Date: 2004-09-25
From: Moxie Pond

To: Slice of Americana
Miles today: 15.0

In the morning, I hate it when my hiking clothes are cold and damp on my clothes line¢a string between two trees. Today after I got up, I stuffed my hiking shirt and underwear briefs into my long underwear pants, the ones I sleep in. I continued to wear the long underwear pants while taking down my hammock and tarp. The tactic was a success. When it came time to put on the hiking shirt and briefs, they were warm.On Moxie Pond, a mist was rising over the surface of the water. The sun was peeking over the top of a hill on the far shore. A pair of loons swam through the mist. They left behind them a wake on the water; it glistened in the sun.While I took in this sight, three boys came walking down the gravel road. They were camping in the clearing with the sportsmen who had arrived last night. The boys had BB rifles and a BB pistol. They were shooting at trees. They were shooting at each other.We greeted each other. They told me not to worry about their dog in the clearing. I said okay and returned to my stealth camp. Shortly thereafter, a BB round landed nearby. It was not an intentional shot. The boys did not realize that I was inside the woods.Yesterday, while on the summit of Pleasant Pond Mountain, I had come across an empty plastic bottle which someone had tossed. I picked it up with the intention of trashing it when I reached the next town. I approached the men in the fishing camp with the intention of asking them if they would dispose of the bottle. I did not want to carry it on my backpack for another 23 miles.The same two men were present, along with another man, and one of the BB rifle boys, plus a dog. They were sitting around a fire. Huge logs were burning in the fire. They had a chain saw handy for cutting this wood. I asked them if they would take the bottle. They told me to toss it into the flames. I hesitated, mindful of a "leave no trace" ethic of camping. Under this ethic, plastic items are packed out; they are never tossed into a fire because they leave a residue. But I did not want to create tension by not burning the bottle, an insinuation that I did not approve of their suggestion. So with reluctance, I lobbed the bottle into the fire pit.I regarded the fishing camp and the boys with their BB guns as a slice of Americana. After saying goodbye to the fishermen, I walked along the dirt road toward The Appalachian Trail. Two ducks were swimming near the shore which adjoined the road. About 100 yards behind me, the BB boys were heading in the same direction. I hoped that the ducks would not run afoul of those boys.The trail made a right hand turn off of the gravel road. I balanced on a plank and crossed a stream. During the crossing I heard shotguns blasting nearby.I ascended Moxie Bald Mountain (2,629 feet). The summit was the former site of a forest fire. It was full of exposed rocky areas that were easy and fun to walk upon. The views were spectacular. I stopped for lunch at Bald Mountain Pond. A small brown squirrel showed up. It was unaware of my presence and stopped walking. A large, dark pine cone was sticking out of its mouth. In a comical way, it looked as though the squirrel was smoking a cigar.There are lots of these little brown squirrels in the woods. Whenever they sense my presence, they emit a high pitched, staccato call, followed by a squeal. It gets aggravating to hear this warning several times a day.A few days ago, I was setting up my hammock under a tree upon which a squirrel was perched. He looked down at me and began harassing me with squeals and other calls. I looked up at the little guy with curiosity. When this happened, it came down lower, about fifteen feet above me. Then it contorted its face into a grotesque expression and made some angry sounds. It was almost scary. Not to be intimidated, I approached the base of the tree. The squirrel ran off.I saw another female moose; it was running away in the woods. At the same time, I heard another large animal moving off; I assumed that it was her calf.After descending Moxie Bald Mountain, I hiked through a gently rolling forest. Sometimes I walked with a natural gait. Other times, I was slowed up by concentrations of rocks, muck, and roots. There were dark rocks underfoot that for some reason attract moisture; they were slippery.At the end of the day, I arrived at the Horseshoe Canyon Lean-to; it was unoccupied. Almost as soon as I arrived, a thunderstorm passed over.I felt content, riding out this storm in the shelter of the lean-to.When it came time to wash my cooking pot, I placed it under the eves of the lean-to where the rainwater was running off. It provided me with enough water to clean the pot, excluding the rinse. This approach was preferable to using my supply of drinking water for cleaning.I am sleeping tonight in the lean-to.The storm has passed. A full moon is illuminating the woods. My backpack, my food bag, and my hiking clothes are hanging on ropes and strings in the front of the lean-to; they appear as silhouettes against the moonlit forest.