Date: 2004-10-02
From: Wadleigh Stream Lean-to, ME

To: Red Leaves, Red Circle
Miles today: 19.6

Early this morning, I broke down my tarp, shouldered my backpack, and walked over to the lean-to. I was intending to fulfill a request from hikers Gayia and her brother Shawn, both in their twenties, that I wake them up. The crowd of hikers that I had expected to sleep in the lean-to had never materialized. It was occupied by three people. In the dim light of the early morning, I peered into the lean-to. Gayia and Shawn were already awake, sort of. They were sitting up, wrapped in their sleeping bags. I was about to greet them when I noticed that their eyes were closed. They were meditating. The temperatures were cold. I wondered how they could remain sitting up and motionless without becoming chilled.I wanted to fire up my Pepsi can stove and boil some water on a beam which cut across the front of the lean-to. The flat surface of the beam was ideal for the task at hand. But the beam was situated in front of them. I hesitated, wondering if the stove and flames would disturb their meditation. I decided to carry on with the chore. I poured some denatured alcohol into the Pepsi can stove, lit a cigarette lighter over it, and a robust flame burned from within the stove. A small pot of water was placed upon the stove. The water came to a boil. I poured some oatmeal into the pot and began eating straight out of it. At some point during all of this, the statuesque siblings came alive, so to speak, and we exchanged greetings.After departing from the lean-to, I hiked up Nesuntabunt Mountain (1,560 feet(, the last uphill of significance until Mount Katahdin. An overlook near the summit provided me with a dramatic view. Below a mist was rising above Nahmakanta Lake. An upland of colorful trees was situated on the opposite shore. Behind the upland and several miles away stood Mount Katahdin; it appeared barren and forbidding.Later, I noticed a column of smoke rising in the woods near a pond. My curiosity led me toward the source of the smoke.A man was cowboy camping next to a smoldering fire. In trail jargon, cowboy camping means to sleep on the ground without a tent or individual shelter. The smoke was drifting over his face and sleeping bag. A fishing rod and hiking gear lay beside him. The person sensed my presence and looked at me. The smoke diminished my view of his face."Dutch, is that you?" I said. He looked like a thru hiker in his twenties that I was familiar with.The man, twenty something years old, replied in the affirmative. Dutch asked me for the time. It was mid-morning. He told me that yesterday evening, he had camped at this spot so that he could go fishing in the pond. We chatted briefly and I moved on.The trail meandered extensively and passed by several ponds. My feet became sore from stepping on what seemed like a never ending concentration of roots and rocks. But there was often beauty underfoot. Colorful leaves had fallen upon the trail; my favorites were the scarlet red ones that seemed to originate from birch trees. The leaves filled in the nooks and crannies between the roots and rocks.Elsewhere, layers of freshly fallen pine needles covered the trail. They did not appear as eye catching as the colorful deciduous leaves, but they provided a cushion like surface for my sore feet to step upon. Later in the day, I experienced a growing pain from a rash. This time, the rash was located inside of my buttocks. I knew from bitter experience that rashes must be dealt with immediately. Rashes are caused by bacteria which thrive in moisture. The affected area of skin must be cleansed and dried. I stopped walking, took off my backpack, and reached into it. I obtained a small container of powder and shook a dash of it into my hand. I was about to shove the powder up my rear end when I noticed Dutch hiking toward me. To avoid embarrassing myself, I shook the powder off of my hand. The powder landed upon a small boulder covered with moss. I wondered if Dutch would notice the white powder covering the green moss.Dutch sat down and took off his backpack. After we conversed for a while, I reached for the bottle of powder. I informed him that I had a rash in my rear end and that I was going to cram some powder into the area. He smiled and said, "Oh, you've got monkey butt."I might have broached this topic in a previous journal entry. Monkey butt is a nick name that hikers use to describe a rash between the buttocks. During a previous outbreak of this condition, I had inspected my rear end, actually, the darker environs of that area, using a mirror in a hostel. The rash was shaped as a distinct red circle. Baboons have big red circles on their butts, that is why the condition is called "monkey butt." Baboons are not monkeys but the term "monkey butt" has a better ring to it then "baboon butt;" that might explain the evolution of the term.While I jammed the powder up my rear end, Dutch told me that some hikers had composed a song called "Monkey Butt" using the melody from a song called "Rocky Top."It was near dark when I unshouldered my backpack at Hurd Brook Lean-to. My first order of business was at the outhouse. My supply of toilet paper was almost gone. I had to use some moss that I ripped off the surface of a rock. The moss was dry with a slight crusty texture. When the moss came in contact with my rash, there was pain.And then a final agony. I ripped open a packet of antibacterial gel. It contained alcohol. I applied it to the rash. When this happened, my monkey butt felt like it was on fire.Gayia, Shawn, and T-Bott arrived at the shelter. Their feet, like mine, were sore after hiking 19.6 miles over roots and rocks. Shawn started a camp fire and we relaxed around the warmth of the flames. We stayed up past 10:00 p.m., later than usual, because we knew our journeys were nearing an end. It was a time to enjoy the companionship of fellow hikers that we would soon be saying goodbye to.The register notebook at this lean-to, the last shelter of its kind before entering Baxter State Park, was filled with sentimental entries. One thru hiker wrote that he had been carrying the ashes of his deceased father. I would assume this hiker had scattered them on the summit of Mount Katahdin. Gayia told me that she knew a hiker who was carrying the ashes of his dog and was releasing them into streams along the course of the trail.For me, the entry which resonated the most read as follows: "In two days, we're thrown back into it."