series:
The Appalachian Trail has become a human highway. This is undoubtedly due to the prevalence of recent hiking books and movies, iPhone technology, and to significant improvements in backpacking gear. These days it’s not only “cool” to do a thru-hike, it’s easier than ever (or as easy as a long-distance hike can possibly be). The days of a solo backpacker spending multiple days and nights alone with his or her thoughts, and calling home from a phone booth located god knows where are long gone.
I’d go into detail on why thru-hiking has exploded and why it is now so easy, but I already touched on this here and there. My journal also covers this ground.
The Appalachian Trail is becoming increasingly commercialized. This first became apparent to me when I visited my local outfitter to purchase a few items. When Emily and Luke learned I planned to do a thru-hike, they gave me a substantial discount (the tribe thing). Then at the start of my hike I learned about “slackpacking,” where hostels are able to double their profits by offering shuttle services with day packs to hikers who temporarily trade in their full backpacks to make their hike easier.
At the end of my hike I learned about “food drops” in the once-austere Hundred-Mile Wilderness, and the popularity of one-stop shops like Shaws Hostel, which (some argue) are placing profit over quality, integrity, and ethics.
In between I experienced well-publicized speed contests on the trail, A.T.-related blogs and YouTube channels chock full of advertisements, and even a news channel specifically for A.T. hikers.
The Appalachian Trail reminds me of today’s sterilized Nashville country music scene. As Waylon Jennings sang long ago, “I don’t think Hank (Williams Sr.) done it this way.”
People on the Appalachian Trail are the same as people off the Appalachian Trail. I met hundreds of backpackers during my five-and-a-half months out there. The vast majority were friendly and helpful. They encompassed the mass of humanity: young, old, male, female, wealthy, middle-class, poor, homeless, highly educated, lesser-educated, urban, rural, liberal, conservative, white-collar, blue-collar, heterosexual, homosexual, religious, non-religious, American, non-American, extroverted, introverted, fat, and skinny.
The one exception to this was a noticeable absence of “people of color.” It’s evident to me that there is a socio-cultural element that is determining who backpacks and who doesn’t.
The Appalachian Trail has a tendency to get under a person’s skin. I’m not sure why this is. One of my favorite hikers last year was a 74-year-old man from Honolulu, Hawaii named “Bruiser.” He was on his third thru-hike of the trail.
I asked Bruiser why one thru-hike wasn’t enough, and he said he liked doing them to stay in shape. I then asked why he didn’t just work out in a gym back in beautiful Hawaii, and he said the fast food and snack machines there would be too tempting to overcome. I then asked why he didn’t do other trails, like the Pacific Crest Trail or the Continental Divide Trail, and he said his skin was sensitive and there wasn’t enough shade out west.
I don’t know if Bruiser was being entirely truthful with me. My impression was that, like me, he couldn’t really verbalize why the Appalachian Trail had gotten under his skin.
There won’t be another thru-hike for me, but there are one or two special places on the A.T. that I’d like to return to, if only for just a night or two. If you read my journal, you’ll know where they are.
Thanks for following me on my trek, and again, if you’d like a free copy of Call Me Omoo, please comment or email me.
Soon, I’ll be exchanging my tent for six months of beachcombing in Venice, Florida. My hedonism agenda includes tennis-playing, sea kayaking, snorkeling, kitesurfing lessons, and collecting sharks’ teeth. I want to eat a lot of fresh fish and catch up on my reading. While I’ll miss being detached from the bullshit of 21st-century society – at least, superficially – a change of venue is in order. And I have absolutely no regrets being retired.
Perfect timing: I just received an unsolicited text from a recruiter about applying for a position. My response? “Thanks, but I quit the rat race and would prefer not to.” Like certain sad copy clerks whose lives contain walls, I still have the power of self-determination.
Solitude, reach for light Reach or slide We move around
—Stephen Stills, “Move Around”
[On August 1 I summited Mount Katahdin in Maine to complete my 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail backpack trip. Coincidentally, it was exactly a year to the day since my wife “rescued” me from thrombophlebitis near Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, after which I was sidelined for nine months. This entry effectively finishes my A.T. travelogue. I’ll probably offer some sort of denouement later, a clean green ribbon to wrap up the whole series.]
The so-called “Hundred-Mile Wilderness” which extends from Monson, Maine to Abol Bridge at the foot of Mount Katahdin in Baxter State Park presented a few surprises.
First, it is not truly a wilderness as defined by the Wilderness Act of 1964. It is not federal land that restricts habitation and motorized vehicle activity. There are private cabins, gravel logging roads, and even an active sawmill whose racket can be heard from the trail.
Second, it is more rigorous than I was led to believe. There are two significant mountain ranges: the Chairback and Whitecap ranges, plus several individual, smaller mountains. There is also much twisting, turning, and root, rock, and boulder negotiation, especially during the first 50 miles.
Third, there were far more hikers than I envisioned. I expected thru-hikers and sectioners. But I also encountered day hikers. Even a family picnicking on a sand beach at Nahmakanta Lake.
For someone hoping for peace and solitude on relatively easy trail, this was all a bit disconcerting.
The good news is that I maintained my daily hiking average of 15 miles, arriving at Abol Bridge in my predicted six-and-a-half days’ time. I had more than enough food to sustain me the entire way (supplemented by wild blueberries and huckleberries for vitamin C).
A large number of veteran backpackers evidently didn’t feel confident about preserving a requisite quantity of food in their packs, since many relied on food “drops” by hostelries at one or more gravel roads. This surprised me. One of the appeals of the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, in my opinion, is the challenge of shunning outside support and relying on your own preparedness.
I’m assuming there were the ubiquitous slackpackers using vehicles to haul their gear, since I met several northbound (NOBO) hikers with small packs headed in the opposite direction.
There were a few highlights. I was reunited atop Little Boardman Mountain with old friends Hums and Checklist, a young married couple from southern Indiana whom I’d met just before the New Hampshire-Maine state line. We later found great overnight spots at Antlers Campsite on Jo-Mary Lake, replete with swimming, blueberry picking, and the eerie sound of a distant loon. Thru-hikers Chef Decker, Pi (from Germany), and a southbound (SOBO) section hiker named Solo completed the Antlers group.
Our tents flooded that night from a torrential rain. Wet gear, especially wet boots and socks, is one of the banes of backpacking, but we had fun for at least a few hours.
For the second time I bumped into Warren Doyle, the dean of Appalachian Trail hikers, who has thru-hiked more than any other hiker (nine thru- and nine section hikes) and runs a school for aspiring A.T. backpackers. (He’s also controversial with some people, promoting athletics on the trail and violating regulations that he dislikes.) Doyle and a sweet woman aptly named Sweet Potato were at a gravel road and treating poor Pi, who had either tripped or fainted, then fallen, consequently restructuring her nose and left eye.
Another highlight was having Little Beaver Pond to myself for my final night in the Wilderness. This pond was a quiet surprise. It’s a concealed sub-lake that spills into the eastern tip of larger Rainbow Lake.
There is no sign for Little Beaver on the A.T. There is a sign for Big Beaver, but considering Big Beaver is 0.7 miles down a side trail, few hikers bother to walk it. But just a tenth of a mile down this blue-blazed side trail is a tiny sign with an arrow that reads “Little Beaver.”
I pitched my tent in a small oval of dry pine needles, the pond 100 yards below. Surrounded by blueberry bushes, I devoted an hour to plucking ripe berries until my baggie was heavy. These I gorged on later for dessert, then again for breakfast next morning. In between I watched the sun set over the towering pines that rose over the shore of Little Beaver, while stoking a modest fire, smoking my “peace pipe,” and pondering the immensity of Mother Nature.
It’s a cliché, but out here your ego dissolves and you can feel your insignificance. This is good. It’s something one doesn’t often feel elsewhere, and it’s one reason why so many of us, ever since John Muir, flee to the mountains.
Rejuvenated by Little Beaver, I burned almost 18 miles next day to exit the Wilderness at Abol Bridge and reach base camp at The Birches campsite for my Katahdin climb.
The Birches is set aside for distance hikers intending to hike Baxter Peak, tallest point on Katahdin. It’s located about a quarter-mile from family-friendly Katahdin Stream Campground. This separation ensures the Griswold family won’t be disturbed by the sight of dirtbag backpackers getting wasted or peeing in the woods. But for us hikers, it means a long slog to the stream just to fill our water bottles.
Only 12 hikers are permitted to camp at The Birches on any given night. On the night of July 31, I was sixth out of seven hikers to sign up. The others were Checklist, Hums, Heat, Chef Decker, Trash, and Wet Willy. (The last-named was a really fun fellow, but he had two blown knees and had no business being with us.)
Around suppertime, Ranger Pete Sweeney dropped by to collect our registration cards and ten-dollar camping fee. He also gathered us around the fire ring like a benevolent schoolteacher to discuss the sacredness of the mountain to native peoples…and to discourage us from celebrating too raucously at the peak.
I didn’t sleep much that night due to my excitement. I’d come 2,185 miles and now had only five miles left. So many times I’d wondered if I’d ever finish this Sisyphean venture, and it was hard to fathom the end was looming.
We rose from our sleeping bags with the first rays of sunlight (except Wet Willy), packed our gear, then hiked to the ranger station to trade in our heavy packs for lighter day packs. I felt somewhat guilty about this, since I’d thus far prided myself on hauling my home on my back the whole way. My justification was that a heavy pack up Katahdin could be extremely dangerous, plus there was no camping at the summit that required a full pack. Also, with this short, five-mile “slackpack,” there would be no unnecessary burning of fossil fuels.
So I pulled out my Gregory day pack and filled it with peanut butter, tortillas, Clif bars, and my water flask. Going suddenly from 40 pounds to five pounds felt like heaven, especially with all the adrenaline pumping through me. I whisked through Katahdin Stream Campground, offered a knowing nod to Chef Decker (whose family was joining her for her final climb), and began my 5.2-mile ascent up the legendary mountain.
Katahdin is not easy. The climb starts with a glide on gently sloping soil, then steeper dancing on rocks, then gymnastics on extremely vertical walls of boulders. Some of the smoother boulder sections have rebar to assist climbers, this man-made addition courtesy of the Maine Appalachian Trail Club.
But I had time and adrenaline on my side. Each day throughout my hike I had one song that I would whistle or hum to help my frame of mind. Today I gustily sang out loud about a dozen of my favorite tunes—from Burt Bacharach to The Byrds—not even caring if anyone else heard me.
About a mile from the summit begins The Tableland, a sea of rocks where the A.T. (here known as “Hunt Trail”) is delineated by stone cairns. This is cloud country, and the wind and chill increase dramatically. Suddenly, I see a group of hikers gathered near what looks like an oversized wooden sawhorse.
“Omoo!” “Omoo!” they shout. Heat, Hums, and Checklist have already arrived. There are hugs and congratulations all ‘round. We collectively soak in this magical moment.
As William Clark wrote in his journal when the Corps of Discovery first laid eyes on the Pacific Ocean in 1805: O! the joy.
We spent about an hour at the summit, taking pictures and responding—with as much humility as we could muster—to the day hikers’ many questions. Hiking compatriots Lobo (a biology teacher from Richmond, Virginia), Zippy Morocco (a Triple Crowner from Missoula, Montana), Rabbit, Trash, and Chef Decker arrived later. Cell reception was no problem at 5,300 feet, so I called Lynn to let her know I was okay, and I’d soon be home to take care of the moles tearing up our lawn.
Although I could have hung around the peak all day, I knew the climb down would be equally treacherous and cumbersome, plus I planned to thumb a ride into the town of Millinocket, so I reluctantly descended. A few hikers were still ascending. The last one I saw was Wet Willie. (It turned out he did reach the peak, despite the admonitions of his partner, Trash. However, on the descent he fell, gashing his head and breaking his glasses. He didn’t reach the hostel in Millinocket until well after dark.)
All of the August 1 summiters reunited at the Millinocket hostel, except Heat and Lobo, who were elsewhere with their families. We shared three large pizzas at Angelo’s (their white pizza was exceptional) and also, of course, shared our thoughts about the trail. Next day I joined Checklist and Hums on a shuttle/bus trip to Bangor. They flew home to Indiana, but I stayed over another night to decompress and celebrate with Maine lobster roll. (TIP: if you visit Maine and want fresh lobster, it helps if you’re near the coast.)
Since my start at Springer Mountain, Georgia on May 2, 2021, I spent over 160 nights on the Appalachian Trail, most of them in a one-person tent. About once a week I got either a motel room or stayed in a hostel to shower, eat, buy provisions, and clean my clothes. The animals I encountered included one bear, four beavers, two porcupines, two foxes, one rattlesnake, one copperhead (whose head I stepped on), one water snake, several black snakes, one bald eagle, one Northern goshawk, several grouse, and dozens of whitetail deer, red squirrels, chipmunks, orange newts, and toads. I hiked around multiple piles of moose scat but never saw one.
I met hundreds of distance backpackers and liked almost all of them. They ranged in age from 19-year-old Cole, whom I encountered north of Buena Vista, Virginia, to intrepid 80-year-olds. Women hikers were just as prevalent as men. A few hikers were transgender. Many backpackers like me walked solo, while others found security in a trail family (“tramily”).
Only one backpacker my entire hike recognized my trail name, asking “Isn’t that a book by Herman Melville?” when we identified ourselves. It was in southern Virginia at exactly the one-quarter mark. He was about 30 years old, a former thru-hiker now doing a SOBO section. His name was Deep Roots.
I met a number of eccentrics and heard about others. They ran the gamut from the motor-mouth ex-boxer at Niday Shelter to a man named Leafblower, who hiked with a large…what else?…leaf blower, and always rented an extra hostel bed for his machine.
My emotions also ran the gamut. Hiking alone, I often mulled over my past: vacations I took as a child, old friends. I constantly thought about my loved ones, especially my deceased parents. I’m not religious—in fact I’m agnostic—but I could sense my parents’ spirits being with me. Once, while alone atop Mount Washington in early morning, the grey clouds broke briefly to reveal a layer of blue sky with higher, wispy, white clouds. This serendipitous event coincided with my thinking of Mom and Dad.
But despite my sentimental moments and occasional bouts of loneliness, only once did I get choked up. It was on top of Katahdin while talking to my wife. I told her that hiking this trail was the hardest thing I’d ever done, physically and mentally. It was harder than leaving home, than any job, than any marathon race. Raising a family was difficult, but she helped me with that. This thing, however, was all on me. I told her there were times of discouragement when I wondered if my hike would ever end.
Now…it was finally over. And I really felt it.
For my next adventure I’m planning a solo canoe trip on the Charley and Yukon Rivers in north Alaska. After all…we move around.
YesterdaymorningIarrivedinMonson, Maine. Monson is a lakeside town of about 600 in the center of the state, and a major hub for Appalachian Trail hikers. To give an idea of Monson culture, the lone gas station sells bumper stickers that read “Kids Who Hunt, Trap, and Fish Don’t Mug Little Old Ladies.”
I estimate one more week to complete my solo thru-hike odyssey.
Between Monson and Mount Katahdin (highest point in Maine, northern endpoint of the A.T., and centerpiece of Baxter State Park) lies what is known as the Hundred-Mile Wilderness. This is a spectacular area of scenic wonders almost completely devoid of any semblance of civilization.
It is also one of the more challenging sections for A.T. hikers, featuring both mountains and rugged terrain. Hiking the austere Wilderness requires a stockpile of a recommended 10-days’ rations.
So I’m taking both a “zero” (no miles) and “near-o” (minimal miles) day in Monson to rest and prepare. My oasis is Lakeshore House, located on the northeastern tip of Lake Hebron. Upon arrival I indulged in a hot shower followed by a “Famished Farmer” sandwich at the only grocery and deli in town. I’m now spoiling myself with cappuccino crunch ice cream before it’s back to ever-monotonous trail food.
The vast majority of hikers, mainly younger, stay just down the road at Shaw’s, which is run by ex-hikers Hippie Chick and Poet. (Crunchy granola, anyone?) Lakeshore seems to be the quieter, more low-key alternative, which suits this old guy fine.
So far there are only five of us at Lakeshore: me, Silver Bullet, Dozer, Boston, and Double Vision. Not surprisingly, all of us have either silvery hair or bald spots.
When Vision walked through the bunkhouse door, my jaw dropped. We last saw each other over a year ago on a cold, rainy night at a shelter in North Carolina. Vision is now trying to complete a series of section hikes, and the Wilderness is his last stretch. But he’s not doing well. At Carlo Col he suffered second-degree burns after spilling boiling water on his leg. Now, in the heat of mid-July, at age 67, he’s on the verge of heat exhaustion. Like me, he’s spending two nights here. He’s also debating going home. With age comes wisdom. (Often.)
Despiteitshardships, particularly the rocky, rooty section around the NH-ME line, Maine is my favorite A.T. state. For one, Maine-ers don’t believe in asphalt or billboards, a welcome alternative to my home state of Ohio. The A.T. here is referred to as a “Green Tunnel.”
Although I’ve yet to see one, moose thrive in Maine. Water abounds in the form of lily-padded ponds, lakes, and wild rivers. The mountain vistas offer stunning 360-degree views. And although a relatively rural, under-populated state, the residents have their own unique style (and accent). Living “off the grid” raises few eyebrows in Maine.
As Katahdin approaches, I’m feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety. My journey started May 2 of last year. Sometimes it feels like a shotgun marriage between me and the A.T. Will we ever divorce?
Other times, usually in early morning light when I feel strong and confident, hearing the sticks and crumbled rock crunching under my boots, I feel a deep satisfaction. I’m accomplishing a significant feat, and doing it my own way: wooden walking stick, paper guide/map, full backpack the entire distance, completely solo but nonetheless making trail friends…and lifetime memories.
And lest I forget, this project began with a cause in mind: raising money and awareness for AmericanFoundationforSuicidePrevention. Thanks again to those of you who have helped. (R.I.P. Biff, Ben, and Peter.)
Monday, July25 begins my final launch. As hikers often remark before parting ways (most totally unaware it’s the title of an old song written by television cowgirl Dale Evans):
[UPDATE: I’ve reached Pinkham Notch, New Hampshire, about 37 miles shy of the Maine state line. I left the trail there to fly home for a family wedding get-together. On July 6 I’ll be flying back to resume my hike for the coup de grâce in Maine.]
The White Mountains of New Hampshire periodically pop up in news stories. Sadly, the stories often have to do with death.
The Whites are the most rugged mountain range in the state. They extend from Kinsman Notch, New Hampshire into western Maine and include the Presidential Range, a series of 4,000-foot-plus peaks named after U.S. presidents. The granddaddy is Mount Washington, at 6,288 feet the second tallest peak in the Appalachians after Clingman’s Dome.
Mount Washington is notable for having some of the most unpredictable weather in the world. For 62 years it held the record for the highest wind velocity: a phenomenal 231 miles per hour, recorded on April 12, 1934. Frigid temperatures are common even in summer.
Last Saturday—two days after I trod the same path—53-year-old Xi Chen of Andover, Massachusetts succumbed to hypothermia. It was on Mount Clay, just north of Washington. Chen was an experienced hiker who had already summited 19 mountains over 4,000 feet. Chen’s wife said “he’s not a quitter—that probably got him into trouble this time.”
This is something I’ve noticed with many A.T. thru-hikers: a propensity to continue no matter what. Last year I met Gravy, who had a torn ankle ligament but was adamant he would go all the way. When I last saw him in Tennessee, he had just hiked back-to-back 21-mile days on his bad ankle. This year I met Runner, whose hike was curtailed in 2021 due to contracting Lyme Disease, a horrible disease caused by infected tick bites. Runner is now back on trail, ticks be damned. There have been many others who, despite health setbacks, insist on doing the whole thing.
I don’t know if this is a distinctly American trait (“Never give up!”) or distinctly Appalachian Trail. I’m inclined to think the latter. Surmounting serious health issues to “go all the way” seems to be ingrained in the A.T. subculture. And the thinking is, if you can go all the way in one haul, you’re that much more special.
I see comments on hiking social media sites all the time like “Don’t give up!” “You can do it!” “Just one foot in front of the other!” These people mean well, but they’re unknowingly creating pressures that could have unintended consequences.
As a marathon runner, I see a similar tendency. At first we ran for exercise and enjoyment. Then for speed and medals. Then came ultra-marathons and triathlons. Now it’s running through Death Valley. The bar is always being raised.
A.T. hiking wasn’t always like this. Benton MacKaye, the forester who in 1921 conceived the idea of a long trail through the Appalachian Mountains, saw the A.T. as a way for city dwellers to temporarily escape urban sprawl. The first thru-hike (covering the entire length, Georgia to Maine) wasn’t until 1948. Most hikers in the early days were content to traverse pieces of the trail, to take in nature and temporarily escape industrialization.
But in recent years, thanks to cellphones, several popular hiking books and movies, and improvements in backpacking gear technology, thru-hiking has mushroomed into an industry. For many it’s an athletic endeavor, and nature appreciation has taken a back seat. Trail congestion is now a real problem. I’ve hiked from Georgia to (almost) Maine, and I’ve yet to overnight in a shelter, or tent-camp near a shelter, where there wasn’t at least one other person. What’s the point of escaping one “sprawl” only to find another?
Completing a thru-hike of any of the Triple Crown trails (A.T., PCT, or CDT), or other long trail, is an epic achievement and something to be proud of (even if the majority of thru-hikers these days frequently use a vehicle to transport their backpacks to make their hike easier—a practice known as “slackpacking”). But as impressive as a thru-hike is, it doesn’t qualify one for sainthood.
If you’re thinking of doing a thru-hike, make sure your heart is really in it and you’re not doing it merely because it’s cool or fashionable. Make sure you do the necessary homework. And if you begin one, nobody will think less of you if you choose to quit. (Nobody worthwhile, anyway.) Too many people have died trying not to be a “quitter.”
ArrivedinKillington, Vermontyesterday for a two-day R&R at beautiful The Inn at Long Trail. (The Long Trail stretches the length of Vermont, ending at the Canadian border, and shares the A.T. over its southern half.)
It’s good timing. Not only am I nearly halfway (for this year) to my climax at Mount Katahdin, but I depleted all my resources: trail food, clean clothes, cell charge, boots, and calories. Yesterday I took care of the first three; today I bought new Merrell boots, and I’m stuffing my pie-hole with an Italian sub, chips, and Powerade as I write this.
When your bones protrude enough to interlock with the tree roots under your tent floor, it’s time to build some fat.
I’vealwaysloved Vermont’s Green Mountains from a distance. Inside, on trail, they are more menacing, but the dense red spruce/balsam fir forests make for a stimulating olfactory experience…Killington Peak, the second-highest summit in the Greens (4,229 feet) is the best-smelling mountain I’ve yet hiked.
The ski resort town of K-ton is also impressive. They just had a Memorial Day trifecta event of golf, bicycling, and skiing (still happening!) at one resort, and unlike what might occur in my home state of Ohio, golf was the least popular event! (I love Vermont.)
The Inn might be my favorite R&R spot this entire thru-hike. It’s a time-tested rustic ski lodge, with ski superstars like Mikaela Schiffrin and Petra Vlhova dropping in during the World Cup, but which I have to myself, now, with a lull between ski season and the bubble of distance hikers. The Irish Pub and draughts of Guinness downstairs might have something to do with my enthusiasm.
The trail itself has been a joy compared to WV, MD, and (much of) Rocksylvania. Lotsa quiet mountain ponds, vistas, and wildlife. My last day in Massachusetts presented a porcupine, and first day in Vermont graced me with four fat beavers lazily swimming across their watery estate.
Twootherhighlights include the surprise I had on top of Black Mountain in upstate New York. Gazing out over distant peaks, my knees almost buckled when, swiveling my head left, I caught the distant skyline of New York City. Surreal is the word. Hard to imagine the riot of activity, noise, smells, and powerful deal-making in that tiny, smoky sliver of spires in the distance. I could almost see my uncle pouring vodkas through the window of his Upper East Side apartment. Yet here so solitary and peaceful.
The other highlight was my side-jaunt via thumb to Pittsfield, Massachusetts to visit and tour Arrowhead, where Herman Melville wrote America’s greatest novel, Moby–Dick. (Some of you know that Omoo, a Polynesian word for “rover,” was used as a title by Melville for his second semi-autobiographical book.) From his upstairs study he could view double-humped Mount Greylock, largest peak in MA, which supposedly seeped into his conception of the white whale. The view seeped into me, too.
Nicetrailfriends, too. Two include L.A., a veteran hiker who is actually from Nantucket and suffered heat exhaustion around Greylock, and with whom I shared burgers ‘n’ brews with in Bennington; and Golden, a UMass-Amherst kinesiology student on her first solo thru hike (Long Trail) and on whom I actually bestowed a trail name, based on her golden hair and personality.
Well, it’sGuinnesstime, after which I have one more comfortable sleep before newly commencing my roving…hopefully with a bit more cushioning around my bones. As always, thanks for joining me, trail and non-trail friends.
Till next time…
Omoo (and his mute hickory trail companion, Queequeg)
Last August 1 at Wind Gap, Pennsylvania my Appalachian Trail thru-hike was sabotaged after three months. Thrombophlebitis in my right leg was the culprit. (You can read or re-read about my trials and tribulations here.)
According to Dr. Kuhn at the Vein Center, there are still “old clots” (whatever that means) but nothing serious, and since my knotty calf veins are now just faint shadows, I certainly look prettier. What I didn’t expect was another, more serious health scare, and it happened only a month before my scheduled A.T. re-launch at the gap this coming May 1.
I won’t go into the details. It’s a long-term issue that I don’t think will affect my hike. However, things will be different, mainly diet. No more Snickers bars for sugar, packaged Idahoan potatoes for carbs, or McDonalds for fats. I’m not sure how I will eat healthy and still maintain a decent weight, but I’m going to try.
Here’s the good news:
With “only” 911.4 miles remaining, I’m not rushed. I have a whopping five months to reach Mt. Katahdin in Maine before bad weather hits, and assuming I maintain last year’s pace, I should get there in 65 days
The June/July temperatures should be more forgiving in New England
The smaller states will get scratched off much quicker, a great psychological boost
More towns in which to find a healthy meal…at least until Maine and its ominous 100-Mile Wilderness
I expect the first few days will be rough. I’m hitting maybe the rockiest section of the rockiest state on the entire Appalachian Trail, a section called Wolf Rocks. All those foot callouses I carefully and painstakingly developed last year are gone, so there will be blisters. Due to recently being sick, I haven’t been able to train like I wanted, so there will be soreness and fatigue.
I’m also testing out a new water container. It’s a two-liter bag made of thermoplastic polyurethane—looks like a colostomy bag—and it will hang on carabiners attached to my pack. It replaces last year’s bulky, hard-plastic Nalgene bottle that I had to secure with bungee cords. I also bought some gaiters to limit the amount of wet socks I’ll have to air-dry on my pack.
My tent reading material is another skinny, lightweight book: John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. (Did I just say mice?)
Again, biggest challenge will be food. Our daughter Holly is almost a vegan, so she’s helping me choose the healthiest breakfast bars and dinner fare. One evening repast will be green lentils and red quinoa…healthy, packable, short boiling time, boring flavor. My lunch fare won’t change: trusty peanut butter on tortillas!
As I did last year, I will try to update my blog, but no guarantees. Those who know me know I hate writing on cellphones, and I can only do it during sporadic town breaks, when I’m pressed for time with eating, buying groceries, doing laundry, phoning loved ones, and airing out wet gear.
Nonetheless, I do appreciate connecting with you good folks who have to deal with that crippled “other” society (the not-so-real world). So I’ll do my best to keep one toe on the grid.
Even if I don’t update longitudes, I plan to continue my evening diary dribblings, and once this damn thing is finally history I’ll send a PDF of my entire journal to anyone still willing to indulge in my narcissism.
Okay, Lonewolf (A.T. thru 1997, PCT thru 2001). Okay, Queequeg (Pequod, 1851). Ready for a road trip to Stroudsburg, PA? Flutie you noisy sonofabitch, Omoo is headed your way…with a large colostomy bag and a few less varicosed veins.
New England shelter journals may never be the same.
Some places are more “salty” than others. Not surprisingly, they all have a close relationship with water…with the fringes. Key West, Florida, U.S.A. is one of them.
Key West is the southernmost island in the chain of islands that dangles like a string of pearls off the southern tip of Florida. My wife Lynn and I visited last month while scouting retirement locations on the mainland (see previous post).
Residents call their tiny speck in the ocean the “Conch Republic.” (Conchs are small, meaty, edible monstrosities that find homes in those shells you hold to your ear to hear the ocean.) In 1982, after a stress-inducing U.S. Border Patrol roadblock, locals became angry and seceded from the United States. Sort of. It was a mock secession, but residents use the incident now to boost tourism. Key West even flies its own micro-nation flag. These folks obviously have a great sense of humor.
For such a small place, Key West has a lot going for it. Here’s a quick tour:
We stayed with friends Dave and Robin at the condo they rent every year. I met this super-friendly retired couple while hiking the Appalachian Trail last year. (Their permanent home is in the mountain village of Hiawassee, Georgia.) Although we only had a brief meeting on trail, we hit it off. They invited us to stay with them, and now we’re like old friends.
The first night the four of us ate at Half Shell Raw Bar, where I satisfied my craving for seafood with raw oysters and conch fritters. The following morning, Dave and I hiked around the island for several hours while Robin and Lynn hung out at the condo.
Then Lynn and I embarked on a whirlwind (hurricane) tour of tourist spots. First we saw the Harry S. Truman Little White House where, beginning in 1946, President Harry Truman spent 175 days of his presidency. His famous desk plaque that says “The Buck Stops Here” is on one of the desks. Other presidents, dating to William Howard Taft, have also stayed here…some, like 45, who pass the buck more than others.
Next, we had nachos and Key lime pie (a KW essential) at the original Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville on Duval Street, which ranks with Bourbon Street, Times Square, and Court Street at my alma mater (Ohio University) for party spirit. Although I’m closer to Deadhead than Parrothead, food is what mattered at this moment, and Buffett’s came through for us (largest pile of nachos—a veritable food castle—I’d ever seen). Also, friendly service by an actual lifetime resident…a Conch, not a recently arrived Freshwater Conch.
(NOTE: authentic Key lime pie is always pale yellow, never green. Don’t get the wrong color!)
The next stop was the Southernmost Point of the Continental U.S.A. We actually hit this place by accident while strolling around. The spot is identified by a large, concrete, buoy-type structure painted an ugly red, black, and yellow. (The structure was vandalized this past New Year’s Eve by two drunken tourists who couldn’t get laid).
It’s important to know that this is not the southernmost point of the U.S., merely the contiguous U.S. (The true southernmost location in the U.S. is the south tip of the island of Hawaii.) It’s also worth noting that the concrete buoy is designed merely for tourist purposes. (The actual southern tip of Key West is a half mile west at the Naval Air Station.) Also, while advertised as only “90 miles from Cuba,” the distance is actually 94 miles; four miles is a lot of ocean to dog-paddle.
As John Lennon sang, “Just gimme some truth.”
But I guess a lot of people choose to ignore truth, because they dutifully line up in sweltering heat to have their photo taken while posing next to this large, ugly, recently vandalized, painted cement buoy.
Continuing on, we passed the Key West AIDS Memorial at White Street and Atlantic Boulevard near Higgs Beach (one of two sand beaches on the island). Key West has long been known as a community sympathetic to gays, and the memorial has engraved names of 1,240 people in the Florida Keys who died from complications of AIDS. It was the first municipal tribute to AIDS victims in the world.
Speaking of profound tragedies, further down is a memorial to Africans who in 1860 were rescued by the U.S. Navy from a Cuban-bound slave ship, the Wildfire. Despite their rescue, over 300 died from disease and malnourishment and were buried in a mass grave beneath the sand.
I found these last two memorials more interesting than the Southernmost Point. And, of course, there were fewer people.
The following day, Dave joined me in a jaunt to the Ernest Hemingway House on Whitehead Street. Here’s where one of America’s greatest writers lived from 1931-39. “Papa” wrote several long and short works here, including his popular short story, “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.”
“You might as well take my last cent,” a disgusted Hemingway said as he thrust a penny at his second wife, Pauline. She’d recently built a pool that was two-and-a-half times the cost of the property. (Guess she thought this was cute, because she preserved the penny in concrete.) And lazing and prowling around the property are dozens of six- and seven-toed (polydactyl) cats. It’s still speculative that the felines are descended from a Hemingway cat named “Snowball.”
A writer’s job is to tell the truth…All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know.
Southern-Gothic playwright Tennessee Williams (The Glass Menagerie, A Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof) also lived in Key West, though we missed a visit to his house. We also need to someday submerge ourselves in the Mel Fisher Maritime Heritage Museum. Fisher was an American treasure hunter who, in 1973, discovered the wreck of the Spanish galleon Nuestra Señora de Atocha, which had sunk in Florida waters in 1622.
That’s about it, mainlanders. Hope you enjoyed the tour, and next time you eat Key lime pie, make sure it’s not green.
We’re finally narrowing it down…our final destination, that is (short of the graveyard).
Lynn and I just returned from a whirlwind visit to Florida, U.S.A., and we think we know where we want to retire. Florida actually is not at the top of our list. Neither of us is enamored with the goofy politics, and I can do without quite so many OWFs (Old White Fuckers) from Ohio and Michigan…people like me, in other words.
But Florida has sunshine, ocean, zero state income tax, and is far more affordable than Hawaii. And since we both suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and are inveterate beachcombers—and I’ll have the opportunity to kayak, snorkel, and kitesurf—this state may be in our future, assuming housing costs don’t continue to skyrocket.
Here’s a quick synopsis of our trip:
St. Petersburg/Clearwater: if I had to choose one major city in Florida, this would be it. It gets high marks for retiree living. Lotsa water and sun, recreational opportunities, good medical facilities, and urban action. We stayed two nights in a condo on a narrow peninsula called Pass-A-Grille, easy walking distance to the beach.
My favorite moment was kayaking offshore. I paddled past the tip of the peninsula, and came close to petting two dolphins that were surfacing in perfect synchronicity. But whenever I paddled to where they’d submerged, Flipper and friend popped up somewhere else. It was like playing Whack-a-Mole.
My idyll in the sea was rudely interrupted when I spied flashing colored lights on the beach. “Oh God, what did she do now,” I muttered while finishing off my illegal Budweiser. Sure enough, she’d called the rescue squad after losing sight of my kayak.
People, I love my wife, but this is exactly why I disappear for months at a time in the mountains.
Sarasota: a smaller urban area, and we talked with a realtor, but unfortunately weren’t able to visit any neighborhoods. The big attractions are Siesta Key and Largo Key, the former consistently ranked as the top public beach in the nation. Good school system, too, which always enhances a place. Lynn doesn’t like larger cities like Tampa Bay/St. Pete (she’s a country gal), but she’s open to Sarasota. Might need to take another look.
Venice: this was our favorite spot. It has a cool historic “downtown” area (mainly a collection of trendy shops, cafes, and restaurants, with a modest park separating traffic lanes); lots of waterways (which is why it’s called Venice); free but well-maintained public beaches; and an abundance of condos, villas, and houses for the many OWFs.
Another perk is the Legacy Trail, a running/biking route which begins at a historic railroad depot in town and combines with the Venetian Waterway Park Trail to course northward 20 miles to Sarasota. I jumped on it one evening from our efficiency rental in Nokomis. Having to pass through several back streets to reach the trail, it wasn’t five minutes before I realized I was no longer in Kansas. The houses and people changed, and I suddenly heard the booming sound of Sly Stone’s “If You Want Me to Stay.” The Land of OWFs had become the Land of a Thousand Dances.
“I haven’t heard that one in years!” I yelled over to two elderly black men drinking beer at a picnic table in their gravel drive. They raised their beers to salute the bold OWF who’d infiltrated their turf. I seriously came close to aborting my run and joining them.
But recalling the kayak incident at Pass-A-Grille, I continued on, only to encounter a large metal fence separating their neighborhood from the Legacy Trail. It took me a while to find a gap in the fence, then suddenly I was back in the Land of OWFs.
It’s a good thing that metal fence is there to maintain the purity of the trail, not to mention the OWFs.
Estero/Fort Myers: Estero is probably our second favorite spot. We reunited with good friends David and Melissa, who moved into a very cool condo complex after retirement in 2015. They took us to Brio’s Restaurant the first night, then the original Tommy Bahamas in Naples the second, where I followed Melissa’s lead and indulged in the delicious crab bisque and breaded snapper.
In between restaurants they offered prescient advice during our visit to the planned community of Babcock Ranch, established by a visionary ex-football player named Syd Kitson (same age and birthplace as me) and which will be the first totally solar-powered town in America. We liked the home prices and sustainability concept, but Babcock was too isolated. It was also too new (lots of construction noise), and a hospital was only in the planning stage.
On our last day we glimpsed the beaches and downtown of Fort Myers, along with Sanibel island, where residents have successfully managed to protect the ecology by restricting development. Perhaps the snowbirds were flocking heavily that day, but traffic everywhere was crowded and tight. However, we’re definitely keeping Estero in mind. (Just to warn you, David and Melissa!)
Naples: one of the most popular places in Florida for both snowbirds and year-rounders, but we’ve heard it’s somewhat overpriced and snooty. But you can’t believe everything you hear, so it’s still on our radar. And if we move to Naples, I can jam with my friend Jesus, who lives here (click here).
Everglades: not a retirement destination, but we passed through on our way to Key West, which is also not a retirement destination (but is exotic enough that it will be a separate longitudes post). While in the Big Cypress National Preserve, we pulled into a wildlife viewing area where we saw native birds and alligators. Lynn was on the other side of the bridge observing a floating gator while I snapped a photo of sun-worshipper Wally Gator. (Anyone remember the Hanna-Barbera cartoon?)
We also passed a number of fenced-off villages that had houses with thatched roofs, identified by road signs with the modest words “Indian Village.” I first thought these were Seminole areas, but they’re actually Miccosukee, a tribe that emerged from the Seminole in the mid-20th century. The Seminole/Miccosukee are supposedly the only Indians who never signed a peace treaty with the U.S. This is significant, because most other Indian treaties were broken by the U.S.
Vero Beach: while we concentrated on Florida’s Gulf Coast, we wanted to at least take a peek at the opposite side, and we chose Vero Beach, which is almost the same latitude as Venice. My parents honeymooned here in February 1957. Lynn and I stayed at the throwback Sea Spray Inn near South Beach, which was built about the same time my folks had me on their minds.
We both loved South Beach, a very expansive beach with free parking that has a strong surf (good for kitesurfing). I liked downtown Vero Beach (Lynn didn’t). It supposedly has a good arts scene. And Vero Beach is a great place to see gentle, herbivorous Florida manatees (sea cows), recently downgraded from “endangered” to “threatened” status. But neither of us was impressed with the neighborhoods the realtor took us to. Too many pickup trucks parked in grass. I used to own a Chevy S-10, but these days I have an aversion to pickups. And when parked in the front yard? Forget it.
Then it was back to wet and gray southwestern Ohio. Other than the politics, absence of seasonal transitions, and prevalence of OWFs, about the only negative we foresee with a move to Florida is distance from our three granddaughters.
But when they visit (hint to our daughter), they’ll have a great destination vacation…although Avi got really upset when I told her that, if there’s one more “kayaking incident,” I’ll be feeding Gigi to Wally Gator.
I did it again. I succumbed to another Caribbean cruise.
Cruises fascinate and frustrate me. I love them and hate them. The complete and utter hedonism of these things is alternately seductive and disturbing.
On a cruise ship, you don’t have to do anything. Just dress and undress. The cooking and cleaning are taken care of. The staff pampers you. The food is delicious. The entertainment options are diverse. Relaxing at the pool, casino, bar, lounge, and library is at your fingertips. Depending on mood, you can cruise in warm sunshine or near Alaskan glacial ice.
But for all the positives there are negatives. The entertainment (music, comedy acts, games, trivia contests, Las Vegas-styled shows) is homogenized and cheesy and caters to the lowest common denominator (LCD) of tourist. Our daughter Holly said it best: “Cruises are like a bad song you can’t get out of your head. You just have to accept it and try to hum along.”
And the physiognomy, fashion sense, and behavior of some of those LCD tourists can be a bit jarring, to put it politely. On the other hand, if you’re like me and enjoy scoping eccentrics, you’ll be in people-watcher heaven.
There’s also the incessant cheerfulness of the low-paid but extremely hardworking staff, most of whom hail from poor countries. It can be guilt-inducing to privileged Americans like me who are prone to cynicism.
And witnessing dirt poverty in certain ports of call, then trying to balance it against all the hedonism I alluded to earlier, can make a thoughtful person think long and hard about life’s inequities.
Even leaving out the guilt feelings, worst of all—for me, anyway–is awareness that cruise ships today are giant pollution factories, spewing massive amounts of carbon into the sky and treating the oceans as dumping grounds for their excess sludge.
I’ve written about the pros and cons of cruises elsewhere on longitudes(click here for starters), so I won’t belabor the negatives. Suffice to say I’ve now done five cruises. And once again I’ve sworn there won’t be any more. The most recent was a few weeks ago. Moping around the house after our beloved dog Sheba died, my wife, for whom a cruise is the ultimate vacation, suggested a Caribbean excursion as grief therapy. On the heels of the worst days of COVID, they’re very inexpensive right now. So in a moment of weakness, I sighed and acquiesced.
Surprisingly, this latest cruise to Cozumel, Honduras, and the eastern Mexican coast, on the Royal Caribbean ship Allure of the Seas, was slightly less guilt-inducing than I expected. It truly helped our mental state. Other than just a few moments of mistiness, we temporarily forgot about Sheba.
The biggest surprise was the music. If you get one good band on a cruise, you’re doing well. This cruise had not one but three: the poolside reggae band Ignite which, every afternoon, honored my request to play Peter Tosh’s “Legalize It,” dedicating it each time to “PEE-ter” (no, not that Peter, this Peter). Last I checked, Ignite was still employed by Royal Caribbean.
Also the Latin lounge act Mirage, which subbed for Ignite at the pool one day and, during “Black Magic Woman,” boldly ripped into a six-minute guitar solo. (Of course, I and one other guy were the only ones who applauded afterwards.)
And best of all, an Italian jazz quartet named Four ‘n’ More that played everything from Cole Porter to Antonio Carlos Jobim and were far too talented to be stuck on an American cruise ship. Despite only a few people in attendance, we caught their act every evening after finishing our Crème Brûlée.
(Question: why do cruise ship bands have such unimaginative names?)
Another surprise was the comedy show. I forget the name, but the Allure act was a male-female tandem who specialized in adult comedy. Now, my view is that most adult-oriented humor is either hit or miss. When it’s good, it’s very good. Think George Carlin or Richard Pryor. But most contemporary comedians fall way short of Carlin and Pryor, and when adult humor is bad, it can be a real turnoff.
However, this cruise apparently wasn’t afraid to deviate from the Branson, Missouri formula and to actually challenge its audience with sex-related jokes. Were they good? I don’t know. The act came on after our bedtime.
All cruises offer “shore excursions,” like snorkeling, sunbathing opportunities, jeep or bus tours, and bicycle trips that, for an extra fee, enable one to “experience the local culture.” Translated, this means “helping a few industrious brown-skinned locals try to earn a living wage through servicing the wealthy and overweight Caucasian tourists.”
Lynn and I skipped these. Not because we didn’t want to help the locals who lined the street trying to sell something, but because, as our Venezuelan-born, ukulele-strumming friend Jesus (pronounced Hay-SOOS) said with a smile, “They want to hook me! Jesus is not the fish, I am the fisher man!” So although we didn’t get hooked, we did buy some gifts for our granddaughters from those few locals licensed to operate a stall near the dock.
Back at the pool by noon, we were usually able to find unoccupied outdoor recliners close to Ignite.
I always bring a good book on vacation. For a Caribbean cruise, you want something light and cheery. This is why I brought a biography of Syd Barrett, the tragic leader of Pink Floyd who lost his mind and ended up living alone in his mother’s Cambridge basement for three decades before dying of pancreatic cancer.
I kept hoping some ancient English acidhead would see my book, start raving about Syd, and we could then strike up a lifetime friendship. But it was not to be. There were many “ancients” on board—the number of military veteran ball caps was astounding—but only a few English accents, and I don’t think many ex-acidheads go on cruises. I know that poor Syd never did.
Our adventure in paradise lasted six nights. As I said above, after losing our dog it was just what the doctor ordered. It also coincided with our 35th anniversary and my formal retirement from the nine-to-five. (And unlike some of those characters trying to hook me on the streets of Puerto Wherever, I feel lucky I can retire.) So Allure of the Seas did allure us, and did serve a purpose.
However, while Lynn plans many more cruises with her friends (the “Cruise Chicks,” I call them), my cruising days are over. For good. I swear. Just knowing that those fumes belched out of those stacks, even while the ship was in port, while all were at play, turned my stomach. I think it was Jesus who said, “They know not what they do.”
I’dreachedWindGapnearStroudsburg, Pennsylvania for 2 1/2 days’ rest, recuperation, and rendezvous at the Hampton Inn with my wife, whom I hadn’t seen (in person) for three months. It was going to be a nice mini-vacation from the goddawful knife-edge rocks of the previous week. I’d completed 1,281 miles and was one day’s hike shy of the New Jersey state line. Mount Katahdin in Maine was in figurative view.
Did you notice the past tense “was?”
In the past three months I’ve seen many thru-hikers younger than me have to quit the trail due to injury or illness (fractures, sprains, tendon tears, kidney stones, fatigue, etcetera). Others mysteriously disappeared, or resorted to “slackpacking” (using a vehicle to haul their gear). One man I hiked with and sheltered with, a friendly, self-deprecating guy named Faceplant, died in his tent.
I wasn’t immune to my own less-serious problems. Here’s a short laundry list: vasculitis (“Disney Rash”) in both legs. Mysterious calf ache. Hyperextension of knee. Scalping (twice) by low-hanging tree limbs. Four rock and root stumbles that laid me horizontal. Four ticks whose heads penetrated my flesh, precipitating a visit to Urgent Care in Waynesboro, Virginia. Allergic reactions to Permethrin insecticide to wardoff ticks. Stingings by five hornets. Excessive weight loss, exacerbated by intense heat and 95 percent humidity. Broken backpack hip belt. A punch-drunk ex-boxer who wouldn’t leave me alone at Niday Shelter. A disturbed OCD woman and her hunchback son at Maupin Field Shelter. The Rollercoaster. Shelter journal entries that sounded like they were written by eight-year-olds. Meralgiaparaesthetica.
In the end it was blood clotting of the gorge-ous varicose veins in my right leg, inherited from Dad, that did me in. St. Luke Hospital in Stroudsburg diagnosed my condition as “thrombophlebitis.” They put me on blood thinners and recommended I consult a vascular surgeon.
So it was either get off trail, or risk a pulmonary embolism near an isolated privy, alone, in northern Pennsylvania. Or even worse, New Jersey.
So I’m writing this post while Lynn chauffeurs me home…ahh, Home, SweetHome…on Interstate 80. I’m slouched in the back seat with my leg elevated over the passenger seat backrest. The good news is that I did manage a couple all-you-can-eat hot breakfasts at the Hampton.
Ironically, the clots flaired up only days after a minor crisis. While struggling heavily before and after Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, I considered quitting. (See paragraph 4 for my reasons.) I was actually planning an airplane trip from Harrisburg to Cincinnati.
But near the halfway mark a chance meeting with a Maine hiker and ex-cop, ex-fireman named Bilbo changed my mind. Bilbo is a stroke survivor. Seven years ago he was on life support for 15 days. Now, his right arm is paralyzed and his brain is at partial capacity. But he’s committed to going all the way for brain trauma awareness…hiking solo…with no slackpacking.
After hearing Bilbo’s story, and watching him struggle to open his bag of freeze-dried rice just so he could eat…and while I later mused in front of campfire sparks while sucking in some choice C.indica (medical, of course)…I chose to soldier on.
And through a careful program of trail-town gluttony, I’d even managed to add some weight to my bony frame.
But my 63-year-old body had other ideas. The first clotting symptoms appeared at Ironmasters Mansion Hostel in Pine Grove Furnace, amazingly within hours of telling Lynn I’d decided to continue and would not be flying home. I’m convinced Flutie and the Trail Gods are vengeful creatures. (Let me explain: Flutie is a male wood thrush I encountered at Beech Gap in North Carolina. He tagged along with me off and on, periodically singing out to reassure me. Thoreau loved his music, but to me he sounds like an impertinent child learning to play a flute, and not succeeding.) Flutie is my guardian angel. Or, at least, I thought so until Ironmasters Mansion.
O, Flutie, why hast thou forsaken me?
But as Arnold Schwarzenegger once said in a movie he starred in: “I’ll be bock.” I’ve got, as they say, unfinished business to attend to. Whether it happens this year or next, it will happen. When it does, I hope you’ll join me again for the second half. The Appalachian Trail may sound like a Trail of Tears, but there are also amazing and beautiful things that happen there.
For the immediate future though, I’ll be playing with my dog Sheba, savoring Seattle’s Best coffee once again, pulling weeds, popping Eliquis pills, and reading some material that is written by people who are able to construct coherent sentences…like here on WordPress.
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