Date: 2004-05-27
To: Final stop before Rocksylvania
Miles today: 0.0

There are so many simple gifts in life we don't stop to think about until they're no longer with us. I've already waxed setimental about my futon, so now I'm going to talk a bit about how lucky I am all four of my grandparents are alive. OK, to be fair, it is a mixed blessing, as my mom's dad spouts off like an uncensored Archie Bunker whether anyone is listening or not and mom's mom is like the incredible shriking Edith (she has osteoporosis, yo).    But my paternal grandparents ... they're a big part in making this trip possible. This set of grandparents live in New Cumberland. For those unfamiliar with mid-Pennsylvania geography, New Cumberland is just south of Harrisburg, which in turn is south of Duncannon. That's important because the Appalachian Trail runs crosses the Susquehanna River at Duncannon, and there's an outfitters in Harrisburg I have to visit to get the last half of my maps. So, basicaly, it's a straight shot north to Clark's Ferry Bridge, where I pick up the trail. That better make sense, because I am not typing it again. So, first, a bit about Grandpa. He grew up in Minnesota, spent his teen years in Canada, then joined the Air force. He lived in just about every part of North America (plus a stint in Okinawa) before returning to this area. He would later retire from the military, putting his skills as a recruiter to sell Pontiacs to the parents of the young men who would later go on to form the glam rock group Poison. (I am not kidding, he sold Rikki Rockett's dad a car. If that's not the weakest celebrity connection you've ever heard, I can show you a picture of my my old college dorm neighbor with Alyssa from Survivor.) Through it all, he kept his Minnesota accent and PX privileges.    Grandma, though, is a country girl from the sundrenched and moonshined hills of Kentucky. I only know fragments about her life, growing up a poor girl in the most rural part of a rural state, but she still has southern spirit.   My point here is they're the two most different people who have been together for some 56 years I've ever seen. God love 'em. Grandpa, Grandma, and Mad Dog   I left work today with the best vacation wishes from all five of my co-workers (I'm with a small company) and got on the turnpike, driving seventy towards the setting sun. I listened to each of my preset Philadelphia radio station drown in static as I passed each horizon, driving still further to another horizon, looking at Three Mile Island nuclear power plant (which has gone 25 years since its last near-catastrophic meltdown, although it still hasn't lived down that incident) as I crossed the Susquehanna on my way to the grandparents Hall's house.    Grandma was still cooking my dinner (panfrying some ham and eggs) when Grnadpa offered me a Guiness. While nursing that bottle, I commented on his bottle of strawberry cream Mad Dog 20/20. He responded by giving me a full bottle for myself, a shot form his, and then pouring me a shot of Lemon Yellow. I responded by pulling out my steel hip flask (at Ikea they called it a "groggy," with an umlat over the O) and asked if I could spare some Vodka. Grandma produced a bottle of Smirnoff, which they had refilled with odorless McCormick vodka.    After I filled my flask (or "groggy" with an umlat - I love Ikea names) Grandma looked over my beverages. "That won't be enough to last you six days," she said.   "I'll be gone for ten days," I said. To calm her, I added, "But don't worry. I'll buy some more along the route."   All this happened before I finished my first beer. I'm on my second now. i against i Grandma was also shocked to learn I was attempting the trail alone. All I could tell her was that it was the safest choice. Last summer I went to San Fransisco with my friend P. Up to this point, P and I had been nothing but the best of action buddies - we rockclimbed together, rafted together, rollerbladed together, even tried to pick up girls together (although she always seemed to have more luck). We were such good friends, we decided to go to San Francisco together. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.    For the first few days things went well. Then came the morning our car was broken into and our rented bikes stolen. P., cursed by nature with a harsh temper augmented by several consecutive nights of insomnia, proceded to verbally tear me apart. Kind of ruined that part of the trip, even the part when we went to the Muir Woods. What was worse, we had already bought the tickets to go to Guatemala.   I could go on here but I won't. P. has apologized, I have forgiven her, we are friends again, and all is right with the world. There is no point bringing the specifics up again. I only told this much to make one point: The experience left me reluctant to travel with friends. If P. and I had really big knives, we likely would have eviscerated each other.    This trip I am carrying a really big knife.      All the same, none of my friends seemed particularly interested in hiking fourteen miles over jagged rocks with fifty pounds on their backs for ten days. So I didn't ask anyone. Besides, somethings a man just has to do for himself.    I can't say I'm even frightened of the worst case scenario. If I slip and die instantly, I'll have nothing else to worry about ever again. If I break a leg, I'll either grab the cellphone or flag down another hiker to get help. If I get Lyme Disease ... man, that would suck but I'd most likely live. If I have anything to fear, it's getting creamed by a SUV while driving home.    So, yewah, this is a trip I'm making by myself. But from what I've read about trail activity from other hikers, I doubt I'll be alone. I've no doubt I'll meet someone to share my Mad Dog 20/20 with.