Date: 2004-10-13
From: Katahdin

To: California
Miles today: 0.0

(Rick McKinney, aka Lord Duke Jester Jigglebox, summited Katahdin on October 8, 2004, after walking over 2000 miles in 222 days on the AT since March 20, 04. Hewill continue to add to his journals as he returns home and transcribes tons of material from notebooks not yet posted here or on his own site, http://www.jigglebox.com. The following was whipped out on a library computer in Gorhamjust before Jester returned to his native California.)October 13, 04Summited, DoneMadness on a hump day in New Hampshire. Awoke early this morning, 4 a.m., to the conviction that I must return to the AT and make up a few miles I missed in the Saddlebacks, in fact all the Saddlebacks. Wrote crazy Kerouacian entry in journal to the effect that the constellation Orion was forcing my hand on this one, sending me back. And why not? Here I am in NH still, as close to the trail as I'll be again for a good year at least, and Yazzy to drive me there and pick me up and good weather today. So we pack it up and leave the quiet of the Lake Francis cabin high up in the peaked roof attic portion of the Old Man's house, New Hampshire, and head south and then east and with every mile I'm flipping out, flipping and flopping and changing my mind. Go. Don't go. And there's the seat awaiting me on Southwest Flight 925 outa Manchester tomorrow and although the ticket is open-ended, do I really wanna give it up? Forward to: complete mental meltdown in a gas station parking lot at the junction of Route's 16 and 26, the turning point where I must make my decision. I walk to the phone to change the flight and can't do it. I flip a nickel two outa three. I do it again and again and hate it, hate the outcome that tell's me I gotta do it, but feel sure I'll never sleep again if I don't go back and finish what I started. I walk. I come to a picnic table in a small park and cry. This is madness. We have become fully lodged in the throat of the space-time continuum and we're gonna choke the life outa the world if we don't do something quick. But wait a minute! So what if all the cards are in place for an easy return to the trail? So what that Orion came out last night and said hello for the first time in months? I'm F-ing exhausted! I can't do this anymore! I'm done! I was done weeks ago. But I kept walking to make it Katahdin (not counting of course the little hitchhike-pink blaze I did to make it to Yazzy so's I could finish the trial (sic) ..er, trail with a much-needed companion after so long alone out there). I kept walking and walking and walking and until my ankles were going bad on me again and my knees collapsing like sat-upon eggshells and my back went out.. jeezus, I was a mess BUT I KEPT ON WALKING! And then I finished. Boom. Voila. Just like that it was over. Is all this just some kinda post-traumatic AT syndrome symptom? Cuz man I don't like it. So what did I do? you're wondering. I walked into that gas station and ambled around. I contemplated a new round of trail rations. Not appealing. And then I came to the Heet, that methyl alcohol gas line treatment shit we alcohol-stove users use on occasion when we can't find pure denatured. I stared at the bottle of Heet. It stared back. And then my focus shifted. Behind the Heet were glowing cases where cold beverages sat waiting my attention. I gave the Heet a miss and grabbed a sixer of Jim Beam & Ginger Ales in the can. I calmly walked to the counter. I paid. I walked out to the truck and cracked one open. I took a swig and I knew. I knew the truth. I knew that the truth was bullshit, the truth in the exact mileage, bean-counter sense of the AT and what it means. "Endurance is more important than truth," Bukowski said. Had I not endured enough? Two hundred and twenty-two daze on the trail in the woods with no outdoor plumbing and stinking socks and going to bed at night sweaty all over despite the outside temperature, sweaty from ten hours of hard physical work. I had endured plenty. I looked up at the center rearview mirror and remembered a line from an old road-race movie from the sixties, when a racecar driver tore the mirror off and tossed it out the window saying, "What is behind me is not important!" Yaz returned from the payphone and chuckled as she saw the sixer of booze. I chuckled back. "Drive, woman!" I said. "Drive SOUTH!, away from Maine. I'm done. I'm done, Aug. I just wanna go home." -RSM[Postscript: New England now shimmering in golden light of sun, the sun a bobbing apple in the barrel of mountains, hills running the New Hampshire/Maine line and all the leaves in the full burst of autumn color, the crescendo! And the colors clearer now in my joyful eyes of decision made. Going home. Home to the idea of home. Zeppelin and Moby and Petty and the Beasties mix it up on Yazzy's stereo truck rolling past bright white homes and jeans hanging on the line to dry, North Fryeburg on route to Daddy-o's for a final visit. Let's see if he can embrace the occasion a little better than has been done thus far. Out now. Over and out. Too much beauty passing out October window to be looking down to write. -RSM]