I spent three weeks out with backpack and hike again, slowly creeping north through Vermont on the portion of trail that is both the Vermont Long Trail and the Appalachian Trail. This conflux made for a powerful churn of hikers. AT NoBos having cleared most of the Green Tunnel were seeing eye to eye with the weathered SoBos who had emerged triumphant from Maine and the Whites. LT SoBos on their victory lap with their finish line fully attainable tutored the rookie LT NoBos and reaffirmed that the north end of the LT does, in fact, get much more difficult. I passed through after most of the bubbles had, thankfully because i heard the densest part of the AT NoBo bubble was ruinous with humans this year.
Amidst all these kinds there was me, hiker trash without a destination or even a physical location as a goal. Brand new kit on my back; a discerning eye would be needed to tell how it was truly a slapdash experienced hiker’s pack instead of a green pack in desperate need of a shakedown [though my luxury item game was a bit outta control i will admit]. My knee has been treacherous this year as well – i lacked the ability to cruise all day to prove my mettle should i want. I lacked the desire to anyways, my mind was fixated on drinking in the lands and the towns, and my eye kept catching the real estate agencies in charge of all their rustic vacant buildings.
John C Heinel came to America in 1869 and decided to settle down in Manchester Center, Vermont. He regularly advertised his hot new styles of men’s and children’s clothes at the best prices in the local newspaper, the Manchester Journal, at around the turn of the century. Then Heinel’s Clothiers closed and eventually the storefront was replaced by a gym. When i passed by the gym had perished as well, wearing a large ‘For Lease’ sign displayed prominently next to this disheveled one, removed from its relevancy. The gym’s lifeless body was still full of machines and equipment and darkness.
I arrived at Bromley Mountain, hungry for a sunrise. Just look at this mountain top, perched so majestically above the seas of green. See? the crown is shaved just for us humans to get a good view! A good view to be sure, the sunset played off of the clouds and painted eastern slopes with the darkest inks. The following morning, calamity! A storm arrived [it graced nearly the entire AT, living up to its reputation as the wet trail in spades] and kept the peak shrouded in a cloud for days. I ate through my entire resupply loitering in the Bromley Mountain Ski Patrol hut, a fully walled, roofed, proper building. There i greeted a cascade of wet, tenacious thru-hikers, pounding their way through the mud pits of Vermont in a downpour, their faces positively glowing as they entered this sanctuary from the elements. Days passed, the storm cleared, and for my final night on the mountain i slept outside under the nearly full moon and greeted the sun with joy.
I consistently find that robot eyes struggle to capture the majesty of the liminal times. Jealousy, perhaps, at the glory of reality? That they are so often tasked with replicating it on their faces, only to have their attempts harshly judged and scruitinized?
In this case it failed to capture the breadth of the color range, as well as the vastness of the sea of clouds that layed between that horizon and my mountaintop, but i must concede that it did do a better job of visually representing the view than i could have done.
I met a good handful of former military out on trail this time. These lads, chewed up and spat out by the complex, acquiring peace and serenity in Appalachia. One i met was freshly into his twenties, we drank at a VA bar that lets hikers camp in the backyard. He shared with me some photos from his enlistment days, including his handsome, dress blues, posed, ‘welcome to the force’ and ‘so long, military’ photos from that time. In the after photo he sported a chest busy with accolades. He also had hard eyes, julienned crispy eyes that had spent too much time in the fryer; in stark contrast to the full potato eyes of a high schooler in the before. He pointed to the before photo, ‘i don’t know who that is anymore.’ woof. He seemed to be finding that which he seeked, and kept me up until nearly midnight in town with his good conversation and supply of peanut butter beers. i’m glad you’re still here, lads, all of you
A beautiful emerald carpet of moss, damp, alive, thrives on the ridgeline in the White Rocks National Recreation Area beneath old old evergreens. Legend says devious gnomes enjoy cavorting here and creating rock cairns at this mystical nexus, much to the chagrin of the rule abiding Leave No Trace agents. Word travelled to me along trail that these agents came to the enchanted forest and stomped out these spawning grounds of mountain magic. As i crossed this nexus my spirit grew at the sight of a rock cairn garden re-blossoming. The battle continues.
That evening i descended down from the ridge to a cozy streamside camp with two LT hikers, No Hitch and AKA. These righteous fellas broke my campfire-free streak, and we weren’t even at a shelter. AKA chainsmoked cigarettes and shared whiskey as we all sang the praises of our Appalachian Trail; the cozy wet social trail. He shared my trail experience on the magnificent PCT: a beautiful nature stroll no doubt, but often much more solitary. The absence of the communal campfire commonality out west drove hikers to their individual shelters early. The views are bonkers, no doubt, but the friendly shelter hangouts of the AT are bonkers in their own right. luv u at
They spun me a yarn, a true story: In the night, a mouse had chewed a hole in her sleeping bag. She stitched up the hole the following morning, and went on with her hike. A few days later a foul smell started to blossom around her. She found that the mouse never left the warmth of her bag. She had to dive into the innards of this nighttime hearse to remove this decomposing passenger. What a fantastic trail name, shoutouts to you, Mousetrap.
I took a brief stop in Cleveland after my short stint on trail. My walk across the city to my airbnb in Tremont brought me through the Flats, an old crossroads, a dried riverside bluff with quiet roads and sundialed monoliths of brick forgotten, a proposed hub from an era before modern America showed up. Murals and placards sang of golden ratios, and equinox and solstice magics in relation to the layout of this part of town. The roads i saw on my walk were more of a colder grid. One of the walls in this area hit me with this. the answer: it was a Carly Rae Jepsen concert
A tribute to the brilliance of Christo and Jeanne-Claude.
It is the night of June 27th, 1962 in Paris. Half of a year ago an iron curtain was erected upon some German city about 550 miles away. On this night, under the gibbous moon, the artists spring into action [with explicit scantioning from the city – oh la France, so revolutionary but all too often so governmental]. Methodically they stack oil barrels in one of the narrowest streets of the city until, thirteen feet wide and thirteen feet tall, they fully clog it up. Their message: the Berlin Wall sure is weird, huh? Cutting a city into pieces, dividing a land, they seeked to emulate that feel on this one short banker street [for eight, count em – eight – hours].
Cut to this tribute, placed in an alley between small town American businesses, cutting off the path from the road with storefronts to the classic small town America dirt parking lot flanked by storebutts. Access to this prevention of access was prevented by a secondary padlocked gate.
not sure where the destination is here, it could be how we can’t have nice things in the states, it could be the relationship between the tribute piece and the original art and the scenes they are both set in, it could be my often complicated feelings about the artist. with these theses presented as they are i think i’m satisfied tho
I’ve noticed a number of errors in my past posts as i’ve lately returned to my internet presence. I’m not fond of seeing them, i feel like a doof lookin at an incorrectly placed comma. You fool, that doesn’t read right! This glyphic hiccup is an unnecessary pothole on the path you’re paving! but…these warts are how it was when i placed these words online. That’s just how it be sometimes, yeh? But, ultimately, I am a god unto these words – this projection of my consciousness onto my wordpress corner spinning tall tales of my silly journeys. They may be polished, for i am the sole arbiter of their nature here’s a cat i saw through a window
man i dunno 