Date: 2016-01-06
To: On your mark, get set........
Miles today: 0.0

It¢s January 6th, only three months until I strap on my big shoes and hop across the proverbial back fence. Preparations for my epic journey are in full swing, but let¢s not allow that to get in the way of a good trailjournal entry. Embarking on something as meaningful as walking 2,180 miles or taking first place in a hot dog eating contest takes planning, lots of it. Don¢t ask me to map out the secrets to the weenie championship, but let me share with you some thoughts on the hike. It¢s not a secret, one better have a damn good reason for being ¢out there¢ when the romantic idea of peacefully being one with mother nature turns into the uncomfortable reality that she does not want you there, peaceful or not. Part of my planning has been to declare my intentions to anyone that seems to care. Understand that living in Houston, Texas and declaring that you intend to walk from Georgia to Maine on this path called ¢the Appalachian Trail¢ is different than say if you tell your chum that lives in Virginia or Vermont. For most Texans, anything east of New Orleans is New York City, which results in a limited perspective of the AT. Reactions may vary and are often contingent upon how close to the Alamo the reactor¢s first day on earth was spent. There are those that can¢t get past the WHY? I mean, if man was intended to walk outdoors for anything further than a daily round trip to the mailbox, Honda, Kawasaki and Suzuki would not have risen from the ashes and rubble of war ravished Japan to bring us the ATV? I have found that after I share my plan with folks belonging to this category, they often look at me in a different way the next time they see me.   Kinda like when you surprisingly bump into a friend ¢at the bar¢ and the next time you see him at the tackle shop he gives you that ¢damn were you drunk¢ look.There¢s also those genuinely na ve people that are sincerely interested in the task at hand, but are absent of any true conceptual idea as to what an AT thru-hike entails. In ¢Texanese¢ these people are often referred to as ¢dip shits¢. A conversation may go as follows:Me: Hey Dewey, I won¢t be able to make your annual frog gigging shindig this coming summer.Dewey: Why not?Me: I am hiking from Georgia to Maine on the Appalachian TrailDewey: Damn that¢s quite a haul, you got enough vacation, that¢s going to take at least three weeks.These same people may ask you how are you going to carry six months of food and what is it going to be like not seeing anyone for weeks on end? They may even toss in a tip like, ¢hey man if a bear attacks you try to poke it in the eye.¢ Thanks.A sub-species of the "dip shits" are the sincere and generous folks that want to be part of your journey, but only by donating to the cause. I mean, they are not going to take a crack at the AT, but if they can hook you up with an old pair of sneakers or an uncle¢s old tent from ¢Nam then in a round-about way they too have conquered the beast. Upon discovering this species, drop obvious hints that you have already gathered all your gear, unless of course the dude works in REI or is a river rafting guide.Next there are the perspective people. Do not under estimate the lengths these folks will go through to try to steer you off course and right back into accepting the thrills of car camping at the state park. These numbskulls¢ efforts are only simplified by modern science in the form of Google. On a recent work trip to Las Vegas a friend of mine who calls the desert oasis home determined that hiking from Georgia to Maine was comparable in distance to hiking from Las Vegas to Panama City, Florida. For whatever reason that perspective, laid out like a losing hand of black jack, had me nearly folding. It¢s not that I have anything against Florida and Vegas certainly has it¢s moments, but there are some rough spots in-between. One of those rough spots is everything between say Henderson, Nevada and Lubbock, Texas. My perspective on that route is a one-way road-trip from Sin City to Houston that my wife and I endured a few years back. The intentions were to get the car we had in Vegas back home and get our kicks on Route 66. We got the car home. Short of Flagstaff, Arizona, there just isn¢t much to see unless you like windmills, and I like windmills. But by God we did it and I have a coffee mug and a bumper sticker from Winslow, Arizona to prove it. Here¢s a tip, if you plan to make this trip, fly. If you told me I had to walk this route I would hurl myself off the Hoover Dam. Nevertheless, don¢t let the perspective people get in your head.Finally, and everybody has one of these, is the asshole buddy who will treat your revelation as undoubtingly the dumbest idea short of the time you ate that Peyote at Burning Man. If you are seeking sincere acknowledgement and support, don¢t look here, you¢re not going to get it. These boobs come from all stages of your life and could be an old college roommate, a beer drinking buddy, high-school badminton coach, parole officer or even former cell-mate. You get the point, people who know the real you. My acquaintances within this group find it amusing to predict the precise day at which I will surrender to the challenge. Most of these predictions have me somewhere south of Tennessee when I wave the white flag. At least one friend placed her wager on my dreams being shattered before I deplaned in Atlanta. Really? Another friend discovering, that my older brother zeroed in on day 7, showed me the ultimate vote of confidence by saying, "I will give you 12". Bastards.   And regardless of what category any of your people sink into, for whatever reason they always want to discuss the toilet paper plan?   So that¢s all folks. Back to tackling the one million things I have left to do before I blaze on.