Greenleaf Hut pops out of the trees at 4,200 feet -- your hike just ends. There is no, “I think I can see it.” No feeling that you are “almost there.” You are in the woods and then you are not. Period. The Hut shelters up to 48 tired, smelly, snoring souls and during the full-service season provides dinner and breakfast. If you eat the food they give you, you will have enough fuel for what you need to do. There is no dieting in a hut. Unless you want to:
A. Bonk on the trial the next day
B. Be “that girl” who everyone hates
So, for Pete’s sake, just eat the bacon and slather on the real butter. But leave enough for me.
Mount Lafayette is one mile and one thousand feet up from where we slept. Much of the trail is exposed, so the nosy/lazy still sitting in the hut can watch/judge how fast you ascend. Chris, Kevin, and Jamie had popped up and down this mountain while I napped. Upon their return, they regaled me with stories of the wonderful views and the appearance of the Mystical Thru Hiker. I described in detail how spectacular my nap was. But I was jealous. I had never met a real Thru Hiker.
“Thru Hikers” are folks who are doing the whole of the Appalacian Trail in one, long, arduous stint. Most start in Georgia and hike to Maine. Due to weather, hikers must reach Maine before Katahdin (the final peak in the trail) is closed. And based on that timeline, we would have missed the Thru Hikers. However, because of Hurricane Irene and her mission to screw up their schedules, many were behind and only then working through the Whites. Bad for them. Good for us. We met several who were hanging around the hut, working for food. I didn't realize then that they would be an important/humiliating part of my journey the following day.
During breakfast each morning, The “Hut Croo” reads the weather report. The first part is from the top of Mount Washington and is likely to involve such encouraging descriptions as, “Wind at 45 mph,” “Visibility: Zero,” “Thunderstorms expected.” But we were not headed to Mount Washington.We were heading to Galehead, sstarting with Mount Lafayette, the summit of which was supposed to be right outside the window. And on this point I can’t be more clear: “supposed to be” means that it wasn’t. No, what was outside the windows was fog. Thick, humid, two-feet-visibility fog. With a 60% chance of thunderstorms. Our hike was almost entirely above treeline, definitely the best location during thunderstorms. I was so excited, I could feel the morning’s oatmeal crawling back up my throat.
I thought the recommended route time from Greenleaf to Galehead was eight hours. As I recalled from the previous year, the Greenleaf to Galehead hikers arrived in two packs: the first arrived at 6:00 and claimed it took them a little over nine hours. The second group arrived between seven and eight. Nearly twelve hours. When we were told rain and thunderstorms were coming, I decided we needed to move up our departure time from 8:30 to 8:00 so we would get in before dark, before dinner, before it was too late to take a nap. By 8:20, we were on the rocks, ascending Lafayette through clouds. We passed the two women from the day before about half way up -- they had raced out at about 7:45. I would be thinking about them all day. Already, they looked significantly less blissful.
By the time we reached the top, we were soaking wet from the mist. Wet = cold. Cold = cranky. Cranky = disaster. We needed to get off that peak as soon as possible. So we had our picture taken and were on our way. No reason to linger on the summit. Summiting is the tiniest part of your day and never a place to linger due to, in no particular order: exposure/cold, crowds, pressing timelines, the onset of stiffnes which will make that inevitable descent decidedly unpleasant.
Last year, I recall hearing a particularly obnoxious Bostonian declare, “And this is why we hike!” to a group that had reached the summit of some small “mountain.” This comment irritated me not only because the group was loud, obnoxious, and doing yoga poses for the camera, but because if you are climbing merely to see the summit view, perhaps the Whites aren’t for you. More often than not, the summits yield no view at all. I put a little hiker’s curse (“Swarms of black flies be upon you!”) on that woman.
And so, with no view to appreciate and no desire to waste any time, we began descending. And descending. Slowly. Methodically. Careful on slick rocks, jagged rocks, ginormous, scheming rocks plotting to cause a trip, a slip, a fall or anything else that can cause severe bodily damage. And then we heard something running behind us. Note that the only thing that runs on these trails are dogs. And possibly bears.
And Kyle.
I don’t know what this guy’s name really is, but I’ve never met a Kyle who didn’t bug me, so that’s the name he gets. Kyle presented us with the trifecta of annoyance. First, he was chipper. Chipper alone would be wonderful, in fact most folks at this stage of the hike were chipper. That’s because we were all only a mile in. Chipper would pass about two miles later and be replaced with frustration, then annoyance, then rage, and then despair. But for now: chipper. Chipper Kyle was wearing no gear save for a camelback. That's right, folks, Kyle carried naught but water on his bare back and donned nothing else but little running shorts and trail shoes. I don’t even think that arse was wearing wool socks. Who is on a mountain without wool socks? We had 20 - 30 lb packs. And wool socks. But the most grievous sin was that he was running. Fast. Chipper, under-dressed, packless Kyle was running a route we could, at best, trudge. We hated Kyle.
We do not hate all who pass us. In fact, two Thru Hikers we had seen at the hut, “Gumby” and “Snowy River,” caught up to us and walked with us for a bit, before leaving us in the dust. They swiftly walked -- they did not run -- and had packs and grubby clothes like we did, unlike half-naked, running Kyle. And this is why we liked them.
Other than the appearance of Kyle, our hike was going well. Really well, actually. Like those chipper women from the day before, we felt good. But there was one thing nagging at me: we kept going down. I knew there was about a 3,000 foot elevation gain (and an equal loss) over the 7.7 miles we were traversing. So you know, without question, that all of that going down was going to be answered with going up. Furthermore, as the distance over which we went down increased, the distance over which we would go up decreased. As I shuffled down into valleys, I had to accept one terrible reality: the ascent was going to be steep; atrociously, obnoxiously steep. And I was going to be atrociously, obnoxiously pissy about it. Assuming I was still vertical. My legs were starting to boycott the whole endeavor.
About half-way through the hike, we came upon Gumby and Snowy resting on the side of the trail. We decided to sit with them for a bit, prodding them with questions and listening eagerly to their stories.
Around this time, a white-bearded man appeared on the trail above us. “Diehard” stood on high and called down to Gumby and Snowy. At 59, he was a veteran of AT, a Southerner who was making the journey again and alone. Unlike the rest of us who were sprawled on the ground, Diehard didn’t sit. “Might not be able to get back up,” he noted. As the Thru Hikers compared notes on progress, planned stops, food, and weather, “Grandpa” descended. At 64, Grandpa was the oldest hiker on the trail. He plunked down, put his feet up, and announced he would be stopping for ten (and only ten) minutes.
Thru hikers tend to be a solitary lot and the older hikers seem even more so, happy enough to stop and talk for a spell, happy to continue on alone, silent. They also have definite ideas about what hiking the AT is all about. Diehard felt quite strongly about maintaining the integrity of truly hiking the trail. He explained, with distain, that “Blue-Blazers” (someone who takes easier trails to bypass going over all of the mountains on the AT) and “Yellow Blazers” (Someone who skips entire sections of the trail by getting rides and jumping ahead) weren’t actually Thru Hikers; they were cheaters. Perhaps even scum, though that sort of venom would never come out of the mouths of these men. Which is why I’m here. I’m here to also tell you that despite their Zen-like qualities, there were several conversations about chicks -- including a “super-cute” Hutmaster -- BO, and crazy hillbillies.
I was sitting across from Gumby and noticed he was wearing trail shoes rather than boots. I had been having so much trouble with my ankles twisting that I had taped them up -- a somewhat futile attempt to compensate for not training. His blue socks were bulging, so I deduced that he had his ankles either taped up or was wearing a brace. Now, remember, I avoid talking to strangers (and quite a few non-strangers). I want to sit there and listen to what’s going on, absorb it, create a commentary, and talk or write about it later. So, I do not understand why I decided to do the unthinkable and actually talk to him. But I did. “What do you have on your ankles? Are they taped up or do you have a brace?”
Gumby looked at me, confused. “Nothing. That’s just my ankle.” Apparently, the sock was covering bulging muscles and I basically told the guy he had cankles. And this is why I don't talk to people. Kevin and Jamie found the whole thing to be ample fodder to tease me for the next three days. Lucky me.
They were each exceedingly polite (even after the cankles accusation), appreciative of both conversation as well as peanut M&Ms, and yet -- more than anything else -- they were peaceful. I suppose walking 2,000 miles will force a level of introspection impossible to even consider when bombarded with the input and pace of contemporary society. I liked sitting with them. To me, it was like sitting with Mermaids and Unicorns. Bit by bit, the group dispersed, the Thru Hikers quickly out-pacing us and leaving us behind to slowly move along.
It was around mile five that things began to change. Until this point, it was a tough hike, grueling for a few moments here and there, but not the horror show I had expected. And then we stepped into The Eighth Circle of Hell. It started when we paused on the path to take in a stunning, steep, rocky, gushing stream/waterfall.
Also known as the next portion of our trail.
At this point, I will say only this about that portion of trail: I can neither confirm nor deny that I threatened to stop right there, that I threw my hiking poles, and that I uttered a slur of epithets that would make a sailor blush. I will only say that I was at the top and then, somewhat later, was at the bottom. And considerably dirty. And not talking to anyone. And picking up my poles.
As my muscles started to ache and my feet began to cramp up, I looked up to see the very last thing I wanted to see. The most obnoxious thing I could see. That would be Kyle. Still running. But now in the opposite direction. Kyle, as it turns out, had run (RUN) the 7.7 miles to Galehead to visit a friend (had to be a woman) and was now running (running!) back to Greenleaf (which is, I think, just a rude thing to do in front of the rest of us). I think I got through the next mile on annoyance alone. “I really hate that guy,” I seethed as I scaled the next slick boulder.
I should note the nature of the paths in this area. When I say path, you might think of a well-marked, solid dirt trail meandering through a green forest. Sure, there’s the occasional stream crossing your path or a muddy patch that threatens to steal a shoe, but a “trail” or a “path” seems to denote a certain walking-worthiness, a designated, groomed area to facilitate one’s journey through nature.
This is not the case where we were. Here I have used “path” and “trail” in the loosest of meanings. In general there is a narrow area between the trees where the rocks have taken up residence and are totally disinterested in your desire to walk through them. No, that’s wrong. They are very interested in your desire to walk through them and they are having nothing of it. The lot of them are conspiring to prevent you from venturing further. They do not want you there. And by mile 5, I was more than happy to oblige. Jamie and Kevin (Chris has long since ditched us) wouldn’t permit this, and so I dragged myself along, stepping from rock to stupid rock. I began to curse the rocks and at one point stabbed at a giant boulder with my poles, calling it every foul name I could think of, ending with “Kyle.”
And we trudged. Up and steeply down. And steeply up. And steeply down. Over and over and over again. I drained the last of my water and gobbled my power bar and beef jerky. I let Jamie know how glad I was that we had gotten married and thankful for our five years together and that when I died, and it was going to be very soon, I would like him to leave me on the side of the trail like real hikers in the mountains do. “Don’t try to get me down the mountain. Remember the Everest hikers. Just save yourself. Also, please bury little Leo (my dog) next to me after he dies. And don’t forget that you have to snuggle with him every morning before you go to work. He needs that in order to behave normally.”
“Keep going,” he replied.
“Why did you make us do this hike? I know it was you!”
“Keep going.”
Up or down, forward is really the only option. Forward. Forward in these damn boots that we spent so much time picking out, boots that I was assured by the salesdude were great for our terrain, boots that were -- all at once -- too tight, too lose, too big, and too small. I confess, that at one point I did have a slight temper tantrum, screamed at my boots, damning them to hell for being evil, torturous, treacherous and just plain sucky. I informed Jamie that I was going to take them off when we were done, throw them as far as I could and leave them behind to rot and die in the woods. Jamie decided it was, perhaps, time for a break.
I took my boots off and then: a miracle. Jamie took pity on me and gave me a wee foot massage. This divine gift was just as selfless as it was self-serving: it minimized the whining.
And we trudged. The pain became simply annoying. It’s frustrating when your body won’t work the way you think it should, the way you know it could. I had begun to compensate for my failing legs by relying even more on my poles. As such, I started to resemble an awkward four-legged beast moving along the trail. I knew I was in a mental place never before visited when I accepted that I didn’t care how wretched and stupid I looked. If I thought getting down on all fours and doing the rest of the hike barking like a dog would make everything easier, I would have done it. In. A. Heartbeat.
There is a sign .6 miles from the Galehead hut. You would think this sign would present me with hope. You would be wrong. Because we were now on a path we had been on the previous year. And I knew that the next six tenths were all up, all rock, all steep, and likely to result in a crying jag. I pressed on, bitter, tired, and dreaming of a glass of wine and a hot tub.
As people passed, I viewed their chipperness as mockery and judged them based on smell. If they didn’t smell bad, they weren’t working hard enough and I hated them. If they smiled, they weren’t suffering, and I hated them. And if they saw my knees buckle (as they were doing about every five steps) or (worse) saw me crumble down to the ground as my legs flat out quit on me, I had to put a hex on them.
There were many hexes put upon those nincompoops.
A quarter mile from the hut, Snowy and Gumby caught up to us. (Kevin and Chris had long since fled). To put this in perspective, remember that they started the hike about an hour after we set off. They passed us. Then they took a rest and we caught up with them. We all started out at about the same time again, and they quickly shook us off. We caught up with them hanging out by a stream, relaxing while we pressed on. And now they were catching us again. “We can’t get to the hut before you guys; go on.”
I really didn’t want that kind of pressure. But Snowy sat down and relaxed.
The Ninth Circle of Hell is described as the icy destination for those committing the highest of crimes, namely treachery. Here, sinners of the most vile nature are encased to varying degrees in ice. Satan is frozen in the middle, having betrayed God. Satan weeps. And I wept. Standing on a rock (obviously because why would there be anything but rocks?), I considered that scene and found myself filled with envy and despair. I wondered when the Tenth Circle was built because I was certainly there.
Let me describe for you the new Tenth Circle of Hell. First, you are wet. You are slick with sweat and everything touching your body is soaked. The small sweat towel has long since exceeded its ability to absorb anything, so instead of drying off your forehead, you’re just pushing the sweat around. The panty liner that you put in eight hours ago has long since lost its grip and has been freely moving around in your underwear and is, presently, attached to your butt. For guys, just imagine your junk is all screwed up in your underwear and you do not have the ability to adjust. You have a wedgie. Imagine that someone has decided to take a hammer and pound on your toes for several hours while squeezing your feet into a vice. Or just imagine having your toenails slowly ripped off. I imagine the pain is basically the same. On to the legs. Take that hammer and start pounding on your legs until you can’t stand it. Then do it for another hour. At some point you think you’ll go numb, but you won’t. Each step sends searing hot pain through your legs, legs which are rubbery and unreliable, legs which are on fire, legs which are slowly becoming completely useless. And you are carrying that 20 to 30lb pack on your back (also wet) which grows heavier with each step and is in cahoots with your legs to pull you down to the ground for a nice, long sit/sprawl. Finally, you have the latest song by Pitbull running through your head -- to which you really only know one lyric: “Tonight” -- because it was the last thing you heard on the radio.
Now crawl up those rocks.
Up. My only choice. Sit, my great temptation. Up. The rocks mocked me. Sit, and admit defeat (I’m fine with defeat). Up. Pain and misery. Sit: pain delayed. Up. And be done with it sooner than later. Sit, and feel better. Up. And possibly die. Sit, and most certainly live. Or at least die in somewhat less pain than each step forward assuredly promised.
I took a step. I looked at Jamie. “I’ve got nothing left,” I confessed. But by now, there weren’t too many real choices. I had to keep going. How long could this last quarter mile really be?
Long. Longer when you have an audience.
Snowy and Gumby, having waiting awhile to let us get ahead, were behind us. I had to keep going. I couldn’t be the weak, wussy girl who cried and quit on the mountain.
Those last tenths were not pretty. But they got done. And I’m positive my life has been significantly shortened as a result.
