Appalachian Trail, Part 9
Decide and accept
I figured my well-used Sawyer Squeeze bag had enough life left to get me through a short month and a half of hiking, but still I brought along another similarly used one just in case. Sawyer claims their filters last for up to 100,000 gallons of water, so I figured mine was just fine. I have no idea how many gallons of water I’ve filtered over the past few years, but it’s substantially less than 100,000 gallons. Or, at least I think it is.
Sawyer makes no similar claims about their squeeze bags. Most hikers, I’ve found, replace the stock bags with something more durable. “Have you tried the CNOC yet?” someone asked me a couple days ago, which was the first time I had heard of the brand. Ironically, within 24 hours of that hiker’s comment, my OG Sawyer bag sprung a steady leak while I was filtering some clear and cool creek water. Thank goodness I had that reserve. I felt so proud of myself for having been prepared.
After a length and flat stretch of trail along the Housatonic River, I stop at a piped spring to top off my dry bottles. Before I’d even filtered a mouthful of water, my backup bag bursts, forcing me to make an emergency detour into Cornwall Bridge, CT. FarOut says there’s a fly fishing outfitter here, and, I figure, maybe they sell Sawyer products. I detour from the AT onto the river trail and head towards town. I increase my pace, trying to beat the inevitable storms brewing overhead. I call Housatonic River Outfitters and nobody picks up. It just rings and rings. Still, I press on. Trail towns are powerful magnets—because this sudden crisis means I’ll also likely end up with some extra snacks.
When the trail meets hardtop, a farmer in a motorized cart waves at me from afar, then cruises over to ask if I need a ride. “It’ll cut off a few miles,” he says. I happily accept, and roll into the quiet village while he tells me how long his family has been settled here. “Going on two hundred years,” he says. “But there’s nobody left to run the farm after I go.”
The town feels asleep. Any semblance of an outfitter has long since disappeared, and there’s no hint of a solution that will compensate for my faulty bag. I reluctantly take advantage of the town’s good internet connection and order a replacement on Amazon (I hate Amazon). I have it shipped ahead to the Maria McCabe hostel in Salisbury. Sawyer, illogically, doesn’t sell their squeeze bags separately, so I have to buy the entire getup. For the duration of my remaining time on this section, I’ll be forced to lug not only two extra bags, but an extra filter and a bunch of accessories, too.
But Maria McCabe hostel is 23 hard miles ahead, and my reservation there is for tomorrow night, not tonight. So basically I’ll need to carry a day and a half’s worth of potable water to land me there safely. I stop at a gas station and do some trail math to figure how much to buy. It’ll likely take me 12-15 hours of hiking to get to the hostel. Which means a similar number of liters of water. There’s no way I’ll be able to fit 15 kiters into my Hyperlite pack, so I buy what does fit—9 bottled liters (~19.8 extra pounds)—and return to the trail feeling smashed by the extra heft.
When it’s evident that smartly rationing my nine liters of water isn’t going to cut it, I pray to the trail gods for water. There’s a common belief among hikers that the trail will give you what you need. Whether it’s a bungee cord, a wildlife encounter, some sunshine, a little humility, or even some water. If you ask nicely and are honest with your request, it just may land in your lap.
As I pray, I get thirstier. My dusty mouth growing drier with my desperate request. Then, in the next monstrous stretch of rugged climbing and hard miles, I am graced by a peppering of multiple water caches. Glorious stashed of water bottles left for hikers by Trail Angels. Kind strangers. Appalachian saints. Folks who know.
I make it to Maria McCabe hostel and take a zero while I wait for my Amazon shipment to arrive. Fatigue is catching up with me, and my multiple visits to Sweet William’s, the local cafe just around the corner from the hostel, plants in my psyche a terrible seed of yearning. I suddenly want to be home. To be living a life of ease, comfort, and routine. To think about everything I promised to eschew while I am out here. I gravely, and all at once, want to be clean, free of itchy bug bites, and well rested.
Out here, to wish too hard for home, for creature-comforts, or for any sort of thing that makes life easier, is a dangerous dance with the devil. It’s a super slippery slope that snatches many an unassuming hiker off the trail. I am generally good at ignoring such risky inquiries, but today my desires for convenience are winning.
I blame my intrusive thoughts on Sweet William’s stellar coffee, unique pastries, and relaxing vibe. I blame, too, the minor and inexplicable hitch aggravating my right foot. I blame my lack of sleep. My utter lack of vigor. My waning strength. I blame my recent tendency to nod off while walking. To literally fall asleep mid-fucking-stride, only to wake up as catch myself before falling into a patch of poison ivy. I sip my second espresso drink of the morning and wonder about why I am blaming anything. Blaming, it seems, is backward looking. Which is counter-productive to what I am, quite literally, doing out here—moving forward.
Part of me regrets stopping in Salisbury at all. One night in a trail town, even when it’s a shitty one, always throws a wrench in the flow of things. I often liken my town stops to biblical Samson cutting his hair—doing so immediately nullifies his strength. No more bare-handedly killing lions or wiping out armies with a donkey’s jawbone for you, mister!
Too much time off-trail, even when it’s mandated by an emergency water filter shipment, has dire consequences. Many of which make me, albeit reluctantly, long for home. These consequences are then exacerbated by what I’ve consciously pushed to the back burner. Like, what I’m going to do for money? Where am I going to live? Will I give credence to the loudening whisper in my ear telling me that it’s time to make some big changes? Each of these topics is so stressful in its own right.
Or maybe, just maybe, these tabled issues are, in fact, the culprits that are causing me distress in this quaint Salisbury cafe. Maybe the trail is telling me that it’s been a delightfully fine walk, but it’s high time to start addressing what needs addressing. Maybe it’s saying precisely what I don’t want to hear.
With this realization, I get up to refill my water bottle, and unexpectedly run into a couple hikers with whom I’ve been leapfrogging. Milkman and Hoot, both dirty and ripe, sit together at a table that was otherwise hidden from my view. It’s a joyous reunion, boisterous and indifferent to locals in the space. After all, it’s been a while. Maybe a week since we crossed paths at a shelter. I remember there was a massive downpour. Flashbulb lightning. And a shirtless, muscular dude with a hairy back asking folks if they had an extra sleeping bag. Or a tent.
“You’re clean,” Hoot says. And he’s right. I’m two showers ahead of them. My trail grime is long gone and even my loaner clothes resemble a proper outfit. His comment unintentionally puts distance between us. “I thought you guys were ahead of me,” I say. “No way, man,” they say. “We’ve been trying to catch you.” So it goes.
The three of us chat for the next hour, drinking more coffee and incessantly grazing on sweet breads. They plan to get back to the trail this afternoon, which makes me a little jealous. I want to walk. I want to chase. My filter issue reminds them of a guy they met who’s drinking straight from streams. No filter. “I want to be hardcore,” I say, “but I’m definitely not going to be that hardcore.”
The next day I’m back at it. After a few hours I catch up with Motown and Bluegrass, a father and son thru-hiking team. Motown says Bluegrass could hike faster, but he’s matching his pace. “If he was alone, he’d be done by now,” Motown says proudly. Bluegrass doesn’t agree.
Motown leads us through the forest, and together we move at a mellow clip until the trail forces us to scramble around a fallen tree. I end up in front, and my natural stride quickly creates a gap. But Bluegrass moves to catch up, and for the next few miles we walk and talk about all sorts of things. “I’m in a tricky place,” Bluegrass says. He’s hiking the trail with his dad, after which he’ll be off to law school. “But I guess I’m not sure if that’s what I want to do with the rest of my life.” I assure him that nothing he’s doing, or very little anyhow, will be what he does for the rest of his life.
Our conversation reminds me of a couple things I’m really good at—creating space for folks to share and listening. I ask him why he wants to go to law school. “I want to be an advocate for kids who can’t speak for themselves,” he says. He’s not exactly sure where this impetus will professionally land him, but this motivation keeps him focused. “That’s enough, man,” I say. “If you understand why you made your decision, you’ve got more of a foundation than most folks,” I say.
At some point, with his dad way behind us, Bluegrass asks me if I have any advice for a guy in his shoes. “Given all you’ve done and all you’re doing, I wonder if you might offer me any words of wisdom,” he says. This cracks me up, because wisdom is something I am seeking far more than I feel ready to dish out.
“Well,” I say, hemming and hawing while I try to think up something worthwhile to lay on him. “Whatever you choose, go all-in. Consider your options, make a choice, then give yourself over to it.” I tell him that his effort, whether it’s to be a lawyer or full time hiker, surely won’t last forever—but an all-in focus will give him tools for whatever comes next. “And if you’re only dabbling, or only half-way committed, you’re compromising the gifts and lessons at your disposal.”
My words catch me off guard. I say them with such certainty, such clarity—attributes I feel are atypical to my often circular, redundant, and occasionally verbose conversational style (all of which are likely the dregs of having taught middle school).
I offer Bluegrass this advice as if I’d been waiting for a chance to say it. Decide, accept, then go all-in. And as soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know they are words that I, too, need to hear.
Those are good words Tom.
Great advise!