Date: 2004-06-01
From: Flashbacks and Foreshadowing

To: Worth Naming and Happiest Point of No Return Ever
Miles today: 8.6

Part I: Worth NamingThe thunder echoed for miles as lightning cut an arc through the clouds. Thick sheets of rain pummeled the earth. White hail added a percussive power as these chunks of ice battered all beneath them. Trees that had stood for decades now fell under their own weight as the soil around their roots turned to mud. The trail itself became a creek as currents raced through eroded channels, running downhill to turn a steep path into a mudslide punctuated only by protruding rocks. Truly, it was the sort of path only a fool would venture down as the heavens brought their full fury down upon the earth.        So there I was, pressing onwards and downwards to Port Clinton. I could see hints of it through the torrential storm as long as rain wasn¢t blowing back into my eyes. All I had to do was make it down a hill steep enough to defy a protractor. And I knew there was only one way to do that: I¢d have to play a little game I call ¢Pinball.¢        I became pretty good at Pinball because my family¢s house in New Castle is near a steep ravine. As I grew through adolescence, I became pretty good at going down steep slopes by bouncing from one tree or rock to another, in effect descending the slope in a zigzag fashion. Or, to put it more visually, by bouncing back and forth from one obstacle to the next like a ... ah, you know what.         While shooting from one tree to another, I reflected on the preceding day that brought me to this point. OK, I didn¢t really. But I really want to employ a tired literary device to beak up the linear time flow, so just work with me here.Worth NamingThe spike landed inches from my face.        I shot up. The grizzled hiker who nearly pierced my nose with his trekking pole turned to apologize. I wasn¢t interested in that; I asked how far it was to the shelter. Turns out, it was only a few hundred more miles to the side trail leading to it ... and a third of a mile from there.        It was a cold but sunny morning. I threw on my sodden backpack, wrung out my soaking sleeping bag, and trudged to the Eagles Nest Shelter. A friendly section-hiker around my age named Modulus was waiting there, and of course I asked him what anyone else would: ¢How did you get a name like Modulus?¢ Turns out, he had named himself after his bass guitar. He made a rather compelling case for not having other people name you, namely that you never know what you¢re going to get stuck with then.        After Modulus left, I started thinking myself about the whole trail name thing. If I didn¢t choose a trail name for myself, I¢d get stuck with one. The only real traits that seemed to make me anything other than an unremarkable hiker were my overstuffed pack and bouts of flatulence brought on by eating air-filled noodles very quickly. I¢d be willing to bet there already was someone out there named Turtle or Mule, so I¢d probably get a name like Stinky, Muffins, Beanie Man, Cheese Cutter, Gas Trail, Trouser Cough, Windbreaker, Air Biscuit, T.J. Pootertoots or Sir Farts-A-Lot. There may be less honor in choosing a name, but it was better than being dubbed any of the above. Besides, if the other section hikers were taking names, then damn it I was worth naming too.        I left a Army survival guide at the shelter and set out. I resolved to have a name picked by the time I reached Port Clinton. At the same time, though, it¢d have to be one I had earned, one I had a reason to be called. God BowlingI finally got through to my uncle around noon, when I only had about five miles left. Dave told me I should hustle to clear the remaining distance because Harrisburg was under thick storm clouds. I looked to the sky as he said this - there was nothing but blue over my head.         It had gotten a little darker by the afternoon. No problem, I told myself checking the map. Only a couple more miles to go. It¢s practically a straight path into the town. If the map is right, I have nothing to worry about. The echo of thunder rolled in from the West.         I really thought I was going to make it. The thunder repeated, a little louder. The trail took an unexplained turn to the north. The thunder was louder. I thought I could see a town off in the distance, through the leaves, down the hills. The thunder was much louder. If thunder is God bowling, the big guy was getting a perfect game. I didn¢t think I was going to make it. I put on my hooded rain jacket.         The thunder was loud enough to make my teeth rattle when the first heavy sheet of rain fell. Then the forest echoed with a new sound; the sound of a million pellets bouncing off leaves. I watched the small drops of white ice fill the trail in front of me, felt their sting as they bounced off my exposed hands. Hail. I couldn¢t believe it was hail. I hadn¢t seen hail in years. Hail sucks. That¢s the topic sentence of this paragraph. Rain has its uses, snow can be fun, but hail has no redeeming features.         I was wrong about beating the storm. I was also wrong about the map. I walked the better part of a mile through switchbacks omitted by the cartographers in the worst storm I¢ve seen in years.         The Christening of St. NateI was soaked to my boxer shorts were wet by the time I got down the hill. What was worse, the water went down my left leg, turning my sock into a thick water-bearing rag that squished with each step.         It was still raining when I made it into Port Clinton. The town itself is tiny - only about four hundred residents - so we hikers make up a large portion of its economy and social scene. One couple stopped their truck in the middle of a bridge as I was passing the other way, asking if I needed directions. I knew where I was going; all I wanted was to reach the hotel and get a hot shower.        Needless to say, in a town of 400 people it ain¢t exactly hard to find a hotel or, in this town, the bar that rented rooms. Unfortunately, I was a little late getting in. A short mulleted blonde behind the bar made it sarcastically clear there were no more rooms left, that I had to go to something called ¢The Pavilion.¢ I wasn¢t real happy about that, but at least I read the Pavilion offered free accommodations for the night. So I said hello to Modulus (who was nursing a beer at the bar) then headed back out into the rain.        I ran into another hiker while walking to the pavilion. Turned out, it was the lady from the 501 Shelter - remember, the one who came in just as I was leaving? She said her name was Lucky Star, so I told her the trail name I picked for myself. After much thought, I decided to name myself after the animal I most resembled at that moment: ¢Drowned Rat.¢        Lucky Star didn¢t exactly like that name, so I gave her the alternate: Since I had left so many overpacked items in shelters across the state, maybe I should be Saint Nate.* That earned her approval.        The rain finally stopped when we reached the Pavilion. The sun emerged fron the clouds as we went under the roof. * Yeah, I know, Saint Nate has also been my e-mail address for the past four years. I just really didn¢t want to be called Sir Farts-A-Lot. Part II: Happiest Point of No Return EverAround this time Uncle Dave made it to the bar in Port Clinton, looking for me. Our original plan was to simply call each other¢s cell phones and get this sorted out. A great plan, except that for some reason cell phones get no signal in Port Clinton. Therefore, he had no way of knowing I wasn¢t at our rendezvous point.       As it turned out, Dave knew the mulleted blonde so well he called her by her nickname, ¢Stumpy.¢ Of course, Stumpy couldn¢t have known the drowned-rat lookin¢ guy she sent to the Pavilion was named Nathan. Modulus, though, did know my name, and he overheard the whole thing and sent Dave to the right place. So you see, there WAS a reason I went into all that detail.         Anyway, Dave found me at the Pavilion and led me back to the bar. For the first time since I achieved my full height, Dave was walking faster than I was, primarily because I was affecting a sort of staggering swagger with each step. I wasn¢t trying to imitate Graham Chapman from Yellowbeard (although that is in my top ten favorite movies); my feet were abused to the point where I couldn¢t walk normally.      The dinner with Dave, his girlfriend Julie (they¢re not married yet, so I guess I can¢t in all pedantic accuracy call her my aunt) and my grandparents was so refreshing I banished any thoughts of abandoning the trail. The whole ordeal seemed a lot more fun in retrospect as I told them about ... well, everything you¢ve read to get to this point.       While we were eating, Lucky Star came into the bar looking for the payphone. She couldn¢t find one, so Dave offered to place a call for her when we got to an area where his phone picked up a signal. Lucky Star cheerfully gave Dave a number and asked him to relay two messages: That Lucky Star wished them a happy anniversary, and that the night before she was attacked by a bear.      Yes, we were all shocked when Lucky Star said she was attacked by a bear. She didn¢t stick around to elaborate either.       I gorged myself on three porkchops and about four potatoes worth of fries while regaling my family with tales of my adventures. The more I talked about what I had survived, the more fun it had seemed in retrospect. Best of all, I was earning the respect of my family. Any thought I had about leaving the trail vanished with my hunger pangs.       I was so excited about getting back on the trail I accepted Dave¢s offer to visit Cabela¢s. Honestly, I never imagined anything like the Cabela¢s in Hamburg. Imagine a two-story building dedicated to camping supplies and you¢re close; add in a cheap exhibit with talking mechanical bears speaking in mechanical looped dialogue and a fake waterfall and you¢re closer. Basically, it was a Chuck E. Cheese for yuppies who like to think they¢re rednecks.      I set straight to the second floor to find some trekking poles, but all they had were walking sticks. Then I looked for a lighter sleeping bag, but the only one I could find was covered by GI Joe logos - a might bit immature for me. Finally, I looked at the backpacks, settled for a lighter internal-frame backpack with padded shoulder straps, a sipper pouch thousands of dangling cords - everything but a price tag. Getting the clerks to look up the price was a Sissyphusean ordeal in itself; I had to run back up the stairs twice when I should have been resting my feet. Not exactly restful, although I ultimately did get the backpack along with another pair of shorts.       So, yeah, Cabela¢s may have a lot of camping stuff, but as I said earlier camping and hiking are two very different sports. I was almost as disappointed by their lack of hiking selection as I was by their inefficient sales staff. Still, I can¢t complain too much, because I got a new backpack. Just owning one made me feel like a real hiker. I also got a 64 oz. Gatorade bottle (emptied out and washed out) and a new pop bottle to stay hydrated.       That night I returned to the pavilion. Lucky Star was already there, as were two other hikers: Stealth and Squid. A couple of townspeople also came by, and Lucky told them the story about how she survived being attacked by a bear the night before. It was a good story. Maybe someday I¢ll tell you about it. No, I won¢t. It¢s her story, not mine, and it¢s meant for her journal. It¢s a good story, though.*       I also found out about the moose attack, which happened a few years before on the Continental Divide trail. To be fair, even Lucky Star admitted it was soft of her fault the moose attacked her. That was another great story that has no place here, not only for ownership reasons but also because it didn¢t happen on the Appalachian Trail.       Eventually, though, the excitement died down. We all bedded down in our spots and tried to ignore the constant thunder from truckers pulling their air breaks on the nearby highway. *If you ask me nicely, I¢ll tell you the story. If you ask very nicely, I just might tell you about her previous battle with a moose on the Continental Divide Trail.