The Sunday Hiker

Procrastination Part 1 – The Life of an Academic

2011-05-08T10:52:00.000-04:00

Procrastination can take many forms, sometimes it even wears the guise of a celebration. I should have been doing homework, but with the semester almost at an end, freedom was too close not to take a taste. No, I did not go on a hike to celebrate the almost-end of my first year as a grad student, and exorbitant quantities of reading and “thinking.” I slipped some plastic out of my wallet, sat before the all powerful glowing screen of my laptop and shopped, an activity I don't take lightly.

It was time to free myself from the chains of bondage, let my hair down and rip at my bodice – or at least send my credit card number into the ether and purchase a subscription to the New York Times, of which I had long dreamed.

As with most unwholesome indulgences, guilt followed quickly on freedom’s heels, stomped on freedom’s toes really. With the click of the "buy" button my bliss bubble popped and feelings of foolishness oozed out. I did not wallow. If the realization that I was already a year behind on all non-essential reading deflated my glee, it was time to get reading. I sat my plump white ass in a chair and started in on last fall’s copy of Massachusetts Wildlife, expecting to read about Semipalmated Sandpipers, Brook Trout and Wood Turtles. Why go into the wild, when the wild can find you while you sip tea on the veranda?

Blasphemy? Well, what else do you expect from someone who put their hiking blog on hold to pursue the esoteric academics of Children’s Literature? If nothing else, my education has turned me into an armchair. I was going to say armchair historian or traveler or philosopher but really at this point, I’m just an armchair. Though sedentary (and not good for one’s posture or circulation) reading can be expansive in unexpected ways.

Massachusetts Wildlife in hand I found myself projected far beyond the cuddly turtles and fluffy birds I'd expected and into a strange mysterious world where I found myself thinking, “Wow, those are some sexy guns.”

Typically, as the good liberal I am, the descriptives I would attach to the word “gun” would be prim and disapproving. But apparently, this modern instrument of death was once an art form. Reading about the detailed metal work and beautiful inlays of the early handcrafted rifle sparked admiration in my bosom. Yes, I had to mention bosoms. It’s Mother’s Day, it’s a bosomy holiday. And if you haven’t thought of that perfect gift, now you have. No, not the gun, a subscription - to your local wildlife magazine, it just might inspire a new thought, or two.

[“Double History: The Embodiment of Craft & Sportsmanship” was the article that lead to all this expansive thought, found in No. 3 2010 Massachusetts Wildlife, written by Ernest W. Foster, Jr., with superb photos by Bill Byrne. Annual subscriptions are cheap too – only $6 a year. The West Virginia wildlife magazine is free. Sadly some states, like Washington State, don’t seem to have a state wildlife magazine. In that case, I recommend a subscription to a state Audubon Society Chapter or national subscription to the Audubon Society.]

This Turkey Butt’s for You

2010-11-21T05:47:00.005-05:00

Probably every child in America has colored in a turkey at some point in their grade school careers. There is something satisfying in smashing a red crayon to that iggly wiggly wattle. The real artistic bravado, though, comes in choosing colors for the tail feathers, taking those oversimplified lines and turning them into the daring display of plumage. But never once did I wonder what was underneath, what was hidden behind tail feathers.

It’s surprising considering the answer was one of our most oft used jokes. The joke was, “Guess what?” The other person would invariable reply “what?” Then the jokester would say “Turkey butt!”

The wittiness of this rhyme still tickles me. Eventually “turkey butt” became a comeback of sorts. Sincere attempts to illicit interest were batted away with turkey butts. “No, really, guess what!” the eager sibling insisted only to be slapped with another “turkey butt.”

Yet, in all these years, I never really gave turkey butts any consideration.

Well that’s changed. Thanks to the fantastic fungus Trametes versicolor, known in some circles as “turkey tail,” I now meditate a good deal on turkey butts. And just in time for the ritualistic stuffing of turkey butts nationwide.

There is nothing more ubiquitous to the American holiday season than turkey. And, as it turns out, there is nothing more ubiquitous among woodland polypores than the turkey tail. Once I heard there was a mushroom called “turkey tail,” it went straight to the top of my Fungal Interest List.

Unlike turkey at the holidays, the ubiquitousness of turkey tail is a nearly global phenomenon. Turkey tail is one of the most common mushrooms in the world, but be warned: the false turkey tail is also terribly common. Neither mushroom is poisonous but a false turkey tail (a.k.a. Stereum ostrea for you Latin lovers) is false, it doesn’t even have any pores. Without pores one certainly can’t expect to be invited into a group of polypores. Nor does the false turkey tail have any medicinal properties.

Turkey tail is a heavily researched fungi, found to have both anti-tumor compounds and immune strengthening properties (Stamets, 299). It also made great jewelry for tribal peoples apparently. But if you don’t want to get caught wearing faux turkey tails, guess what… turkey butt.

I’m serious. Look underneath the fungus to determine verity of the variety. Look at its butt. If you can see pores no one can accuse you of donning an imposter (you may need a magnifying lens to see them though).

And if you are preparing this week’s feast, and if stuffing turkey butts makes you squeamish, think of fungal butts instead. Let your mind wander to the forest and be thankful you aren’t eating turkey tail. It takes 62 hours of boiling to render a broth from the buggers… and you thought roasting a turkey took forever (Arora, 594).

Or you could think about other things you’re thankful for.

I’m feeling particularly thankful for my siblings this Thanksgiving.

Hey, Guess what…

[For this post I consulted Mushrooms Demystified by David Arora, published by Ten Speed Press, 1979, 1986; Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World by Paul Stamets, also published by Ten Speed Press, 2005; Magical Mushrooms Mischievous Molds by George W. Hudler, Princeton University Press, 1998; A Field Guide to Mushrooms of North America, Kent McKnight, Hougton Mifflin, 1987.]

Soft Squishy Abdomen Sighted!

2010-10-10T22:03:00.004-04:00

I don't know what is cooler, seeing a hermit crab switch shells or knowing that you can see all kinds of amazing private animal moments thanks to sites like YouTube and the fine folks who post incredible footage like this!

Midday Madness

2010-10-03T06:24:00.002-04:00

I never saw so many trees growing in pairs. Of course I never looked for them before either.

The clue said “See two trees of similar size with several large rocks behind them. A dead tree lies across one rock…” We were supposed to see a white marker in the middle of the trail too. Looking from one set of suspiciously close trees to another, and at an alarming number of dead trees lying on rocks, I felt lost.

So went my introduction to Letterboxing. It’s a little like geocaching without the GPS. Really who needs a Global Positioning System when there are trees by which to give directions?

It was madness, I tell you, midday madness.

If you were not watching bad films in the early ‘80s you might have just missed that pop culture reference. That I would even half reference the movie Midnight Madness, forces me to seriously reflect on the expression “impressionable youth.”

Midnight Madness is the story of a genius geek who, with the help of his roller-skating scantily clad assistants, manipulates collegiate clicks into competing in an all night scavenger hunt. The only difference with Letterboxing is lack of feather-haired short-short wearing assistants. That and the scavenger hunt is organized by a decentralized army of wholesome nature loving types.

It sounds a little less sexy but it’s not. Letterboxing came from Britain and like all other things British, it's sexy.

Not only is it sexy, it’s economical too. Actually, it’s free. Yes, that’s right, you too can go look for trees growing suspiciously close together and it won’t cost you a dime. If you’re really lucky (or really smart) you might even find a box. We eventually found the box "in the crotch of that rock and the one next to it" just like the directions said. (Really, there was no other way to describe it.)

In the box there was a stamp and ink pad. You collect stamps from all the boxes you find. You also carry a stamp with you to stamp the book in the box, thus leaving proof of your passing. Can’t wait to start? Check out Letterboxing.org and get outside. Fall is the perfect time for frolicking close to madness.

[The top picture is of my stamp and stamp-book handmade by my friend Eric and my daughter Willow respectively. My beloved hiking buddy Tara introduced me to Letterboxing when she brought these seemingly simple clues with us on a hike from Dalton to Cheshire MA on the AT. We got lost in more than one way that day. The second picture is of the book, stamp and ink pad we found in the box.]

This Is Not A Post

2010-09-12T21:23:00.002-04:00

I've maxed out my library card borrowing picture books. That’s how I’m getting my kicks these days. No, I’m not pregnant. I’m thrill-seeking. Parenting is a series of adrenaline rushes, one after another, but it isn’t perfect.

The problem with kids is that they don't last. They grow too fast leaving those around them mumbling banal observations like, "gee, little Jimmy has grown so much," as stunned minds try to comprehend.

Children are transitory but educational debt is forever.

Really nothing gets the heart pounding, sweat glands moist and hair follicles standing on end, like exorbitant quantities of debt. That’s the rush I’m talking about.

I guess I’m kind of into the whole thirty year thing. I’ve got a thirty year mortgage, a thirty year plan to hike the Appalachian Trail and now I’ll have a matching thirty years of educational debt.

And you thought I was kidding when I said, "This is not a post." It's more like one of those annoying letters you get from your credit card company informing you that the terms of your "agreement" have been changed.

NOTICE: Until I've completed my MFA, The Sunday Hiker will be a monthly, rather than a weekly blog.

The picture books? Ah, you see, it’s the MFA in Writing for Children through Simmons College.

As I often do, I've piled more onto my plate than I can eat. I can take a bite of everything but I can't eat it all. Except the education. I'm going to eat every bite of this expensive education and lick the plate clean.

You may have a hard time taking a tall stack of picture books seriously (I myself feel like I'm getting away with something) but I calculated what I'm paying per class. Let me tell you, I'm dead serious about seeking these thrills.

And what about hiking the Appalachian Trail you ask? Well let’s just say, the way the plan is structured they’ll be a big balloon payment coming up.

Foiled, I Never Get To Suffer: AT Section 5.3

2010-09-05T18:32:00.002-04:00

“Would you like a hot cup of tea? It’s no trouble.” Dennis the ridge runner had welcomed me to the Mt Wilcox South Lean-to the evening before. I was about to say no, but before I did he added, “I think I have some Earl Grey.”

That did it. There went my stouthearted plans to drink my tea cold. The ridge runner had found my Achilles heel, Earl Grey. I’d left my stove and tent at home to lighten my load. Here I was, braced for a rugged adventure and I was being spoiled yet again.

This always happens to me. I go out in the woods to suffer, and someone comes along making everything easy and comfortable. I’d got one cold sip of tea down before hot comforts dangled before me.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

Dennis grabbed his super light-weight stove and his water purifying glow stick and prepared to boil water. His purifier looked like a miniature lightsaber from Star Wars. I wanted to zap aquatic bad guys too. It looked really cool. (I want one, I want one, I want one.) Dennis had impressive gear, right down to his titanium cutlery. And he was willing to share.

We talked about all kinds of gear. It wasn’t long before we were on to bags. I have a fancy light weight sleeping bag designed especially for women. As far as I can tell this just means it’s short. My feet have no wiggle room. To make matters worse, the zippers at each shoulder only go one third of the way down the bag, leaving a flap that folds down, much like the backside of a union suit. I told him as much.

In my old bag, if I got too hot, I’d unzip to loll one leg out. Now I had to wriggle both legs up to my chin to free them. Inevitably I grow chilly again, knees back up to the chin, reinsert in cocoon.

The ridge runner recommended buying a Megalite bag by Western Mountaineering and checking out gear reviews in Backpacker Magazine. (Apparently you should try a bag on before you buy it. That might have been a good move before I bought the bag I have.)

It was a yummy cup of tea, but nothing in life is free. Now I have new list of expensive wants.

[The events recounted above occurred Sunday August 8^th 2010 during my 5^th outing on Appalachian Trail. I was making my way from Beartown State Forest to the northern crossing of Jerusalem Road, 11 miles up the trail. Hear about my wild and reckless behavior in part one. Learn about my strong feeling on oral hygiene in part two. And have no fear, the saga will continue.]

I Love My Toothbrush: AT Section 5 Part 2

2010-08-29T21:29:00.002-04:00

Some people will do anything to shave a few ounces of weight from their packs. Myself, I am a light weight, except when it comes to packing. Previously I’ve struggled and failed to leave my packrat tendencies at home. Rickety knees, however, inspired a great leap of faith. A few weeks ago I went hiking without a tent or stove.

I’d arrived at the South Wilcox lean-to at dusk, woofed down a few avocado rolls and got ready for bed. Since I wouldn’t be heating water in the morning, I put a pouch of green tea in water to steep overnight at ambient temperature.

Setting up sleeping accommodations did not include wrestling rain flies or poking stakes into inevitably rocky ground. I just rolled a deluxe Therm-a-Rest, my sleeping bag and a sarong onto the bunk. A sarong is amazingly versatile.

I smiled to myself, relishing that I didn’t have to check in with anyone about anything. I slipped into bed and was soon snoozing. In my dreams the lid on a giant garbage dumpster was repeatedly slammed shut.

I slept with a fine gauze shirt over my head to deter mosquitoes. If there had been hoards, the noise alone would have driven me to regret my tent-less status. But I was left in relative peace. Drought conditions are hard on all animals, even mosquitoes. It is not a glass half full, but it’s something.

I awoke in the morning to find that on the whole, ridge runners are good people. "Did you hear the thunder last night," he asked. It took a second to realize there weren’t any giant dumpsters nearby. “Yes, I think I did."

I took a sip of my cold tea. For breakfast I finished off the leftovers from dinner. Then I did what any self-respecting young woman does in the morning, I brushed my teeth.

Rumor has it some unscrupulous heathens cut the handles off their toothbrushes, to save a few ounces. There are certain things that should never be done, toothbrush mutilation foremost amongst them. Get rid of the liquids, if you want to shed weight, use tooth powder instead of paste.

I may go into the woods prepared to drink my tea cold and battle the elements sans-a-tent, but I have my standards. Proper oral hygiene requires proper oral implements, namely, toothbrushes with handles. I would never do that to my toothbrush. I love my toothbrush.

[Beartown State Forest to the northern crossing of Jerusalem Road is an 11mile hike. The events described occurred on the evening of August 7th and the morning of August 8th, 2010. This was my fifth installment on the 30 year plan to section hike the Appalachian Trail. Find out how I got to the lean-to, foot loose and fancy free in Section 5 Part 1. The saga will continue, stay tuned for part 3.]

Breakin' The Rules - AT Section 5 Part 1

2010-08-22T05:44:00.009-04:00

It was August again and I was knocking off another eleven miles on the AT in Massachusetts. I had just enough time to get to the shelter before dark, I hoped. I'd intended to get on the trail by two that afternoon. I was four hours late and it didn’t matter. I wasn’t meeting anyone. No family, no friends, just narcissistic me.

The signboard at the trailhead had two pieces of particularly pertinent information.

First it said, "hike with a friend." That gave me little chills. I was disregarding a safety guideline and breaking my own rule. Chills are important. They let us know we're alive. Sometimes we need a modest dose of adrenaline.

Second, the sign said camping was prohibited except at official campsites. Drat. The fallback plan had been rolling out my bag and sleeping next to a log if I didn’t make it by dark. That was still the fallback plan.

Alone, foolish and free, I was throwing caution to the wind, doing it my way, no compromise, no negotiation.

The sun was at forty five degrees in the west as I left the parking lot and information board behind.

A few steps into the trees I realized the shadows were deeper than I thought they'd be. Focus on forward propulsion, I told myself, only three miles to go. Sunset wouldn’t be until eight.

The trail started steep. Naturally I huffed and puffed and questioned my sanity. In time, the path flattened out.

One hour on the trail and I knocked out two miles. The light open sky above Benedict Pond reassured me that sunset was still an hour away. The water was beautiful and still. The urge to strip down and slink in was powerful. I couldn’t expose myself to such temptation, I trudged on.

Just one more mile. The trail climbed again up. Pushing on, just another half mile. I must be almost there. Cue ominous music and scary sounds. It is men. Men with beer and fire.

What else do I hear? Low quality speakers, screeching frightfully cheerful 1970s pop. These men morph instantly from ominous to annoying. Conveniently their campsite was a good deal off from the old, dingy lean-to where I would rest my head. Eiuw, it was icky. Sometimes being free is a dirty thankless job.

But further down the trail near the outhouse, another structure came into view. A brand spankin’ new lean-to, yippee! Clean, pristine and empty but for a lovely ridge runner. Just enought time to eat before dark. Score one for fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants-girl.

[I took that picture above, sky reflected on the waters of Benedict Pond August 7, 2010.]

The Rodent King

2010-08-15T16:30:00.001-04:00

Strictly speaking, rodent is a neutral term for any member of the order Rodentia. Let's not kid ourselves though, there is a distinct negative connotation. Rodents may simply be mammals whose teeth grow for life but the term brings to mind rats, mice and other vermin. Historically rodents are unpopular for two reasons, peskiness and pestilence.

Until recently I thought of rats as the big rodents and mice as the small ones. Wrong. Apparently beavers are the King of Rodents. At least they’re the largest rodent in North America,weighing between thirty and sixty pounds. Personally I don’t think size is everything but who am I to argue with the author of North American Mammals?

As with all kings, the beaver has its detractors, naysayers on the sidelines who criticize or even plot against them. I’m not talking about the squirrels here, I’m talking people.

Fittingly the charges leveled against the beaver, king of rodents, are the same as those leveled at his smaller cousins:

1. Pesky Pests

According to some, beavers rain down environmental degradation on innocent forests continent wide. Beavers create ponds and canals to get to the best trees. Understandably landowners may be dismayed, not thankful that their property is flooded just so beavers can float about in relative safety while snacking on alder, willow and poplar bark. Moose though appreciate beaver bogs, as aquatic plants are their diet of choice. I myself have fallen into an inconvenient beaver bog. They are wet. But it's part of the natural balance, isn’t it? It’s a return to how things were before beavers were hunted to near extinction, right?

Maybe their numbers are getting out of hand, but I haven’t read that anywhere. Actually I’ve read that beavers are an important part of a wolf’s diet. Beavers also fall prey to coyotes, bobcats, lynx, bears, mink, wolverines, river otter and people. It’s no wonder they like to stay in the water.

2. Pestilent Pests

Hiking behind some loud guys complaining vehemently about beavers, I overheard, “They cause giardia. They shit in the water. That’s why they call it Beaver Fever.”

Beavers do defecate in water, they also eat their feces in winter, but beavers aren’t the only ones spreading giardia. Cows, sheep, deer, cats, dogs and children readily transmit giardia too. Sure kids are supposed to wash their hands, cows and sheep are supposed to be fenced far from streams, but really people get lax about these things.

Deer and beavers on the other hand, roam free of rules and regulations. There isn’t much you can do about it, outside hunting season, so beware. Treat your water. These nasty little flagellated protozoan parasites called giardia can live in water for months, even if it looks clean.

[To learn more about beavers I consulted several books, all of which sang only the praises of beavers (they are clever, industrious and they have the most beautiful luxurious fur). Most helpful were Tracking & The Art of Seeing 2nd Edition by Paul Rezendes, who talks about wolves eating beavers on page 87. And North American Mammals by Roger A. Caras, Galahad Books NY 1967. The beautiful giardia photo above I gakked from the blog Worms and Germs.The other photo I took myself this summer at Fitzgerald Lake not far from my home in Florence Mass.]

Super Power Time

2010-08-08T00:45:00.006-04:00

“If you could have any super power, what would it be?”

It's a good question if you have to do one of those group let's-get-to-know-everyone-real-fast things, though I don’t generally care to sit in a circle of strangers trying to sum myself up with abstract witticisms. Alright, I enjoy it a little bit, if the question is good and something witty comes to mind. In general the super power question is an entertaining one.

For years my answer has been a time machine. I wouldn’t go see Marie Antoinette or Aristotle. I don’t want to change the date or prance through the calendar. I want to stretch the calendar. I want a machine that manufactures time. More time, right here, right now, please.

Think of all the things that could be done. Ok, I might just watch vampire TV shows and read more paranormal romances but… there would still be plenty of time.

Lately I've been obsessing about needing more time. It's like my mind is on a treadmill. I dream of hikes I could take, the physical prowess I could achieve, and other things, instruments to play, wine to sip, sunrises to watch, the house being clean. I know that last part is a pipe dream. What can I say? I suffer from unlimited wants.

But greater physical prowess should be achievable. Just add exercise, right? Currently I take two dance classes a week. That’s good. I mean those three hours are good. Unfortunately the other 165 hours are spent sleeping, sitting and occasionally getting up to eat and go pee. This is not proper training for long hikes with a 30 pound pack.

It’s a problem I’m been mulling over for awhile. Back in January I joined a gym but out of solidarity with New Year’s resolution traditionalists I haven’t been since March. Really getting to the gym takes too much time.

Lucky for me, someone has invented the time machine of my dreams, the treadmill desk. It’s the wave of the future; it’s multi-tasking nouveau.

Unbelievable, isn’t it?

I know there are skeptics out there who will say walking one mile per hour while chatting on the phone, checking my email and typing this blog won’t be enough training either. To this is say two things. One, it’s a hell of a lot better than slouching at the computer while my butt falls asleep. Two, I can put rocks in my pack and wear it.

[I first heard about the treadmill desk on Alternative Radio. It has apparently gone mainstream enough to be on Good Morning America. I gakked the melting clocks (Salvador Dali's painting The Persistence of Time) from a blog called Berto: Philosophy Monkey. The treadmill desk photo came from the manufacturer. I also found a Treadmill Desk blog with do it yourself tips. And finally, the super power question came from volunteer training aboard the sloop Clearwater which does environmental action and education on the Hudson River. It's a good question. Thanks to whatever crew member brought it aboard in the annals of Clearwater history.]

Late Breaking News

2010-08-01T14:02:00.003-04:00

First you get an idea. The second step is research. (Warning: step two can, and often does, lead to more ideas, putting you right back at step one. It’s a vicious cycle.)

In this case the idea was hiking the Appalachian Trail. I’d been infected with the idea by a thru-hiker who hated brussel sprouts. When, after a day or two, the idea hadn’t evaporated, I sauntered over to the bookshelf and began rummaging about.

A few years back I’d picked up an audio book for a dollar thinking it might come in handy for a boring road trip someday. No such road trip had materialized. I found it, popped it in the stereo, turned up the volume and started washing dishes.

A smooth voice announced, “Bantam, Doubleday Dell Publishing presents, A Walk In The Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail by Bill Bryson.”

Osmosis being my preferred method for acquiring knowledge, I expected to be a happy camper. I was more than happy.

The first descriptive phrase the author inflicted upon himself, in reference to his life, was “waddlesome sloth.” The second was "cupcake." He had me.

Splashing about in the dishwater quickly turned to spilling dishwater down my front. Unable to give full expression to the hilarity with a mere vocal laugh, my body was taken with spasms of mirth. Bryson requires full body expression.

Laughter, though seemingly innocuous, is nearly as dangerous as ideas are. As I listened, I found myself not only wanting to hike the AT, but believing I could.

It may seem redundant or even ridiculous to recommend a book that was on the New York Times bestseller list a dozen years ago, but let me assure you, there are folks out there who haven’t read it. Folks like me who have to tiptoe real slow and get comfortable, familiar with a thing. Before they try something new, it has to feel old... or be old.

For those slightly more wary than myself, perhaps the time has come. It’s never too late to pick up a good book. Ok, sometimes it’s too late, but only when you’re dead.

[I first listened to an abridgment read by the author, though until quite recently I didn't realize it was abridged. I also have the print version whose copyright is dated 1998. An unabridged audio recording is also available.]

Left Behind

2010-07-25T07:48:00.001-04:00

"Are you kidding?" I asked frozen in disbelief. No, she wasn't kidding. "Leave No Trace," I’d heard that somewhere before. Through a fog of incredulity I tried to imagine how the phrase might be applied to me.

“Some people even carry out their solid waste."

Shit. Solid waste? “As in, they shit in a bag and carry it out with them?" I asked.

Tara nodded.

“But this isn’t shit,” I protested, “it’s vegetal matter.”

“The point is how seriously hikers take ‘Leave No Trace.’”

Eyebrows pulled together, I considered. Luckily privies sat strategically located at every lean-to along this stretch of trail. If timed right, you'd never have to pull out a trowel before dropping trou. My mind jumped to stories of shit left behind by past expeditions up Everest literally lining the trails, frozen permanently into the landscape.

"It's not like it won't decompose," I protested staring down at the sodden artichoke petals. I’d thought bringing them had been a stroke of genius. We were going to be trapped in the wilderness for days, surviving on dehydrated beans and "organic" top ramen. Fresh cooked artichokes were supposed to be a first day treat, not a semi-permanent burden.

What was I going to do, carry them around, festering, hopefully well sealed in a zip lock? The goal was to eat our way to lighter packs, not carry compost. And yet, she was right. What if everyone left something behind?

There I stood, hands full of nibbled petals. My favorite vegetable turned instrument of ethical dilemma. Anger welled at the injustice of it all.

I made my decision. "I won't do it again."

Justifications are required in equal measure to the moral weight of the dilemma, so I added "Just this once," and "I didn't know.” It was a serious matter. Shame faced, I glanced sidelong. Only Tara and I would know. I pulled up a rock and dug a hole. Only the beetles would be the wiser, we hoped.

[Checking the statistics later I learned that there are millions of people hiking on the AT annually, must be why "Leave No Trace" is the official policy.]

A Well Marked Trail: AT 4.1

2010-07-18T14:22:00.003-04:00

We tumbled out of the car, clicked a picture of ourselves and headed for the wide beaten path. It had been a while, and by golly, we were just happy to be out on the trail again.

“Huh," I told Tara, "they've switched to plastic trail markers." A hundred yards later the trail butted up to a chain link fence running north to south. We pulled our hats over our ears against the mid-October chill and headed north.

“This doesn’t feel right,” said Tara, “there aren't enough trail markers.”

We back-tracked nearly all the way to the parking lot.

“Well there aren’t as many blazes as we’re used to, but the AT marker is plain as day,” I said.

*Note to self, never listen to me.

Frowning, Tara accepted my reasoning. We turned north again and hiked. The fence was kind of ugly and we were uneasy but it was a beautiful, light hearted day. Perhaps this was due to our being light-backed. We’d opted out of an overnighter and were thoroughly enjoying the novelty of a day hike.

“Geez, this really is a poorly marked trail,” I complained. It was time to split up again and scout ahead at another fork in the trail.

“The trail's over here,” I hollered, finding the remnants of plastic trail sign. Just little white pieces remained pinned under large flat nail heads.

We discussed the merits of plain painted blazes and our disappointment at seeing them replaced with plastic placards. We didn't get lost in discussion. The navigation was just too taxing as was a growing unease until we saw another sign that jogged Tara’s memory. (There was nothing in my mind to be jogged. Had we been depending on me we would have had a more “interesting” adventure.)

“We’re following the perimeter of the trail!” she said, “There’s a corridor of protected land on either side of the trail. These mark that boundary.”

As appealing as back-tracking is, we decided to bushwhack. Logically we’d been running parallel to the real AT, if we set our course perpendicular we’d cross it.

We held our breaths... Actually we didn’t hold our breaths, but we used our eyes extra hard. In the end it worked out, we found the trail and the rest of the hike was lovely.

While retrieving the car in Cheshire, we looked to see where the trail really began. That morning we’d snapped a picture of ourselves standing in front of the trail itself and then we walked away.

In our defense the “other trail” was bigger. We learned something though, if there aren’t white painted blazes… it ain’t the AT.

[Dalton to Cheshire Massachusetts is a 7.4 mile hike. This hike on October 12th, 2009, was my fourth payment on my 30-year plan to section all 2,178 miles of the Appalachian Trail.]

Pink Piss & Mosquito Mystique

2010-07-11T07:44:00.003-04:00

I thought I knew it all. Mosquitoes bite. They annoy. They carry disease. In their larval state, they wriggle about in puddles. And the vicious little beasties are found worldwide. Sound about right?

Wrong. As it turns out I knew very little about mosquitoes.

Have you ever seen a mosquito sipping nectar? I thought not. It is, however, the meal of choice for most mosquitoes. Their diet is quite similar to that of the butterfly.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing, but nothing can pry the hate from my heart. Mosquitoes are the enemy. Perhaps, though, alongside the hate could lie fascination, respect or even begrudging admiration.

Mosquitoes drink blood only to produce eggs. That’s right. All these years, you’ve only been fending off half the population.

Male mosquitoes are vegan. (Sometimes rare hermaphroditic mosquitoes bite too but let’s not go there.) In general, it’s the females that are the voracious vixens we know and love. Um, I mean hate, know and hate.

Female mosquitoes suck blood until they blow up like big bloody balloons and can hardly fly away. Their meal is so huge they have to land as soon as possible to excrete extra fluids. Yes, their piss is pink. It takes about 45 minutes to consolidate the nutrients enough to fly off in search of a safe place to hole-up and make eggs for a couple days.

That’s right, you’ve got it. We are the last meal before the little beasties mate and die. Actually she doesn't die, but she probably will soon. There are lots of mosquito predators out there. "Mate and die" isn't actually the best phrase, she's already mated too. Yep, she mates before she bites and stores the sperm to use at her convenience. Ingenious.

Really, wouldn’t you like to say, “Don't mind me, I'm just going to store up some of this sperm for later." Or, "Let’s have sex now and I'll get pregnant when I'm ready. First I think I’ll go out for an exceedingly rich, dangerous and gluttonous meal!”

Damn, I don’t want to like mosquitoes, but I have to admit I see a certain appeal in the femme fatale mystique… don’t worry this delusion will wear off next time I get bitten.

[Personally I haven’t witnessed any of this (except for the biting and the wriggling) but I read it all in “Mosquito” by Andrew Spielman (Harvard scientist) written in cahoots with Michael D’Antonio, Hyperion 2001. The part about the pink piss is on page 15. Facts provided are generally true of mosquitoes. There are, as always, exceptions and there are zillions of kinds of mosquitoes. Finally, thank you to “bilgik” for posting this awesome pic on stock.xchng.]

Wild Wandering Efts

2010-07-04T06:29:00.004-04:00

There is nothing more American than a little rebellion. In honor of Independence Day, I’m protesting the misuse of the word red.

There seem to be two definitions of red, the standard, “red, white and blue” and the more troubling red as in “red head.” This second use of the word is wrong.

In a wave of patriotic fervor, let’s clean up our language starting with a name change for the Red Eft. Let’s call it like we see it. I hereby declare the salamander formerly known as the Red Eft is now the Explosively Orange Eft.

Whatever you call it, this eft makes an arresting sight on drab rainy moist days in the woods. Neon orange is more than striking against the backdrop of browns, grays and greens of the forest. Even their slow side-winding walk is deliciously alluring. It draws you in, but don’t do it. Don’t kiss the “Red” Eft. No, not even one little peck. Don’t lick it either. They’re poisonous.

Likely that’s why you get to see them, being poisonous makes them bold. With their bright warning system they have no need for speed. They take their sweet time going about their business unabashed, more active during the day than your average salamander. For all this the Explosively Orange Eft is fairly commonly known, at least back east (they can be found roughly from Michigan to Florida).

Red Efts are Red-Spotted Newts (aka Eastern Newts). The eft stage is all about terrestrial migration. For humans it’s the most visible phase of the life cycle. For the eft, it’s a few years of throw-it-to-the-wind carefree wandering. It’s a time when newts, who haven’t reached sexual maturity, hang around rotten mushrooms and chomp maggots. It’s a time of solitude, struggle and personal discovery. Efts will ramble alone, curling up in rotting logs for a cheap place to stay and breakfast in bed, termites, worms or whatever comes by. It’s idyllic.

But all good things must come to an end. After years of freedom these little newts return to their natal ponds to procreate. They trade in their screaming orange pigment for the same muted green brown that they crawled out of the pond in.

But don’t feel bad for them. They keep their spots. Little orange dots forever mark what they are and who they’ve been.

[Super special thank you to Jim McCormac for the use of his fantastic Red Eft pic. Check out his blog Ohio Birds and Biodiversity. It is full of gorgeous photography. I became aware of Red Efts on a three day family hiking adventure in Vermont. I learned more about them from “Red-spotted Newt” by Doris Gove and “Salamanders of the United States and Canada” by James W. Petranka.]

Stay Puff & Other Trail Names

2010-06-27T18:01:00.006-04:00

Names are important... even when hiking. On the Appalachian Trail (AT) it’s customary to choose a trail name. Perhaps this is true on other trails as well, but it seems to be especially true on the AT.

Signing into the logbook our first trip, my hiking partner Tara, pen in hand, asked what my trail name was.

"Trail Name?" I asked right back. I had no idea. “I don’t have one. I don’t think I need one,” I said.

Tara gave me a look and convinced me that I did indeed need a trail name. Everyone does you know. In situations like these it is best to cave in to peer pressure. I looked myself up and down. I was dressed head to toe in white (anti-tick regalia) and the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man popped into my head.

"That's awful," Tara said, catching the implied out-of-shape clumsiness and does-not-belong-on-the-trail vibe.

I searched my soul, fished around for other ideas and after very little further deliberation decided to go with it. I took masochistic delight in my new handle. If anyone else had come up with such a nick-name for me I’d have been mortally offended, but since I came up with it myself I could enjoy the negative undertones, none of which seemed to have effected the trip at all. We had an absolutely lovely time of it.

Usually one sticks with a trail name. I, however, like to fancy myself unbound by convention (though jay-walking is at times excruciatingly painful). After a few trips, I was ready to leave “Stay Puff” behind. My cocky-self had reemerged and the white outfit faded. Again I plumbed the depths of my soul. Once more I found a name that suited me, "Caboose." On that particular trip I was always bringing up the rear.

On the next trip I decided "Cat-Up-A-Tree" was the trail name du jour. Like a cat, I was having no trouble getting up but coming back down… my knees were being oh-so-disagreeable that trip, especially on the downhill sections of the trail.

I stuck with the self-deprecating theme. One has to vent one's insecurities somewhere. Of course that’s not the only way to find a trail name. It’s just the best way.

[Just kidding, all ways of finding a trail name are perfectly legitimate, hobbies, interests, place or origin, physical attribute, favorite food or superhero – it’s all fair game, just be prepared to tell the story… right now. I’m serious, what’s your trail name? PS I gakked the Stay Puff photo from http://cyclingwives.wordpress.com/ a site by and for women who love cyclists. I kid you not. PPS thank you to Ghost Busters for a lifetime of inspiration.]

The Mosquito Ghost

2010-06-19T06:50:00.001-04:00

I’ve been waiting for this all year and finally it is here – mosquito season! [Insert maniacal laughter here.] I’m not kidding. All winter there has been virtually nothing to struggle against, no adversaries worthy of a good fight. A little cold and snow? Bah! The mosquito, however, lends just the sort of challenge to keep a girl on her toes, to make her feel alive… even if she’s hiding under a hunk of cloth.

I’d packed this tropical print fabric thing to be used as a multi-purpose sheet/towel/picnic blanket. Little did I know how truly useful it would become. If only it hadn’t taken me so long to figure it out.

After having been used as a sheet and then as a towel, it was draped over my shoulders to dry. I pulled it tight on the back of my neck and flapped it about like wings making an anti-mosquito breeze. It helped. [Insert beatific smile here.] Unfortunately my arms got tired before the mosquitoes did. I would have tried to outpace them, create my own breeze, but this was the first trip upon which my knees rebelled.

If necessity is the mother of invention is adaptation her bastard son? Don’t answer that. I’m not interested in the marital status at the time of conception. In this day and age it’s irrelevant. Anyway… having found one way to foil those blood thirsty little bastards, more ideas followed.

Next I wrapped my head – stroke of genius that was. No mosquitoes could get at the back of my neck or at my ears. I was in hiker’s heaven. A few minutes of flapping hadn't dried the towel/sheet/picnic blanket/mosquito guard sufficiently, so it was a little stinky and sticky but hey that’s what we go in the woods for right? Too suffer, to tough it out, to appreciate that we have large temperature controlled boxes with window screens waiting for us at home.

My knees, being the treacherous beasts they were, required a short rest. With my handy dandy no-nonsense mosquito foiler I sat right down where I pleased and pulled the damned thing over my head. Didn’t need to see the trail just to sit there.

With the verdant greens of summer under my rump and the hot sun shinning through the tropical hues, drying the musty cloth on my head, I could hear the mosquitoes angrily buzzing about me in a small swarm but I couldn't feel them biting. I must admit I was feeling more than a little smug.

[You noticed did you? Very perceptive. Ok, I admit it. I did not take these pictures on the trail. Camera trouble. Besides who wants to post photos of their sweaty selves that scream, "I haven't slept well or showered in days"? It's best for everyone really that I did a little dramatic reenactment. This last shot just shows the utter extreme versatility and never ending usefulness of the tropical print wrap-thing. See, if the mosquitoes tuck tail and run you can use at as a fashionable accessory.]

Porcupine Prickly and Red Eft Angry - AT 3:3

2010-06-13T20:45:00.002-04:00

I left early, out of spite. Grumpy thoughts clinging hard even in the midst of the beauty and bounty of nature. Six thirty in the morning and I trudged along, stepping over one Red Eft after another, listing my justifications.

Three days running, I’d brought up the rear. In all likelihood I’d be last again today. Getting a head start made sense. They’d all pass me and my lame leg before long anyway; it was only a matter of time. With a combination roll of the hip and an outward swing of the leg, I could avoid a stabbing pain in the right knee four steps out of five.

After a hasty breakfast and slamming one cup of tea, I’d swung on my pack and left. They didn’t need me. I pulled the cloth draped over my shoulders tight and flapped my arms like wings to stir an anti-mosquito breeze. I wasn’t going to let anger ruin the day. I’d keep it tucked away ready for when my husband caught up with me. For now I was going to enjoy the morning, damn it.

Something shifted off to the right. I froze. There, maybe twenty feet off the trail, a porcupine was shuffling up a tree. It froze too. A porcupine up a tree? Wished I had a camera ready. The porcupine decided it didn’t want to go up that tree after all. It shuffled down and disappeared.

I stood suspended in wonder. It was like a sign from God. The porcupine was a little reward for good behavior – or in this case bad behavior. God approved of my wrath and anger. (Really God isn’t into sickening sweet. He’s all about substance and grit.)

The hare caught the tortoise, myself being the tortoise, my husband the hare. He knew he was worse than in the dog house. Bless him. The sight of him made me smile but I did my best to squish it. I was mad for a reason, having a hard time remembering the reason, but there had been one. I turned my face away, pretending to ignore him, so he wouldn’t see my smile. Didn’t want him to think he was forgiven. A smile after the storm, even when hidden, is the most delicious delight.

Epilogue

The kids overtook us soon, caught up in the count. They’d already seen over thirty Red Efts. Another twenty or so efts later we made it to the end of our fourteen mile adventure. Plunking our packs in the dirt we dug out some grub and picnicked by the suspension bridge over Clarendon Gorge. The water was loud rushing past on the rocks below, and everyone was smiling.

[My camera wasn’t working on this trip. Above is a picture I took in Quebec last January. It is a small canister of porcupine quills hung next to an educational placard on a tree. It fit the theme of my cold-hearted prickly anger. The Little Rock Pond to Clarendon Gorge trip in Vermont took place in August of 2009. The rest of the trip is detailed in AT Section 3 Parts One and Two.]

Vacation, Excuses and Inspiration

2010-06-06T16:05:00.002-04:00

Confession: I went on vacation and did not hike. It’s my mother-in-law’s fault. She’s quite a temptress. She dangled free beach front lodgings in front of us. We salivated, nodded and said something nearly as articulate as, “yeah, uh huh, that sounds good.”

So last weekend I found myself on the Cape (that’s Cape Cod for you non-New Englanders). The weather was fantastic and I spent most of my time under a beach umbrella smelling the roses. Their sublime scent was strong enough to carry across the patio on the ocean breeze.

But my vacation was not all sun and roses. Nope. There is nothing like sitting around for three days to make you feel like a slug. I am not complaining; it’s just an observation. It felt like I gained two pounds a day. I told myself I could find a trail and hike but I was just talking to myself. I didn’t budge.

Not that we didn’t do anything. We did swim. OK that’s an exaggeration. Our aquatic experience would be more honestly described as splashing, suspending and bobbing about. Swimming implies exertion. I did no exerting.

Don’t worry about my body mass index. One does not gain two pounds a day subsisting on microwaved oatmeal and burritos. There is a plus side to budget vacationing. But after four fun filled days of reading, getting wet and waiting for the microwave to go ding, I was completely exhausted. Resting really wipes a girl out.

That’s what too much rest will do. You've got to earn physical laziness or it will lead to a downward spiral and you’ll end up a slug. It nearly happened to me. You could say The Cape Slug Incident was inspirational in it's way. Next year I’m going to hike to the Cape instead of drive. Or perhaps I’ll spend four days hiking the Appalachian Trail and three days recovering on the Cape. I like that plan.

[Facts: The above pictured rose is actually one I snurfed on the beach, it's not some random flower. On our way to the Cape we were lucky enough to get stuck behind the Cape Cod Express for the extra hour we spent in Memorial Weekend Traffic 2010. FYI foreigners, Cape Cod is in the great state of Massachusetts. Excuses: Sorry I’m late in posting. The power went out this morning. It was as it turns out highly convenient inclement weather.]

Sending Messages - AT Sec 3 Part 2

2010-05-30T09:20:00.001-04:00

We were a hiking party of seven. No surprise I soon fell to the back of the line and then a little further back. Lest anyone worry, I sent a message ahead with other hikers. In general fine and friendly folk hike the AT, happy to deliver messages and such.

“If you see a bearded man with a slew of red heads please let them know I’m thoroughly enjoying my dawdling. Tell them I’m fine and will be along eventually.”

The delivered message did not deter my sweet husband from worry. After depositing his pack and our daughter at the shelter with our friends he hiked back a half a mile to find me. He offered to carry my pack and deserves a standing ovation. Note, however, I was doing fine on my own.

I felt good and wanted to keep it that way. His worry was unnecessary. I was just pacing myself trying to learn from my mistakes. I needed to find a balance somewhere between puppy pacing and my delusions of... what? Invicibility? Grandeur? Sportsmanliness? Getting close... overconfidence based on a single small success? Whatever we call it, I'd since been humbled.

In retrospect it was smart to pace myself. Unfortunately it wasn't enough. Perhaps my backpack was too heavy. Perhaps my joints had been underutilized too long. Whatever the reasons, the next day my knees hurt. Again, I found myself taking up the rear. This time unwilling and none too pleased.

As I sat, hikers passed with a smile and a few kind words. I tried to fit in. I admit it, the peer pressure was getting to me. I tried not to let on about my shame, frustration and discomfort (pain) to those friendly hikersby. So I devised a subtle message to send down the trail.

“Tell them I’m taking my time, resting my knee. It’s giving me some trouble but I’m drawing and observing nature while I rest.”

Nothing alarmist or whiney but a statement of my predicament. Surely they’d pick up on the difference? Or not.

Bedraggled and in pain I arrived to indifferent disinterest. “Did you receive my messages?” I asked my husband all innocence.

“Yes, they said your knee was bothering but that you were doing fine.”

Ah, foolish husband. Insert snarling Wildcat Wife here and feel very sorry for the husband.

Next time I won't let the opinions of others sway me. I'll whine, I'll let that stiff upper lip melt into a petulant pout. Or maybe I'll send a ridiculous message for amusement’s sake. I could test what it takes to get looks of incredulity on the trail. Any suggestions?

[These events unfolded over the second and third days of our trip from Danby Rd to Clarendon Gorge VT. It was a 3 night trip and my third excursion onto the Appalachian Trail, an installment so to speak on my 30 year plan to slow-hike the whole thang.]

Doodles Of Loons

2010-05-22T23:00:00.004-04:00

Look, there is something wrong with this picture. No it's not just that the loon has no feet. It's that the loon lacks looniness.

Taking notes is good. Taking doodle notes is even better. Opening my journal I realized how faded my recollection had become. But these little black lines revived my memories and restored them in Technicolor. Wading in the cool water, catching crayfish for my daughter. The just-before sunset tranquility, stillness as I swam. The heart rending call of the loons as I floated in the middle of the lake.

I'd been pretty surprised to find loons on a lake. I’d thought they were seabirds. Apparently they’re more commonly thought of as lake birds. They are in fact both. They summer on northern lakes from southern Canada to Greenland to reproduce, and winter on coastal waters or the Great Lakes.

My doodles brought back in vivid glory my experiences on Little Rock Pond in VT. But it couldn’t capture what I didn’t experience. I’ve never seen a loon up close. My blatant ignorances are duly reflected in my doodle. As it turns out though some level of ignorance is good. Blundering people can scare birds off their nests or pester them into exhaustion and even death. If they’re sounding an alarm or trying to intimidate with their dance, they aren’t eating. Eating is what they really need to do. Eat and preen.

As much as I love the idea of dancing birds, I never want to see a loon dancing, at least not unless binoculars are required. I’m not like a sadistic fairy queen from a Holly Black or Cassandra Clare story.

Whether out of ignorance or sadism, there are lots of unfortunate YouTube videos of people chasing loons with their canoes and camcorders. This YouTube video shows loons as they are meant to be observed.

[FYI for you Trivial Pursuitists, the loon is the state bird of Minnesota. Today’s other fun facts came from “The Loon” by Judith P. Josephson 1988 and “Loon Magic for Kids” by Tom Klein 1989. For more Loon info check out Cornell’s All About Birds. The YouTube video was taken 9/6/06 by "cancer239" on Flying Pond in Maine.]

The Sound of Silence - AT Sect. 3 Part 1

2010-05-16T21:55:00.002-04:00

Everyone knows the woods are where you get away from it all but this time my hiking buddy Tara and I were trying something new. We were bringing it all, kids, husbands, the whole shebang. Actually the husbands would catch up with us after they dropped a car off at Clarendon Gorge 14 miles north. We'd left them in the dusty parking lot and followed the children up the shady path. Eager to prove themselves the kids raced ahead.

I'd never been in the Green Mountain National Forest before. It didn't feel too different from the forests of Massachusetts. These woods were cozy, warm, peaceful and quiet - nothing like the intimidating grandeur of Washington, Wyoming, Colorado or even California.

I was greatly relieved and somewhat surprised at the gentle warmth of the day. Mind-baking, will-leaching heat can generally be depended upon in August in New England. We started out light, just two miles to get the kids warmed up then we’d pitch a tent at Little Rock Pond. They'd never been backpacking before. I was fully prepared to deal with miserable whining whelps but the kids were gone. They disappeared into an imaginary world of adventure and fantasy, blending seamlessly with the fern strewn surroundings.

Following the faint whispers and giggles ahead we arrived before we knew it. Little Rock Pond is not little. It is beautiful, crystal clear and simply irresistible. There was no choice. We had to swim. By “we” I mean me. My husband is rarely so fool hardy but some of the others were lured in by my example and we had frolicking fun, found crayfish and spied loons.

Loons are my favorite bird, simply for their name. “Is that a loon?" someone asked once when I was a teen. I knew loons existed and imagined them to be vaguely duck-like. That was the extent of my knowledge. I shrugged. My nonchalant expression belied a gentle tug at my heart as I thought, “The loon must be a crazy bird, just like me.” It was one of those melodramatic teen moments that scar you for life.

Shrouded in deep melancholic resonations from the past I stumbled up to our campsite to pitch the tent when I was rescued from my reverie by the scratchy baseline pumping out of a little boom box at the adjacent campsite. Like a teenager I was immediately filled to the brim with venomous roiling angst. I wanted peace and quiet! Who let the people with a different conception of fun in to play in my sandbox?!? Ok, maybe I was feeling like a toddler. Either way, I wasn’t happy.

I hadn’t expected to find quiet in the woods, hell I’d brought the whole family and then some, but I guess that didn’t mean I’d left all my expectations behind.

[Photo taken by Tara Schatz Aug 8th 2009 Little Rock Pond VT. This was the first day of our trip from Danby Rd to Clarendon Gorge VT. It was a 3 night trip and my third excursion onto the Appalachian Trail, an installment so to speak on my 30 year plan to slow-hike the whole thang.]

To Buy Or Not To Buy

2010-05-09T07:31:00.004-04:00

When someone says “hiking” the next word that pops to mind is invariably “shopping.”

For my first hiking trip, I bought long underwear tops and bottoms – bright white. White long underwear was the foundation of my anti-tick defense system. I wasn’t stepping foot into the wilds of New England without them.

Ouch, I could have bought a candle-lit dinner for two for the same price. At least the word Patagonia was embroidered on the waistband. It makes all the difference in the world to ticks.

For that first trip I borrowed all other necessary hiking paraphernalia. Plagued with a need to prove myself, I had to show stick-to-it-tiveness and earn the right to spend. I’ve always been this way. Frugality laced with guilt forced me to tango in cowboy boots for a year before buying suede soled shoes. That was over a decade ago. Though they no longer fit, I keep them around to torture myself with. I always think of them when trying to answer the age old question, “To buy or not to buy?”

Like Hamlet I’m haunted by the past. I agonize over purchases that proved pointless, teetering at the edge of insanity, afraid of repeating mistakes. But after a couple of hiking trips I’d earned a few essentials, sleeping pad, sleeping bag, backpack, liner socks, knife, tick key and head lamp.

Of these purchases only the sleeping pad and the head lamp were free of regret. The special order light weight women’s sleeping bag was so silky it felt slimy and made my skin crawl. I gave it to my daughter and snagged my mom’s old bag. Why is it that everything is more special if it was your mother’s first? Don’t answer that. Just wish your mother a happy Mother’s Day. Then buy her some wool socks. That’s what mothers the world over want. You can buy them at your local camping store but don’t succumb to the temptation to buy anything for yourself, lest my shopping disease be contagious.

After I bought the tango shoes, I danced for less than another 6 months. It's been the same ever since. It's like a curse. After buying the sleeping bag and backpack, our next two trips were cancelled. It was over a year before I used my brand new pack. I count myself lucky that I hiked ever again. To make so many large purchases was tempting fate. Think twice before you do the same.

Red Trillium, Poison Ivy

2010-05-02T07:49:00.001-04:00

After leeches and ticks, the scariest thing in the woods is poison ivy. That I’ve never had a case of poison ivy makes no difference. I strip down as soon as I get home from a hike, put everything I’m wearing in the washing machine and get in the shower. I like to imagine any ticks will wash away too, ridiculous but nice to imagine.

I’ve heard ticks are active even early in the spring but I try to push their presence out of my mind and not think about them until it’s tick-check time when I get home. Not so with poison ivy. My gaze constantly grazes the edge of the trail. Hiking early this spring, before the poison ivy leafed out, I’ve had the most delightful feeling of hiking with impunity. I’ve wandered about freely exploring places off the trail usually made highly unattractive by the poison ivy.

Actually, poison ivy is very attractive, especially in spring as it leafs out, so much so that I wanted to learn a little more about this infamous plant. I found a book at the library. Guess what, poison ivy is at its peak just before it leafs out. I still can’t keep myself on the trail though. “If I just step in that one spot and don’t move I won’t accidently brush against those baby leaves two inches away, really.”

What could possible induce me to such reckless behavior? Red Trillium. It lured me in. I couldn’t resist. Red Trillium may be common to you (it ranges from Pennsylvania to Quebec) but being a west coast girl, it’s new to me. I’d heard the flower was beautiful when it was described to me last fall, yet I wasn’t prepared for its stunning hue. I ran home to confirm its identification and read up.

Lo and behold, I learn that I’ve fallen in love with another stinking plant. Red Trillium has several common names, “Wake-Robin,” “Wet-Dog Trillium” and “Stinking Benjamin.” Really, I had no idea. It was just the color that drew me to idle off the path. Actually you have to really hunker down to see it properly. The single flower flops over.

What is it with me and the odiferous plants? First skunk cabbage and now “wet-dog trillium?” I smell a theme. Apparently they both attract flies whose usual preferences run toward carrion. I’ve become completely enamored of two plants this spring, one stinks like a skunk and the other like rotting meat. And to admire them I’ve been playing in the poison ivy. It’s enough to make a girl wonder about herself.

[Books Consulted: Is it Poison Ivy? by Joan R. Darlington; A Pocket Guide to the Common Wild Flowers of Massachusetts by John E. Klimas, Jr.; Edible Wild Plants by Lee Allen Pterson; Eastern Forests by J. Kircher & G. Morrison. Photos: April 2010 Fitzgerald Lake, Florence, MA]

Tarrying With Tadpoles

2010-04-25T07:35:00.003-04:00

“I love everything about you,” said the caterpillar. “Promise you’ll never change.” ~ from Tadpole’s Promise by Jeanne Willis

“It’s Thursday,” I said, “We have to go to the lake."

"Why?" my daughter asked.

"We have to visit the tadpoles I’ve adopted,” I said.

“You’ve adopted them?” She smiled. “That means I have brothers and sisters.”

Even with the promise of amphibian siblings, she was reluctant to hike. It was spring break -- she wanted to watch DVDs. Luckily I’m the adult. I was hell-bent on tarrying with tadpoles. That’s what we did.

Over the last month I’d been watching wood frogs progress from fresh clean eggs, to algae covered goo-gobs, to tiny twig-like brown squiggles and finally, burgeoning tadpoles. I didn’t want to miss anything.

I’d been surprised to find the cute little brown tadpole babies hanging out by their egg sacks after they’d hatched. I wondered how long they'd do that. I wouldn’t have guessed they’d do that at all. I kind of thought they’d hatch one at a time and swim away until there was one last Leo Lionni type tadpole left swimming lonely by himself and pondering why.

Observing tadpoles squelched my picture book conceptions of nature. I hadn’t even realized my knowledge of these sweet little anurans had ceased to grow past picture books. I'd had a pursuit-of-knowledge hiatus. A little observation filled me with questions, I was eager to see what had changed this past week.

The tadpoles were now swimming about in the shallows, after two weeks hanging out on top of their old egg sacks. The eggs were now gone. I was surprised at how close to the surface the tadpoles stayed.

At the library, I learned that swimming close to the surface is unusual for tadpoles, most frog larvae swim deeper for safety. Wood frog tadpoles stay at the surface eating algae and other detritus, it makes them easier to observe and easier to eat. That is why wood frogs only lay their eggs in vernal pools without fish.

Discovery! The tadpoles in Leo Lionni’s Fish is Fish and Jeanne Willis’s Tadpole’s Promise are not wood frogs aka Rana sylvatica. I know this because the illustrator shows fish in the pond in both books. Regardless of species, though, the same foundational tadpole quandaries apply. Tadpoles make great allegories for personal change. These picture books are must reads for anyone who has ever grown or changed.

[To expand my knowledge beyond picture books, I read bits of Vernal Pools Natural History and Conservation by Elizabeth A. Colburn; Summer Wold A Season of Bounty by Bernd Heinrich and Wood Frogs by Doug Wechsler. Video taken April 4/22/10 at the vernal pool near the narrows of Fitzgerald Lake in Florence Massachusetts.]

Dimension Hopping: AT Section 2 Part 4

2010-04-17T21:35:00.016-04:00

We sat on our packs on the sidewalk in a residential neighborhood, squinting at the map, thankful the car had broken down or we'd be trying to hike another 7.5 miles. The fix-it-fairies had given the car a once-over and deposited it in Dalton. We were in Dalton. The car couldn’t be that far away. We just had to find it.

Who’d have thought following blazes through a town would be harder than through the forest? Apparently we’d made a mistake following the sidewalk. We were supposed to have cut through the hedges at the gas station.

We’d started that morning from the Kay Wood Lean-to just south of Dalton, MA hiking northbound on the Appalachian Trail. Having hiked 15 miles in two days we were giddy. There were ferns lining the trail in the dappled sun as we descended into town.

The day was fresh until we crossed a set of train tracks and began searching telephone poles instead of trees for the white blazes of the AT. As the sun rose higher, our blistered feet grew rebellious. We couldn’t walk a straight line. We staggered through the streets giggling madly, aching all over and wobbling under the weight of our packs drunk on endorphins and exhaustion.

We steeled ourselves with faith in Newton and his laws of physics. Objects in motion, stay in motion, right? It would have been that way, if we hadn’t got lost.

Tired and sore, I shifted onto the ground and swung my legs up onto my pack. I wished we'd brought a dog. On our first trip, puppy-pacing had worked so brilliantly. Where did we go wrong?

A mere eight months after our maiden trek, we’d hit the trail hard-core. Having done so well on our first trip (ten painless miles over two days), we set the fantastic goal of 27.5 miles in four days. Fantastic, as in based on fantasy, not as in wonderful.

We folded the map and kept walking. The car was on the far side of town, where the trail heads for Cheshire, our delusional, I mean original destination. With every step we took we thanked the gremlins for sabotaging my car. And we thanked the faeries, for bringing it to the trailhead and assuring us there was nothing really wrong with it, was ‘only the brakes’.

Watching our packs fall into the trunk with a thump was as refreshing as a cold glass of water. We smiled at each other. Took off our hiking boots, changed our socks and slid into our seats.

After two and a half days hiking 19 miles, driving away in a 4-cylinder diesel felt like jumping into the eighth dimension in Buckaroo Banzia’s Jet Car.

[I gakked this photo from One Guy's Views. If you haven't seen The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, you should. This section of the trail (Kay Wood to the north end of Dalton was hiked 6/1/08. It was the third day of our hike from Lee to Dalton. And the second step in our nefarious plan to section hike the AT on the 30-year plan.]

To The Dead Tree Protectorate

2010-04-12T07:37:00.008-04:00

Nothing is more fascinating, beautiful or sacred than a dead tree. Think about it. In the forest the death of the tree and its fungi facilitated decay is foundational to the forest and it’s entire ecosystem.

But it’s not just out in the woods that dead trees are important.

This is a special post dedicated to librarians. The gift they give society is immeasurable. Librarians are as foundational to the ecosystem of society as fungi are to the ecosystem of the forest. They digest and disseminate the most precious and magical dead trees of all, books. Books really are like magic. Take a little dried-pulp-of-dead-tree, some ink, our thoughts and imaginings and bind it all together. A single book can contain worlds. A library contains universes recording all the wisdom, love, loss and wonder humanity has ever had.

Librarians deserve our appreciation year round, but today is Library Appreciation Day. Ramping it up for a day is a wonderful idea. Bring them a book. Bake them a treat. Or just say thank you next time you see your local member of the Dead Tree Protectorate.

[Personally I thank the librarians of the Lilly Library in Florence, MA who always go above and beyond the call of duty. And thanks to Shelli Johannes-Wells for organizing Blogger+Love+Librarians. I'm going to bake a treat for my librarians today, like I did a few weeks ago for the fire department while guest-blogging. Confession: I half nabbed my title from Soulless by Gail Carriger in which appears the phrase “parasol protectorate.” This book is a delightful and refreshing read. Go check it out from your local library.]

Wet Feet And Strangers In The Wood

2010-04-11T13:31:00.002-04:00

It started with a stranger in the woods. Enraptured by the calls of the red-winged blackbird, the stark wintered-over cattails and the sun shining on the last shards of ice on the pond, I struck up a conversation with a passerby. It must have been my goofy, content-with-the world-and-all-of-nature smile but it was not long before this fellow was saying, “I know where there are some great vernal pools.”

I know, like you haven’t heard that a thousand times.

The vernal pools were much larger than what I’d expected, 15 or 20 feet across and more than knee deep. He said the defining feature of a vernal pool is simply that salamanders and frogs lay eggs in it. “You can see better with polarized sunglasses,” he said handing me his. Suddenly I could see right past the reflections on the surface of the pool to the frog eggs underneath. There were thousands of them!

I asked how he knew they were wood frog eggs. Perhaps it was just the springtime euphoria muddling my mind, maybe he’d interpreted the question too broadly, but all I remember of his answer was, “I’ve always loved the woods." It was very romantic.

He had to go he said, but just beyond the next bend, up the little knoll at the narrows, if I took a right at the glacial something or other I'd find another pool and more frog eggs. I thanked him and told him I’d check it out and much to my surprise I did.

Have you ever noticed how hard it is to give directions in the woods? If you aren’t versed in geology or aren’t entirely sure what the difference is between a birch and an alder… well, you’re kind of screwed.

But at the top of the next knoll, thanks to the lack of foliage, the pool was easy to spot. I used my brilliant powers of deduction to figure out that the glacial thangy he’d referred to would have to be the large boulder and I bounded down the hill thinking, “Huh, so this is a ‘narrows’? I don’t see that. At least I knew what a knoll was.”

And thank goodness or I never would have gotten my feet wet. I was just going to step in a little. My shoes are good in up to an inch and half of water, but in my quest for the perfect angle on frog spawn, I overstepped. I’ve really never had more fun looking at small gelatinous balls suspended in goo. And I've never been happier hiking while wet.

[I’ve been watching spring unfold during my walks around an oversized pond in Northampton MA, called Fitzgerald Lake. This particular incident occurred Thursday March 25th, 2010.]

Easter Skunk Cabbage

2010-04-01T12:01:00.013-04:00

At first glance Easter may not seem to have much basis in the natural world. You might think the ritualistic hiding of eggs a completely human construct. You’d be wrong. One only has to see skunk cabbage in early spring to know where this quaint tradition comes from. Mother Nature has been hiding little orbs in the herbaceous basket of the skunk cabbage flower for eons. Technically speaking it’s a spadix hiding in the spathe. These fanciful flowers look like they could have been trimmed from the magic slipper of a foreign prince long ago. But skunk cabbage is valued far beyond its obvious aesthetic contribution to the swamp bog for those whose tastes run on the wilder side.

Fresh crushed leaves smell like a skunk and have naturally occurring calcium oxide crystals which will cause a distinct burning sensation in one’s mouth. But for those who enjoy the taste of danger and long to nibble on nature, skunk cabbage is a tasty treat. Used properly it is reputed to be “quite good"but does require the capacity for delayed gratification. Tender spring leaves should be dried and then reconstituted in a soup or stew. Do not eat skunk cabbage leaves unless they have been thoroughly dehydrated first.

As always when eating, make sure you know what you’re putting in your mouth. Do not confuse the skunk cabbage with the dread False Hellebore. It’s poisonous. Do not fret. A little thought and observation should insure your safety. Look at the veining. False Hellebore has veins that run parallel to one another, while the veins of the prodigious skunk cabbage are branching (pictured above and right). You could think of False Hellebore as having bad stripes. Though less dignified, one may crush a leaf and apply the sniff-test, just as one might do with laundry on the floor. If the odor is rank, good. If not, beware.

I personally have not eaten this delicacy yet, but I will do so and report back promptly. Actually, prior to last week I didn't have a clue what skunk cabbage looked like in the spring. I was acquainted with the huge leafed monstrosity it becomes by summer, but the enchanting sex organs of early spring were a complete and utterly delightful surprise. Not only because I’d hitherto had no idea what it looked like, but because it is one of the first signs of spring in the bog and looks like a fantastical Easter basket.

[Stay tuned for Skunk Cabbage Installation The Second, in which I will report back on the yum factor of reconstituted leaf of skunk cabbage and discuss the hot temperament of this rebellious plant. *Though my tone may not be serious at times, I am in earnest as to making sure you know what you are putting in your mouth. Please consult field guides and experts, which I am not.* Today's technical info gleaned from Peterson Field Guides Edible Wild Plants Eastern/Central North America by Lee Allen Peterson and Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Forests by John Kricher both by Houghton Mifflin Co. published in 1977 and 1988 respectively.]

Welcome Guest Blogger Cara Leckenby of One Thousand Days

2010-03-28T05:00:00.006-04:00

It’s Freaky Sunday! Today Cara is being Annie and guest-blogging on The Sunday Hiker while Annie is posting on Cara's blog One Thousand Days. We’ll have hiky goodness all around!

Did you know that it takes 10 seconds for a 12 year old to walk all the way around a ridiculously huge Cedar tree? Did you know that in the Pacific Northwest Rainforests, ferns grow on trees and make 200-foot tall oak trees look like they’re crawling with spiders? Did you know that negative ions cause a sense of euphoria, and are used as “therapy” to treat depression, and that negative ions are present at waterfalls (and in cold showers, but who wants to take a cold shower)?

I knew, but had forgotten these things (after years of neglecting…er…denying…my Northwest roots), and was delighted to rediscover them on a meandering dawdle through the woods at the behest of a favorite fellow blogger.

The darling child and I chose to peruse Marymere falls, which is a modest 90 foot tall waterfall located at the feet of the Olympic Mountain range in Washington State, and nestled between the mountains and Lake Crescent. Marymere Falls trail, very conveniently for my doddering old body, is a hike that can be accomplished in an hour and a half.

We took two hours, of course, but we soaked up the wet and sweetly moldering air, walked the circumference of every ostentatiously large tree, photographed the fungus we found amongus, paused on every bridge crossing and marveled at every lacy little bit of moss and fern. And of course we spent a good deal of time soaking up the negative ions at the pinnacle of our meander-about. Who needs Prozac when you’ve got a waterfall on hand? I’m seriously considering erecting one in my backyard. Or at least making it a point of extricating myself from the quagmire of life on a more regular basis in order to visit these magical places. Or maybe just a sprinkler?

The conversation was positively scintillating on our amble through the woods, with topics ranging from ninja skills to tooth brushing technique. And just at the moment that we’d decided that the Leckenby family (or at least the 12 year old member of the Leckenby family) could do with an improved oral cleaning tactic (read: “Brush your teeth like you mean it, kid, and I mean it!”) we rounded a corner and the darling boy pointed at a rock formation and declared: “Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t brush his teeth!”

New Spring Equinox Resolutions

2010-03-21T07:45:00.002-04:00

Today is the first day of 2010 in which the hours of day outweigh the hours of dark. You may feel like celebrating.

Resist. Now is not the time.

Why?

Because foolishly you listened to me and put off making New Year’s Resolutions in favor of the New Spring Equinox Resolution. Now you have work to do.

And so do I. I have to remember my resolutions. I thought I had at least three but I can only remember one: post to my blog by Sunday instead of on Sunday. Being a person who rides deadlines, I’d been posting as late as 11pm. For shame! Several readers let me know that they were checking Sunday mornings. Tut, tut, can’t keep people waiting.

I tried not to think of upping my deadline as a New Year’s resolution, but it was around the New Year and I was feeling quite resolved… I decided and have been sticking to it, mostly.

Mostly you say, mostly?!? What kind of a flimsy, whimsy, whoosy, oozy resolution is that?

The realistic kind.

If I were delusional there are all kinds of unrealistic, outlandish things I’d promise always or never to do.

First, I’d always go to bed early. (I know, everyone says that!) Second, I’d never be late. There’s no legitimate reason 99% of the time. My “just a seconds” turn into minutes and pretty soon I’m supposed to have left already. It’s bad and creates a state of perpetual stress. But what the hell, that’s me. Lateness, it’s my drug of choice. I’m addicted.

So, ruling out hard and fast commitments to unattainable goals, what are my lofty Equinox Resolutions going to be?

Mmmm, good question.

Ha, I’ve got it! I’m going to:

1) learn more about invertebrates.

2) unearth the secrets of slime molds.

3) drink more.

4) get rich quick, without a fully developed scheme.

5) invent a day-stretcher, so I can literally take time and malleate* it.

That’s all. Five is a reasonable number.

Why are you looking at me like that? You don’t think number three is for real?

I assure you I am serious, I need to drink more. While I wouldn’t call myself a ‘work-a-holic’, I’m definitely a ‘to-do-a-holic’. Sitting down with a glass of wine once in awhile would be good for me.

No, that wasn’t it? You had a different objection?

Oh, hiking. No, I don’t want to make any resolutions about that. Wouldn’t want to jinx myself.

So, what are your Spring Equinox Resolutions?

*Malleate means to shape, beat or extend something which is malleable. Malleate is the verb form of the adjective malleable, freshly invented by moi (you’re welcome).

[Photo taken 3/18/10 on an afternoon hike around the neighborhood selling Girl Scout Cookies with my nine year old daughter. It’s not a “real hiking" photo, but then again I never claimed to be a “real hiker."]

Blueberry Lust: AT Section 2 Part 3

2010-03-14T10:30:00.001-04:00

Like goblins on a full moon feast. Like greedy kids in a candy shop, like starved bears in spring, like a caterpillar puttin’ it on for the cocoon; we would merrily fill our bellies to bursting with blueberries, if we came back. As it was, we were taunted by greenberries and the last of the year’s dainty blooms. In mid-June, the AT in Massachusetts would be heaven. On that last day of May, it was unrequited temptation.

Tara’s garbage bag bounced and swayed down the trail ahead. Our packs were covered and our rain gear handy, so far though, only light showers.

“Cool with overcast skies is better than hot and humid. This is perfect hiking weather really.”

“Yeah,” said Tara, “especially if it doesn't rain.”

We made it nine slightly damp miles, arriving at the Kay Wood Lean-to before dusk and just before the skies let loose in earnest. Nine miles! I’d once ambulated nine contiguous miles on my own two feet before, but never in one day! Our legs were tingly and our faces triumphant. The lean-to was quiet and empty except for the Ridge Runner.

“You get paid to hike?” we asked.

Yep, he got paid to keep an eye on things (inept hikers like us, shelters, privies, trail markers etc…) and to hike in supplies for repairs and improvements. I marveled at this gray haired man carrying 40 lbs of lumber and paint in addition to his own supplies. I, just 30, could barely manage my half of our relatively meager load.

Mr. Trail Runner poured water into an insta bag of food, no dishwashing, no cooking, nada. Light, easy, simple and efficient – in short, everything antithetical of myself.

He saw our ogling eyes and happily lectured us on “cooking” in a bag, advising we treat packages for “two” as singles. “Most of the flavors are good,” he claimed.

Certainly his Pasta Primavera looked inviting as we prepared to choke down quinoa or whatever hair brained menu we’d come up with which required boiling, stirring and waiting in the rain. We’d probably have been torn up with jealousy if Mr. Ridge Runner hadn’t been so affable.

After dinner he lent me a book. Tara and I curled up in our bags on the wooden slats of the Lean-to’s loft and read. Life was sweet that day despite our unsatisfied blueberry lust.

The book he lent me? “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortenson. Excellent, some books are on the NY Times best-seller list for a reason.

[Unfortunately my camera refused to work properly on this trip and cheated me out of proper documentation of our amazing feats. Thankfully some kind soul (juliaf) posted the lovely photo of blueberry blossoms on stock.xchang. Thanks Julia, whoever you are! This section of the trail (day two of the trek from Lee to Dalton) was hiked 5/31/08 see parts 1, 2 and someday 4 for further details.]

Eat Shit and Live - Beaver

2010-03-07T11:55:00.005-05:00

As my high school English teacher, Mr. Simpson used to say, the F-Word is for those who are too lazy to say what they really mean. It's inarticulate. Perhaps that is why "Eat shit and die!" is one of my favorite* epithets. To be used sparingly, uttered only when truly meant. In which case, of course, it should be spat.

I was not thinking of cussing as I crossed the ice to examine a beaver lodge recently, but I was ready to shriek if the ice gave way. I couldn't help but imagine the watery grave awaiting me below the ice, despite the fact that it was more than a foot thick and could probably hold a 2 ton truck. The lodge was a magnificent heap of mud and sticks jutting out of the snow covered ice. Up close it towered several feet overhead.

I never thought much about beavers until I went bog-dipping. Being thigh deep in beaver bog calls for light profanity such as, "god beaver damned-it!" Previously the word "beaver" was more likely to bring to mind a boy named Beaver from next town over when I was in high school. Neither the animal nor the ridiculously attractive boy were really a part of my world.

Currently northern beavers are being freed by the spring thaw from their ice-locked lodges. They don't hibernate, they've been awake all winter subsisting on bark and shit. I kid you not. They have special bacteria in their stomachs to help digest cellulose, but even still, getting enough nutrients out of bark isn't easy. So they eat it twice.

My new knowledge of the beaver's plight has diminished the derogatory value my favorite epithet. With such a noble, intelligent and important creature eating shit for winter survival, well, it just takes the bite out of the words. Don't worry, I'll come up with something. I'm no stranger to inventing expletives.

Beavers are important. Lots of species depend on the beavers to create bogs for their habitat, such as bull frogs, painted turtles, mallards, dragonflies, willow flycatchers, sunfish, kingfishers, mink & muskrats. Never mind that I've never heard of half these critters before. Dragonflies alone are marvel enough to outweigh the occasional inconvenience of a bog crossing (or dunking as the case may be). I'll just have to come up with a better phrase. My shit may stink, but the beaver's might be dinner. Bon appetit, eat shit and live!

I'm still working on finding that new phrase. Any suggestions?

[*I can't actually remember ever having said, "Eat shit and die!" but I've imagined doing so plenty of times and as such I claim it as a favorite. Beaver facts presented above were gleaned from "Winter World: the ingenuity of animal survival" by Bernd Heinrich published in 2003 by HarperCollins, a most excellent and highly recommended read.]

A Mountain of Grace

2010-02-27T17:34:00.011-05:00

It was a sunny February day. The guidebook said the 1.5-mile climb from trailhead to summit, “should take about an hour, depending on how many times you pause for a rest.” (This blog post should take 2.5 minutes to read, depending on how many times you start daydreaming). Our three mile hike took four and a half hours, they don’t call me dawdler for nothing!

I can’t take all the credit though. Two external forces helped cool my heels: the snow and the child. Though we didn’t have any of the appropriate accouterments strapped to our feet, I have to give the lion's share of the credit to the kid. Nobody can dawdle like a child. She crumpled to her knees, crawled, lay flat on her back and at times was dragged bodily up the hill.

Note to self: next time bring another kid to play with along the trail. Oh and the parents too, in case the other kid needs tending.

Atop the “mountain” (I have to put “mountain” in quotes because I grew up nestled between the Olympics and the Cascades, two mountain ranges whose high peaks remain snow-capped through August and whose treacherous terrain take the lives of several hikers every year.)

Ok, lets start again. Atop the “mountain” (although I use the quotes to denote a smallness, this is out of fondness not meanness. The quaint notion of a New England "mountain" is actually a more reasonable conception as far as I'm concerned.)

Alright, third time’s a charm. Atop the “mountain” we paused for lunch under the shadow of an old fire tower and sat in old snow that had seen the freeze/thaw cycle a few times. Each of us had one perfect hard-boiled egg. The hard-boiled egg, an old-timey travel food, is ready for a comeback. The packaging is strong, light, durable and natural. Plus, unlike a sandwich it doesn’t get soggy while you hike. One egg each wasn't quite enough to slake our appetites, though. At dinner we ate like pigs at the trough.

Funny enough our amazing dawdler became a flier on the way down, her batteries charged from our rest at the summit. She took the trip back down at a run and smiling.

Just like us, the trees were smiling too.

[Headed back down from the summit of Mt. Grace in Warwick, MA. on 2/20/2010 we found this smiling face pictured above. We were northbound on the Metacomet-Monadnock Trail. Hike-NewEngland.com has very thorough information on Mt. Grace. The hiking guidebook quoted was "Hiking the Pioneer Valley" by Bruce Scofield pub 2003.]

Elves & Etiquette: AT Section 2 Part 2

2010-02-19T13:03:00.016-05:00

We made it! Behind schedule and one car abandoned, but nothing could dampen our good cheer except perhaps two heavy backpacks and one steep incline. We crossed the road and found the sacred white trail blazes. Good-bye parking lot near Lee, MA. We were northward bound. Unlike the moderate beginning of our first expedition, this section was straight up.

I could only regard myself with disbelief. Had I only hours ago been bopping down the highway with a cup of tea and a gleeful smile on my face? What had I been looking forward to? I knew damn well my pack weighed a zillion pounds. What was I thinking? Volunteering for such torture is the definition of stupidity. I adjusted my pack. “It’s too soon to be adjusting the pack,” I told myself, “we haven’t even been hiking for ten minutes.”

I closed my eyes for a second then forced myself to watch only the back of Tara’s heels as she ascended in front of me. I felt the tug of Tara’s car and magnetism to, of all things, a parking lot. I ignored these but only because I am prideful. If Tara wasn’t going to crack in the first quarter mile, neither was I.

I have since come to recognize this as basic Newtonian physics. An object at rest wants to stay at rest. Yup, you got it, resting is bad. It leads to a sedentary state and eventually to sedentarianism. It's like a gateway drug. For those of us who have been “at rest” for a prolonged period, beginnings are the toughest. All our nastiest thoughts come out to chew at our resolve. Ignore the little voices. Eventually a transformation occurs, you become an object in motion and the hours pass smoothly.

At dusk and just under 7 miles later we arrived at the October Mountain Lean-to narrowly missing pitching a tent in the dark randomly along the trail. Luckily my lovely hiking buddy Tara (one of the few people I know who doesn’t suffer from ADD) reminded me that we had an issue: the broken car. If one has gremlins one must also have elves. The issue was contacting them.

Etiquette might not be the first thing one thinks of in association with hiking, but I assure you that it is a serious matter indeed. Trailside cell phone use is as egregious as dialing up in a library. Tara handed me her cell phone on the sly and looked the other way as I slunk further into the woods. Success, car-elves contacted and no one noticed. All there was left to do was eat and sleep. I could rest easy knowing that if the “real hikers” got hostile it would be undeserved. No, wait, resting is bad!

[Stay tuned for the 3rd and final installment of "Section 2" in which we see how bad an idea resting really was as we teeter along on rubber band legs. For those of you who think I'm making up the cell phone etiquette, see the ATC official website under Leave No Trace & Be Considerate of Others.]

Food, Sex & Extreme Single-Tasking

2010-02-14T08:05:00.002-05:00

I’ve been thinking about moths nonstop since I fell head over heels for Henrietta. She was, after all, my first American Dagger Moth. Since our short but highly anthropomorphized tryst I’ve been plagued with emotion. I’ve pined, wondered, what-ifed and yes, I’ve even dabbled in jealousy.

Henrietta is pupating right now. Snug in some stump, wrapped in a cocoon of larval hair, silk and leaf bits, she lies in wait for spring. Soon my beloved sunny caterpillar will be a creature of the night.

Somewhere in my childhood I learned that butterflies and moths couldn’t eat. They didn’t even have mouths. They just flew around trying to mate before dying. The search for love before death appealed to my streak of romantic fatalism. Yet I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor creatures. What if they got really thirsty before they found their mate? Was their flight through the damp night one of a wanderer in the desert?

I was all for dying in the pursuit of love but the idea of no mouth was unsettling. Not anymore, I can’t think of anything better actually. Nope, I can’t think of anything that sounds better than some extreme single-tasking. Eat for a few months. Sleep for a few months. Have sex for a few months. Sounds idyllic to me. Who cares if you don’t have a mouth for the final part of your life-cycle? It’s a small price to pay for a little simplicity.

There’s just one problem - what I learned as a kid isn’t entirely accurate. Most moths (though not all) have a proboscis and they use it too. It’s like a coiled up super straw they whip out for nectar sipping or sap sucking (depending on the species).

Ah well, we make mistakes and fall in love with fantasies. This Valentines Day I’m falling in love with the fantasy of extreme-single tasking.

* Readers are cordially invited to leave a Valentine comment for their four-legged, furry or flying loves. Are you harboring feelings for a woodchuck? Do you dream of a slinky fox, a goofy dog or a sassy little tufted titmouse? Declare yourself.*

[Henrietta's first post appeared 11/30/09. Want more? Check out Hot Moth Action on Zooillogix. Today's factual info was found in: Moths by Michael Majerus published in 2002 by HarperCollins; Butterflies and Moths by Mitchell & Zim published in1977 by Western Publishing Company; and last but not least Butterflies and Moths by David Carter published in 1992 by Dorling Kindersly Inc.]

Silver Y Moth Proboscis from David Kennard on Vimeo.

Gremlins: Nibbling The AT Section 2 Part 1

2010-02-07T07:36:00.001-05:00

Nothing beats setting out on an adventure. It was 8am on a mid-May Saturday and I was headed to the AT for a second dose, Lee to Cheshire MA. It was all part of my master plan to hike the 2,134 mile trail, nibble by nibble. I was unreasonably happy considering the ungodly hour. My cup of tea steamed merrily. Illuminating things were discussed on NPR and I hummed down the road in my old Mercedes, enraptured and smiling, completely unaware of the gremlins.

After an hour, I arrived in Cheshire and began looking for the rendezvous point. I slowed as the stoplight ahead turned yellow and the Mercedes started to growl. Sometimes the adventure begins earlier than expected. I had to keep my foot on the brakes, the light was turning red. But the growl turned into a metallic yowl. It sounded like the car’s shoulder joint had just prolapsed, but we stopped. Palms sweating profusely, I clutched the steering wheel. Shivers ran up and down my spine. The light turned green. I was certain the wheel was going to fall off but I managed to pull over before that happened. I wanted to vomit.

I know human shoulders don’t prolapse (they dislocate) but a car’s anatomy works differently. This is not to say I'm well versed in vehicular anatomy, but it didn't seem to me like “The tight-rod end’s gasket bearings were wearing on the U-joint” and to say so would smack of falseness. No, it felt like a prolapsed shoulder. And the accompanying soundtrack would have had my fingers flying for the cell phone, but I didn't own one.

Instead I marched to a bank and asked to use the phone. I called my stalwart hiking buddy Tara. She agreed to relocate the rendezvous location and meet at my car. In the end we had a tough choice to make. Should we hike or stick by the car in her moment of need? For those of you who belong to the car equivalent of PETA, I suggest you close your eyes while reading the next paragraph.

We abandoned the vehicle. A car is just a machine. It is a means to and end. When it ceases to be such, it is of no further use. I work hard at being callous and endeavor to maintain a meanness of spirit which allows me to make cold, tough and efficient decisions. Watching the Mercedes disappear behind us I was once again giddy with AT anticipation.

[Stay tuned for Part 2, when we actually set foot on trail and find out if I ever see my beloved Mercedes again. For those of you who crave details, it's a 1982 240D, four cylinders, manual transmission - diesel. P.S.We set out to hike section 2 on 5/30/08.]

Blog Spotted

2010-02-06T22:11:00.005-05:00

On Thursday January 21st 2010, the Hampshire Gazette ran it's second ever "blog spotter" and highlighted The Sunday Hiker. Thank you Phoebe Mitchell for the excellent synopsis and enthusiastic review! The spotter is so new they don't have it online yet. I've scanned the paper version to post here. Click the image above to enlarge. Enjoy!

Halucinating Hidden Messages

2010-01-29T20:56:00.025-05:00

Between hikes I walk. Should I cross paths with anyone, I like to shout out a friendly greeting, “Lovely Weather!” If one is going to have a disposition, it might as well be sunny. Admittedly, I am in general quite generous with the weather. My definition of “lovely” excludes only freezing rain, hail and wind gusts above 45 mph.

Lately I’ve noticed a peculiar phenomenon. If the weather is unexpectedly fair, my exclamation of “lovely weather” is always met with a shake of the head and a statement of regret, “global warming, it’s a shame.”

Unseasonably good weather is bad. Time for self-flatulation, the sun is out. Oops, I meant to spell self-flagellation although perhaps the former would also be an appropriate way to punish ourselves (a good corollary of what the planet is experiencing).

It’s a real dilemma for hikers. The best part of hiking is getting out of doors. But the best part of hiking isn’t always getting into the weather. It's hard not to hope for fair weather. Don't do it. Don’t pray to the weather gods for sun and warmth. NO, absolutely not, not between Sept. 15^th and April 15^th anyway. (I said, no, you greedy little self-interested heathens!)

Global warming has turned unseasonably good weather into a depressing omen of the further ills to come.

Depressing thoughts about the ruinous state of our planet always remind me of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show" (RHPS). On the front of it, the film is about personal freedoms and excesses, but buried within is an environmental message.

* Spoiler Alert *

Ok, so at the end of the film, after the crazy incestuous aliens blast off… remember? What does the narrator say? “Crawling on the planet’s face, some insects, called the human race…” Poetic.

It’s a comforting sentiment. We are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. We are but lice.

What? Am I the only one comforted by the thought of being a louse?

Oh, you have another objection?

Yeah, OK, global warming has started a mass extinction. It's not a first, but unlike T-Rex, we're earning our extinction. I know it's unfair to take out the seal pups and tree frogs with us on our quest for self destruction, but there is reason to hope. Alan Weisman’s “The World Without US.” has bolstered this grain of hope sown by those last poetic words in the RHPS. It’s a fascinating must-read. Don’t have time? No worries, it’s available on CD and read quite well. You can take it on your next walk or hike. Enjoy!

[I gakked the picture above from the Rocky Horror Picture Show fan club website. I gakked the word gakked from Officially Twisted].

Porcupine For Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner

2010-01-23T20:30:00.014-05:00

Until last week I’d always assumed that porcupines were impervious to attack, I’d seen a dog with a mouthful of quills. But last week, in the wilds of Quebec (Parc national du Mont-Orford to be exact), posted on a tree was a little blurb about fisher cats. Having studied French for one year, over a decade ago, I was able to decipher almost nothing. Yet the sign seemed to strongly suggest that the fisher cat, the terror of the weasel family, could eat one porcupine every 20 days, a rabbit every week or 12 mice a day. I found this absolutely shocking. No, not the part where 240 mice equals one porcupine, the part where a porcupine gets eaten!

If I’d pictured a porcupine and a fisher cat nose to nose, ready to rumble, I would have been hard pressed to say who’d win. In my imagination they’re about the same size and it would have taken me a minute to realize that the porcupine was probably a genteel herbivore despite his rough – I mean pokey - exterior.

Are you having a hard time picturing a fisher cat? You’re not alone. The fisher cat (aka fisher, martes pennanti, Amercian sable and pekan) prefers to operate at night. They are elusive animals and don’t care for open spaces. I personally have never seen one. I’m not sure how I recognized its mug shot. But I clearly remember the first time I ever heard of one. That too was a shocker.

I was walking with a knowledgeable friend a few years back. I don’t remember where or when exactly. What I do remember vividly is his stopping to examine some “scat” (aka “shit”, “crap” or the equally sterile “feces”). Head bent to get a closer look he announced it was likely from a fisher cat, as they like to defecate in prominent places such as the middle of a trail or atop a large rock. I was properly horrified at such wanton and base displays of exhibitionism. I had no desire to know anything more about such an animal.

That was until I learned that fisher cats eat porcupines. Smarter than your average dog, the fisher cat doesn’t attack where there are quills. First it goes for the face, then when its opponent is weakened it goes for the gut. This is in fact the same strategy I was taught in self-defense 101. Of course the fisher is on the offensive but you would be too if you were hungry and had teeth like that.

[Photo taken 1/13/10 shows part of a sign hung by the Parc national du Mont-Orford. I also consulted “Mammals of the Northeast by Whitaker and Reeves, published in 1998 by World Publications and “The Smithsonian Book of North American Mammals” edited by Wilson and Ruff, published in 1999 by the Smithsonian Institute. Please note that I’ve seen no further allusion to the fisher’s alleged exhibitionism, though I do not doubt my source. I will continue to pursue the matter and report back to you, tout de suite.]

Strap Something To Your Feet - Part 1

2010-01-16T22:08:00.017-05:00

Hiking in the winter is just like hiking in the spring, summer or fall - except for the ice and snow. To avoid the hazards of winter conditions, people have invented a variety of devices to strap to one’s feet: bits of metal, old tennis rackets and waxed sticks (aka crampons, snowshoes and cross country skis). The application of these devices depends largely on the conditions. If the leftovers of yesterday’s precipitation is terribly deep, snowshoes are the gadget of choice. If it’s an icy mess, crampons are likely in order. On the other hand if you’ve got a foot of perfect powder, pull out the skis.

Today I strapped snowshoes to my feet. This was completely unnecessary. The trail was so well packed we could have hiked in sneakers. This bothered me a great deal at first.

What’s the point of going down a marked snowshoe trail that a thousand other people have already gone down? If you aren’t breaking your own trail you don’t really need them do you? Arg. These fandangled pieces of shat are flipping snow up my back. Why aren’t I skiing? These nasty contraptions are noisy. Each step sounds like a giant crunching the bones of little children. Slog, slog, slog. I can’t believe we came all this way to a snowshoeing trail that renders the snowshoes unnecessary.

One can’t think such lovely thoughts for too long before sharing them with the world. In response my accomplice voiced his opinion that snowshoes are a superior mode of winter sport for those, like himself, who lack the coordination to stay upright on skis.

Perhaps it was getting the words out of my head and into the air. Maybe it was the blood finally moving fast enough to keep my fingers warm. Whatever the cause, my mind stilled a bit and the winter landscape stopped looking so bleak. Soon the crinch-crunch of our “shoes” beat a cheery rhythm in the snow.

Oops, I mistook my battle with inertia for a dislike of snowshoeing. Inertia is a beast, a talking beast that borrowed my voice, but once I was thoroughly in motion the beast just dissipated.

By the time we got back to the ski center the blue-gray sky in contrast with the popping green of the pine needles and the crisp white bark of the birch had me completely engrossed. But my swish-and-glide envy has not abated, not in the least. Tomorrow I’m strapping on sticks.

Finding the Right Partner In Crime (Part 1)

2010-01-10T05:32:00.006-05:00

I have no illusions of myself as a rugged loner, a rock or an island. My stoic self-reliance stops at ticks and leeches. Therefore, to hike I (and by extension you) must have a partner in crime. But not just anyone will do.

When evaluating potential partners, consider the following:

Will this person tolerate me, under said conditions and circumstances?
Will they appreciate or at least have patience with my idiosyncrasies?
Which of my foibles is most likely to be problematic while executing this particular crime?

If you know your own idiosyncrasies you can combat or counter weight their negative effects. Mine happen to involve fickle knees, food intolerances and a penchant for stopping, stalling and dawdling at every opportunity. I know this and am prepared to bat my eyelashes, give flowery apologies and/or make other overtures of goodwill.

That is, unless I am livid. Do not assume that the partner for one kind of crime will be a good partner for all kinds of crime. If you can’t tolerate them, whether or not they can tolerate you quickly becomes a moot point.

My husband, for example, has been and continues to be an exemplary partner in the crime of marriage, but on the trail he devolves into a thumper-thumpin’ fern-nostrilled boobie of a bad, bad guy. See above illustration.

He flies down the trail with nary a backward glance, leaving me wishing for herculean strength, so I can lob the closest boulder at him. It would take herculean strength because he’s always so very far ahead.

Summary:
Do not hike with people who bring out your homicidal tendencies. Do not be surprised if people whom you love and adore bring out your homicidal tendencies. Do hike with a partner especially if committing a crime. Oh, and never get leeches.

[Photo Credit: Hey that's not a photo, it's a drawing. After inventing my new favorite G-rated explicative I had to find a picture. None existed. Undeterred I got out a pen, some paper and a scanner. It is, of course, a tightly furled Ostrich Fern in that nostril. They're edible.]

Winter Hiking, New Year's Resolutions & Glitter

2010-01-02T17:04:00.009-05:00

As a rule I don’t advocate making New Year’s resolutions. So easily broken; they’re like lies. But too strict an adherence to rules makes one old and stodgy, so this year I'll not discourage you. Go ahead, make a glittery little resolution or two in honor of the coolest new year in a decade. Yippee 2010!

Let’s say for example, your New Year’s resolution is to be more active and get out of doors more often. This would be an excellent variation on a common theme. Getting fit and/or losing weight has to be the most popular New Year’s resolution. It is certainly the poster-boy for resolutions abandoned. New Year’s resolutions make the word resolve feel insecure and ill-used.

But why be pessimistic needlessly? Let’s find some charm in this annual ritual. We could think of New Year’s resolutions as a secularized Lent. Americans of all religions stuff themselves to excess from Thanksgiving through New Years and then, in togetherness, suffer penitence and self-denial for a few weeks. It’s a bonding experience.

But if you are attached to your resolution and are going to persevere in your commitment to getting more exercise and fresh air, then I have to point out one thing: it’s winter. Wouldn’t it be better to make a bid for change in the spring? In the natural world, right now is the time for hibernation. I propose we ditch the New Year’s resolution in favor of the Spring Equinox resolution!

OK, I see you are very stubborn. All right then, this is my suggestion: if you’re going to do it, make it fun. You’re 90% more likely to stick to your resolution and 100% more likely to enjoy it. For outdoor winter recreation, such as winter hiking, I suggest glitter and rhinestones. It goes well with the theme of refracted light, icicles and snowflakes. Plus it makes you feel special. When you feel good about yourself, you feel better about whatever you’re doing and if you feel good about what you’re doing your less likely to drop it as soon as the next paranormal romance in your favorite vampire series comes out.

I know what you’re going to say, “But Annie I’m only going to freeze my butt off if I go outside dressed like you are in that crazy picture above!” You silly, you're supposed to wear your parka over the glitz. It’s natural to reject new ideas until you get used to them, but this idea isn’t new. You already know that wearing black lacy under things gives you a little swagger even if you’re just wearing a ratty t-shirt and jeans. It’s the same with glitter and coats.

You’re not entirely convinced. You remember my earlier posting in which I extol the virtues of dressing like you belong on the trail. That was summer (and spring and fall) this is winter, everything is different. You’re alone out there in the woods. This is all about you. You deserve to feel good, so glitter up, we love you.

Puppy Pacing: Slow-Hiking the AT Section 1 Part 3

2009-12-27T12:26:00.010-05:00

When hiking, pacing is of the utmost importance, the slower the better. My hiking buddy Tara and I didn’t prepare ourselves in any rigorous way for our first outing on the Appalachian Trail. We expected to do penance for our foolishness. We expected pain. To avoid our comeuppance, we decided to pace ourselves. Some of us tend to push ourselves needlessly and heedlessly. This is bad.

Out of shape people are likely to do themselves an injury carrying a third of their body weight strapped to their backs for 8 hours. To avoid such nastiness, it is important to have a plan, or an excuse. On our first trip, Raleigh was our excuse. He was the perfect ploy, a puppy with tender little paws. (Yes, that is him pictured above. We are “resting.”) In our great concern for his tootsie-wootsies, we took a long break every 45 minutes or so. We’d unlace our boots, take off our socks and get some air between our toes. I’d prop my legs up on the nearest log (gotta love logs) and rest my back on my pack. We’d take a few deep breaths and stare up at the undersides of the leaves and bits of blue sky. Scandalous, I know.

Yup, we shamelessly exploited said puppy’s tender young paws to our own advantage. And it worked wonders. We were hardly even sore the next day or rather I should say, we did not experience the expected agony. Thank you, puppy-pacing. I highly recommend this strategy to novice hikers.

But what if you don’t have a puppy? Well you can’t steal Raleigh and neither can I. Raleigh grew up, that is the problem with puppies. Now he’s working full-time as a guide dog with Guiding Eyes for the Blind. My buddy Tara is training a new puppy, but he’s going to grow up too.

If you can’t keep yourself steadily supplied with young pups there are other, though inferior, stratagems. Photography or drawing may also work as convenient trailside distractions.

Remember, to avoid unnecessary pain, you could prepare for your hike by building up strength and stamina or you can employ a device that effectively tamps down any overly ambitious tendencies you may harbor, like a puppy.

P.S.

Dear Santa, next year I want a puppy for Christmas.

P.P.S.

Yes, Santa reads my blog.

[Photo taken by Tara Schatz somewhere near Lee, MA 9/28/07 on the AT.]

Winter Solstice: Hike or Watch TV

2009-12-20T19:15:00.007-05:00

What better way to celebrate the winter solstice than hiking? Let the brisk cold air freeze your nostril hairs together. Wear several constrictive layers of long underwear. Pray for purchase as you crunch and slip over the unpredictable winter terrain.

Everyone should commune with nature on midwinter’s eve, unless you have a headache or you’re tired, in which case you should watch The Dark Crystal.

The reasons why one should watch this Jim Henson masterpiece are limitless, but for hikers and nature enthusiasts this epic film adventure holds special appeal.

The hero, Jen, is sent on a mission by his foster father, the dying leader of the Mystics. As Jen tries to discover how to save the world from evil, he travels through the most stunning imaginary landscapes. He ventures through puppet bogs where even the smallest polyps gurgle and burp and into rocky wastelands inhabited by creatures that appear to be a cross between the common tumbleweed and a sea anemone.

Meanwhile the remaining members of Jen’s foster family set out on their own journey, by foot. The old Mystics lumber along, slow and steady, like they never have and never will do anything else. As an avid slow-hiker, this fills me with great pleasure. I often think of these creatures that look so much like small plant eating dinosaurs. As I totter along the trail, my backpack pitching back and forth adding extra sway to my slow rolling gait, I wish that I too had four three-fingered arms.

But scenery and slow-hiking Mystics are not all this film has to offer. In the dark cold bleakness of winter, it warms the heart with a love story of the best variety: clumsy, clueless boy meets wild and savvy arrow wielding girl. And to top it all off, the major plot point revolves around a peculiar celestial alignment making this the perfect film to celebrate this lovely celestial event.

The Dark Crystal is a timeless classic, if you can forgive the special effects. It’s not their fault that they were created in1982.

Giant Mushrooms and Mad Scientists

2009-12-13T20:38:00.013-05:00

You are hiking in the woods. Giant mushrooms attack. They are coming fast, red mushrooms with white dots. Thank goodness they seem compelled to travel in a straight line, single file like an old video game. As the menacing mushrooms float in for the attack, you crouch, muscles pulsing with anticipation. You leap and your legs fly whipping about in a round house super whammy kick fest. White puffy flesh flies; chunks rain down. You triumph.

It’s OK to harbor secret fantasies of invincibility, but they are fantasies. If you think you can really kick fungal ass so easily, you have some things to learn.What if you were not attacked by light and fluffy mushrooms but by one of the gelatinous, gooey indeterminant species? You can damage the indeterminant fungi but they’ll continue to grow. They can even envelope the living. Kick and scream all you like, but these rare mushrooms could grow right over you.

That is, if you’re small enough or the mushroom is big enough. The book, Mycelium Running, by Paul Stamets, where I acquired a knowledge of these beastly fungi, didn't specify the size. They’re kind of small in the picture though. But mushroom size can be misleading, what you see is only the sex organ. The organism, the mycelium, is in the ground. Some of these mycelial mats, like that of the Honey Mushroom, can cover acres and acres, but it’s just one predatory and parasitic organism lurking in the soil and popping up with pretty little honey colored mushrooms all about.

If the Honey Mushroom was an indeterminat species, you'd never make it out alive. That is why we must keep the mad scientists in the dark. Who knows what they might engineer? Stamets himself proposes a fungal revolution to save the world using fungi to combat problems as far flung as environmental pollution to overly small brussels sprouts. But not all people have the world’s best interest in mind. In the hands of the wrong people this knowledge could lead to a post apocalyptic age where Super Mario Bros 3 meets The Blob and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.

[This is installment 2 of my Mushroom Quest Series. I have yet to figure out what that orange stuff on the log was, but I have learned lots of quasi related stuff. All inserted facts above were from Mycelium Running by Paul Stamets published in 2005 by Ten Speed Press. I specifically refer to information found on pages 2, 6, 12, 21, 82, 191.]

Strolling the AT Section 1 Part 2: Accidental Paradise

2009-12-06T22:18:00.010-05:00

In yesterday’s gripping post, Slow-Hiking the AT Section 1 Part 1, my hubris was hacked down before your very eyes. To add dramatic flair, I made it seem like we encountered nothing but toil and strife. By withholding some details I blew others way out of proportion, heh, heh. The focus of the story became the only two elements of the trip that could have been improved. In fact, what we found on our first AT excursion was near perfection.

We hiked southbound on a beautiful afternoon for a couple miles to some spot we saw on the map that had a shelter. I know it sounds boring, but I assure you we enjoyed it thoroughly. The mosquitoes were hibernating, but the late afternoon sun was warm enough to make Upper Goose Pond too appealing to resist. Swimming surrounded by the fall colors of New England is a most treasured indulgence.

Our trip was so idyllic it was unnerving. The “shelter” was for all intents and purposes a log B&B courtesy of the ATC. The caretakers welcomed us with open arms, provided a key to the canoe and said breakfast would be served at 7am. This was most disconcerting. Hiking is not supposed to be tribulation free, let alone catered. We looked around sheepishly. How did we end up here? Purportedly, we had just landed at the nicest shelter on the entire 2,178 miles of the AT. I didn’t and don’t doubt the veracity of the claim. For those who’ve been on the trail for months this is a well earned oasis. We were more than a little uncomfortably aware that we were greenhorns little more than 2 miles from our car.

Because we had a puppy with us, we slept in our tent on a platform instead of in the “shelter.” I didn’t completely misconstrue everything yesterday, my butt was cold despite the puppy’s warmth and we were sleeping on very hard wood slats. But in the morning we awoke, as promised, to the dulcet tones of the caretaker inviting us to breakfast. “Annie, Tara, are you awake? The coffee is hot and so are the pancakes.” It was sinful.

It was too good to be true and we both knew it. As the day progressed, so did our apprehension. Shouldn’t we at least be subject to torrential rain for twelve hours for having the audacity to hike in late September? Around every tree we expected the worst. Would we step on a bees’ nest and be chased 3 miles off trail and wander around looking for signs of civilization only to stumble upon the parking lot of an adult nightclub frequented by truckers?

We had mentally prepared ourselves for hardships untold. That’s what hiking is about. And there we were stuck in paradise. We felt like cheaters. But feeling like we were getting away with something was just another thrill to be coveted. And about my blatant abuse of perspective, well, now you know: never trust a story teller. But that’s not to say you shouldn’t trust the story, there may be intrinsic truths hidden within. Of course, there may not be either.

[Thank you for participating in The Sunday Hiker's first week extravaganza. Stay tuned for next Sunday's post which will hopefully contain more rotting logs and fungi! Note: the photo above was taken by my splendiferous hiking buddy Tara on our first AT hike 9/28/07 at Upper Goose Pond near Lee MA.]

Slow-Hiking the AT Section 1 Part 1: Hubris

2009-12-05T22:32:00.019-05:00

“If you can’t be confident, be arrogant!” my math professor said. It was excellent advice. Yet I never managed to walk up to the chalkboard and write a proof with anything but dread and terror in my eyes and on my sleeve. It was, I believe, most unbecoming. Alas, at the time it was the best I could do. Though I do not posses the talent of summoning hubris on demand, I do parade around a fair bit of unfounded arrogance at odd times.

Unfortunately, I did so while packing for my first overnight hiking trip (AT in MA - Lee to Tyringham). “I won’t need this wussy camping pad,” I thought and tossed aside the heavily duct-taped blue foam. It is not surprising that my macho instinct kicked in. I have a long history of toughness-proving activities: riding red motorcycles, hitchhiking, eating roast guinea pig, wearing fishnets. All of these character building experiences bolstered my all important self-image as a badass (yet deceptively innocent looking) girrrl. I never regretted any such activities, until I left the camping pad at home. It was a mistake most ardently regretted. My hips ached, my butt was cold. I did not sleep. As it turns out I am now old and wussy. Ergo, new packing rule number 1 – bring a camping pad. If you don’t have a camping pad, bring your mattress.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but on day two I began to amuse myself at the expense of others. Tut, tut, I should have known better. Really though, you should have seen these ridiculous people carrying around fandangled kaleidoscoping ski pole thingies. The terrain was so tame, even I thought it was easy to manage. My hiking buddy and I laughed and congratulated ourselves on our frugality and common sense. That’s when we came to the log bridge. To keep it short, I landed thigh high in beaver flooded goodness. And we discovered why the people had those ridiculous pole thingies.

So, when you hike, be meek. Don’t make declarations to yourself or anyone else about your superiority, no matter how true they may seem at the time. I’m warning you, you’ll eat your words or land in them or something.

[Photo: Alas, I did not take this picture (or even see the beaver that flooded the trail). Thank you to the photographer who allowed the use of it as per the terms set on stock.xchg where I found it.]

Mahatma Gandhi Endorses My Method

2009-12-04T12:09:00.017-05:00

Mahatma Gandhi believed that the ends do not justify the means (or so I have heard). He is most famous for applying this to India's struggle for independence. He condemned the use of violence to attain freedom. For hiking, we can extrapolate that one should not toil away in misery just to see sweeping vistas and panoramic splendor. One should only toil away in misery and pain if one finds at least a modicum of pleasure in it. I myself enjoy at little pain with my pleasure, but panoramic splendor just isn’t for me. Therefore, getting to the top of the mountain is inconsequential in the grand hiking scheme. (I know; I’m a rebel.)

I have been known to go to the tops of mountains but this is always a self-sacrificial homage to compromise. I suffer through being surrounded by open space and steep drop offs, in hopes that I’ll be humored on the way back down. On the descent I will doubtlessly be entranced by woodland sprites who’ll compel me to watch the light pass over fern fronds next to a babbling brook. Of course there will be a moss covered log or two. Rotting logs are my favorite, especially when they’re all fungusy.

On the topic of fungus, I’m on a mushroom quest. Regrettably the quest is in a sad state. I had such high hopes for my mushroom field guide, but beyond giving the common and scientific names, where it grows and a description, it really doesn't say much. I find this most irritating. I am generally quite content to make up my own names, thank you.

What I want to know is everything else. What that everything else might be is nicely summarized by this Science Friday interview of mycologist Roy Halling, president of the Mycology Society of America.

Yep, this is the kind of information I’d like to have… now I just have to get my fingers on more than a field guide.

[Note: If you want to know more about mushrooms, please check out the awesome blog written by Cornell's mycology department. I have also added a link to Science Friday, because they are just cool. Both are now listed in my "links of interest." I didn't photograph Gandhi. This particular photo is used so frequently that I can't imagine it is copyrighted. I hope this is true and that the piracy gods don't smite me.]

Taking On the Wilderness Alone

2009-12-03T15:35:00.010-05:00

Americans love stories about conquering nature. There are all kinds of famous books about surviving alone in the wilderness. I haven’t read them. As previously discussed, books are dangerous.

Keeping certain books closed is not always enough to safeguard from imprudent ideas. Some ideas sneak out of their books at night. They menace the unsuspecting and lurk about like mental ectoplasm. I must have walked through an errant pocket of the stuff once myself, for at one time I entertained fantasies in which I was alone. In case you have failed to insulate yourself from such notions, I offer you a cautionary tale.

Once upon a time there was a girl who had a week that needed killing. Semi-stranded in the southwest, she decided to go it alone. She set up a tent and lived on a creek with a can of sardines and some cheese. The first day she played harmonica in the early morning sun. She breakfasted and sat down to write postcards. All her postcards written, she looked around and could think of nothing better to do than launder her under things. She gathered them up and waded into the creek. A leech got her.”

Do not attempt such foolery, don’t go into the wilderness alone - there could be leeches. See the beatific picture at the top of this post? There could be leeches there too.

You are now convinced and want guidance in finding a hiking partner. Don’t fret; I’ll blog about that in the very near future. Oh, were you fretting about something else?

I’m sorry I didn't mean to cause you undue anxiety. No doubt, you are wondering what happened to the girl. I only held you in suspense this long to illustrate the most important of points. We might never have known what happened to her, for she found herself alone with leeches. But, in this case we do know: despite acute emotional trauma, the girl survived.

Heart pounding and nauseous, the girl packed her tent and walked. She put her thumb out on the first strip of concrete she encountered. In the nearest town she met some street musicians and talked them into driving her to the Grand Canyon.

[Please feel free to post your own leech stories or stranded-in-the-wilderness-alone stories and stay tuned for, “Finding the Perfect Partner In Crime”. The photo above was taken 11/15/09 on North Sugarloaf near Deerfield MA.]

The Hiker’s Dress Code

2009-12-02T20:15:00.010-05:00

1) Don’t dress like an REI or LLBean model. If you look “put together” you might as well wear sign saying, “I don’t belong here.” If you want to fit in, scrounge for your clothing, the geekier the better. This came surprisingly easy to me. Even on my first trip I probably fooled a couple of people on the trail into thinking I was a real hiker. I wore bright white long underwear with teal surfer shorts, a purple striped lycra tanktop and my light blue gardening visor. The one with little watering cans, trowels and hoes.

2) Display your ingenuity. Always tie things to the outside of your pack. (Unless you are day hiking – then you should carry only a mini-pack or if you’re really hip – a fanny pack). Tying things to the outside of your pack communicates ruggedness and resourcefulness, traits esteemed in the hiking community. What to tie on the outside of your pack? Sleeping pads, sandals, wet laundry, tortilla chips, a harmonica or a cello will do. Do not under any circumstances tie raw meat to the outside of your bag. It attracts wild animals and will potentially offend the real hikers (many of which are vegehoovians).

3) Don’t be afraid to be obsessive. Practice defensive dressing. Don’t become a casualty of, chafe, bugs, poisonous plants or weather. Choose your least favorite pest or pests and fight back. I dress in white, head to toe, so I can see the ticks before they git me. As payment to the gods of poison ivy, I refrain from wearing shorts even in the hottest weather. In case I should perspire, I make sure my clothes fit in such a way that my delicate self won’t chafe. And finally, I layer up. The more layers you wear the more layers you can take off (as strategic poker players know) and the more layers you can put back on.

4) Dress right or die. Everyone knows that cotton kills. When it’s colder up there than you think and a squirrel eats your compass and you discover your cell phone battery just died and the trail you’re on isn’t as well blazed as you’d hoped and it’s getting dark, you should not be wearing cotton. Worse than the hypothermia is the humiliation.

Have fun frolicking in the woods, but never forget, in the forest or the field, it’s always fashion first.

[Note: I will be posting an Advanced Tips On Hiking Fashion someday (discussing racing stripes and mosquito wear at the very least). Do you have any woodsy wardrobe wonders to share? Any tips or questions on advanced and begging techniques are welcome.]

Just 2,134 Miles to Go – Section Strolling the AT

2009-12-01T21:00:00.012-05:00

In a mere two and a half years, I’ve managed to hike 44 miles, an astonishing 2% of the way from Georgia to Maine. Ok, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve only gone 43.75 miles. But, I’m most definitely on the way to a major accomplishment.

Caution – Danger – Be Warned

The Appalachian Trail Conservancy website lists 32 published AT memoirs. The number of hikers completing the entire trail has roughly doubled every decade since the 70s. Obviously, these memoirs are contagious. The more people who hike the trail and live to tell, the more people hear about the AT. It’s an insidious process really.

One night at dinner, I found a thru-hiker had been deposited at my dining room table. She was a friend of a friend of a friend. Upon arriving she proceeded to eat a full portion of my beloved in-season brussels sprouts while declaring that they didn’t really “agree with” her. Unfortunately, I’d misplaced my BB gun. As if inappreciatively scarfing my brussels sprouts wasn’t egregious enough, she began bragging. Apparently, while thru-hiking, she could eat anything in any amount and still lose weight.

Her words set off several elemental aspects of my character. My vanity, gluttonous tendencies and jealously entwined. The snarling mess of black emotions and desires tautened and then snapped, launching me into the wilderness.

The moral of the story, don't listen to the idle prattle of others (in person, blogged or published). You never know where it might lead. It's set my smooth slow self on The 30 Year AT Plan. Only, 72.6 miles needed each year (never mind that my average thus far has been 20). If you follow this blog, you might catch it too. Then, like me, you'll be grinning like a goon at the green mosses and brown fungal goos found along the trail.

[Note: above map is from the ATC website]

With Henry It Was Love at First Sight

2009-11-30T20:12:00.007-05:00

Or perhaps it was with Henrietta. When loving a caterpillar, does sex really matter? Technically, for identification purposes sex might be key, but in this case the “Peterson First Guide to Caterpillars” makes no mention of a difference between males and females of this species. It does, however, mention the beautiful shiny black face and thick lustrous hairs. Others may have white or cream hair, but Henrietta’s was yellow.

Yes, I’ve decided it’s Henrietta after all. Why not anthropomorphize on the racier side? Speaking of racier sides, Henrietta definitely has one. Little did I know it when I first laid eyes on her, but she is an American Dagger Moth.

Just the name gives me shivers. She is so bad ass. And I haven’t even told you about the pencils yet! You must have noticed them though. Absolutely striking in combination with her shining black face are the five founts of longer black hairs known as “pencils.” The fifth is a little hard to see in this photo but it is there on her tail end, trust me. Cooler still is that they are called pencils. Face it, Henrietta and I are soul mates.

I’ll dream of her this winter and know she’s wintering in a cocoon of larval hair and leaves. In the spring, I’ll look for a moth with dark “daggers,” or pointed zigzag stripes. But for those of you south and west of the Rockies, eat your heart out. You aren’t likely to see a Henrietta in your neighborhood.

No, don’t feel bad. You shouldn’t take it personally. Henrietta just prefers a hardwoods diet. She’s heavily into deciduousness, that’s all.

If you’ve got a crush now too and you need a little more Henrietta action check out this website: http://bugguide.net/node/view/505

[Notes: This picture was taken 8/9/09 on the AT between Dalton and Cheshire MA. The “Peterson First Guide to Caterpillars” referenced was written by Amy Bartlett Wright and published in 1993 by Houghton Mifflin.]

[PPS The saga continues, read more about Henrietta in Food, Sex and Extreme Single-Tasking.]

A Dog or A Blog

2009-11-29T19:35:00.013-05:00

My friend got a dog. My friend lost ten pounds. All of a sudden I wanted a dog too. Vanity motivates me to an embarrassing degree.

There I am, running through the woods in slow motion, smiling. Dog turns his big furry head and I can read his mind, “This is fun, let’s run together forever.” I think, “Yes, Dog, let’s run free forever." A glistening touch of perspiration on my brow refracts rainbows of light into the camera. Dog starts to do something strange with his backside, kind of hunkering down and quivering. Cut! I have to pick up warm fresh trailside deposits.

So, I hadn’t yet gone to the pound to find my own live-in personal trainer. I was innocently traipsing through the woods with my steadfast hiking buddy Tara. “You should write a blog, Annie,” she said. The topic of conversation previous to this frightening turn had been my speculative career as a writer. She said the words "write a blog” with apparent sincerity and a complete lack of malice.

I believe I stopped in my tracks. “No way. I would never blog."

Apparently this response angered my Muse. From that moment, I was a cursed with a cascade of ideas for a hiking blog. I found myself waking before dawn to jot down the most outlandish things. I was inflicted with an incessant infection of ideas. After a few months I would have surrendered but before that could happen I willingly turned traitor. What was the tipping point? I realized if I had a blog, I wouldn't need a dog. To write about hiking, I'd have to hike.

To kick it all off, I’ll be blogging daily for one week after which I will plug away like the literal girl I am. The Sunday Hiker will be updated on Sundays.

Stay tuned this week as I give an illicit identification of a common moth and dazzle you with the fairytale recount of my first trail trip. And in case you get the hiking bug too, I’ll be offering sage advice on what to wear. I may get a dog someday, but for now I'm all blog.