The path was rocky and steep, coated with lichen and poop, and trodden by four companions, each armed and ready to encounter whatever laid ahead on The Trail of Misery, of Sore Feet and Quads, of Angry Lungs and Broken Fingernails, of Bruises, of Blisters, of Wedgies, of... well, you get the idea. It's not really the spa.
The brawniest armed himself with gigantic muscles and cloaked himself in shades of darkness. He was called The All Black. (He really wanted to be called The Pirate, but he was vetoed. Even after he insisted on talking with a pirate accent.) He doubted one of his companion's strength. She would prove his doubts unfounded.
The tallest traveled prepared, armed with tools to solve any problem that could possibly face the travelers and a few that they surely would not face but he could imagine and therefore wanted to be prepared for just in case he was wrong about all things in his imagination not being realistic. He was called The Catastrophe Detector and doubted his preparedness.
The fittest armed himself with cardiovascular excellence, skipping along the path lightly, happily, easily -- to the severe dismay and jealousy of his less-fit companions who were often rendered mute and deaf but for the gasping of breath and pounding of heart which filled their ears. He was called The One Who Actually Trained. He doubted he would be able to suck down another trail bar (and he was right).
And the meekest of the four, fearful of what laid ahead (certain death) armed herself with the weapon mightier than the sword: the pink pen with fuzzies on the end. She was called The Scribe. (Even if The All Black described her as a Wolverine, which is different from a Wolf in that they are spelled differently. Differences beyond that were not agreed upon during the argument.) She doubted 75% of what the All Black said. And she doubted four packs of gum would be enough.
The journey began with a minor water spill all over The Catastrophe Detector's pack. This was deemed only a minor catastrophe and they joined The All Black, who was hitting on foreign chicks at the trail head. This led to a lengthy discussion of the Trail Ranking System. He explained, as they began a slow ascent which belied the horrors ahead, that a woman becomes more attractive as you get higher into the mountains. So, a Trail Head 4 could be a Hut 8. The Scribe explained that the male ranking system worked in reverse. A Trail Head 4 would likely be a smelly, dirty, crumpled Hut 1. (Note: it is impossible for a man to be anything more than a Hut 6 unless your name is James Hayslip who manages to hike for three days and still smell good.). The Catastrophe Detector and The One Who Actually Trained did not buy into either theory and ignored both of their companions.
As the path changed from pebbly to rocky to bouldery, the angle from uphill to vertical to insane, the discussion deteriorated to the mundane ("How do you spell Yay? Yeah? Yeah? Yeay? Yea?") and then to the inappropriate ("I am wearing the wrong underwear; severe wedgie happening back here.") and finally to the gross (Poop.) before it was overtaken by huffing and puffing and gasping and quiet whimpers.
They passed a Trail Head 11.
They crawled and crawled. Their legs burned. Their lungs worked overtime. They grabbed at tree limbs to help them keep steady as they moved up the slope that seemed to reach to heaven with climbing that felt like hell. All four made it to the top. But at the top, The All Black would encounter his nemesis: The Lumberjack.
The Lumberjack was a gnarled, rough-looking Irishman with a nose that had surely been broken by no less than two beer bottles and seven angry Scotsmen. The Lumberjack warned The Catastrophe Detector and The Scribe that he snored terribly. The Scribe confessed that she, too, snored. And so they bonded. The Catastrophe Detector pulled out earplugs. Catastrophe averted. The All Black, however, lacked adequate ear protection and was robbed of his sleep by what he described as irregular and deafening chainsaw sounds coming from the bunk 15 feet away. He blamed any performance gaps on his nemesis. And on how his bandanna was folded. And on getting a C in handwriting in the third grade.
At breakfast, the Lumberjack told The Scribe he was headed in the same direction as she was. She shared this information a mile into the hike. Upon hearing The Lumberjack was headed to the same hut as the rest of the travelers, The All Black darted into the forest, abandoning his companions, determined to find safe refuge in the next hut, choosing a bunk far from the audible assault inflicted upon him the previous night. The All Black disappeared.
The One Who Actually Trained chatted with The Scribe who wrote nothing down, apparently disinterested in assuring any sort of accuracy. The Catastrophe Detector feared that The All Black might be lost forever and that the three of them would be forever remembered as those who let their brave/stupid companion journey forth alone into the unknown where he met death. Alone.
When they arrived at their destination, The All Black was holding court on the porch. He had not met death. He greeted the weary three and showed them where he would be fortified for the night: safe from audible terrorism. A few hours later, The Lumberjack entered the hut. The All Black was outside. The Scribe was in the bunk room. And within a few minutes, The Lumberjack was settled in that same bunk room, ten feet from The All Black's bunk. The Scribe claimed it was a mere coincidence.
On the trail the next day, The One Who Actually Trained nibbled on Fig Newtons and Oreos (and not Trail Bars), The Catastrophe Detector wrapped his pack in a garbage bag because there was a hint of possible rain in the morning weather report, The Scribe played with the fuzzie on the top of her pen while blowing bubbles, and The All Black decried the Lumberjack. All. Morning. Long.
The All Black started to make another break for it, but The Catastrophe Detector, unwilling to let him escape and put them at risk of being viewed as irresponsible companions for a second time, stuck to him like a burr. The One Who Actually Trained chatted with the Scribe and politely never mentioned that she still hadn't written anything down. He also did not mock her when she twice bashed her knee on a rock. Or when she fell on her arse. Or when a 12-lb poodle carrying a pack raced up the trail faster than she did. Meanwhile, The Catastrophe Detector was shadowing The All Black who was scurrying down the mountain like a chipmunk fleeing from the wily jaws of a tom cat.
They made it back to the car. The Scribe laid down on the pavement and her back cracked in four places. She would refuse to walk up any stairs for the following two days. The Catastrophe Detector decided he might have over packed, but couldn't think of anything in his pack that wasn't absolutely necessary. The All Black climbed into his car and proceeded to drive in a deeply reclined position, looking through the steering wheel to see the road. He was so stiff that couldn't get out of the car when he arrived home. The One Who Actually Trained decided to jog home from NH to VA in order to get in a good workout before the weekend was over.
The path was steep. The journey was long. They saw beautiful sites. They met interesting people. And sometimes, when they are snug in their beds, they close their eyes and imagine the smell of the forest, the feel of the rocks underfoot, the taste of the spring water, the stunning views and it's serenity all over again. Until the sound of The Lumberjack wrecks it all.
