Date: 2003-07-10
From: Hwy 23

To: Upper Goose Pond Cabin
Miles today: 19.1
Weather: broken clouds

When I spoke to my dad last night, it was an especially lucid call. Some times I wake him from a nap, and he is still elsewhere. But last night he was alert, and wanted to chat.He asked me an interesting question. "Are you still liking it? No regrets?"It was interesting because I had agonized quite a bit before leaving to hike the AT. Carving a six-month chunk to thru-hike is no small, uncomplicated undertaking.I found myself telling him: "Dad, it just gets better and better. No regrets at all."And that is the truth.True, I do get homesick, my feet do hurt, I get frustrated with long climbs at the end of the day, I am unsure of how quickly I can jump start my business (and income) when I return, etc. etc. etc.But regrets?None. Not a one.Last night, I slept like a baby on the retreat's floor-based mattresses. The harlequin calico curled up behind my knees, and purred her kitty songs into the lonely dark. It was the third time on the Trail a creature - domesticated creature, anyway - snuggled with me as I slept. It always touches me when they do. There was little Mickey at Kincorra, and Milo the wiener dog in Tennessee. I do miss my scruffy pup Pogo, and my imperious cat Rocket.It is a sparkling morning. The air is scrubbed and fresh, cool. Sunny and breezy, dry. Almost like fall, my favorite season. I have gooseflesh, but recognize that a few minutes under pack will make short work of those.As I walk, I blow a perfect snot rocket. It's an easy thing to do, actually, with a little practice: Wait for the accumulation of sufficient volume (an essential point!), close one nostril and exhale sharply through the other. My slide from civilization continues. In truth, a good snot rocket is a satisfying thing, a lot, I imagine, like the perfect return in tennis, a slam dunk or a drive straight down the middle in golf. Maybe even like nailing the high notes in Handel's "Messiah." Given the right context, it's that good.My hiking friend Sloetoe, while visiting in the Smokies, had chided me for using valuable TP to blow my nose: "And you call yourself a thru-hiker?"Yah, now I'm an authentic thru-hiker...Itchy is pessimistic as always about getting a hitch back to the Trail from the retreat center. He's certain we'll have to walk back. But within five minutes we get a ride from a doctor with a kayak on his car top. Kinship of the sportsfolk!After we bid the good doctor good-bye at the Trailhead, I turn to Itchy: "You know, when we split up next week, you'll have to develop your own Inner Yogi."He claims I get rides because I'm a woman, but I think differently. After all, Ben (Just Do It) was a master, always got a hitch. And I've observed that when I just stick my thumb out and am distracted, the percentage of rides falls. When I give it my full, optimistic attention, the percentage rises. "You've got to connect with the person on the other side of the glass," I coach. "I'm sure that's how Ben did it too.""Pretend it's Lupe in there, and you really want to catch her eye, have her to stop the car. Project your energy out there."I figure that Itchy the ex-Banker will label this counsel as loopy. But he surprises me, agrees to see for himself, give it a try. I consider that progress.At one point, I am leading the charge and hear rustling in the trees high above me. I look up in time to see a fat grey squirrel do a Flying Wallenda to another branch - and miss. As I stand there open-mouthed, it is hurtling down at my face, little rodent arms outstretched. I utter a squawk and leap backward, practically knocking into Itchy, who is chugging along with his head down. The squirrel crash lands in the bush I was adjacent to, and bounces like rubber right back up the tree from which it just dive-bombed me. It is over in seconds, but my adrenaline is racing.Itchy finds this amusing. As he is laughing, up comes Detective Friday, back on the Trail. We pumped him for his medical story. The finger: Dislocated, splinted, discharged back into the world to find it's way back to the Trail. It's good to see Friday again. Shoot, I hardly saw him the first time.In Massachusetts, both Itchy and I have noted a change in the landscape, different even from NY/CT - fewer swamps/more acid bogs, more spruce cathedrals, fir and white birches, alpine ponds, even at these relatively low elevations. There has been a change in Itchy lately too, since Kent, CT. He's stopped pushing so hard, is less in a hurry, more willing to attend an overlook or snap a photo. I like it. He's always been good company otherwise - doesn't chatter much but speaks when there's something to be said. Laughs politely at my jokes.We pass by several glacial ponds and pause, letting the quiet peace of them be absorbed into our pores. My mind has an ease and clarity out here lately. I've only felt that in periods of my life when I meditated regularly. Nothing fancy, just the simple daily discipline of sitting still, watching the breath flow in and out. Seeing what comes up. Usually what comes up is a restlessness, a need to be doing something else. Why do we always have to be busy, busy, 24/7? It's our conditioning, and we rarely question it. I don't know why watching the breath works to settle the mind. It's like washing the mud off the window. But, except for the mindless activity of hiking, (and maybe mucking horse stalls), I don't know anything else that is such a powerful tool for self-awareness and clarity. Maybe knitting.But daily sitting takes discipline. And you don't have something concrete like a scarf or an afghan to show for it when you get up. It's just something you feel over time.It occurs to me that if I have the focus to get up each morning and shoulder a heavy pack to walk 1500 miles, I ought to be able to get serious about a regular meditation practice. Not to let life's incessant distractions pull me off my center. It's very easy out here to hear one's "inner voice," if one cares to hear it.Well, enough introspection. Time to connect with Trail folk.We met a caretaker yesterday, mowing wet weeds. We were delighted, and told him so. We joked around a bit before he pointed out to us the Hill Haven Farms plant nursery with food and a phone, beside the next road.Today we see another maintainer with same mower. We ask if he's the same guy."That would have been Cosmo," he replies.Cosmo Catalano?"Why, yes," he says.I had just called Cosmo yesterday, from Hill Haven Farms. Ha! In fact, it had been Cosmo himself who had pointed out the phone to me. When I called his day number, I got a recording saying he was out of the office for the day. Double Ha! "Off," indeed! Off mere yards from where I sat eating coffee ice cream by the pint. Cosmo is another hiking list buddy. We missed last year when I did the Long Trail. This time, we'd connect - by intention or accident.As I walked along, I met a woman dayhiking southbound. There are far fewer women on the Trail than men, and I always enjoy female energy. "Good to see more women out here!" I greet her, as we swing past each other."Yeah!" she cheered with a smile, and pumped her arm. Around the corner is another woman, following in the tracks of the first. "More ladies!" I exclaim with approval."You GO, girl!" she shot back with a smile of her own.That simple conversation, exchanged on the fly, lasting mere seconds, buoys me for the rest of the afternoon. Some folks are so spontaneously free and generous with their positive energy. It's like sunshine - freely given.Itchy wanted to do a shorter day, but the springs were bad where he thought to camp. I had a yen to do the 20 miles to Upper Goose Pond cabin. When the sites looked poor, he came along with me. We were hiking well in this drier air, and still had gas in the tank.What a fine sight greeted us! A large 2-story red cabin, with windows, a large porch and propane burners for cooking. On a pristine glacial lake. For $3 we got a padded bunk and a pancake breakfast. Hard to beat. But you had to walk here.The cabin even had a canoe. It was the primary thing luring me to walk this far - LOVE to sit atop that water! Itchy liked the water too. Within minutes of our arrival, we'd claimed a bunk, signed a release, donned a PFD and were out the door to the dock.The water was deep and clear, tea-colored from the tannins. The shore and bottom were rocky. We spotted an island in the middle and, of course, paddled to it.Yes, The Opposites go canoeing! It was hilarious. We go zig-zagging around the lake, laughing, yelling useless instructions at each other.Somehow, we managed to hit both the island and our pier."That was amusing," said Itchy, docking.Later, journaling at the main table, I meet Wheel and Bojangles, the first southbounders. These two left May 27. They had high praise for the beauty of southern Maine.And, after I perused the cabin's library, I turned out the propane lantern and went to bed.