Date: 2003-06-29
From: Brien Memorial Shelter

To: Bear Mt Bridge
Miles today: 9.0

New York is very pretty, grassy and open, wildly floral right now, with large columns of buried stone and some rock scrambles. But it's kicking my butt, wearing me out. I am doing the same miles, but feeling pretty beat up at the end of the day. My reserves are slipping away as I dip deep into the tank. A night's sleep is not enough to recover. I am running on fumes, and this is before I even venture into that Den of Iniquity, New York City.The lovely Brien Memorial shelter where we tented has an inboard resident it appeared. Three Coleman lanterns, lots of cans and cartons of city food, and trash. No thanks.Our campsite of three tents nestled at the base of a protecting rock wall is very pretty and protected.Except that, as we discovered upon shouldering our packs, the AT went straight up that rock wall. Help! My tendons! I'm not even warmed up yet!We saw the sunrise from atop the lovely Black Mt. That's what you get running with Itchy Foot. Mountaintop sunrises. That's because we arise so durn early.We clambered up mountain after mountain, my ankles screaming. I have issues with NY - they don't appear to believe in switchbacks. Why does no one talk about that? My thru-hiker friends laugh and tell me to forget switchbacks. From here on in, switchbacks are a thing of the past.Mid-morning, we come out on a vista and see B-Roc sprawled on his back, talking to his wife on a cell phone. I snap a picture of this little mountaintop scene.Soon, the AT turns into a short little road walk up to the stone observation tower on Bear Mt. What a relief - no step ups, no ball bearing pebbles underfoot, no roots to stumble on. I can chose my own stride.I meet a handsome section hiker, Kevin, who has been reading my journal. Later, Itchy tells me Kevin turned to him and says, "And you must be ItchyFoot." Ha! This just kills me."You're famous!" I tease him. Itchy just shakes his head. But I know he loves it.On the steep-ass descent, littered with more ball-bearing pebbles, Itchy slips on the impossible footing and falls forward. He slides on elbows, hands and knees, face first.Oh, ouch, ouch! It looks like major rug burn, and though Itchy brushes it off, I notice his hand is bleeding. I try not to fuss - ex-Marines hate that - but can't help giving him my washcloth to wipe down with.B-Roc joins up on the descent, and we walk down Bear Mt. to the Inn and a parklike area. First thing we scope out is food. We inhale outrageously priced burgers near the merry go round, and then B-Roc loans me his cell phone to call Curtis, my NYC escort.Near the bathrooms lounge the hikers HomeRun and Detour. I haven't seen Home Run since the Smokies. So many are slowing down, not wanting it to end, and I love seeing them again.Itchy got itchy and hiked on, a huge shame because Mr. Curtis H. Balls arrived shortly thereafter after with hugs, fresh fruit, Fabreeze and chocolate - Ghiradeli Mint Chocolate, no less. I am not kidding about the Fabreeze fabric destinker. Yes, of COURSE I used it. We were going in on the METRO! The AT runs right through the Bear Mt. Zoo. It's free for thruhikers. Curtis and I punch-play a bird ID game and do pretty well. Our tree leaves need work though. The front of the bear exhibit is said to be the lowest elevation on the AT - mere 124 feet. We're a long way from Clingman's Dome, Toto...The zoo sports a life-size bronze statue of Walt Whitman, Curtis' hero. Song of the Open Road, and all that. I urge him - or is it egg him? - to pose with Walt for a picture and he does, striking unseemly poses. Actually, the funniest animal in the zoo (besides Curtis) was a fat grey squirrel in the bottom of a wire waste basket. "You are so trapped," I told the little bandit at the bottom. It was rooting around in the wrappers for little nuggets of goo. Apparently, it found something sticky in the very corner of an ice cream wrapper, because it shoved it's little face so far in, the wrapper stuck on its head. It danced around with a bag over its face at the bottom of the wire waste basket. Good show!A Southern gentleman, Curtis escorted me over the Hudson River and Bear Mt. Bridge. Far below, power boats were carving arcs in the river. Cars were blasting past. It was all very stimulating. I was digging the energy charge. Maybe all I had to do was plug in, like my battery recharger.Curtis had arranged for a cab, and sure enough, within moments I meet my very first New York character - the comic cabbie. He hands us suckers and starts plying us with utterly lame jokes. I am totally into the scene: Curtis is rolling his eyes."You know," said the cabbie, "they closed the zoo at Peekskill - after the clam died." Take my wife - please!It was great.I am cracking up. "You planned this, didn't you," I said to Curtis. "This was a set-up."The Metro train zips us into the City - more noise, crush and color. I become acutely aware of my personal space violations - many walk right thru my large, woodsy "bubble." We then walk to Curtis' lovely apartment on the Upper West side, near Columbia University.We did the usual town chores, laundry and destinking the hiker. We had a bite to eat and toasted that old devil, Love. Then we turned to the business of connecting with my old boss and mentor, Judy Bolch. Judy is now a professor at the U. of Missouri, a top - if not THE top - journalism school. She spends her summers in NYC.I haven't seen Judy in years, and am wild about reconnecting. Judy wants to meet us near her apartment in Chelsea, but Curtis isn't so sure she'll want to do that."Today was the Gay Pride Parade," he explained. He was afraid Chelsea would be a mob of crowds.He laid out the scene to me, being my local expert on such matters: "The parade starts with Dykes on Bikes, topless, helmeted women on motorcycles, followed by every group you can imagine - Parents of Gays, Gay Clergy, Gay Police, Gay Dogcatchers, Gay Gynecologists, bar floats - too many groups. It's like the Balkans!" But Judy wasn"t worried about the crowds, so off we went to find Chelsea Ristorante. We took more trains - or is it "the subway" - to Chelsea. There are gay couples everywhere."I'm not ruining your reputation, am I?" I teased him. He demurred, saying no one here knew him. Right about then a handsome young fellow ran up and enveloped Curtis in a huge bear hug. "Yes, I see," I agreed. Right behind Phillipe was Cleve, an old friend of Curtis' from Nashville and a total sweetheart. Cleve's heart shines right thru his eyes - that very rare thing. I look for it in people, but don't see it often. When I do, it's like seeing an old friend. In it is connection, authenticity, recognition.Cleve is an international jazz singer. He's about to do another tour in Japan. Phillipe is from Normandy. They join us for drinks and turn out to be really fun guys.We four descended on the Chelsea Ristorante, where sat Judy, queen of the sidewalk table. Perfect! Great temps, great view of "the scene" and best of all - no mosquitos!Her son Jonathan came too, which delighted me. Hadn't seen him since he was a lad, and here he is, tall, polite, handsome, well-spoken and Yale educated. A grown-up. They were just finishing up their first bottle of wine, and ordered a second for us.In the 80s, Judy was my editor and mentor at the News and Observer newspaper of Raleigh. She plucked me from the gutter, dusted me off, polished my rough spots and gave me a job. Then proceeded to edit the hell out of everything I wrote. I loved it. Her instincts were near-flawless, and I have never since so trusted an editor. Some people have gift for helping you find your voice.In point of fact, she will pee her pants when she reads my hike diary "voice." All those exclamation marks (YES!!! My WEAKNESS!!!) and mixed tenses... Yes! So many exclamations! So little time!It was, as they say in social circles, "a brilliant evening," one of those perfect mixes of personalities. "The bon mots were flying," Curtis observed. A little wine, an outdoor table, perfect summer temps, the remnants of the colorful Chelsea parade streaming by just beyond our perimeter.At one point in the evening, when the chatter was loud, Judy leans over to me and says, quietly, "This hike. It's about purification, isn't it?"It's an astounding inquiry, and I am astounded by it."Why, Judy, that's a question no one has asked me." It truly stopped my in my tracks.Mind you, we'd both had a couple glasses of wine.Even more astounding was hearing myself answer, "Why yes, yes it is." Trust an editor to go right for the essence, the nut graf.So then I am left to wonder: Purification of what? Of my old ways? I knew the winds of change are blowing through my life, but the outcome is uncertain.Hmmmm, Trail food for pondering.Ah, New York. What fine fun. I can feel the energy being sucked from my body. I need to pull in my horns. I have "outputted" too much. That, and the wine... Curtis drags my sagging carcass onto a train and frog-marches me back to his apartment. He lugs a heavy-ass futon into the living room floor, so I can feel like I'm in a shelter. "I could even round up some mice if it will help you feel more at home," he says. "But you'll have to take them with you when you go."And so I fall asleep. I need my beauty rest. Tomorrow, we "do" The Today Show.