Date: 2004-06-27
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 18.0
Weather: scattered clouds

Mile 1070Quarry Gap Shelter, PAJune 27It's The Bluegrass Show on 107.7 Great Country Radio! It's Big Stickand Austin and Mousebait and White Patch and Dutch and me around alittle fire with the light fading in the western sky and the forest aneon green all around rhododendron blossoms perfuming the air and aspring popping water right outa the ground and trickling through thisJapanese garden-like landscape out front the shelter and me on a parkbench writing on my little pack pillow and drinking a Bud. And no,this ISN'T a normal shelter environment. It's like some kind of countryclub version of the typical run down spider-infested lean-tos we sleepin. And I'm lifting the little red, white and blue can of beer skywardand thanking God for the McCleary Clan, all twenty or so of `em downthere in Caledonia State Park. Now how we came to meet Grandma and Grandpa McCleary and theirwonderful kin went kind of like this.This morning around 11, I twisted my ankle bad. In seconds, my pacedropped from about Mach 5 to zero. I was screaming'. But I had itcoming. I thought to myself, "Now see, there you go! Thinking aboutyour troubles 3000 miles away and loves long lost and other worriesfar, far away from the right here and now. And whammo! My body says,`Take that! Wanna worry about shit that don't matter? Well, here,lemme twist your ankle and drop you like a stone and voila! Now you'rehere! Now you're present, aren't Buddy?! Think about this forawhile!'' And that was that. I thought about that. I thought about my ankle forhours thereafter, grimacing with every step yet sending healing powerto the ankle and leg that had given me so much trouble back beforeTrail Daze but had been so good to me since. I walked chanting, "Whitelight to the right," over and over on some subliminal level. On a moreaudible level, one might have heard me from a mile away as I shouted,"MY ANKLE NEEDS A BEER!"Ask and you shall receive. I tell you, I have seen that adageevidenced more out here on the Appalachian Trail than ever in my life. Most often I don't even have to ask.Big Stick is not your typical 19-year old. He listens. And he reallywants to know about life and art and following one's passion and thebooks I've read and films I like. As we hike together, he stays withme and listens to everything I say. I feel as though I sound like acrackpot. But still he listens. Although I can't swap movie dialogue with him like Python skits or damnnear anything as he seems to have lived in some kinda cultural vacuumhis 19 years, he will chime in now and again with something brilliant. Like Wu-Wei . Wu-Wei, according to Big Stick, is conscious inaction. It's aboutbeing an observer of life right up to the point where your role isneeded or wanted. Kinda like timing. I suppose perhaps it's havingperfect timing, and knowing that good will prevail. And not butting inor forcing things.Well, when Big Stick and I made our mid-afternoon arrival at Caledoniaamidst all the picnic splendor of a Sunday summer in America, we werehungry and tired and dirty and thirsty. By now my whole right leg wasscreaming at me to stop. It really needed a beer, but I didn't see anytrail angels and Wu-wei was far from my mind. Now there's this talent in thruhiker circles for improving one's dietvia social barbecue interaction called "yogi-ing." Wingfoot's"Thruhiker Handbook" defines Yogi-ing as the "good natured art ofletting food be offered cheerfully by strangers without actuallyasking them directly." And Wingnut adds, "if you ask, it's begging." No, duh, Wingnut.Now whether this term comes from Yogi the bear or yogis and sufis anddharma bums and such, I don't know. But I do recall that when I firstcame across the idea in Robert Rubin's tale of the AT, it terrified me.I feared that no matter how I might yogi, I would feel like a beggar. Well, thanks to so many, many trail angels these past three months anddamn-near 1100 miles, I haven't had to yogi. In fact I've never felt less like a beggar and more like the babyJesus. I have been fed and beered and supplied and transported andgifted and graced befitting a king, not a jester. All of us thruhikershave been so kindly treated. We are all kings and through the graceafforded us on our journeys North, we should all reach the end newwomen and men, benefactors and altruists all..But I'm rambling! On to the McCleary Clan.Big Stick and I just parked near them on accident. Sorta. I mean, wefollowed the white blazes through the maze of picnic benches andpeople, keeping our eyes on the trees. And when we came to the lastfree picnic tables before the trail disappeared back into the woods, weplopped down and resolved to rest awhile. Me, I slung my pack up onthe table, climbed up on the table myself, laid back and put my feet uphigh. Big STick just sat. We were pooped. Big Stick pulled out the companion book and noted that there was aconcession stand far across the park by the pool. Did I want to gothere? Hell, no. My ankle was killing. There appeared to be no angelsin Pennsylvania. And I was more tired and in pain than hungry. Was Ithinking about yogi-ing? Sure. But I wasn't movin. Far as I wasconcerned, I didn't have it in me to yogi, and now with my leg killin'me, I was doubly unprepared.Then over walked Hunter and asked if we were thirsty. Hunter isn't hisreal name. I wish I could recall his name, but shortly thereafter Iwas meeting the whole family and my head got so fulla names that I justlost em all. Except one. There was Grandpa McCleary's grand-daughter,the nurse. Wow. It was love at first sight for me. But then I heardthe boyfriend word, and remembered where I was, and who I was, and howfar I had to go. What ever could be the chance of this beauty and Ihooking up? Forget it.But Wu-wei worked. We didn't do a thing, and the McCleary's came tous. First Hunter (I call him this cuz he talked a lot of hunting)supplied us with a coupla Cokes on ice, real nice. We thanked him,sipped our drinks and continued our entirely unplanned regimen ofwu-wei. Then sure enough, one of the sweet ladies of the McCleary clanoffered us food. Well, all right, said I. We surely wouldn't turnthat down. Thank you.[And now it is days later and I never finished this story. TheMcClearys were good people and they fed not just Big Stick and me, buthalf a dozen of our smelly cohort hikers as they came down the whiteblazed path behind us. I'll never forget pointing out to the ladies inthe group that their chosen picnic sight was in fact right on the famedthruhiker highway. I pointed out the white blazes on trees just to thenorth and south of them. To me, they were clear as day. Naturally, tothe untrained eye, not so. But when they finally saw them, andunderstood me when I explained that such marks ran all the way fromGeorgia to Maine and were how we found our way, they were amazed. White Patch, Austin, Mousebait and others devoured the remainder of theMcCleary picnic offerings. We said our goodbyes and thank yous andheaded off into the woods again. But not without a little treat forlater. A six-pack of beer (for medicinal purposes of course, for myankle) that I packed out, on ice, inside my dry bag in my pack and thenshared (painfully but with a smile) with all my friends that night. The one beer I got tasted better than pussy. ¢RSMFor the full story of Rick's journey, visit Jigglebox.com.