Date: 2005-12-20
From: Day 2 of the 100-Mile Wilderness

To: Day 2 continues...
Miles today: 0.0

Previously on Scholar¢s journal:The sun had not yet set on Day 2 in the 100-Mile Wilderness. In fact, it was rather solidly entrenched overhead, casting early afternoon shadows under cloudless blue skies. Joining THX, Lady Scarecrow, and the newly-introduced Grenade Boy: Poet, Free, and I sat perched on the Barren Ledges, 15 miles into the Wilderness. Serenity trailed just a short distance behind, and Freedom and Thatch¢¦? Well, we never knew precisely where Freedom and Thatch were; assuming that they hadn¢t spontaneously decided to hitchhike to California (always a possibility w/ those 2), they were presumably a day or so back, waiting to surface at the most unlikely moment imaginable. But, at that exact moment in time (October 1st) and space (Barren Ledges, 100-Mile Wilderness, Maine, Appalachian Trail), life seemed the epitome of perfection. (Well, as long as I ignored the fact that it was October already, and Summit Day was approaching w/ the velocity of a cheetah on steroids.) The sun was shining; the skies an endless ocean of blue; treated to the majestic vista of a low-lying valley sporting a magnificent lake, replete w/ autumn hues in the surrounding foliage; unparalleled company in my companions; lolling in our characteristic POBO (Pack-Off, Boots-Off) laziness ¢ Really, you almost had to wonder how we had managed to traverse over 2000 miles, considering the frequency and duration of our breaks ¢ food bags strewn haphazardly about, ransacked not by rapacious rodents but instead by ravenous hikers, who, although instilling slightly less damage to the Ziploc bags, are significantly more fatal to the food supplies. Yes, the awareness that, at some point, we needed to get back to that ¢hiking-thing¢, kept intruding w/ remarkably relentless persistence. But, for the time being, we had successfully fended off our industrious instincts ¢ As THX had said, ¢The terrain¢s been easy¢, and there were still a handful of hours of daylight left... And so, we were content to simply wallow in the delightful sun. And so, wallow we did.Time, however, has that annoyingly inexorable habit of never ceasing its circular circuit ¢round the clock. And so, eventually, reluctantly, we took our leave of the Ledges. Not having yet reached the summit of Barren Mtn, I knew that a climb awaited us. (Exactly the sort of factor that contributes to the notorious length of our breaks.) However, no longer propelled by the overwhelming need to ¢get it over w/ in the shortest possible time-span¢ (the impetus which impetuously hurtled me up the Barren Slide, contributing to my huffing- and puffing- status there), I maintained a suitable pace and thus retained an adequate supply of oxygen in my lungs. (Having Poet in front of me, setting the ideal walking-tempo and reigning in my breakneck tendencies, didn¢t hurt¢¦) Arriving at the peak of Barren Mtn, we were immediately treated to some rather hefty gusts of wind. At one time, a firetower stood sentinel on this summit, but the winds of time (or perhaps, merely the wind) had largely reduced the structure to ruins. The tower¢s skeleton of metal supports remained upright, secured by chains to the mountainside, but the roof and walls formed piles of wooden debris, scattered across the summit. Standing on that windswept peak, the stunted trees perpetually aslant, having grown at an angle to combat the unfavorable clime, the rocky soil and harsh conditions prohibiting all but the most-tenacious of life from finding foothold, I felt the mountain¢s name to be particularly apt ¢ It was, well¢¦ barren.The desolate landscape, the battering wind trying to evict us from the summit ¢ this was our first indication that our gracious welcome to the Wilderness had worn out. No more artfully crafted stone staircases. No more gently inclined ascents. No more gradual descents. No more opportunities for 2-hour breaks on sun-filled overlooks. No. We were brutally and precipitously transported back to the terrain of southern Maine. The relentless uphills. The knee-jarring, tortuously slow, sheer downhills, where a misstep would result in a broken Leki pole, or worse. Back to the mile-and-a-half an hour pace, and that only if you pushed yourself to the brink of exhaustion. The transformation was immediate and complete, w/ no time for mental or physical preparation; Wingfoot¢s elevations and mileages certainly offered no forewarning of the hell we were about to enter.At first, no one commented on the abrupt reversal of the terrain. Maybe no one wanted to be the first to admit that, all of a sudden, it had become damn hard to walk. Some mistaken sense of pride or something. Hah. This was the Pod; we¢d seen each other at our absolute worst: Lyme Disease, my mysterious Fatigue Disease, bum knees, giardia, the equally mysterious BaFFD (Burping and Farting Fatigue Disease). Pride had long followed the kitchen sink heaved out the proverbial window.Maybe no one had noticed the change in topography. Hah hah. We were hikers and, w/ 2000 miles under each of our respective hip-belts, we could detect a 10-foot elevation gain spread out over two miles, w/ more acuity than that princess and her pea buried under those 100 mattresses. Oh, we noticed. We noticed all right¢¦Maybe, in an ineffectual attempt to escape the brutal truth, we deluded ourselves into believing that we could simply ignore reality, and thus banish its existence. (But, as my attempted suspension of reality concerning Summit Day had taught me, the ice cube in hell stood a greater chance of survival¢¦) No, reality came crashing down, w/ a relentless, unerring, plummeting, resounding THUD, straight into our consciousnesses. Our pace likewise took a nosedive, hovering somewhere b/t that of a heavily-sedated snail and a turtle on crutches.Initially, none of us really believed that there had been a wholesale transition in the terrain; we all thought it a passing phase, a fleeting reminder of what we had slogged so mercilessly through in Southern Maine. It would soon be over, a thing of the past. We just had to get beyond this one, slightly painful, rather interminable, descent of Barren Mtn. And then it¢d be over. Uh-huh. Still tryin¢ to weave that web of false reality. By the time we reached the turn-off for Cloud Pond Lean-to, a scant mile from Barren¢s summit, we were having the rethink our assumption. Well, I was doing some serious re-ordering of my conjecturing, anyway. No one had actually verbalized what I knew we were all thinking, that we were back in bloody Southern Maine! Again! Perhaps laboring under the misapprehension that vocalizing our thoughts would give them physical weight. Anyway, everyone kept rather obstinately silent on the subject. At first¢¦And so, we all stood there, staring rather sullenly at the sign directing us down the 0.3m blue-blaze to Cloud Pond Lean-to. Now, the previous evening, Serenity had insistently and animatedly informed us that Cloud Pond was a ¢must-see¢, recalling a backpacking trip she had taken at summer camp, as a young girl. However, at this precise moment, we were not spry, pre-adolescent campers, hyped-up on sugar, energized w/ the novelty of spending the night in the woods. We were sweaty, tired, slightly irritated thru-hikers, admittedly hyped-up on sugar (that was pretty much a given by this point), but after 612 months, inured to most of the remaining novelty of sleeping in a tent. The prospect of a 12-mile detour¢¦ to see a pond¢¦? We¢d seen a plethora of ponds in Maine. Saw two or three almost every day, in fact. And, well, Serenity wasn¢t even here w/ us¢¦ W/ just the slightest twinge of guilt, by unanimous tacit consent, we bypassed the blue-blaze.Now, in my previous entry, I mentioned how, at every blue-blaze intersection, you inevitably undergo an internal debate, weighing the benefit attained against the effort and time expended. (I believe that might have also said something to the effect that I almost universally embark on these little sight-seeing side-trips. Well, there is an exception to every rule. (Wow, I¢m really going crazy w/ the clich©s and proverbs today. Sorry ¢bout that¢¦)) As I previously pointed out, factoring in current weather conditions is a critical variable in this equation. Well, another crucial element is your current state of mind, your mood. B/c, if you¢re already not in the cheeriest of dispositions, well, then, that extra 12-mile jaunt may produce some disastrous results, may darken that thundercloud amassing over your brow just a little more. (Ach, I have to stop w/ these hackneyed phrases¢¦) B/c, invariably, that blue-blaze in going to involve a horrendously strenuous climb, in one direction or the other. Moreover, there¢s no guarantee that the reward will be worth your while. And frankly, if you¢re already in a dour mood, predisposed to disappointment, then of course your expectations will be spitefully met, and you¢ll be resoundingly dissatisfied w/ the view. Even if it was a National Geographic cover-worthy view, you would find fault. B/c:a) you stumbled over a root and turned your ankleb) you slipped on a rock, plunging your foot into an ankle-swallowing mud-pit, and will now have to suffer the rest of the day w/ a soggy sockc) you were swatted in the face by an errant branch (b/c blue-blazes aren¢t as religiously maintained as the AT)d) you forgot your camera back at your pack, and there¢s no bloody way that you¢re walking this dratted thing twicee) you¢re simply in a pissy mood.Hence, the need to carefully factor in your disposition when debating a blue-blaze. Something the three of us, all feeling a little punchy, did as we determinedly ducked our heads and barreled past Cloud Pond and the stunning views it affords.However, things continued to deteriorate. The flashback to southern Maine was decidedly not a short-term blip on the profile map. We struggled over a seemingly never-ending string of ups and downs, dodging mud puddles when feasible, bushwhacking (in the very literal sense) around the impassible ones. The silence was unbroken by conversation or idle chatter; we were all occupied w/ our internal musings. My mood was certainly taking a trip down the bathroom plumbing. Moreover, our tight train of three quickly became an elongated cord, as the terrain separated us. After what seemed an eternity, though in reality probably only 90 minutes (my watch, a victim of the Great Canoeing Incident of 2005, had never been replaced; still hasn¢t, as a matter of fact), I spotted sign-age ahead. Normally, the sight of those carved wooden markers filled me w/ delight, imparting critical mileage information and enlightening me on my precise whereabouts. However, in this instance¢¦ Ignorance, they say... bliss...