Obese --> Triathlete -->Appalachian Trail

annachristine1013 wrote: »

you should be a writer! lol I couldn't stop reading.

If you want to keep reading, here's an excerpt from my journal (which I wrote on my phone) from my first few days hiking in Vermont. It's a long one, but it covers some of my favorite shenanigans:
I stopped at the first shelter in Vermont, Seth Warner Shelter, to find it positively overflowing with NOBOs, Flip floppers, Long Trailers, and all manner of Sectioners.
As I wandered down the blue blaze to the shelter, I first came across a cheerful guy trying and failing repeatedly to hang a bear bag. He grinned and informed me that he was really scared of bears. I nodded politely and continued on. Upon reaching the shelter clearing, I was greeted by another stranger, this one with a magnificent beard and sweet southern drawl.
He introduced himself as Whiskers.

"You're Whiskers! I'm Rigby!! I'm so stoked to finally meet you!" I damn near shouted.

Whiskers and I had been Instagram buddies since before either of us started hiking. He takes awesome pictures and his beard is even better in real life than in pictures.

"You're the sleeping bag girl?" Another stranger, this one a grinning girl with a buzzed head, interjected. After a moment of confusion, I realized she was referring to the heinous muddy sleeping bag I dragged off a peak in Connecticut.
"Whiskers told us all about you, I'm so glad you're finally meeting! I'm Bubbles."

"And I'm Sprout," her husband added.

"You guys are Bubbles and Sprout?!?!" I enthusiastically again damn near shouted, "I've been following you since Harper's Ferry!"

Thoroughly excited to have hit a little bubble of fellow flip floppers, I scrambled to find a hammock site. It was a struggle, given that at least another 20 people had the same idea. As I set up camp near the cheerful, bear-fearing guy, who then asked me to come check his bear line, Sin Nombre, Chickenfoot, Disco, and a gang of four NOBOs piled in to camp.

I cooked dinner with the new gang, then retreated to hang my own bear bag, which involved the breaking of three different branches before Whiskers politely intervened to help me find a not-dead tree.
In mild humiliation, I prepared for bed. The bear-fearing fellow, whose name I didn't know but now feared it was too late to ask, lowered his voice and covertly offered me a beer.

"I brought four to share, since it's my first night out here-" he was hiking the Long Trail- "but I'm not sure of the etiquette when there's this many people at the shelter."

I accepted, gratefully, and we sat chatting until far past the customary hiker bedtime. He was a fascinating guy, worked in the sustainability industry in Burlington, VT and had the incredible ability to at least feign interest in whatever I said.

The next morning, as we all packed up camp, my new pal discovered with great chagrin that he had lost his spoon. All hands on deck, we searched in vain for his spoon. Whiskers instead found, on a shelf in the shelter, a bizarre hybrid contraption, half spoon, half spatula, that he gifted to the Long Trailer to replace his missing utensil. And so our new friend received his first dose of trail magic AND his trail name, Spüüntula.

Spüüntula and I hiked part of the day together. He comes from a family of therapists and therefore had a knack for going straight for the tough questions like, for instance, "tell me about your spirituality."

As I've said before, I don't often hike in close proximity to others, on account of my stopping to pick up trash and being socially awkward, but Spüüntula and I got along swimmingly. We discussed all kinds of skeleton-in-the-closet-y stuff and the kinds of things hikers never discuss, like politics, non-stop all morning.

We caught up with Bubbles, Sprout, and Whiskers halfway through the day and I ended up hiking with Bubbles instead, who I quickly discovered I completely adore. She and Sprout are from Akron, OH and she reminded me quite a bit of one of my best friends from home, Brooke. She's candid and hilarious and always teasing someone. We passed a great couple of miles together as we dropped down a steep hill to a road crossing.

And, wouldn't you know it, my favorite airstream, The Dented Bear Can, and my favorite Texans, Rain and Sprinkle, were parked at the gap. Not only were they there, quite a crowd had gathered, including Spüüntula, Sprout, Whiskers, Captain America and-miraculously-Ghost! I was offered a seat in the bed of the truck next to Sprinkle and Rain handed me a beer. Sprinkle told me she had heard from our mutual friend Nera, now sadly off trail. Rain informed me that he had met a three-sheets-to-the-wind Backbone atop Mt. Greylock and hiked with him a few miles.
Always good to hear tidings of ghosts of hiking buddies past.

After a few beers, we all decided to pile into the truck for a trip to the Chinese restaurant in Bennington.

On the way, I noticed something in Captain America's hand and was momentarily confused.
"Hey Cap, give me your wallet."
"Yeah, sure. Hey, this is the easiest mugging ever." He responded, handing it over.
"No look!" I showed him my own wallet, the exact match of his.

Now, under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be a remarkable moment, BUT, both Cap and I were carrying the same child's Ninja Turtle cloth wallet. We geeked out briefly, over the lap of a bewildered Spüüntula who was wedged between us, then took a picture once we reached the restaurant.

After a delicious dinner and very fun conversation, we were overstuffed and back in the truck. We made a brief stop at the gas station and the boys emerged with a case of Budweiser-I'm sorry, I forgot it's called "America" now- to lug to the shelter.

A few minutes later, we stood staring at the climb ahead of us with chagrin. I do not recommend climbing hundreds of vertical feet with a belly full of fried rice and a pack full of beer. It was only a mile or so, but it was a nauseating trek.

I found Sin Nombre at the picnic table with a stodgy, grumpy looking NOBO who couldn't help but mutter "holy *kitten*" as we wandered into camp. I guess he's not a people person and was less than thrilled by the arrival of-gasp!- FIVE people into camp.

I slipped behind the shelter to change into my camp clothes, joking with Sin Nombre that he was to stand guard. When I came back around the corner, he was standing with his arms crossed and back politely turned, playing the protective body guard flawlessly. I decided then and there that he was going to be my new best friend.

I settled in at the picnic table, was offered a beer by Sprout, and watched with amusement-turned-horror as the grumpy NOBO beat a mouse to death with a water bottle and flung his tiny corpse into the woods. The mouse got the last laugh, though, because that resilient sucker wasn't actually dead and crawled right back to the shelter where he harassed his attacker for much of the night.

The next morning, I was the first one up. The stodgy NOBO was no longer in the shelter, to my immense relief.
Another NOBO began cooking breakfast alongside me and noticed a line of paracord hanging in the shelter.
"Oh *kitten*, is that [name redacted to protect the guilty]'s bear line? Did he leave already.
"I don't know, I think so. He wasn't here when I got up." I responded.
"I'll just take it with me, hopefully I'll catch up to him today."

I thought that was rather nice of him, considering his buddy was a violent, water bottle yielding, attempted mouse murderer, and as such, bid him farewell and good luck.

Not ten minutes later, after the rest of the crew had emerged from their respective tents and began cooking breakfast, the mouse killer walked up to the table. I was surprised to see him, given that I'd presumed him to have slept in the shelter and left early. As it turns out, the mouse he'd tried to kill the night before had tormented him so relentlessly all night (well deserved, I would've done the same if I was that mouse) that he had set up his tent in the middle of the night.

Before he could relate that story, though, he had something more important to discuss.

"Where the [bleep] is my mother[bleeping] bear line???" He screamed, spittle positively flying, in my general direction, presumably because I was the only person physically in the shelter.

"I, um, that guy took it-"

"WHO? Who the [bleep] would steal my [bleep]ing bear line?" He roared.

"That guy, your friend, the other NOBO-"

"WHAT other NOBO? Why the [bleepity bleep bleep bleep]"

It went on like this for a few minutes longer, I too under caffeinated and overwhelmed to remember his buddy's name, until Sin Nombre figured out who I was talking about and intervened.

Eventually, our crotchety *kitten* settled down enough to cook his breakfast and even apologize to Bubbles for traumatizing her with the previous night's mouse hunt, but it did cast a bit of a pall over the proceedings.

Okay, sidebar, editor's note, whatever: looking back at this story months later, it's even more absurd than I remembered. You know what a bear line is? It's paracord. Paracord, people. It costs maybe $3 for forty feet of it. Plus, our friend here was using it as a clothesline. As in, he wasn't even hanging his food in a damn tree with it. His food was in his tent. Even if someone HAD stolen his paracord, big damn deal.

Also, don't yell at me before coffee.

Also, you may be wondering why I decided not to use our friend's trail name. I mean, I just told you I hated Sin Nombre when I met him and I freaking love that guy now. Well, our grumpy, assholey NOBO happens to be a pretty popular trail journal-er. Hope you find this post, buddy, but I won't out you as an *kitten* to your fans.

Anyway, back to the story. Sin Nombre left the shelter first, as he has every morning since. Spüüntula followed. Eventually, it was just Bubbles, Sprout, Whiskers and I killing time and drinking coffee. To our surprise, two weekenders who had been camped down by the water source then emerged, carrying with them an enormous pack of bacon and a very tiny dog, some sort of teacup something or other. We watched greedily as they cooked over the fire until they finally offered to share. Is there anything better than bacon in the woods? No, no there is not.

Later that day, I encountered Spüüntula and Sin Nombre at a shelter. We continued up towards the summit of Glastenbury Mountain together, our first summit with expansive views in Vermont. Cap decided it wasn't worth the effort to climb the tower, Sin Nombre took in the view and continued on because he's psychologically incapable of taking two breaks too close together, and Spüüntula and I were left to climb the tower together. It took a bit of negotiating to get Spüüntula up the tower, due to a healthy fear of heights, but the 360 degree views were more than worth it. I was quite proud of him.

After lunch in the tower, we carried on together, reaching Kid Gore shelter fairly early. Sin Nombre left a note that he decided to carry on because the bugs were bad and there were no tent sites and Spüüntula and I decided to follow. We hiked through beautiful golden hour light, Spüüntula helping me to collect trash, including an oversized sterno stove, as we went. We made it to Story Spring shelter just before dark, where Sin Nombre was talking with a lovely section hiker named Becky, who was solo hiking in her 70s and wearing a Black Lives Matter pin on her lapel. I was immediately enamored by her, especially when she gifted me a BLM pin of my own.

The next morning, I took my sweet time getting packed up, as we had all planned a short day to Stratton Pond, then a nearo into Manchester Center the next day.

First, we had to tackle the first real mountain in Vermont, also called Stratton, where Benton McKaye was inspired to create the AT.
I was hiking alone-okay, well, I was dancing and singing along to my music- when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I quickly realized it was just another hiker and, in an effort to maintain my own dignity, stepped off the trail to let him pass and asked if he was Thru-hiking. It was obvious he was, based on his blistering pace, cuben pack, and disgusting beard.
"Yep. And in September I'm hiking the Long Trail and next spring I'm hiking the PCT." He responded without even slowing down.
"Okay?" I said to his back as he took off down the trail.
"What a weird dude." I thought to myself, before carrying on.

A few miles later, I found Spüüntula and Sin Nombre atop Stratton mountain. They were seated on a bench in front of the caretaker's cottage eating donuts. The caretaker promptly offered me one as well and we sat together for a while before meandering over to the fire tower. It was Father's Day, so I took advantage of the mountain top phone service to call Papa Dale and waited for the day hikers and yoga tourists (from the yoga festival happening in the valley) to clear out.

As we waited, the weird thruhiker from that morning appeared on the summit with his dad. Shortly after, a freakishly tall, skinny thruhiker with a gross mustache arrived and began taking awkward selfies with the AT map hanging on the tower.

"What a weird dude." I thought to myself.

Spüüntula, Sin Nombre, and I settled down to eat lunch and were quickly embroiled in a heated debate about Honeybuns. I think they're gross, Sin Nombre loves them, and Spüüntula didn't know what they were. Disgusting beard and gross mustache weighed in as well, firmly on the pro-Honeybun team. I learned their names were Jax and Packs, respectively, and it was definitely just a weird coincidence that their names rhymed because they didn't know each other.

As we left the summit, Jax asked if he could hike with us because he hadn't talked to anyone in three weeks. He then began chattering at a mind boggling speed and hiking much faster than I had any inclination, so Spüüntula and I dropped back and left Sin Nombre to chase the little dude through the woods.

We found them again at Stratton Pond and decided to camp together. Packs and a young Long Trail-er named Hangman also joined us. As we posed for a picture in front of the pond, a huge horsefly landed on Spüüntula's face. Without thinking and without warning Spüüntula, I reached out and smacked it off his forehead. As you might imagine, the resulting photo is incredible.

As a weird twist, the only flowing water in the vicinity was filled with spawning fish. Spüüntula and I stared bewildered at the thousands of tiny fish until Packs called down to us to see what was taking so long. We asked him to weigh in on the drinkability of said water, so he began to cut through the brush down to the creek.
"Hang on, I just need to collect all the ticks in this area first." He shouted down.

After a long discussion, we decided to just drink the pond water instead, which tasted like moose pee and moldy feet even after being filtered. Everyone collected their water then we jumped in to the refreshing cloudy green water. Jax admitted that he hadn't showered in over a month.
"In other news, authorities are reporting a mass fish kill in Stratton Pond. Cause unknown." Sin Nombre joked.

Packs built a fire, everyone hung their soggy underwear from the trees, and we settled in to cook dinner. Bubbles, Sprout, and Whiskers arrived, having seen my note in a previous shelter log about our whereabouts. Everyone was headed in to town the next day and was therefore feeling quite cheerful. There was a lot of raucous laughter and no stodgy NOBOs around to say boo. We watched a full moon rise over the pond and Stratton Mountain before heading to bed.

We rose early to catch sunrise and drink coffee. As an avowed not-morning person, I again took my time packing up. Bubbles shared my sentiments, so much so that she skipped sunrise entirely. I hiked the first part of the day with Spüüntula, then got ahead of him about five miles before the road into Manchester Center, so I hitched into town alone. The first car I saw stopped for me. I told the driver that I loved her state, which led to a discussion about my own hometown. Turns out she had just returned from a visit to the Cincinnati area and was, let's just say, less than enamored by my home. Fair enough.

She dropped me at the grocery store, where I found Sin Nombre, Packs, and Jax sitting on the ground. Hiker trash...

The four of us had snagged all the spots at The Green Mountain House Hostel outside of town but had some time to kill before our pick up time. We were soon joined by the rest of the crew from our campsite and a fewer other hikers. In normal towns, regular people oppose the conglomeration of ten dirty (or, in Jax's case, really, really, really dirty) hikers in a single public place. But this is Vermont and, despite it being a fancy tourist town, everyone was freakishly nice to us. Packs and I bonded over a shared trip to the liquor store, then Jax accompanied me to the outfitters for new boots. These two weirdos were starting to grow on me.