Date: 2004-06-29
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 18.0
Weather: broken clouds

Boiling Springs, PAMile 1100June 29, 04 Man, I just can't go on. I just can't take it anymore. S'fuckingpointless. And I miss SEX, goddammit! Nature without sex is goddamnboring after 1000 miles, lemme tell ya. I dunno whether Thoreau was aunick or what, a castrato? Gawd! Not my favorite writer! A man withno balls! Oh, well. I sit here by the side of some road in southernPennsyltuckey and I just wanna get up off this frikken rock, heft mypack, stow my poles and stick out my thumb. This isn't fun anymore! Igauge my progress everyday by how far I am from the nearest mattress,the nearest beer, the nearest decent zero day town. Ugh. Where is thezeal that got me out here? Where is the love? Where is the sweetwoman companion to warm my nights and make the miles fly by day withtalk of everything and nothing? This is ridiculous. I've got just 33miles to go to get to Duncannon and the historic Doyle Hotel where I'mgoing to check in for three nights at $17.50/night and drink dollar draftswith bawdy women and randy local men and sit in my room and writeglowingly of the AT and my adventures this past week. But all I want todo on this Tuesday morning is fucking quit. Fuck! I'll get back withya later. I got to walk. -RSM [Later..]5 p.m., Boiling Springs, PAThe Boiling Springs Tavern Feeling better. Muuuuch better. Locally brewed Stoudt's Pale Ale inhand, another ten miles, one two-hundredth of the trail, behind me. Myfeet are killing me still, no doubt about that. But I'm happier. Dropped dead at the last shelter after five hours of solid truckin'down the trail. To my amazement, I went undisturbed for a full 45minutes of total blackout nap, flat out on the shelter floor withnothing but my hand-towel rolled up for a pillow. It was bliss. Iremember having such a vivid image of some lovely female handing mesomething that I sprang awake a moment, catching myself in the act ofreaching out.. for whatever it was. Then I was dead out again. When Iawoke, I tanked up at the nearest spring and hit the trail running. Iwas in Boiling Springs in just over an hour, some four miles away. And now I'm in a bar. A tavern, I should say. Very chic. Reminds meof the haughty atmosphere of the country club in Caddyshack, the kind ofplace where young people, most of them likely not even nearly-rich,have to act rich and stuffy to make it with the clientele. If I hadthe sarcastic class of Chevy Chase or the pure crass & brazen carefreeballs of Rodney Dangerfield, I'd have made some noise in here. But Ihave neither. And I don't care. I'm just glad to have a beer, and tohave made it to Mile 1107 on my northbound conquest of the AppalachianTrail. Bartender Mike is James Spader in the 80s rat pack flick "LessThan Zero," sophisticated, cool bordering on chilly, but then suddenly(also like Spader) friendly like a brother and impressed with me and/ormy little technological wonder here. Though I'm unshaven a good weekor so, and hiding natty hair beneath my AT insignia ball cap, and Iprobably smell bad, he keeps the beers coming. I donned my dark bluewool Crew sweater to get in here, on the advice of mammoth thruhikerCaterpillar who said they woudn't let him in without sleeves. The highbar and dim tavern lighting hide my mud-smudged and stains of myall-around one week unwashed shorts. I figure if I just keep flashing'them ATM-spewn Andrew Jackson¢s, I could probably close this place. Now Jeff the owner comes in and we chitchat and I tell them about PartyGirl and Powder Foot, proof positive (in my mind) that the trail is notall "dudes and dykes" and they've likely got a few beauties to lookforward to in the coming days. Jeff and Mike joke about how little Imust get laid on the trail, and evidence the fact that I'm sitting intheir tavern typing alone and not drinking with one of theaforementioned girls. They got me there. Okay, three (or was it four?) beers in now and its likely time to gofind that campground outside of town. Fuck. I got to backtrack a fullmile. I ain't gonna dig that. But there's no camping here, nowherefor the next 14 miles, so the options are hike another 8 miles and paymoney at the Super 8 off Highway 11, or hike the full 14 miles to thenext shelter. It's six p.m. I ain't going anywhere. [Later still...] Now it's nearly midnight and I'm chuckling to myself as another freighttrain approaches and, just as it seems ready to crash right through ourlittle "thruhiker camp" clearing in the cornfields outside of town,roars and crashes and pummels and blares on by just yards from my tent.That makes me giggle. But what's even funnier is Mouse Bait snoringin her tent a few feet from me. Hell, I'm not sleeping with thesetrains storming by, so I figure no one else are either. Wrong. NipplyMouse Bait is a snoring locomotive. (I told her twas her nipples gother in the tavern in naught but a tank top.) Ha. Ha. Ha.-RSM For the full story of Rick's journey, visit Jigglebox.com