Date: 2004-08-06
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 1542.7
Weather: overcast clouds

Mile 1542.7October Mountain, BerkshiresAugust 6, 04Stunning blue sky today, clear and bright and cold. Temp in the forestshade hovering in the fifties. Froze last night in my thin summer bagwith all my clothes on, cursing myself for shipping off my longjohnswith last weight-reduction frenzy few days back. I had just had itwith feet pain and ankle twistings and deciding that weight was theproblem, yanked eight pounds of whatever out of my pack and mailed itto my cousin's for later pickup. How was I to know it would be so damncold in the Berkshires in early August?But pancakes this morning at Goose Pond cabin, blueberries and tastingfine, and fresh coffee, too, even though I couldn't seem to connectwith any of the seven or so people present. Only Jolan-Jolan did Iclick with, and thus walked out with him this morning. His namesomething picked up in Indonesian travels meaning "walking, walking." Nice guy. Short and bearded and bespectacled, he begs to be calledTyler, the character in ''Never Cry Wolf'' of whom JJ is the spittingimage.We walked together awhile until nature called. I answered the call,and I haven't seen him since. Expected to see him lunching at thisshelter midday, but nope. As Thompson said, "We move in fast strangeways."Been encountering a lot of southbound thruhikers now. Meeting them isa mixed bag. On the one hand, it's nice to think, "Hey, this guy's got1500 miles ahead of him, and I've got less than 700." But on the otherhand, it is socially awkward. Both "he" and I are moving at breakneckpace through the forest and neither really wants to stop and chat butyou do anyway out of politeness (there are exceptions, like when youcan just see it in their eyes that they're someone you gotta meet). I met a "sobo" the other day who had just a week ago been picked up bymy buddy Dave in Vermont. Dave was hauling mattresses to a storageplace or something and picked up Wind Sock hitching. Dave gets talkingexcitedly about how he has a friend who's doing the trail northboundand blah blah blah and, says Wind Sock, Dave's foot is going downharder on the accelerator to match his enthusiasm and suddenly whooosh!off the roof of the truck come two big mattress flying off intotraffic. Wind Sock says it was a miracle no one got clocked with aSealy Posturpedic.. So I get the names: Charlie the Tuna (my favorite), Skins, Hemingway, Tumblelina, 4 Winds. Doctor Jones, meet Lord Duke. And so it goes.I've long kicked Jester, by the way. Started kicking the name 900miles ago but no one would accept a replacement. It took two ten-dayzero chunks to displace me enough in the AT space-time continuum towhere I could introduce Duke to a new crowd. But I'm not happy withjust Duke, either. I was Duke in the other world. I want an originaltrail name, one that sparks a story, as so many do. But I'm fucked. It's too late in the game. And when I use Lord Duke instead of justDuke, I get these looks, mostly from women, like, "Well, don't we thinkwe're special." It sucks. Would they like me better if I were PeasantDuke? I met a guy named Jersey the other day who says he hiked last year,almost the whole frikken thing, then quit in Andover, NH, or somewheredamn close. Why? Said he wasn't gonna make it by October 15th, whenthe park service closes the icy rock mountain of Katahdin. Crazy. Sohe's doing it all over again. You see a lot of that out here. You won't see it from me. I'm of a mind that life's too short torepeat anything anymore. I wanna do everything, and do it once. There's too much to see and do. May as well do something differentnext time, every time.Today whilst walking through a "select-cut" harvested chunk ofBerkshire forest, (very odd I thought that they would harvest right onthe AT, and recently) I had a sudden urge to hear Neil Diamond, and tosee again the film "The Jazz Singer." Why not? I remember it as atale of triumph over old ideas & traditions, a triumph for one'spersonal mission, deeply felt by old Neil. Why not.The forest has changed as I move into New England. Mostly pine forestnow. And birch. Birch fall and break apart like candy cane, sections,chunks spread all about the woods like so many scrolls of parchmentstrewn about in the wake of some ancient library bombing. If there isany one natural symbol of New England in my mind, it is the birch tree.We had birch in our yard in Melrose, Mass when I was but ten. Inwinter, a cold rain, a freeze, a snow, all would combine to bend thebirch straight over until it formed a kind of crystal palace for mysister Mandi and me to wander through like dazed angels in a newlyrenovated Heaven.I don't want much from this life. I just want that. I just want thatBirch Tree Heaven again. I want icicles warm to the touch. I want nodeath, or a world wherein death is definite, de-fined, divined to endin bliss. I want everything. -RSM