Bears on the Priest

            Going thru my home state of Virginia was awesome.  Friends and family came out to surprise me along the way, the trail was significantly easier than the northern states and I was hitting between 22 and 34 miles a day.  As I approached a popular climb dubbed, "The Priest," I knew it would be the first time I had been above 4,000 feet since New Hampshire.  I figured I was in good enough hiking shape to easily make the plateau.  The thing about the Priest is that its elevation change is over a very short distance.  Time to feel that burn!

            I took a quick break at the base of the mountain to eat lunch and get ready to kick ass.  A local hiker was there with his playful dog waiting for another buddy to day hike to the North.  We chatted a bit and off I went to climb the Priest (insert inappropriate Catholic joke here).  I had a lot of energy at the beginning and moved quickly, but as I was about 1,000 feet below the finish, my energy was sapped in the humid air.  I couldn't get there fast enough.  Like every other climb I just gave myself a time limit so I could mentally have something to look forward to; i.e. "Keep moving for another 30 minutes and you're done, Bubba," I'd say to myself for motivation.  My Dad would call me Bubba when I was a kid if he knew I was hurting, but couldn't stop whatever endeavor I was focused on.

            After an hour and a half I made it to the top and went on from there.  My legs were like jello and my left ankle was still screaming at me from when I awkwardly rolled it to the inside back in Massachusetts.  I found a shelter with a nearby water source.  A couple of men were already there setting up tents.

"How's the water source?" I asked.

"Haven't found it yet, but the source on the other side of the trail is bone dry," one replied.

"I'll check out the next source and let you know."

"Thanks."

            I took my water filter system and took off a tenth of a mile downhill where the water was at a trickle.  I grabbed the biggest, cleanest looking leaf I could find to jam it in where the trickle came from in order to increase the flow.  It took a while, but I was able to grab my 2 liters and head to the top. 

"Any luck?"

"A little. There's enough to get what you need."

            As I sat in the shelter preparing to eat and then sleep, "Sky Chicken" came stomping in.  She was a SOBO that I had met a few days earlier and there weren't many of us on the trail so I naturally got excited to see a familiar face.  She was continuing on at the end of one of my hikes when I met her.  She was a thin, brown haired retired Air Force pilot from Texas with a "don't mess with Texas" accent.  I believed that she was carrying way too much weight in her pack, but if you made it to Virginia then I have no business offering advice.  She was one tough lady.  Her pack weighed 40 lbs, she was putting in 15-20 miles a day and back in New Hampshire her hip popped out of place.  Sky Chicken didn't even know it until she fell and heard it pop back into place!

"You again!" I hollered as she came into the campsite.

"Yeah I'm still kicking!"

            We exchanged stories with the guys at the campsite on physical ailments and she offered me an unfamiliar drug in the form of a pill that would help with my pain-stricken swollen ankle.  I saved it for the next day or until the pain was too much to handle.  I THINK it was tramadol, but don't quote me.  The next morning I woke up on the Priest's plateau (insert another inappropriate Catholic joke) and hit the trail just before sunrise.  It was cold enough to see my own breath and the fog was very dense.  I could only see about 50 feet in front of me as the fog-enclosed air got a little lighter. 

            Now... there were times in Virginia when I could walk down the trail early in the morning and literally startle a deer that was sleeping just a few feet away, so it was normal for me to hear rustling of the leaves as an animal scrambled away.  That particular morning I heard a different noise.  The trail beneath my feet was soft and rich with soil.  It felt fucking amazing on my battered feet.  I wasn't singing or talking to myself like I normally did so I knew my presence would go unnoticed by the local animals.  I was just enjoying my surroundings...

"Thump, thump, thump, thump."

Hmmm, I must have somehow scared off a deer.                                                   

"Thump, thump, thump, thump."

       That must be a fat deer.  I had never heard that kind of morning scramble before.  I slowed down to listen closer.  The thumps were getting closer and I saw the leaves on some large shrubs or small trees shake as something moved towards the trail down the mountain in front of me and to the right.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  It was two black bear cubs!  Awwwww!  So cute.  They were just playing around in the woods.  Then reality set in.  Where the hell is momma bear?!?!  The two cubs still had no idea I was 40 feet behind them as I froze. 

"Ka-THUMP, Ka-THUMP, Ka-THUMP, Ka-THUMP"

       THERE SHE IS.  Moments after the cubs arrived, momma bear came flying UP the mountain from the left side of the trail.  She crashed thru everything in her path as she hit the trail and looked at the cubs as if to say, "Don't leave my sight ever again!" and the cubs bowed their heads at the matriarch.  Momma bear arrived on all fours not realizing a human was still only 40 feet behind her babies as the fog danced around me helping to cloak my presence.  She stopped moving with her hind parts aimed at me.  Momma bear then cocked her head to the right and I saw her crinkle her nose as she sniffed the air. Ohhh no, no, NO.  The fog hid me from sight, but nothing could hide my stank.  She looked in my direction, turned around and stood up on two legs.  HOLY FUCK.

       I was under the impression black bears rarely got over 6 feet tall, but this momma bear towered over me even being downhill from my location easily reaching 7-8 feet tall.  Her front two legs were bent inward much like a "tough guy" before a fight.  After seeing momma bear move up the mountain with such velocity and size, I realized then that I could not outrun or out climb this beast.  What the hell am I supposed to do?

       Some hikers had run into bears and tried to look bigger by holding their arms out while they screamed.  This seemed like a good idea if it was a bear all by itself, but in my case I had to think about how that momma bear had to protect her babies and a skinny human is an easy target.  Sooo what did 'MERICA do?  I looked as docile and non-threatening as possible.

I literally just looked around like I was lost while keeping an awkward eye on the bears...  didn't even make a sound.  I was thinking that if I looked like I didn't pose a threat, I would be fine.  However, if she showed any ounce of hostility towards me, such as a growl or forward movement, I would have no choice but to unstrap my pack while simultaneously running and screaming at the bear without hesitation to instill fear.  Oh hello psychological warfare.  Then I would unsling my pack to throw at her as a distraction so I could hopefully stab her in the FACE with the dull trekking pole while she fought off the flying pack.  Instead of thinking about the consequences of challenging a bear, I had to focus on being the Alpha male and kill this motherfucker.  Moment of truth.  It's about to get savage.  Here we go...

Awww give 'em a hug!

        Aaaaaaaaaand nothing.  She just sniffed the air again while on two legs and for a split second I saw her eyes widen as she was finally able to make out my silhouette.  Momma bear immediately went back to all fours and took off down the trail away from me with her two cubs en tow.  Thank God.  Wait a minute.  I still had to go that way.  It was then that I remembered a sign from one of the northern states that recommended hikers to "Make happy noises like sing songs or talk loudly to yourself" in order to give a bear warning that you're coming.  Bears are typically not going to hunt humans and run at the sight or sound of us.

        Off I went down the trail singing my own hits such as, "Heeeeey, heeeey little bear, please, please, pleeeeease don't eat my little ass," and "Nobody wants to eat a scrawny human! Hey... ho... hell NO!"  TRUE STORY.  As I sang my super awesome songs, my adrenaline was jacked as I saw the bear tracks in front of me.  The soft-soiled trail was destroyed for about 3/4 of a mile until they disappeared down the mountain and to the left.  Safe then?  Probably.  Slow down?  "Hey... ho... hell NO!"  I popped a few tramadol pills and holy high batman... the rest of the day was a breeze with all smiles.

Grey Wolf - Riff Raff

           I was in the 100-mile Wilderness at the end of a long day when I reached a sign that said the shelter was inconveniently placed atop a very sharp drop off.  A pathetic and murky water source was at the bottom.  All I could think about was getting my gear off and not put it back on until the next day, so without thinking of the logistics I climbed the steep hill.  Looking back down the small cliff made me realize I should have filled up at the bottom.  Damn it.

            As I slid 100 feet back down to fill up, Smurf walked up and I warned him about the hill.  We both filled up and headed back up.  There were two older men at the shelter and a trail repair crew camping off to the left.  One old man was massaging his feet with toes bent and curled in every direction.  He was frail... and SO old.  He looked at least 75.  How is he alive out here?  The other man was hiking his final state of the AT after doing a state each summer.  Fourteen years of work and I felt like an asshole for trying to do it in 3 months.

Looking haggard while resting by a cold stream for lunch.

"Wooah, hey guys. I know it's late, but I just got this euphoric runner's high man," the stoner hiker said as he approached the shelter.

            I don’t think it could be a runner’s high when you’re not running.  I think he was just high.  He called himself Grey Wolf.  He was a hilarious nuisance to everyone on the trail.  Grey Wolf had disgustingly dark greasy hair and a face flush with bad decisions during puberty.  He was probably in his mid to late 20's and wearing a shirt with the number "69" on both sides.  The shirt was like a jersey with "Riff Raff" on the front and "Grey Wolf" on the back.  Grey Wolf showed up right at dark and proceeded to dump all of his gear all over the shelter to rummage thru much like a monkey rummaging thru his own feces to see which piece its going to throw at you. 

"Ohmmmm yeah this is the stuff maaan, carbs," he moaned as he ate as loudly as humanly possible. "I'm putting in big miles so I have to eat."  Thank you, John Madden of hiking. Your ideas are rich with intellect. Fuck tard.

            Grey Wolf ate his meal, lit a joint and told me about Rif Raff even though all I did was offer him some Tylenol for his hurt feet.  Rif Raff?  Apparently it's a group of hikers that take hiking verrrry seriously.  So much so, that they're kind of nasty to people that aren't into it like they are.  Another hiker, Iceman, would later tell me they were a ridiculous attempt at a hiking gang.  Ha!  I'm learning so much about the popularity of the trail and I just started.  Never thought I would hear "hiker" and "gang" used in the same sentence.

            As I got ready to crash, Patrick (Freight Train) came up to the shelter looking exhausted.  He was a 19-year old from New York City who weighed 260 lbs and was carrying a pack with too much weight.  Combine that with the hiking and you have one extremely dehydrated man.  He looked down the hill where the water was and the mere thought of walking more just crushed his spirit.  Patrick didn't even want to eat.  He just wanted to go to sleep.  I talked him into eating and gave him my water claiming that I'm "over hydrated" even though I hardly had any.  He needed it more than me and I knew I could make it to the next water source in the morning a few more miles south. 

            As we all finally got some shuteye, Grey Wolf had other plans.  He kept rummaging thru his gear with a bright light on.  After 30 minutes he took all of our stares as a hint to at least turn the light off.  He just turned it from a white light to a red light.  Not a big help in a small shelter.  Grey Wolf eventually calmed down from whatever he was high on and went silent.

            Every couple of hours thru the night ole Grey Wolf would awaken, light a joint then a cigarette... with the red light on.  I don't even know if it was weed he was smoking.  I've smelled weed before and whatever he had smelled like burnt shit.  Maybe it was meth.  His teeth were rotting and it looked like he itched the hell out of his face.  Who knows... I just wanted to get some sleep.

            Grey Wolf's behavior continued until 4 in the morning, when his alarm went off and he decided to get on the trail.  The alarm was Darius Rucker's cover of the song "Wagon Wheel."   I left shortly after he did since I was already up and the old farts were sawing some serious logs.  About halfway thru the morning I came up on someone sitting Indian style in the middle of the trail.  The trail is only wide enough for one person.  Who would block the trail?  Yep, it's Grey Wolf.  He was picking at his feet.

"Oh heeeey maaaaan, am I in your way?"

"Nah, you're good," as I scrambled around him.

            The guy couldn't even find me.  I walked right past him and he was talking to me with the Stevie Wonder head sway trying to figure out where this voice was coming from.  I hauled ass and hoped to not run into him again.  Not so lucky.  I would see him at another shelter on my last night in the 100-mile Wilderness.  It was pouring outside and hikers were coming in.  We fit 8 dudes in a shelter made for 5 or 6.  Grey Wolf's habits continued.

            We all woke up to "Wagon Wheel" as Grey Wolf lit something funky then a cigarette and off he went.  An hour later he showed back up.

"Did you forget something?" I asked.

"Noooo maaaaan I think I went the wrong way."

"Oh, well the AT South is right there."

            Now, everyone gets turned around at certain spots, but if you mess up from a shelter... I have to wonder how you even got your pants on in the morning.  I pointed right at the trail and Grey Wolf looked at it, then looked in the wrong direction, then the AT south, then back at me.

"Thanks maaaan!"

            And off he went... in the same, wrong fucking direction he just came from.  I never saw Grey Wolf after that day.  If I had to guess, I would say he got lost and then consumed by the elements all the while hallucinating that he was cuddling with a lynx.  Ohhhh Grey Wolf.

SPOOKED!!!

           There were a few times on the trail I was a little concerned for my safety, but only one time did I legitimately get the heeby jeebies.  I was hiking somewhere in Virginia when this all went down.  Big miles were easier at that point.  It was cloudy all day and I decided to sit down right on the trail for lunch.  There was a shelter nearby, but I didn't want to waste any time getting there.  As I sat and started to shiver, as I did everyday during lunch because I had the worst luck with weather, I heard hooves impacting the ground behind me in the direction of the shelter.  This noise was joined by what I can only describe as a hillbilly lingo.

"Am I in your way?" I asked the Santa-looking man on the first horse.

He squealed, "Nah, yew gud feller."

            I didn't know if that was the man or the horse that responded, so I just remained still and observed as a scraggly old woman on a horse followed without saying a word or acknowledging me.  Her horse's eyes were very wide and it looked scared.  Last in line was a man who looked punier than I did.  Most of his teeth were gone and the ones that were left had rot around their bases.  He was wrinkly, but I think he was younger than he looked as a result of not aging well.  And by not aging well, I think he smoked two packs a day since he was 5.

"Yew all by yasef?" Santa asked.

"I am."

            Why did he ask that?  Why did I TELL him that?  They didn't seem threatening, but something was just offsetting to me.  I eyeballed them as they went out of sight in the same direction I had to go.  Not wanting to lose sight of them, I moved as quickly and quietly behind them to make sure I wasn't about to get ambushed by the descendents of the Donner Party or be a part of the Deliverance sequel.  Their tracks went onto a side trail perpendicular to the AT south so I was in the clear... for now.

            I kept moving at a good pace until it was time to stop for a snack.  At this point of the trail I had it down to a science.  Well not exactly.  I just took the Forest Gump approach and ate when I was hungry, stopped when I was tired, etc.  I came upon a shelter directly on the trail.  Convenience is always nice.  It was called the War Spur Shelter and it looked ancient.  I put my pack down on the picnic table next to a journal that hikers used to communicate with each other, grabbed some wet wipes and went to the privy.

            The privy was decrepit with much of the wood rotting from the bottom much like ole Jebidiah's teeth.  I opened the door and as I was about to take one step in...

"FUUUUUUCK! FUCK! FUCK! HELLLLLL NO!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

            There was a large spider dangling a few feet above where I wanted to sit down, juuuuuust waiting for me all like, "Hey friend, come on in and sit riiiiight here. It's safe (wink)!"  It resembled a brown recluse, but I wasn't aware they were "danglers."  Times must be tough for killer spiders to be hanging out in the shitter.  This wasn't the first time a spider ruined my image of safely going #2 in a privy and it was the last time I attempted to use one. 

I was so startled that I jumped back and slammed the door.  I walked into the woods to do my business and then went back to the picnic table to have a snack.  I sat on top of the table and faced the shelter standing only a few feet away.  As I ate, I looked at the journal that was placed inside a large zip-lock bag.  I noticed a hand written note was placed onto of the journal so I read that first.  Paraphrasing:  On August 25 (estimated and it was only a couple of weeks before I got there) two southbound thru hikers came here and saw a man hunched over the picnic table facing the shelter. 

Wait a minute.  I'm sitting down facing the shelter.  My eyes widen.

The man was deceased with no sign of a struggle.  His glasses were on the table and his stove was set up as if he was about to eat.  The two hikers went back to a road and contacted a ranger before moving on. 

As I realize I'm sitting in the same spot where there was a dead guy, I read an additional note beneath the original that looked like different handwriting.

"We are the family of the deceased hiker from August that was found here.  We just wanted to see where he passed away doing what he loved."

I slowly stopped chewing my snack and realized I hadn't been this spooked since I discovered a mass grave in Iraq.  How did he die?!  Was it that bastard spider in the privy?  Was it the hillbillies on horses?  Should I avenge him and kill the spider?  What if the spider is a ninja?  I don't want to fight a ninja spider.  I'm outta here!  I packed my things and got out of there as fast as I could... completely creeped the fuck out and randomly spazzing by flailing my arms, shaking my head and grunting, "eh.... ew.... ah."  Nothing like a cloudy day with creepy hillbillies, possible ghosts and ninja spiders.

Day 2: Part 2

Grains and oats lunch by a raging river en route to Abol
Bridge... only place the bugs left me alone thanks to the
breeze coming off the water... AWESOMENESS

             The trail is marked with white hashes called, "Blazes."  They are typically 6 feet up a tree and they are 2 inches wide, 6 inches in height.  Sometimes they were accompanied by white arrows if there was a fork in the trail or road.  And sometimes, locals ignored the fact that hikers were trying to not get lost in the woods and would draw white arrows for out-of-town truckers to know where to turn.  Well shit, fuck, damn... that doesn't help my situation when I'm trying to find my way now does it?! 

I left the Abol Bridge Camping area, crossed a bridge on a concrete road remembering that my ginger bearded buddy said, "Yeah, the trail is over the bridge and to the left."  What do I see after I cross the bridge?  A white blaze on the back of a road sign with a white arrow pointing to the left.  Well geeeeee whiz, I guess I better go left.  A mile later I had not seen another white blaze and if you go that far without seeing one, you need to go back.  AWESOME.

Oh but hang on a second, Mat.  BREAKING NEWS:  Your breakfast burrito wants out and it wants out now.  I saw a privy about 50 feet off the road and ran to it.  I opened the door and it had at least 100 of those giant mosquito-looking things with the bigger wings.  NOPE.  I backed up to see if they would leave the privy or if I was just going to have to drop trough in the woods.  I noticed someone had left a spray can next to the toilet so I'm thinking, "Sweet. Bug spray!"  Negative.  As I jumped in to grab the can and the burrito was about to say hello to the back of my pants, I saw it was febreze.  Really?  Out here?  Fuck it.

I sprayed the nasties with a cloud of flowery death.  They laughed, but moved enough for me to sit down.  Oh, sweet baby Jesus.  I came out looking like a drunk Doc Holiday searching for a fight.  I later learned those privy invaders were actually mosquito killers and harmless to humans.  Can we find our way to the trail now?  I hiked back to the sign of lies and heartbreak to find a piece of the arrow was now dangling in the breeze.  Tape.  White tape.  White tape that happened to be 2 inches thick, much like the blazes.  Hmmm.  I must calm down and charlie mike (continue mission).

Abol Bridge Campground (shot from the bridge going south)

As I self-debated on how much further the trail entry point would be, two haggard-looking older men popped out of the wood line a quarter mile down the road about 100 feet apart.  Yahtzee.  As the first man came near he asked where Abol Bridge was and if there was food.  I directed him and he assured me the AT south was right behind him and we parted ways.  Day 2 was a real dozy and I have a long way to go before Sun down.  I found a shelter shortly after entering the forest and decided to rest as another hiker came up from behind.

"Thru hiking?" he asked.

"Yeah, you?" I replied.

"Yeah, what's your trail name?"

"I don't have one yet. You?"

"Smurf. I wore too much blue when summiting Katahdin."

"Ha! Gotchya."

Smurf and I chatted a bit about gear and then I took off, telling him I wanted to get to Rainbow Lake to camp.  Rainbow Lake would become the ultimate mind-fuck.  I hiked for several more hours trudging thru thick, dark mud, tree roots that seemed to grab my heavy feet and of course I was escorted once again by those needle-nosed air savages.  I must be getting close as hour 14 of hiking approaches.

I could now see the lake.  I could hear people’s voices.  That must be the campground!  The trail goes straight to the lake then takes an abrupt turn.  Now I'm walking beside the lake.  Then I'm going away from the lake and up another muddy, rooty, mosquito infested hill.  Then back towards the lake.  Then away.  Then back at it.  Then away.  Now the Sun is sinking and I keep snaking to and from the lake.  The voices fade.  Where the HELL is the Rainbow Lake Campground? 

I'm looking for signs, tents, human fucking beings, it's getting dark and now clouds are rolling in.  I go towards the lake, then away, then I start to whimper.  Yes, I whimpered for the first time since I was 5 years old.  Sand was all up in my vagina.  I'm carrying way too much weight to be going more than 20 miles in the mud.  Charlie mike, Mat.  Get there.  Maybe I should just pull over on the side of the trail.  Oh wait, I can't because there's a foot of mud in every direction.  Thanks a lot hurricane Arthur.

I finally find a clearing with a hill that's not completely saturated.  I keep going.  Why?  Because I'm from the suburbs and I'm under the impression that a campground will have a sign or an iron grill or SOMETHING.I go a little further and realize I'm either lost, Rainbow Lake Campground doesn't exist or.... it was that fucking clearing.  I backtracked... again... and set up my tent.  Another man came in to camp and was followed by Smurf.  Yeah, this has to be Rainbow Lake.  The trail around the lake resembled the "Swamp of Sorrows" from the Never Ending Story.  Only add mosquitoes.

It was a race to set up my tent to avoid another down pour from that bitch, Mother Nature and another onslaught from the skeeters.  I jumped in my tent and zipped up.  I can finally rest.  I thought the day would never end.  Raindrops hit my tiny tent.  I eat more grains and oats.  My heart rate is still jacked after an hour.  Why won't my heart rate slow down?  I know I'm stressed, so I breathe deeply.  Still pumping too fast.  Is this what a panic attack feels like?  Maybe it's because my head is on the downside of the hill?  No.  My body is trying to heal.  I haven't worked my body this hard in a long time.  I fell asleep to the thump of my heart, wondering if this adventure would get easier at some point. 

In those early days I feared the worst.  Failure.  I was doing the trail at a fast rate to raise awareness and money for the Wounded Warrior Project in honor of my brethren and the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund in memory of my Mom.  I had a tracker that sent my location to a website.  A lot of people were watching.  A lot of people were invested.  A lot of people were counting on me.  Failure wasn't an option.  Mom always said during her fight, "Tomorrow's a new day."  Those words brought comfort... and hope... and that's all a man with an evil ginger beard needs.  Charlie Mike!

Mosquito: The State Bird for Maine

"What do you do about the mosquitoes?" the couple asked.

"You move faster," I said.

Blank stares with strangers.

"Oh."

            I woke up at 430 the next morning with the rain dissipating and Sun rising.  It's going to be a great day!  I grabbed some water from the river, filtered it with a painfully slow system and headed down the trail at pace.  It was unbelievably flat as I left Katahdin Stream Campground.  Parts of the forest were dense and daylight had to wait to enter.  As the sun finally peaked onto the trail, fog burned off and the sounds of birds came alive.  It brought a smile to....

"AH! What the fuck?!" I bitched. "That was a big ass mosquito."

            Yes, I began talking to myself on day 2.  Now where were we?  Aw yes, to see nature come alive brought a...

"Fucking son of a bitch!" I yelled.

            As I tried to "become one with nature" I had walked into a boggy area where apparently the world's largest carnivorous mosquito population was waiting for me.  These suckers were starting to bite on every exposed piece of flesh I had and when I smacked them, they splattered.  They were the biggest and most aggressive mosquitoes I had ever seen.  At least back home in Virginia there's some standoff and they don't appear to be on anabolic steroids.  I began to take my own advice to move faster.  This wasn't sufficient as the mosquitoes would hover over the trail in groups of 20-30 every 50 feet and would just hop on as you walked or ran into their morning bloodlust party.

            To make matters worse, I somehow missed a turn and realized I was going in circles.  This is the easiest trail to navigate and I'm lost already?  How the hell did that happen?  I back tracked and found my way, all while being prison shanked by flying swordfish.  I decided I had to put on pants and mosquito netting, so as I picked up a fast jog I planned how to get into my pack and dressed as quickly as possible. 

            I had a plan, picked up a full-on sprint to get out of the kill zone and then stopped.  I dropped my shorts and grabbed my pants hoping to not get mosquitoes all over my man parts in the process.  I put on a boonie cap from my military days and dawned the mosquito net covering my face.  Then I went for a long sleeve... shit... no long sleeve shirt, because who thinks to pack that in July?  I got back to speed hiking as the mosquitoes drank from my exposed arms.  I was flailing like a jazzerciser hoping to scare them away.

            After about 8 miles I needed a break, but these asshole mosquitoes were still attacking me.  I remembered I had a small towel that might be able to cover enough of me to not go crazy.  I stopped to get it out of my pack and the mosquitoes were now biting thru my pants.  This is RIDICULOUS.  As I'm putting on the towel I turned my head to spit and forgot about the damn mosquito netting around my head.  Yep, now there was spit in my face.  It was officially amateur hour.

The towel covered enough of my arms so I only got bit eleven-teen more times before I hit a clearing with a road 2 more miles south.  Awww the breeze eliminated the mosquitoes and Abol Bridge campsite was close.  I followed the road to the campsite where there was a supply store attached to a restaurant that was conveniently closed on Tuesdays, the day I arrived.

"Do you guys have a bathroom I could use?" I asked the cashier.

            She pointed to the back and I was so elated to sit on a toilet.  I know I just started the trail, but I was thinking about a toilet visit all morning.  I smelled awful, but didn't care as I took shelter from the mosquitoes in a roadside bathroom.  This is the life I've always dreamed of.  Aren't you envious while reading?  I walked out five pounds lighter and bought a Coors Light, breakfast burrito and chips.  There was a picnic table outside overlooking a lake and I sat in the Sun for lunch.  Day 2 was only half done.  I had my wet clothes drying all over the table when I had my first run-in with a NOBO (northbound) thru hiker.

"Going all the way?" I asked with excitement.

"Yeah. Started last year," he said with an aggravated English accent.

            He took his clothes off to wring out the sweat and laid them to dry.  He was tall, pale and red headed with a nasty red beard.  I warned him of the mosquitoes he was about to encounter the next 10 miles and he said they weren't bad to the near south.  He had just exited the 100-mile wilderness and wanted a hot meal.  He got no such luck and was furious about the restaurant being closed on a Tuesday until I told him about the breakfast burrito. 

"How far have you gone today?" I annoyingly asked.

"15 miles with 10 to go."

            This man was on a mission to finish and I could not even fathom being that close to the end.  He put his disgusting wet clothes on from the day before that had been soaked by the rain.  He knew he had no choice because they were the only long sleeved clothes he had to protect himself from the insect vampires.  And you know what?  He gave zero fucks about what he had to wear as he was so close to completing a 2,185 mile hike.  My day was about to get worse as I packed up and imagined how excited that guy must be. 

Ranger Rick the Dick

Mile zero for a SOBO (south bounder)... just look at my majestic, yet nasty and evil, ginger beard.

DAY 1 

"You know you're not going to make it right?" The park ranger said while obnoxiously eyeballing his watch.

"You're probably right, but I have to try," I humbly replied.

"That's what gets people."

            Yeah, OK Ranger Rick.  This dipshit knew nothing about me and looks at me like I'm an idiot trying to finish climbing Mount Katahdin before dark starting at 11:15 in the am.  Granted, I was naive at the time and didn't know it was the one of the most difficult climbs on the Appalachian Trail and most people took 8-12 hours to complete it.  Also, it was my first day on the trail after being delayed a day with plane issues.  I was tired, but excited.  So what if it was a 10 mile round trip where 8 of those miles were either inclining or declining a thousand feet each mile. If I can survive war, I can knock this out!

            I walked thru some high grass and a campground next to a raging river courtesy of the remnants of Hurricane turned Tropical Storm Arthur.  The trail started on the far side of the campsite and I took off running into the wood line.  I ran for about a mile when I had to switch to an aggressive granny walking style which slowed into a lot of lunges while climbing.  Feel the burn in those hammies!!!

            The trees start to fade with my energy.  The wind picks up and cools my sweaty self in the July air.  The trail turns to all boulders as I wait for a group of teenage boys parkouring down towards my location like monkeys.

"That's a false peak right there isn't it?" I asked.

"Yeah, but once you get there you'll be able to see the finish and it gets easier to hike," one of them replied.

"Thanks guys."

            Helpful teenagers? This place is strange to me.  Onward!  As I use the helpful rebar to climb thru the boulders I'm harassed by the infamous Black Flies of Maine, but they refrain from biting.  The trail has now turned into a peaked ridgeline with a nasty drop off on both sides as the wind tries pushing me off.  I'm not a fan of this since vertigo took control of me.  I'm on all fours and crouching closer to the boulders trying not to look around as I leap or climb from one to another.  A couple is coming towards me like everyone else I've seen since apparently if you start at 11:15 am people will lose their mind!

"Hey! You're doing great and almost there," the woman said.

"Awesome, I'm just dealing with some vertigo issues," I replied as I held on to boulders with black spiders gliding in and out of crevasses.

            People encouraging a complete stranger?  First the helpful teenagers and now this.  Maybe there's something in the water.  I make my way to the false peak and see a group of young hikers in their early 20's taking a break with a stream and springs riddled backdrop and quite a bit of flat ground.  Off in the distance I see my objective and smile.

"Thru hiker?" One of them asked.

"I am."

"So you're almost done I'm guessing with a beard like that."

"Ha! It's my first day... going south."

            I had been growing an evil ginger beard since the previous October so I looked like I had been out there for a while.  Not so much.  I trekked to the top of Mount Katahdin where the temperature dropped quickly so I took pictures and video as fast as I could while wearing just shorts and a t-shirt.  As I was snapping pictures I noticed a girl walking on a sharp ridge with a dangerous drop on both sides.  She was then swallowed by a cloud and when it was gone she was on all fours clinging on for dear life as the wind strengthened in an attempt to finish her off.  I turned to a man who was also watching.

"Is that part of the trail?" I asked

"No."

"Good. I'm outta here."

The "Knife's Edge" with rolling clouds

            That girl was walking the "Knife's Edge."  Very properly named.  I only had time to hike the AT so side trails like that were not for me.  I high-tailed it off the mountain's peak standing at about 5,280 feet.  I was just now officially starting the trail.  The most convenient campsite and trail entry point for shuttles to drop off hikers was unfortunately 5 miles south on the AT.  Yup, I was negative 5 miles after a tough climb.  Great.  I pounded my joints going down and they began to feel sore as I reached the one-mile span that I could jog.  It was starting to rain as I finished up and headed to the ranger station to exchange the day pack with my hiking backpack after 5 hours and 45 minutes of moving.  Only 5 miles could be counted as trail miles that day.  Ole Ranger Rick had a smirk on his face as I walked thru the door.

"Didn't make it did ya?" He enquired.

"Oh I made it. I have pictures and video too," I happily answered.

"Wow, that's fast! You staying here tonight?"

"My guide book says there's a place another 3 miles down the trail."

"The nearest shelter is 10 miles away."

"I'll take a campsite here then."

            This would be the first of many instances where that motherfucking guidebook screwed me.  I paid 30 bucks for a site with just a picnic table.  It was now pouring outside.  There were areas with covered picnic tables that could keep me dry, but apparently those were off limits for whatever reason.  There weren't even enough trees at my assigned campsite to tie my 550 cord around that was to hold my one-man tent up since I didn't bring the rods in an effort to drop some weight.  It was my first night on the trail and I was sleeping in the rain under a picnic table.

A stack of rocks making Mt Katahdin 5,280 ft

            The table sat so low to the ground that my shins and forehead were a mere few inches from the supporting cross beams.  I'm quite active when I sleep with rolling and kicking.  I cracked my forehead a few times and my shins were bruised and bleeding by morning since I decided to sleep like a muay-thai fighter trains by kicking the living shit out of everything within striking distance.  To add insult to injury a nice couple in the campsite next to me were car camping with all kinds of hot food and plenty of cover watching me set up under a picnic table looking like a pathetic wet dog.

"Would you like to have some hot pasta primavera and dry off?" The woman asked.

"Oh no thank you ma'am," I retardedly responded.

       

       This would be the first and last time I said no to people trying to help me.  I was too stubborn and prideful to accept help and it was a poor decision.  Eventually I went over and spoke to them since I felt like an asshole for refusing.  We all chatted as I dried off and then I crawled back under my super awesome slumber set up and sadly ate dry grains and oats.  Not off to a great start.  And FUCK YOU, Ranger Rick!  Night nights.