ROAD TO AUSTIN

I can do this. I can marathon-train again. I ran my 4 miles yesterday (or thereabouts.... ran for 40 minutes, anyway.) Next weekend, I'll do 5. The marathon is 24 weeks away. I can work up very, very gradually.

I'm not running more than 2 or, at most, 3 days a week. I do my best running when I haven't been running much.

LINE BREAKS AND PARAGRAPHS

Does anyone know why, when I post, sometimes there's no line break between paragraphs, and other times there's an inch or more of space between them? The too-much space happens if I leave the post as a draft, go somewhere else on the internet, and then come back to the post.

When I preview a post and there are no spaces, it doesn't help to go back to composing and just hit "enter" one or more extra times. Still no space.

I don't know how to fix this. It bugs me.

Naturally, this post is looking OK (at least in Preview.)

OH, NO.....

We're going to be in Austin for the winter.

Including February 17, 2008, the date for the Austin Marathon.

Oh, crap.

I need Texas. I need to get back in shape. It's 24 weeks away.... right for getting back to running and training for a marathon.

Austin is flat and fast and a classic Boston-Qualifier. They say, "If you want to run Boston, run Austin."

I just ran the 5-mile, 13-hill Sandown 5-miler at my BQ pace after practically NO RUNNING all summer.

Oh, crap.

I swore I was done with marathons. All I wanted to do was hike.

But Austin is flat, and fast, and a classic BQ, and I haven't done a marathon in Texas, and think what good shape I'll be in to start the Appalachian Trail in March if I've just done a marathon in February. Especially if I lose the 20 pounds I want to lose between now and then. (Down from 25.)

Registration costs 2/3 the retail price of a new ultra-light backpack.

Austin Marathon is going down Feb. 17, and we'll be there, and I don't have a Texas marathon yet, and I still harbor delusions about qualifying for Boston, and it's flat and fast, and think what good shape I'll be in for the Trail after running a marathon, and think what good shape I'll be in for marathons after hiking the trail, and we're going to be in Austin, and.....

Oh, crap. I think I'm had.

I think I'm going to run Austin.

IN A MESS AGAIN

Well, the picture's kind of dark, but it's dark in here anyway. It's raining, it's under trees, it's getting towards dusk. I feel dark when I think about being ready to move on.... coming up on Wednesday.





Yup, our sojourn at Chocorua Camping Village in Chocorua, NH is drawing to an end. I have really loved it here. I thoroughly enjoy my co-housekeeper and boss, Nancy (who is slightly younger than my youngest child), my manager Janet (maybe slightly older than my oldest child?), my hiking buddy Sue, and all of the other work-campers (I avoid the cutesy "official" coined word "workamper.") The work has been sometimes physically demanding, but has required relatively little brainwork, and the company has been congenial.





The geographic location has been phenomenal. With a block of 3 days a week off, I've been able to hike and backpack in the White Mountains, including rather large chunks of the Appalachian Trail, which I'll be happy to recognize next summer as I approach the end of my thru-hike. I'll be happy to know that I was able to hike them this summer as a neophyte, next year by the time I'm way more experienced.





But I am happy to move on. We're going to spend about 3 weeks going to various spots in New England, including Bar Harbor, ME, Cape Cod, Rhode Island (because we need Rhode Island to fill in the spot on our map on the side of our RV.... kind of like my "50-State Marathon Quest" map in my sidebar; states we've visited at least overnight -- just driving across doesn't count), the Boston area (I have a half-sister there whom I haven't seen for a very, very long time), finally getting back to Garrett County, MD about Sept. 24. Then after about a month (to catch up on doctor's appointments, lab work, etc., to say nothing of spending time with family) we're off to the Columbus, OH area (to see more family, our 2 daughters and our Ohio grandkids Collin and Gracie), then to Michigan to see more family (Steve's parents, his sister and her husband, their daughter and her husband and two little girls) and finally on to the Austin, TX area where we have a winter gig lined up (they promise us it's out in the countryside, not in downtown Austin. But there should be plenty of outfitters where I can get my final gear for my AT hike.)





All of this means....





I have to clean up our mess. We've been here 4 months and the difference between this and a short stay is like the difference between pulling an unrooted cutting out of a flower pot, and removing a potbound plant whose roots have practically grown to the pot.





I have to sort. And toss. And organize. And batten down. What to do with stuff that goes in the closet? The closet is pre-empted by my backpack now.





I think we need a bigger boat. But that's not gonna happen unless we win the lottery.





So instead of doing something about it, I'm blogging about it....





~sigh~

I SHOULD BE WALKING

I've just realized I need to get in shape, a new kind of shape. Walking shape. If, 6 or so months from now, I'm going to embark on a trip that will entail walking 7-20 miles a day, I'd better start walking. No doubt I'd get used to it by doing it out there on the trail, but the first couple weeks will be a lot more comfortable if I'm already a walker. Later on, I'll start doing stairs or a stair-climber, or a treadmill set on a steep incline. And then add the backpack.

It's going to feel different, emphasizing walking over running. I've done day hikes of up to 10 miles but only once a week or so; I haven't walked day in, day out, or even every other day or a few days a week. I need to start on this. It's enough different from running that, when I've needed to walk more than a mile or so of a marathon, my feet have started to hurt from the unaccustomed mechanics. I'd better learn them.

Well, I need to mail something and the P.O. is a couple miles away. No time like the present. Up and at 'em.

NO PICTURES, NO PARTY...

.... but on Sunday Steve and I celebrated (sort of) our 35th wedding anniversary.

I should say "observed" rather than "celebrated," maybe, because in the morning we observed that it was our anniversary, kissed briefly, and headed out the door for our day's work at the campground. We did spend a couple enjoyable hours together in the afternoon as we were both assigned to restroom-cleaning.

And in a way, that was a relevant way to observe it. Not restroom-cleaning, specifically, but just doing what we do every day, since being married is what we do every day, and what we do every day is the stuff being married for 35 years is made of.

As I cleaned rental cabins with my campground manager, she congratulated me on our long marriage, and she asked me what advice I had for other couples. I hadn't really thought about that, and had no particular pearls of wisdom to dispense. She asked, "Well, how have you stayed married for so long? There must be some secret you can share."

All I could think of was.... just keep putting one foot in front of the other. So I said that, along with, "I guess a variation of that is -- take one day at a time."

"After 35 years that's all you can say?" she exclaimed. "Put one foot in front of the other? One day at a time?"

Yup, that's about it. All those steps and all those days add up to a long, long journey. All those steps and all those days are what keep us on the trail.

BE STILL

From author Adrienne Hall in her book A Journey North:

"After three months on the Appalachian Trail...I learned to hear a single leaf twist and rustle its neighbor...I learned to hear stillness and tried to find that stillness in myself. Tenderly I nurtured it, hoping that the peace and calm of the woods would grow inside me too."

Yes, that stillness.... let it be; let it be in me.

MacGyverisms

For readers who never encountered MacGyver (and, given a look at him, who wouldn't want to, or at least what female wouldn't want to?!) here's a site full his jury-rigging.

And a point to ponder, for people who either frequent porta-pots or wish there were one (e.g. runners, triathletes) or who do it where bears do (e.g. hikers):

A HIKER BY ANOTHER NAME

I returned today from another overnight backpacking trip, during which I met some hikers walking from Georgia to Maine, as I had hoped to. My readers may or may not realize that long-distance trail hikers, especially AT thru-hikers, often go by a "trail name," sort of like a CB handle. Some people make up their own, or even use their real name, but fellow hikers often replace these "temporary" names with something else, generally representative of a characteristic of the person, or spawned by some memorable event, and you just hope it's not too embarrassing because it's likely to stick and be the name by which all other hikers know you.

I went into the woods Against the Wind, and came out....

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Begin "Hallelujah Chorus" here....

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MacGyver!

This came about at an Appalachian Mountain Commission-maintained campsite/shelter where I spent the night. With 5 guys :-) (There are 5 tent platforms, so we each had our own.)

We were all eating our suppers together, and one of the guys, trail-named "Spock," was intrigued, or impressed, or amused, by my homemade cooking equipment. My cooking pot is a practically-weightless, no-cost, 1-lb coffee can, with a tight-fitting pot lid made from aluminum foil reinforced with foil tape, supported over my soda-can stove with tent stakes, and.... this was the final straw for Spock.... a pot-lifter/handle that is, in fact, a dog-grooming tool, a shedding blade.

It's a flexible metal blade with a sawtooth edge, a leather handle at each end, and a fastener to hold these together so that the blade forms a loop. I had been using it for Journey one day and suddenly looked at it and wondered, "I'll bet that would fit my coffee can." I tried it. It did. It's perfect. No more carrying potholders or trying to use a bandana for one. I roll it into a tight circle and store it in my coffee-can pot. So Spock saw me pull all this stuff out of my pot, and gaped at the shedding blade, and said,

"Please tell me that's not a pot handle."

"It's a pot handle," I said, fastening it around my pot to show him.

"What is it made to be?" he asked.

"A dog-grooming tool," I explained. "See this sawtooth edge? You pull it along the dog's coat and it pulls out the dead undercoat. I was using it on my dog and had a lightbulb moment. I figured I can use it as a saw, too."

He threw back his head and laughed, "Your name's gotta be MacGyver!!"

I love it!! I'm crazy about it! Especially since Spock has made a lot of his gear, too, including his backpack (which is awesome), and his calling me MacGyver showed appreciation for my ingenuity.

"Against the Wind" has been great for marathoning, and triathlon, and Ironman. It sounds like pressing on through challenge and even adversity. But it's kind of long to use for a name I'll actually be called by, and it's maybe a little pessimistic, always struggling a little.

MacGyver... the secret agent who sees a new use for something, rigs up something improbable from something ordinary, rises to the occasion, gets out of scrapes by being inventive.

A Trail Name that I love, bestowed like an award by a thru-hiker on his way to Maine, a seasoned hiker of many trails.... how good can it get?

I love it.

ALL IS CALM

Hurricane Dean ended up going just south of Jamaica's southern coast. Jon and Jamie were in Ocho Rios on the north coast, 50+ miles from the eyewall, and got rain, and wind around 100mph for a while, but there was no major damage; they were out of the shelter and back in their villa by 9pm, able to put in a phone call Jamie's mother, and have a flight booked to head home tomorrow.

It wasn't nearly as serious as it could have been. Thank goodness for everyone on the island it veered south. What a mess if it had gone right smack through the middle, as it had looked as thought it might. Big disaster averted there.

Whew.

JON AND JAMIE IN JAMAICA

~Sigh~

Our son Jon and his wife Jamie decided last week on a spur-of-the-moment, "whirlwind" trip to Jamaica to celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary, which was day before yesterday. They planned to stay until tomorrow.

At least, until Hurricane Dean got tough and then picked Jamaica as a target. See that little spot right smack in the middle of the "cone of probability" which is the projected path the storm is most likely to take? Yeah, that's Jamaica. Yesterday they tried to get a flight out, but they haven't been able even to get a call through to the panic-packed airlines, let alone get a flight.

So they're going to have to stay and ride it out.

Dean is just a few mph short of becoming a Cagetory 5 hurricane.

We've got the Weather Channel on; apparently plans for evacuation to shelters are in place and functional, with Jamaica getting hit about every 3 years. Jon and Jamie will have an adventure they'd rather not have, but will most likely be OK. And in the aftermath, well, Jon's a firefighter-paramedic and Jamie's a nurse. Both have disaster-response training and are the take-charge sort. Jon has water-rescue training. They might rather not be there but it may be good for others that they are.

What a bummer. Head for the South Seas for a leave-it-all-behind anniversary getaway and land in the middle of a friggin' hurricane, one as strong as they get.

Kind of like a marriage. You get married surrounded by light and lace, dreaming of happily-ever-after. But sometimes you get a hurricane. And at least you're together.

LIFE LESSONS

"You Can See Yourself In It," continued.

Today's lesson:
FINISHING WHAT YOU START.

Of the 1,000-2000 hopefuls who set out on the Appalachian Trail every spring, about 10% actually make it to the other end.

I want to be one of those 10%.

Some leave the trail for physical reasons, injury or illness.

However, barring injury or illness, most people who have the nerve or craziness to start have the physical ability to put one foot in front of the other until they get to Maine (or Georgia, if they start in Maine.)

It's the mental stick-to-it-iveness that nails you.

Hikers get tired of the walking, or the loneliness, or the mosquitoes, or the mice in the shelters, or the grunginess and sweat and dirty clothes (opportunities for a shower and washing clothes come maybe once a week, if you hike several miles off the trail to a town), or the rain (or snow, which falls in spring on the southern end of the Trail and every month of the year in the White Mountains), or the terrain (it is not a smooth gravel path), or of living in a tent, or living on Ramen and Snickers bars, or of lack of any number of accoutrements to which they have become accustomed prior to setting out on the Trail.

Someone on a backpacking forum told me, if I can finish the Ironman, I can finish the AT.

Hmph. Ironman took me 16 hours. The AT will take more than 16 WEEKS, 5-6 months of walking 10-20 miles per day over boulders and mountains carrying a 25# pack in all kinds of weather day after day after day after day after day.

This thought came to me in startling clarity when I was stranded on Mt. Jefferson in NH having clearly bitten off more than I could chew in one day, face with the decision to try to complete my day's planned itinerary or do the obvious and set up camp where I was and increase my chances of survival as a backpacking newbie.

OK, back to the life lesson.

10 years ago, we hosted this exchange student from France. Cecile. She was 16. (Talk about nerve, 16 years old and taking off on a plane to spend a whole year in America with a family she'd never met in a school where the only French spoken was in French class.) So that was 10 years ago. This summer, Cecile got married. In May, I started crocheting a bedspread for her and her husband. I got bogged down because it is a huge project. I have let it go for weeks at a time, thinking, "It's a wedding, not a birthday... it doesn't have to be exactly on time." The thing is big, and heavy, and I get hot holding it on my lap and over my legs and feet while I work on it. I procrastinate. I read email and my special-interest forums (fora?) and books on hiking the AT, while the bedspread rests in its plastic bag under our dining table.

I have got to get this thing finished. She got married almost a month ago.

How can I keep at it on my way to Maine, when I'm tired and cold (or hot) and bug-bitten and hungry and dirty and discouraged.... when I couldn't even finish crocheting a bedspread in the comfort of my own RV with its two TV's, air conditioning, and microwave oven?

Personal commitment: No more reading about the AT until Cecile and Joachim's bedspread is done. It will probably only take me about 10 or 12 more hours.... a day's AT hike.

I'll take a picture and post it when it's done.

Lightening My Pack

This is today's "You Can See Yourself In It" lesson. "You Can See Yourself In It" is my title for the life lessons offered by mountain hiking. I think I'm so in love with hiking and backpacking because.... I can see myself in it.



About an hour into my intended 3-day, 16-mile backpacking trip in the White Mountains a few weeks ago, I realized that not only was my backpack quite heavy, but I was carrying very nearly the same amount of extra body weight, effectively doubling my pack weight.



I got far more fatigued than I expected, got into a risky situation due to not being able to cover the distance, and had a few revelations.



I lost 5 pounds in those 2 days, a combination of mild dehydration and not eating enough (which added to my fatigue.) I refueled and rehydrated for a few days. Then I made a chart and started "lightening my pack" -- my body -- aiming for a pound a week, 25 pounds. (My pack weighed 30, which is probably what my AT thru-hike pack will weigh, including food and water.)



Rather than a specific food plan or eating schedule, when I eat or think about eating, I'm just asking myself the same question I ask when I select items for my backpack: Do I need or want this enough to justify the weight?



This mindset seems to be hitting the spot. Since July 8, I'm down 6 pounds. It hasn't gone evenly, exactly a pound a week (I plateaued for a couple weeks), but I'm more or less on schedule.



When I hit the trail 25 pounds lighter next spring, it will be like carrying just one backpack instead of two. Who wouldn't rather carry just one backpack?! Or a 30-pound pack instead of a 55-pound pack?

I'm on my way.

10-mile Mt. Jackson Hike

Mt. Jackson is one of New Hampshire's 48 4,000+ foot mountains, and the next target in my peak-bagging quest (there's no way I'll do all 48 this summer, though.)

It's been, I guess, 3 weeks since I've hiked, and I felt that a little: more winded going up, more discomfort in quads and toes going down. However, I'm happy with today. The sign at the trailhead said Mt. Jackson's 4,054-foot peak was a 4-mile hike, but the guidebook and website called it 4.7. In addition, the parking lot I used was 0.3 mile away, so I am giving myself credit for 10 miles, my longest mountain hike to date.

And yes, yes, yea, I was on the Appalachian Trail, the Webster Cliff Trail section. I timed my hike to start when I thought thru-hikers might be going along that stretch, guessing from where they would have been likely to spend the night. I armed myself with double-size muffins and whoopie pies for them, assuming it was a while since they'd had anything like that. I hoped to hike with them and get input on trail-running shoes vs. hiking boots, tarp vs. tent, Gore-tex vs. $1-ponchos from the 7/11, and most of all, how it's all going. But I saw nary a one, until my return trip, when I crossed brief paths with a northbound middle-aged man who was bent on making tracks. He'd left Georgia April 19, a month later than most, and at that rate would be making Mt. Katahdin a month ahead of the earlier starters. He didn't want a muffin.

It was a tough hike. Steep. Rocky and rooty. At one point, I met people coming down, and warned them that the trail ahead of them, where I had come up, was going to be tricky going down. They thanked me politely, graciously keeping to themselves that I hadn't seen tricky yet.

Here are a couple of views from a ledge about halfway up.

That's NH 302 at the bottom, and the Willey House, part of Crawford Notch State Park. The road above it, I think, is a railroad.

From a different angle, same ledge. Although I took this shot myself, I found the exact same shot afterwards on a website. Apparently I'm not the only one who liked that view!

About 3/4 of the way up, I encountered the near-vertical rock climbs. I'd stand and wonder, "How in the hell am I going to get up that? And how in the hell am I going to get back down?" The answers: Question #1: Hand-over-hand and on my knees. Question #2: On my butt, reaching to the next foothold with my feet.

I had Journey along, and although I worried about how she would negotiate the rocky climbs, I needn't have. She's as sure-footed as a goat. I'd let go of her leash, have her sit-stay at the bottom (or top) of a climb, clambor over it myself, then give her the OK to follow. She skipped up or down like we were running on the shoulder of a flat road. It worked out well.

Here we are at the summit:

Lichen-covered boulders at the summit (above treeline) with a far view of the White Mountains in the distance:

Another thing about Journey: she can always find the trail. Yes, it's marked, but sometimes it's still not exactly clear to me which way to go. However, Journey goes to the right spot unerringly, even when she's never been there before. Maybe she's sniffing out the trail where others have been.

Although she wanted to chase every chipmunk and squirrel, she shied back when a garter snake peacefully crossed the trail. My son has told me that all mammals share an instinctive fear of snakes. Except, I guess, for mutants like me.

Today's "You Can See Yourself In It" metaphor-for-life lesson:

Sometimes I'm so intent on watching my footing that I forget to look where I'm going, and miss scenery as well.

An earlier one, conceived on a different steep rocky trail:

It's good that when it's all uphill there are rocks and roots. We may curse them as stumbling blocks but they give substance for a foothold.

I left the muffins and whoopie pies in a cooler someone had deposited near the trailhead of a nearby AT section. It had ice in it, and a watermelon (or what was left of it; many had partaken, by the looks of the rinds in the garbage bag the donor had provided. My cakes were individually-wrapped so I'm hoping the melting ice didn't soak them.

I RAN A 5-MILE RACE!

It's been a summer of not really running, and I've re-invented myself as a hiker and backpacker, but I believe I just ran a race.

Saturday I took my mom (who's been visiting us) down to Sandown, NH, where her family had had a summer cabin when she was a kid. Sandown was having its annual "Old Home Days" festival, which included a 5-mile race, so I thought, she'd love the Old Home Days and if we were going I might as well run the race.

You might remember I've hardly run all summer. After the Vermont City Marathon I thought I might just quit running.

About 3 weeks ago, with a "possible" race coming up, I started running/walking for half an hour 2 or 3 days a week, starting with run 1 minute, walk 1. Worked up little by little till, Tuesday of last week, I ran/walked for a whole hour run 7/walk 3, then Thursday (2 days before the race) I did half an hour of run 10, walk 1. I don't know if any of these runs added up to as much as 5 miles, didn't measure.

So I went to the race and registered and that's when I saw the t-shirt, whose design featured the course elevation map. Oh, great!

I figured to start slow and then ease up. It did turn out to be hilly, but only one was one of those long slow killers. Most were very substantial rollers, with the elevation changing a couple hundred feet in between. Well, I haven't been running, but I've been hiking in the White Mountains....

Ask me my time. Go on, ask me. You know you're dying to.

48:42!!! For 5 miles!! On hills!! When I haven't run all summer!! Gol-durn! Averages out to 9:44/mile. Gol-DURN!!!

Mile 1: 9:44
Mile 2: 9:07
Mile 3: 9:37
Mile 4: 10:45 (obviously the mile with the bad hill)
Mile 5: 9:27

I am astonished. Looks like I run my best when I don't run for weeks :-)

P.S. As I saw my splits add up (at least till mile 4,) I began to hope I might win something. But I was 4th out of 4 women 50-59. Sandown has some FAST WOMEN!! First in my AG ran 41:xx. Third was about 40 seconds ahead of me.

MT. WASHINGTON, TAKE 2

So finally yesterday I got to the top of Mt. Washington. Not from Springer Mountain, but from a parking lot at the bottom of the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail with 4 cohorts of various experience and ability, one of whom brought her dog.

Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail is not one for the faint of heart, I found. The upper half is... Well, the AMC White Mountain Guide uses the word "arduous," strong language for this objective handbook which may describe a trail as "easy" or "difficult" but not often with an emotionally-charged word like "arduous."


Three of us (and the dog, over whose head I could almost see a conversation balloon bearing the word "Whatever")made it to the top of Mt. Washington. The other two, an older couple, lagged behind to hike at their own pace. We were to wait for them at the Lakes of the Clouds hut. We waited for an hour. I used 25 minutes of that hour happily scampering up and back down neighboring Mt. Monroe; another 15 chatting with a former thru-hiker, who encouraged me to hit the trail: "No matter how doubtful you feel now, it's something that will change your life. You will always be glad you did it." Eventually one of my companions got a cell-phone signal and discovered that the older lady had started feeling ill and she and her husband were on their way back to the car. So Sue, Allison and her dog, and I resumed our hike towards Mt. Washington.


We picked our way half a mile across rock fields (even on the "Trail", you have to do this in the White Mountains), uneasily eyeing thickening clouds and deepening fog over the summit. Mt. Washington has the notoriety of producing the vilest weather on earth, capriciously changing the menu on a moment's notice. Fog poured in; wind shook us around; cold mist sanded any exposed skin. I didn't like this. I've heard and read too many stories about hikers getting lost and frozen in fog, even in summer. If this got any worse, we wouldn't be able to see from cairn to cairn to find our way either up or down. We turned back to Lakes of the Clouds.


We kept looking behind us towards the summit, and up at the sky. Clouds were, however, ragged, not solid; we began to see the summit again. Even if we returned to the hut to wait it out, we might have to wait all night, for which we were not prepared, having neither reservations nor sleeping equipment. It looked better. We turned around again and started back up.

It took about an hour to go the mile. Rocks, rocks, rocks. But I find myself more sure-footed with every trip I take into these mountains. My ankles are more stable. I misplace a few footfalls, come home with skinned shins, but I feel sturdier. I saw my husband waving at us from the top and we finished our climb. It was misty, wet, windy and nasty up there, but the obscuring fog that an hour earlier I had thought could turn dangerous, had blown away.

Inside the visitors' center at the summit, there is a framed document bearing the names, ages, and circumstances of 159 individuals who have died in the Mt. Washington vicinity. As noted in an accompanying explanatory plaque, almost all met their ends due to an error in judgement: a wrong turn, trying to beat the weather, hiking too late in the day, not wearing enough clothes, not being prepared for emergencies -- all the things I was afraid of on my backpacking trip last week, things I wanted to avoid today, especially being more or less the ringleader of our little group of 3. Although we ended up making our way with clear vision to the top, I still don't think I was being unreasonable in announcing to my companions that the weather looked bad, that I didn't like it, that I thought we should retrace our steps and stay at the hut until it cleared. Even if that meant tomorrow.


We had originally intended to cross on Gulfside Trail and take the Jewell Trail back down, but with worrying about our ill friend, the false weather-alarm, and the varying degrees of preparedness even among the 3 of us (I've done the most hiking of the 3), we decided to take the low road and let our husbands drive us down the auto-road. (It turned out that the lady who was ill was just plain incapable of the "arduous" climb. She got better once they started down, thank goodness.

I felt good. Last week, with my 30# pack on my back, I'd skirted the Mt. Washington summit to plod on to Mt. Jefferson and hopefully to The Perch tentsite, which I never made, camping instead illegally in an alpine meadow (better than possibly spending the night with my leg between two rocks and my sleeping bag, had I been able to reach it, makeshiftedly wrapped around my torso.) It was only a 4.5-mile hike this time, but it was rugged, and it did it for me for the day.

And yes, I still want to thru-hike. Over mountains and more mountains, often 15-20 miles per day. The prospect often seems unlikely, as if I can't really see myself doing it. But I keep collecting pieces of gear and information: a bag or bottle here, a book there. I keep studying maps and doing dayhikes. I want to get in at least one more overnight backpacking trip this summer, especially here in the White Mountains where the Appalachian Trail has so many access points. I hope to hike with some of this year's thru-hikers, hear their stories, learn their lessons.

As well, I am looking for hiking partners for next year. Women more or less my age, about 40-60. Any takers?

ME AND THE MOUNTAIN

After a few 8 - 10-mile happy, satisfying dayhikes in the White Mountains, I set out Monday on my first solo overnight backpacking experience. I had trail maps, guidebook pages, my tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, 3 various layers of clothes, food for 3 days and 2 nights, cookset including my Coke-can stove, coffee-can cookpot, denatured alcohol, and lighter; a first-aid/emergency kit, toiletries kit, water bottles, and an itinerary of 7.5 miles on Day 1 (climb Mt. Washington and Mt. Jefferson), stay overnight at a campsite with tent platforms and a shelter; 4 miles on Day 2 (climb Mt. Adams and Mt. Madison, stay at another tentsite); 5 miles on Day 3, with Steve picking me up back at the starting place. The second and third days would be easier days after the harder first day. The White Mountains Guidebook estimated 7 hours to reach my first campsite. So far, on my dayhikes, I'd been right on or slightly ahead of the "book times" (estimated times on various trails described in the AMC White Mountains Guidebook.)

So I set out happily onto the trail. There were lots of people, since I started on the shortest and most popular route up to Mt. Washington. Most popular, apparently, to oblivious dodo's.... on a rock in the path, there was a little frog squashed flat by what must have been a foot; there's nothing else on that path that could squash a frog on a rock. Someone had strewn their orange peels around.... biodegradable, I guess. An assortment of snotty kleenexes. And a panty liner. ????? I mean, come on, girls.... I can see accidentally dropping a kleenex but how did did you let that get away from you? Right along the trailside? Have some discretion, for petesake.

Disregarding the litter, though, the trail was magnificent. At Hermit Lakes Shelter (where you could stay if you needed to) the wind whistled around the caretaker's cabin through the spectacular hemlocks as through the fir trees at Heidi's grandfather's hut. What a job that caretaker has! What do you have to do to get to live there?







There was a turnoff onto the most direct route to Mt. Washington's summit, but I bypassed that in favor of joining up with the Appalachian Trail. This led to my first experience with a boulder field. Like walking across petrified basketballs, very iffy footing. When I finally hit the AT, I could have kissed the ground.

The AT does not, however, go directly up to the summit. I knew this and had planned to take the short side trail leading to it. Parents with fairly young children, having conquered the summit and no doubt had a hamburger at the visitor center, were leaping down like mountain goats. However, the trail up had been steeper and rockier than I'd thought, and I hadn't hiked before with a 30-pound pack on my back, and I had taken an hour longer than the estimated 4 hours to come this far, and I was getting tired, and I had another 3 miles to go to my tentsite. I decided to sacrifice the summit and stay on the AT, headed towards the next mountain, Mt. Jefferson.


This is where I should have done the math and headed to a closer campsite.





The trail to Mt. Jefferson was another field of petrified basketballs, beach balls, and Volkswagen-size boulders. Cairns of stone marked the general direction of the trail, but offered no hint of how to put hand over foot to follow them. Groups of hikers kept passing me, an adult or two often with a gaggle of teens or tweens. They got ahead of me and disappeared. Other cairn-marked trails led off the main trail and although I had a map and guidebook pages, occasionally I got off on the wrong trail and had to backtrack. A person had to assess a place for each footfall before putting it down. Except the younger people, whom I'd watched treading happily across as if it were a pine-needle-strewn woodland path. I used my trekking poles almost like crutches, planting them check the stability of the rocks, then leaning on them for balance and support. Progress was slow.





Somewhere around Mt. Jefferson (again I bypassed my planned sidetrip to the summit) I began to be aware that I hadn't seen any other hikers for a while. It was about 5pm. I knew the two wayside huts most had been headed for, and I was now what seemed like a huge distance between them. About equidistant, as a matter of fact. Closer than that to my planned tentsite, but still pretty far out.


I looked both directions and saw no one. I had started this trek too late in the morning and planned too much distance. I appeared to be alone on this tricky trail late in the day, and it began to dawn that I was alone and totally on my own out here.


I prayed not to sprain my ankle, or fall, or get my leg caught between rocks. I started wondering where a person might camp if they found themselves unable to make their expected destination. I thought of emergency plans.... to get my sleeping bag out of my pack and wrap it around me if I got injured on these rocks and couldn't make it to a reasonable flat place.


And then I fell. Headlong. I don't know if I tripped, or what, just found myself pitching forward. I let go of my poles and broke the fall with my bike-gloved hands. "Please, no, I can't fall, I absolutely can't fall, this is unacceptable, I cannot fall out here now!!!!" I stopped falling. But I couldn't get up. My 30# pack tried to keep falling, over my head, as I tried to get up. It took a lot of pushing with hands and knees to stabilize myself, then get my head up, and finally my back and the rest of my body. Whew. I was shaking.


The realization began to glimmer that I was in somewhat of a fix. A trail sign told me I was 0.7 miles from the turnoff to my tentsite. But then there was another mile-long path to traverse after that. At my current rate, it could take me 3 hours. I picked my way along.... came to a mossy Alpine meadow in between rock fields, and sat down to study my maps, have a snack, and think. I looked around and thought, there would be worse places than this to spend the night.... soft moss and little plants, a person could go behind that boulder for some shelter from the west wind.... but it's forbidden to camp above treeline, endangers the Alpine flora.... hey, it's 6:30, it doesn't get dark till 9, I've got time. I packed up my snacks, picked up my poles, and started on.


And looked at what was ahead of me. I cannot go up there. There is no way I can go up there. Yes, I can.... I've climbed "hills" just like that one many times today. I can do that. Except after that one there's another one, and another one. I'm tired. Well, I'll go for another hour and see what I come to. I started climbing.


I was feeling distinct unease. No one knew there was a hiker still out here. There was no cell-phone signal; no way to let anyone know. And, had I been able to contact anyone, nothing could have been done. No one was coming out in the approaching dark to lead me over treacherous ground to any haven. I was totally, completely alone. I knew where I was, and I was too far out. If I kept going, I'd increase my chances of falling and getting injured, which, in the dropping temperatures, I realized could easily become life-threatening. I looked ahead, and looked back, and decided, the hell with the laws, I'm going back to that grassy knoll behind that big boulder and pitch my tent. It's forbidden, but it's getting cold and windy, and I do not dare go on. Struggling to go on in the face of fatigue and fear is what makes people end up dead on mountainsides. I'm going back down there. I'm spending the night here in the open in my tent while I still can.

So I did. I picked my way back down the boulders to the mossy cove I'd found, spread out my ground cover, fought with my tent in the mountaintop wind, put in my sleeping pad and sleeping bag.


As soon as I stopped hiking, I started getting cold. I was all sweated up and the wind was blowing. I put on ALL my clothes: medium-weight running tights that I wear in winter; cotton yoga pants I'd packed as a light layer; my nylon hiking pants; wicking silky long-sleeved base-layer top (given me at IM Florida by my Calgarian friends); fleece top; windbreaker; two pairs of wool socks; knit hat, knit gloves. There were no trees from which to hang my food bag away from bears. But, I reasoned, there were no bears up here. There was nothing for them. No berries, no bark, no bugs, no campers, no shelter.... no reason a bear should be up here. Wild cats, likewise, would find no reason to be here. Muggers, murderers, rapists.... no human in his right mind would be here. Yet here I was. A victim of misjudgement and stupidity. But, barring a storm, relatively safe. I prayed for no storms. I saw none on the horizon.



By 7:30 I had hidden my food bag among some rocks a couple hundred feet from my tent, got into my 20*F-rated sleeping bag with all those clothes on, and closed my eyes. The moss with my sleeping pad on top made a surprisingly comfortable resting surface. I began to warm up. I began to feel a little drowsy. I thought about hypothermia and thought, I'm in a 20* sleeping bag with 3 layers of clothes. I'll be fine.


The wind howled and whooshed. My tent flapped and jostled against my sleeping bag, sounding like an animal rubbing against it. I knew it was just my sleeping bag. I slept on and off. I was toasty warm and cozy but not hot.


It never did get completely dark. All night, when I woke from drowsing, I noted that it was twilight, and thought the sun was coming up, but my watch would say 11 p.m., 1 a.m., 3 a.m; the light was starlight. I had short dreams I can't remember. I was comfortable and snug. As long as a storm didn't come up, I was safe. This was a surprisingly comforting thought. My only possible adversary was weather, and except for the normal summit wind, the weather was benign.


It started getting lighter around 4a.m. I dozed till 5. Then I started getting itchy to break camp... early hikers would start arriving, maybe, about 7, and I didn't want to be found camping illegally out here. I tossed my thermometer outside the tent and pulled it back in reading 42*. But I had not been too hot in side my 20* bag with 3 layers of clothes (although I'd taken off my hat and gloves.)


The mountaintop wind had pulled my tent against its stakes so much that they'd come out of the ground. The only thing holding my tent down was me. An empty "stuff" bag I'd forgotten outside had blown down the mountain a ways. I retrieved my food bag, which was untouched except where some little ground critter had chewed a tiny hole to find my peanut-butter bag. He must not have found it to his liking.... he'd only tasted it. I packed up my stuff, fluffed up the little plants I'd crushed, and started back on the trail, with the whole day ahead of me, not fighting the sunset and dropping temperatures anymore.

After more traversing of boulder fields, I came to the turnoff to the campsite where I'd intended to stay. It seemed a long way from where I'd bivouacked. I'd never have made it in my fatigue over the rocks, unlikely I'd even have seen it, and then with another mile to go once I reached it... I'd made the right call in making camp where I did.


Around 8 a.m. I started meeting hikers. They commented that I was out early, asked where I'd stayed. I lied. I told them, "The Perch tentsite. It's just a ways back." To one man, I told the truth. He looked respectful and said, "You made the right decision. If you'd been hurt, there would have been no one. You were only lucky there weren't storms. You did the right thing. It's good you had your overnight gear with you." I was glad to hear another person say that.


I arrived at an overnight-with-dinner-and-breakfast hut, the Madison Spring Hut, finally, after about 3 miles. I thought, it's another 3 miles to the next tentsite. Then another overnight. Then 5 miles tomorrow. I had hot spots on my feet where my shoes had twisted navigating the rocks. And all of a sudden, I was done. I didn't want to hike anymore. I didn't want to stay overnight in my tent again and then hike another 5 miles tomorrow. I had bitten off more than I could chew. I went into the hut and asked a crew-member, "If I want to get to a road where I can be picked up, what's the best way out of here?" She gave me directions down a side trail. I sat and regrouped, drank hot chocolate and tea, studied maps. And finally, down I started. It was another 3.7 miles down to NH Route 2, where, of all things, at the trailhead was a parking lot with a shuttle bus which, if I met up with it, would take me back to my starting place for easy pickup by my husband. I went for it.


The trail went down and down and down, rocky tricky footing for the first mile, but then moderated. I started making time. I called Steve as soon as I could get a signal, told him plans had changed. I beat the bus by half an hour. I sat on my backpack and read the book I'd had the foresight to pack. And the bus came and I got on and fell asleep. There were lots of stops at lots of trailheads and it was 3 hours before we'd get back to my pickup place. I was safe. I didn't have to hike anymore. I felt like crying.


I feel like I'm telling someone else's story. It seems distant, like I dreamed it, like it never happened. I'm home; I've driven to the grocery store, cleaned restrooms, checked my email. Life seems normal.


But things have changed.


I still want to hike the Appalachian Trail. What I undertook on my first time out was one of its most difficult stretches. I knew that, but thought I'd be fine because I've been hiking White Mountain trails all summer. How little I knew.


And therein is the lesson. How little I knew. A person has to know their own ability, their own limitations, the terrain ahead, and the effect of carrying 30 pounds on their back, and take all this into consideration in planning their trip. These mountains are incapable of kindness. They do not care whether you are there. You are on your own. You take care of yourself. You better know what you are doing, and if you don't, you better discover that very quickly and start figuring it out.



I'm grateful I was able to figure it out. That I had the sense to stop, even if it was a felony or something ("Fine, Ranger, I'll pay the fine. I'd rather trample a few plants than die out here.") I'm grateful I had all I needed with me; that I was not out there with some little fanny pack or daypack and no sleeping bag or extra clothes.

Actually, although I hadn't completely realized what I was getting into, I'm glad I knew as much as I did. That I couldn't, or shouldn't, keep going. How to pitch a tent. To put on extra clothes first off, rather than get cold and try to put them on as needed. All I would have needed was to get hypothermic out there. That would have been the last friggin' straw. Unless a thunderstorm had come up.... that could have been the grand finale.

So, for my next backing trip, I'm planning more conservative distances. Seems like God and the mountains decided I had lessons to learn on my very first trip, before my delusions of grandeur got any bigger.

Now I know. At least, more than I did. I am not all I thought I was. I am a speck in the mountains.

But, unbelievably, I took care of myself. That realization gives me an inkling of strength it's hard to describe.

I'M MESSED UP

And so is my computer. The keyboard is on the fritz. Some of the letters aren't strikin. Like the letter after "F".

I'm eatin like a compulsive overeater. I can't seem to stop. I keep tellin myself, I'm doin all this readin and research on how to keep my backpack weiht down, what to trim down, what to eliminate, butI'm carryin 20 extra pounds on my bones already, before I even put my pack on.

Steve and I are plannin an overniht campin trip Tuesday andWednesday. My sleepin ba_ fills 2/3 of my backpack. Stuffin it in is worse than tryin to put on a wetsuit. After I crammed it in, Steve came in from havin been lookin around in our stora_e compartments with "his" sleepin ba_ that he bou_ht for his bike trip a few years a_o. Rolled up, it's the size of a rolled-up towel. I think I need anew sleepin_ ba_.

But I can't help seein the metaphor. As I've noted before while hikin_, the trail speaks to me.... "I can see myself in it."In fact, if I were to write a book about hikin_ the AT, that wouldbe its title. "You Can See Yourself In It."

jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj (my computer did thatspontneously. It also will not type a capital m. I think when we _o to Portland on monday to pick up Steve's computer from bein_ repaired, we better drop off mine. Actually I think somethin _ot spilled on it. It was sticky and smelled like food. I was eatin lunch last time I used it but I didn't think I spilled anythin on it. But it will be my fault anyway.

I think I'm _oin_ to map out the hours of the day in 15-minuteincrements and check of each 15 minutes that I don't eatcompulsively. I need to et my pack weiht down. jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj I needj to haveplan. I need to work the plan. I need to _et my act toether.

I need to _et my computer fixed. I'm writin' like a redneck. But it's not me, it's my keyboard. Food is messin it up.

I can see myself in it.

ARE YOU SAVAGE ENOUGH?

In case you can't read the small print, it says,
"The World's Most Savage Triathlon."

SavageMan Half-Iron Triathlon. It's being held in my home stomping grounds, Garrett County, MD, with the bike course traversing along the Savage River and up over Savage Mountain. And it's going to be awesome.

Click on all the links on the website to see pictures of the glorious venue, and videos of the hair-raising 4-mile descent and what they are calling "the toughest climb in road triathlon," including "The Beast" at St. Croix. I know where this climb is in Westernport (I've never biked it) and it's going to be brutal.

SavageMan, September 16, 2007. It's going to become the standard by which the toughest are measured.

Are you savage enough?
Are you man enough?

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Well. I was planning on making a Wal-Mart and super-market run to the town of North Conway today.

 

Emergency vehicles/police cars have been screaming past our campground in numbers I didn't know existed around here, for the last couple hours. I thought there must be a wreck or fire north of here, but the sirens have kept coming and coming.

 

Turns out there's been a store shooting somewhere in North Conway (about 12 miles away.) I don't know if someone shot up a whole store or if it was a convenience-store holdup or something. Anyway, the guy is on the loose, and all of North Conway is essentially shut down to keep him from going into other stores.

 

I guess I'm not going to Wal-Mart or the grocery store. In addition to some groceries and new hiking/camping gear, I was going to buy a bunch of backpacking food to send to "Low Branch" on the Appalachian Trail, whose journal I've been following -- he's running out of money and thinking he won't be able to finish the distance. I was going to box up some stuff and send it to his next mail-drop, which is a time-sensitive target. Been waiting for a day off when I can get to the post office. Tomorrow I'll be hiking. Wednesday I'm working again.

 

Amazing how someone shooting someone in a store in North Conway, NH can affect a hiker on the Appalachian Trail in New York. Everything we do creates ripples.