White Mountain Molly: Chapter Three

The next day was clear and beautiful. For the first time, I saw the views New Hampshire is famous for. Six Slash, who had started later than me, caught up on a descent into the trees.

Nice day. Too bad we're in the fucking trees right now. I'm sick of trees.

We were looking for the next hut in hopes that leftovers awaited. Down we went. Down down down.

This is fucking taking forever. Are you sure we're still on the right trail?

I think so. I don't know.

Oh, guys, we were NOT. We were over two miles DOWNHILL, down STEEP HILL of our trailhead. Not even our destination. Just the place we'd gotten off. We were told by two very enthusiastic section hikers.

But that means you have to go all the way back up! No, you have to or you're not hiking the trail! You can't skip anything!

As you can imagine, Six Slash was... perturbed. He turned around and basically ran back up, I huffing and puffing in his wake. 

We ultimately did skip .8 of a mile of trail in favor of a side trail that took us straight to the hut. And I have not the tiniest qualm about that.

Mizpah Hut had a field of wildflowers, pleasant company, and tons and tons of leftovers. 

For the rest of the day, Six Slash and I hiked together. 

We got to Crawford Notch, the second of four roads that divide the Whites for thru-hikers. A guy we'd seen up the mountain who collects data on songbirds offered to  drive us to town for ice cream and beer and we refused (ONE of us spoke for BOTH of us and I will NEVER let that happen again). 

The next stretch was an uphill and then five miles of flat to the next hut. 

The climb was beautiful. It was soft dirt trail instead of rock, there were wildflowers everywhere. At the peak, it gently evened out and I was basically having a stroll. I was practically giddy with the smell of flowers and fresh air and the deep, thick sounds of a forest settling down for sunset when I came around a bush.

Molly!

There was a woman and a guy sitting on the side of the trail. 

Molly! Dumbledore!

I very definitely didn't recognize either of them. The woman was addressing me.

You're Molly, right?

That's... yes.

We met at Wayah Bald last year! In Tennessee! I was doing trail magic!

And damn it, I remembered! She and her husband had tons of candy. I was still hiking with Roosta at that point. She had been planning her own hike for the next year. Because I was a single female hiker, she remembered me and looked for me and would occasionally see my name pop up in posts by someone else. Did I cry? NO. (yes)

So I gave HER some candy and continued on my way with Six Slash, after he cheerily informed both our new friends that the next several hundred miles were literally hell and the trail was the worst thing he'd ever done. 

I lost him for good the next day at Zealand Hut. It was a gorgeous, hot day and there was cake at Zealand Hut, and other southbounders.

I realized that night that I was feverish. My throat got sore overnight. The next day was rainy and cold, and I had big climbs before Franconia Notch, the third of the four road crossings. Outbreak offered to come save me, but I didn't want to infect Dimples and I had strict orders from my best friend, who lives in NH right now, to contact her if I needed help. She wasn't far, so she headed out for the rescue mission immediately.

There's a song I heard in Costa Rica. It is similar to a song my sister Margie used to sing me in only one way, which is that I am unable to listen to it without laughing. Or at least feeling better. It's a reggae song called Nice Again, the artist is Jahvinci (get it?), and I understand 1/8th of the words. It's... the best song. I've been listening to it when I need to move. The only problem is that sometimes I have to stop and dance for a minute, so I'm not sure it's affecting my total ascent/descent time much at all. But I feel a lot better after.

So Jahvinci as my guide, I, feverish I, made it down the mountain and Cara rescued me. I took my first full day off with her and she showed me around the farm/traveling theater home base where she lives and works. We had nostalgic fun. She even hiked with me a mile or so the next day, earning herself the trail name No Gear.

WE'RE NEARLY DONE. ONE MORE CHAPTER.

White Mountain Molly: Chapter Two

So Mt. Madison, the beast, was slain. Hot cocoa and cold oatmeal in their bellies, Toastface and a distant Six Slash headed out to face the juggernaut, Mt. Washington. The temperature? High 30's. Visibility? Nonexistent.

The climb wasn't terrible, actually. Granted, I was so glad to be alive that maybe anything would have seemed decent (what song got me over Madison, you ask? "She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain," sung at a feverish tempo probably 20 times back-to-back into a howling vortex of white mist).

Towards the top of Washington, the cloud problem started getting real. I could barely see to the next blaze. In the Whites, they use the cairn system- piles of rocks marking the way when blazes aren't always visible.

I knew I should be at the top because I'd passed a guidebook marker, but I (literally) wasn't seeing anything. Then, out of absolute nothingness, a t-shirt-and-jean clad hoarde appeared. It was as if a giant had picked up Walmart and shook it's human contents onto the top of the mountain. I was shell-shocked. 

I sort of staggered around for a few minutes before the obvious, simple thought "go to the place with pizza" blinked on in my brain and I wandered into the visitor's center. I hadn't looked at myself that day, and the mirror was a somewhat rude awakening. Seeing as I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, including socks on both hands and feet, I don't know exactly what I was expecting. But I looked frightening. 

Pizza was purchased. I headed towards one of two open tables. Next to me was a mom, grandpa, and three boys. When I sat, they moved to the other unoccupied table. I took this as an opportunity to claim space.

After lots more hot cocoa, I finally worked up the will to leave. The biggest of the huts was coming up, and I felt certain they'd have leftovers. 

I was soon caught by Six Slash, whom I'd lost at some point. Six Slash is from PA, and he has a very clipped accent that I came to enjoy and have come to miss.

Toastface! What the fuck! This is bullshit! My hands are fucking freezing! I hate this!

And he was off, leaving me to wander alone, occasionally singing Janis Joplin, but mostly trying not to wipe out on the rocks.

When I came to the hut, Six Slash was outside. He'd gotten us work-for-stay and I could have thrown him a damn parade. Neither of us knew what was expected of us, but we knew we'd have a warm place to stay that night. 

Ben, the manager of the hut (THEY ARE ALL NAMED BEN. EVERYONE ENPLOYED BY THE AMC IS NAMED BEN OR NICK. IT'S A CONSPIRACY), told us to go ahead and have a seat on the bench in the corner. We'd have dinner in a little.

"A little" turned out to be four and a half hours. We sat on a lone bench in a dark hallway with three other thru-hikers because we weren't allowed in the dining hall. We listened to the guests eat dinner. We listened to the crew schmooze the guests. We listened to a program on weather patterns in New England. We listened to the crew eat dinner. Finally, around 8:30 (on a normal night we would have all eaten and been asleep by then), they called us in to finish off the leftovers.

Did I mention before that the crew has to carry the leftovers off the mountain on their backs if we don't eat it? It's definitely symbiosis. Not that we deserve one of the $100 bunk slots, but considering that we did the evenings dishes while the crew took shots of Hennessey, I feel we could AT LEAST have had some soup during the wait.

Thru-hikers are allowed to sleep in the dining hall, which is a common space for the guests. "Lights Out" (#perpetualsummercamp) is at 9:30, but several families were still playing card games at the tables. We made our presence known by setting up and falling asleep within minutes. Several of the hikers snored. The guests hastily wrapped up their card games. We had won the battle, but the war would never be ours. 

I awoke at five in the morning to sunlight and faint rustling. I sat up. About ten people were milling around the dining hall with cups of coffee. 

There have been several times in my life to date when I've felt like an honest-to-god park bench homeless person, but this took the cake and sat on it. The coffee guests completely ignored our presence. I unzipped my sleeping bag. A waft of stale fart assaulted the neighboring atmosphere. A woman reading her kindle got up for another coffee and did not return. I, in filthy sleep clothes, stumbled through the LL Beaned to the bathroom, where I took a cat bath using a kerchief and hand soap. And honestly, I was proud. Of my filth, of my shamelessness, of the way I didn't need a mug of coffee to climb a mountain. I felt    a weird self-respect. 

Six Slash and I skipped breakfast and headed on into the bright, cloudless morning.

And that's where I'll leave you for now.

White Mountain Molly: Chapter One

Let's see. Where were we? (rifles through pages)

That's right.

The Whites.

When I left you last, my cousins were coming to spend a few days with me. 

We stayed at a campsite and ate smores, hobo pockets, cheese balls until the cheese balls were all gone. Dimples, the youngest of the three, is hiking pretty well now and Outbreak, Scoutmaster and I enjoyed watching her find dogs and appreciate rocks in ways I don't think I ever will. 

You want to talk about trail names for a second? Okay.

They're culture, part of the reinvention process, but also bear in mind that 90% of the trail is a white male born between '50-'96. They're all named Jim, Matt, and Chris. They're all tall and have beards. If someone is hurt or lost?

Jim!!! He has a white beard! He carries a black pack!!! Jim!!!

And thus, trail names. 

After a wonderful evening, the crew dropped me back off at the trailhead. I bade goodbye to my family (to which Dimples replied, "dog!") and headed into...

The Pinkham Notch Visitor's Center.

There, I met my first multi-day hiking partner, Six Slash. He's a flip-flopper. No one will re-elect him. HAHAHAHA just a little ballot box humor there for ya, little lady. No. A flip-flopper starts the trail in one direction and switches at the halfway point, usually because of time or weather.

Six Slash actively hates both the trail and hiking. Woof, is he done with it. I'd see him coming over a hill behind me-

Toastface! This is awful! This sucks!

But he won't get off the trail. Every day, he is filled with a deeper and deeper resentment towards his surroundings and chosen situation, but he will not quit it.

First day back, I went up Madison. The forecast actually read, "in a cloud." In a cloud was right, and a windy, windy cloud at that. I got blown over, literally. To the rocks on the ground, where I crawled on all fours for several moments. 

But those huts, guys. The weird huts. They have hot chocolate, and the hostile, post-adolescent staff will serve you soup. It saved my sanity several times.

Okay, that's enough for now.

"One more, one more!"

No, you must wait until Hanover. I need to use the beautiful days I have! And today is stunning.

MORE TOMORROW.

And She Loved It

Oooooh, you guuuuuys, I'm in the honeymoon period!!!!! I now love hiking and being alone and I got my pack weight down a little; I feel like every thing that happens makes me happy. I'm moving quite slowly; a rough 11 miles a day. I take tons of breaks and read and sing ALL the time. When I run out of songs, I make up more. I like rain, I like heat, I like sleeping late and getting up early. I'm just thrilled all the time.

This has been the case since entering New Hampshire. I'm not sure why. I think because I'm eating enough and maybe the endorphines that come with finally climbing instead of stumbling through bogs? Who knows?

Cousin Abby is meeting me today! I've been looking forward to seeing her for so long! The Pinkham Notch Visitor's Center serves all-you-can-eat breakfast and my little belly is bursting. The weather looks decent for the next three days and my new shoes are wonderful.

The Whites are heavily touristed. While occasionally overwhelming, this is mostly cool for me because it's my first encounter with thru-hiker hype. The tourists talk about us like we talk about bears and moose.

Shhhh! Is that one? Ma'am? Are you thru-hiking?

Why yes. And I WOULD like an apple, thank you.

Tourists also mean huts. Those are the "remote" mountain lodges that "hikers" can "hike" up to, some of which are located along the trail. They offer work-for-stay for thru-hikers AND, because the staff has to hike all their trash off the mountain, they THROW leftovers at us. Whatever we'll eat. Full meals and desserts and delicious lemonade? The best.

Last night, I stealth-camped between two boulders. It was mostly me showing off for myself because I thought it looked cool. It wasn't very comfortable. But guys, it... It looked so cool. It really did.

That's really my one major problem. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping. 

But I don't feel tired, so no real complaints.

The hardest part of The Whites is very much yet to come. I'm rather nervously looking forward to it.

And then. My birthday. And Dad and Margie's visit.

Why is EVERYTHING SO GOOD??????

But really. Cynics want to know.

Live Free Or Hike

I'M IN NEW HAMPSHIRE!!!!

The hostels are full, except the one I'm staying in, which is totally empty except for me. It has a bare-bulb chic. The first floor is a breakfast joint where "the locals" (two old men) hang out. The Polish owner brought me my food and placed a bottle of ketchup beside it.

Here is ketchup. To drown the taste.

White Mountains are next. Some of us are duly nervous.

OH YEAH. MAHOOSUC NOTCH?

http://youtu.be/85cz6W-8slY

The Hangry, Hangry Hiker: A Play In One Act

(HANGRY, a hiker, enters. She unsnaps her backpack and sinks to the ground. She digs through the pack and removes her food bag, opens it.)

HANGRY: Damn.

(She digs.)

HANGRY: Oh, damn it!

(She sinks back into the ground. She lamely kicks a rock. She glares at nothing in particular, then drinks some water.)

HANGRY: This is the worst.

(SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS enters. He is wearing jean shorts, loafers, and a puffy fly fishing vest. His name is Larry. HANGRY sighs.)

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Hi, Toastface!

HANGRY: (weakly) Hey, Larry.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Great climb we had back there, huh.

HANGRY: Mmmm.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: You know what I did last night?

HANGRY: Huh-uh.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: I got up between that dip? Between Baldpate? There was that thunderstorm. You remember?

HANGRY: Listen, Larry, no offense, but...

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: (continuing) Well, I didn't want to cross that in the thunder, you know. So I found a little spot, put up my tarp and cooked dinner, then climbed up on the peak to watch the sunset! I saw the storm pass, I saw the moon rise, it was beautiful!

HANGRY: That's great.

(HANGRY pretends to be busy with something. SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS doesn't notice.)

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Called the wife today.

HANGRY: Cool.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Said rain on Wednesday.

HANGRY: Mmm.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Well, I'm gonna stay here for the night. You moving on?

HANGRY: Uh, I...

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: (interrupting) I figure we made pretty good time out of Stratton.

HANGRY: LISTEN, LARRY. I AM A HANGRY, HANGRY HIKER RIGHT NOW AND IF YOU DON'T STOP TALKING TO ME, I'M GOING TO SAY SOMETHING WE'LL BOTH WISH I HADN'T.

SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS: Oh, look at that! I have reception! Well, I'm gonna go to bed. Night, Toastface. I'm real glad you made it in today. I just know you'll achieve whatever goal you set for yourself out here.

(SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS exits)

HANGRY: DAMN IT, LARRY!!!!!!!!

(Cries)

End

Eight Mile

The trail is getting harder. The hike keeps becoming more challenging right as my legs adjust to the previous terrain.

Sometimes, as I catapult into rocks or slide knee first down a muddy slope, I laugh to myself at the hilarity of my predicament and how ridiculous it is before wincing in pain because pine needles have found their way through my shorts. 

I'm camping with tweenage summer campers tonight. They gave me their leftover potatoes.

Eight miles to the border. Eight miles to the first state border. Get. Me. Out. Of. MAAAAAAAAAINE!!!!!!!!!

Oh, Little Town Of Bethel, Maine

On July 20th, I climbed Mt. Katahdin. On July 20th, my tennis shoes, my carefully debated shoes of choice, my vehicle, ripped. Straight across the top. 

I've been hiking with them for 240 miles. They've gotten worse. I have made attempts to patch them, but alas. No avail. They are comfortable and lightweight, but ultimately, unsustainable.

Remember me mentioning the cool guy from New Orleans and the woman who taught at NIU? I hiked on and off with them for a few days, but ultimately got seperated.

Every town I've come to in Maine has been preceded by hype.

Dude, your shoes are a mess. That's okay, though, there's an outfitter in Monson. In Caratunk. In Stratton. In Rangeley.

And every time I would listen, get off-trail, go into town, and every time THERE WOULD EFFING NOT BE AN OUTFITTER. Or if there were, no shoes.

So this time, I was sure. Bethel, Maine DEFINITELY HAD an outfitter and they DEFINITELY CARRIED shoes. I got off trail in Andover and was shuttled to Bethel. The shoe selection was pretty slim and all of them were very pricey and looked hard to break in. So I decided I was done. I would just fight through the Whites in what I had, get shoes on the flip side.

In Andover, there's an all-you-can-eat pizza night at the local bakery. First of all, guys, Andover is kind of sweet. It's so small, but really charming and friendly. There were advertisements up for a lost beagle and someone had written helpful notes on it, there are only 33 kids at the school... It's sweet here.

So I was enjoying the pizza night when who should I see walking up the stairs? New Orleans and NIU friends! They had come to say hi to me! I was so happy to see them. They immediately asked about my shoes (it's kind of my thing out here). I told them my resolution. And Birdlegs, my New Orleans friend, who had already found a phone charger for me, grabbed a pair of shoes out of the back of his truck (he's got a truck, yes; section hikers sometimes drive to the part of the trail they're working on). They're his backup shoes. They're so so so nice. AND HE GAVE THEM TO ME. Then, Painted Lady, who taught at NIU, gave me some moleskin and band-aids in case I get blisters.

And, as is the theme for this trip, I wept. 

There's a radical generosity in people, and I've seen it on the trail before, but... Man. I'm floored by this one.

The Body In The Woods

I had a stretch of good days! Eating enough makes a big difference, I've found. Maybe I've just been hangry for 210 miles.

A lady went missing last year. Yesterday, in the heavy mist and cold, I hiked the section where she was last seen.

I was BUGGING. Every noise made me jump and I was afraid to go or look off-trail in case I saw hair or a hand AAAAAAHHHH!!! I'm freaking out just thinking about it.

To set your minds at rest, I was not set upon by an undead hiker. I finished the section. It was fine. But in case anything DOES happen to me (as I'm expecting it to literally every morning and evening), I want you to know that when I feel endangered, I belt Christmas carols. So I will die in that manner. 

I'm at mile 220. Maine ends at 280. I'm pretty excited to make it past the first state line of this trip. Hopefully in the week, at that!

Today is cold and grrrross. 

God, I compose so many blog entries on-trail but they are just WHOOSH! gone by the time I get in town. 

I made some friends today! Also southbound. There are two couples about my age that I really like. I think we'll be roughly in the same bubble.

Okay. Goodbye. Here are pictures. I have video for you, too, but can never upload it...

My phone's back!!!