Derick Lugo's Blog

5 Hurdles to Overcome When Planning a Thru-Hike

 5 Hurdles to Overcome When Planning a Thru-Hike

 

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5 Trails to Hike in Winter on the East Coast

  5 Trails to Hike in Winter on the East Coast

 

 

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Welcome to The Gift of Storytelling

Everyone has a story to share.

Whether by way of writing, singing, dancing, acting, painting or puppetry, an experience is longing to be shared.

How I tell my story.

During my childhood, drawing was how my creativity was expressed. By sketching comic book heroes, cartoon characters and landscapes, my young mind was forming stories. At the time, it was my way of revealing a crate that revealed the world around me. My hustling younger sister would sell my sketches for a quarter to her grade school classmates. Not until I was much older did I realize that she was the first to encourage my expressive outlets. She believed in me before I even knew what I was really doing.

Writing came not long after I discovered my love of books. I was so enthralled by the way words pulled my imagination into so many different directions, “Such beautiful words placed together just right, to form beautiful scenes. I want to do that too,” was my thought growing up.

Why I write.

I’ve always shared stories with others, it’s why I travel, for the need of new experiences. I love hearing stories from my elders. As I get older, I find myself wanting to share all my ups and downs, so others can either be inspire or at least be entertained. As the years go by, I envision myself as the old man with never ending wondrous stories.

Throughout my life, I knew one thing for sure; I may not be the smartest person in a room, but with the experience I seeked, wisdom was sure to follow.

It’s what brought me to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail with zero, I mean nada, zilch, nichts hiking or camping experience. Some called it a foolish move, I say, ignorance is bliss. It has given me a new way of living… a new subject of stories to share.

Why I blog.

To continue doing what I love to do, tell stories. give potential readers of my books a solid idea of how I express with words the beauty I experienced. The fact is, I can’t expect people to quickly run to a bookstore or stroll over to a laptop and order my book without first knowing something about the author.

You can stay updated on new blogs when you subscribe to my newsletter.

Peace, Love & All That Good Stuff!

If you’re interested in reading more about my wacky, yet adventurous AT experience, check out my memoir, ‘ The Unlikely Thru-Hiker‘.

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It’s Not Farewell

Racing along the trail with the Honeymoon Hikers

We pitch our tents at a picnic area, where we’re hoping we can’t be seen. I’m not sure if camping is allowed here, but I’m completely drained and cannot find the strength to hike any farther. A nonstop hike with the Honeymoon Hikers, led by the tireless Ratman, has left me thoroughly fatigued. I solo hiked 10 miles before I caught up with the couple earlier today on the trail.

The last time I saw the Honeymoon Hikers was at Waynesboro a few days ago, where I took a zero. After my separation from Magic, I welcomed a solitary day in a small town, where I could unwind and recharge. I’m now back on the trail, hiking ten more miles with the Honeymoon Hikers. making it a total of twenty for the day. It was a doable hike, still I like taking breaks; except we only took one, and a militant Ratman rushed even that lone break. 

“Okay, break’s over, let’s move,” he says with a devious smile.

“I hate when you do that and we’re not friends anymore,” I say as I pick up my bag and follow him up the trail. His wife, Tumbler, follows close behind me. 

The Honeymoon Hikers are highly motivated today, as they should be, they have a good reason to rush to the nearest town of Front Royal. Their close friends have paid for a 3-night stay at an Express Inn. After which the thru-hikers are taken to West Virginia for a night of bingo. Their friends also paid for the 85-dollar buy-in, which covers all the games, including the 10,000-dollar jackpot. To top it off, these same friends (who I now wish were my friends) gift Ratman and Tumbler a 150-dollars worth of resupply. 

Damn, that’s one helluva trail magic.

With an early start tomorrow and Ratman’s battle charges down the trail, they should power-hike into town by early afternoon. Today we reached the last Shenandoah wayside, which will get them within 19 miles of the town.

The five rest stops, termed waysides, are along the portion of the AT that passes through the Shenandoah National Park and are popular with thru-hikers. For about 100 miles there’s no concern of food shortages; most waysides have a small restaurant or a lunch counter. They also offer small groceries, camp supplies, rest rooms and drinking water fountains. Word on the trail is that the wayside’s signature blackberry shakes are to die for.

During my pre-thru-hiker days I rarely consumed milkshakes, but with my appetite now having a mind of its own. I simply can’t get the delicious treat out of my mind.

So, a few days ago, when I finally consumed a milkshake at the first wayside, I expected the heavens to open and angels to fly down and reveal themselves to me. However, what I got was a somewhat tasty shake that was too thick to be sucked through a straw or perhaps it was the price that was too high to swallow. In fact, the prices on the small restaurant menu were not thru-hiker friendly at all. However, that didn’t stop my ravenousness ass from indulging.

In the days to follow, I hiked past the next three waysides and I was going to pass this last one, but hunger once again took control of the wheel. Wanting to make some extra miles, I probably would have hiked with the Honeymoon Hikers regardless; still a promised cold beer from Ratman sealed the deal and inadvertently caused me to reluctantly yield to his boot camp method of hiking. We finally arrive at Elkwallow Wayside and although we made good time, the continuous, fast paced hike has us frazzled. Yet, witnessing a worn out Ratman gave me a tinge of satisfaction. 

Well worth it… damn, psycho drill sergeant.

Picnic tables are set around the wayside and as we drop our packs on one of them, I see Craftsman and Crappack talking to Chez-11, the first hiker that my canine companion Magic was following along the trail. 

I’m informed that Crappack, is now called Professor because of his new safari-style hat, which makes him look like looked like a professor. He is holding a large wooden staff; similar to Gandalf’s in the Lord of the Rings movies. The unfinished carved top looks like Craftman’s work in progress. The guys bring me up to date on their inflatable raft adventure through Shenandoah. They tell me that this is a method some hikers use instead of hiking the actual trail by following the white blazes that pass the 101 miles of the park. Hikers can rent a canoe and aqua-blaze down the river through this section of the AT. However, this unorthodox group decided to buy cheap rafts at Walmart.

“Where’s Machete Mitch, Turtle and Steps? What happened this time?” I ask the venturesome thru-hikers.

“Well, the rafts sprung leaks and although we brought a lot of gorilla tape, we ran out and the rafts sank.”

“Whaa…”

“Yeah and soon after, Machete Mitch wasn’t feeling well, so he decided to go home. Because of boredom, Turtle left the trail as well. Steps was meeting a friend at McAfee Knob, so she stayed back. Not sure where she is now. Professor and I are the only ones left, but we are getting bored of just following the white blazes; it was great when we were bushwhacking. Now Professor and I are getting a ride into town, so we can try to buy or rent another raft,” says the Viking-like hiker, who I get a feeling I may not see after today. It’s safe to say that if you’re bored of the Appalachian Trail, it is not an ingredient for completing a thru-hike. Then again, I’m not sure it was Craftsman’s or the rest of his crew’s intention to finish the entire Appalachian Trail.

“Brother, I wish you nothing, but danger with daggers, axes and swords. I hope you find adventure or whatever it is you are seeking,” I say in the manliest voice I can muster up.

Their ride arrives and we say our goodbyes. 

It’s Not Farewell, is my thought.

Damn, farewells to fellow thru-hikers really sucks. 

After their ride pulls out of the parking area, I turn to the Honeymoon Hikers and sense that we share a common thought… food! Starvation has quickly replaced sheer exhaustion. We buy a loaf of bread and a pack of sliced cheese from the wayside. We sit outside on a picnic table and do not stop eating until it’s all gone. 

To compliment our full bellies, the three of us share a celebratory bottle of red wine for our hiking efforts today. I sense another shift in my hike and this toast feels more like a farewell. My hiking friends will be off the trail for a few days and I’m aggressively moving on in hopes of finally catching up to Big Foot, so the chance that I’ll see my favorite hiking couple again are slim. Like the so-called real world, life out here changes, but it seems to be moving at a more rapid pace. We give a second toast to the Appalachian Trail, to what it has given and to what it has in store for us. Salud.

Morning comes and by 6 a.m., the Honeymoon Hikers are ready to hike. I can’t think straight before my caffeine fix, so they get a groggy morning adieu from me. Since they’re resupplying in town and I’m not, they give me what energy bars and snacks they have. Trail magic from the masters of acquiring trail magic… now that’s dope.

Just like when I watched Daddy Big Foot’s SUV taking part of the Moving Village away from the trail, I watch Ratman and Tumbler move on until they disappear over a hill. 

There goes the most awesome hiking couple on the AT. 

As I finish my morning routine, I keep glancing back at the area where I last saw Tumbler chasing after her fast-moving husband. I think, Yeah, it’s not farewell… I’ll see you guys again. I force a weak smile and then ready myself for another day on the trail.

You want more? Check out my travel memoir, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker.

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Beware of Boy Scouts Bearing Gifts

Boy Scouts Bearing Gifts

Voice of Reason, Babe, Shanti and I have made Eagles Nest Shelter in Pennsylvania our home for the night. As I walk over to join them for dinner at a picnic table set in front of the shelter, I hear a rapid knocking sound, like maracas or a güiro. For an instant, a flashback of my mother having a grown-up party with her musician friends playing salsa music late into the night. But, at this moment, as I look down, I quickly realize that it’s not a Latin American percussion instrument that I’m hearing. Nearly a foot away, I see a fat, black…

“A rattlesnake!” 

It may have been that I made a clear announcement to the group that there was a rattler in our midst, but more likely I was screaming with a thrilling fear as I ran back to my tent, shouting back over my shoulder, “Don’t scare it away!” 

I sprint as fast as my chancleta-clad feet can take me. I get to my tent…

Where is it? 

I search through my backpack, tossing my possessions in all directions. 

Where did I put it? 

I check my hiking pants… 

Nothing. 

I frantically continue searching until… got it.

I run back with my camera in hand and when I get there, I see Voice of Reason and Babe standing on the picnic table looking down at Shanti, who is recording the snake.

“It won’t rattle,” I hear Shanti exclaim as I approach.

“Don’t scare it away before I get a picture.” I say, running up behind her.

“Look he just ate. Come on buddy… rattle, I wanna hear your rattle,” Shanti pleads.

I quickly snap a few shots. “Wow, it’s beautiful,” I exclaim.

“Now that I’m filming, he’s not rattling,” Shanti expresses. 

She then swings her camera to the boys on the table. “Look at all these people watching the snake.”

“I’m going to my tent,” I hear one of them say.

“Okay these guys are up on the table and they’re afraid of the rattlesnake,” Shanti narrates for her video.

I look around for… ahh, I grab a stick and hurry back to the snake that’s now crawling away under a bush. 

“Haven’t you learned from your bear encounter? Such a bad idea, Mr Fabulous,” says Babe from atop the picnic table. 

“Mr Fabulous?” says someone else, but I ignore them all. 

I tap the ground next to the snake, causing it to rattle. The maraca-like sound is beautiful. 

“They can reach up to six feet,” says Babe.

I’m not sure how true that is, but the statement is enough for me to reel in my curiosity and let the snake be. I never imagined that such a deadly creature could look so magnificent.

“Okay, now he’s in striking position, Mr Fabulous,” Shanti says as she quickly moves away from the snake.

I hear someone say that a rattlesnake can strike quickly and double the length of its body. My stick is less than half the size of the snake. I shake my head at my stupidity and toss the stick away. 

One day, if I’m not careful, my curiosity is going to get the best of me.

“Okay, that was cool.” I say turning to my Lil’ Fam. 

“I had no idea they came in black,” I add, amazed.

After our first rattlesnake hoopla fades, we all settle back at the picnic table and finish our meal… well everyone, but myself. I must have been doing a lot of talking because, before I knew it, everyone was done and headed to their tents for the evening while I was still heating water for my Ramen noodles. Eventually, I do manage to eat my meal and while putting my cookware away, three grade school boys, arrive with a large pot that looks as if it can hold three human heads… I mean if necessary. 

“What’s going on guys?” 

“Hi, we’re from Troop 115. We made too much mac and cheese and our scout leader said we can bring the leftovers to you hikers,” says one of the boys.

“Oh, cool. Well, everyone’s in their tent, but they’re thru-hikers, I’m sure they’ll come out for food.”  

“Hey guys, Boy Scouts just brought us some trail magic,” I announce, as I approach our camp.

Babe is the first out of his tent and runs toward the food, followed by Voice. Shanti is in her tent and slow to come out. 

“Coming Shanti?”

“I’ll be there, Fab,” says Shanti, sounding a bit tired.

Although I just finished my dinner, my appetite has not diminished, so I run back to the shelter. I excitedly jump over a large log just to land on a smaller one with the agility of Peter Pan, well… so I thought. The log rolls under my feet, I lose my balance and fall backwards. It’s all I can do to brace myself with my right hand as it lands between the two logs. I jump up feeling a bit clumsy and embarrassed. When I recover, I glance at my right hand and notice that the top half of my ring finger is not quite aligned with the rest of the finger, in fact, the entire finger is shaped like a lightning bolt.

“My finger is broken,” I calmly say, as if noticing a hangnail. 

I clearly don’t understand what has just happened to my finger. 

“No, it’s just dislocated,” I hear someone say through my cloud of shock.

A slew of thoughts zip through my mind, like one’s whole life passing before their eyes in a moment of extreme trauma or sudden near death experience, except the thoughts are not of my past, but of my future here on the trail. 

Getting off the trail to heal is not an option for me; this will have to be taken care of right here and now. 

I stay calm so as not to scare the kids. I don’t want their thru-hiker encounter to be one of torn fingers, pain and rapid-fire swearing. 

“Oh, then in that case,” and before I can think long and hard on it, I grab the top of my dislocated finger and pop it back into place. 

Arrgh…

I have never broken a bone and my joints have never separated from each other. My body has been intact my entire life, so it goes without saying, I had no clue what I was doing when I grabbed the top of my finger and did what I did. I just knew where that part of my finger belonged and I wanted to get it back into place before I chickened out. The term screamed like a schoolgirl has been applied to me more times than I care to remember, yet I somehow kept my cool.

“Whah… did that hurt?” says the smallest of the three boys.

I lift my hand up to my face, flex my fingers and then close my hand into a fist, “Nah, actually it feels okay.”

In truth, I don’t feel any pain. 

Perhaps I’m in shock. 

“Man, that was cool,” he says smiling up at the bigger Boy Scouts. 

They nod in agreement, if not a little taken aback by what they just witnessed.

“Yeah it was,” I agree, and then announce, “Well, let’s eat.”

I continue as if nothing happened, but it doesn’t take long for my stomach to turn. I sit down until the dizziness passes. 

Mac and cheese will make everything better. 

I reach inside the pot and I’m instantly dispirited by what I see…  

Meat… there’s pieces of hotdog in the mac and cheese… curses, curses and many bad curses.

A dread comes over me… I mean I did almost lose a finger… I could use some comfort food right now, but no, I can’t eat this soothing trail magic because I’m a pescatarian. This reminds me of the time Big Foot flaunted a warm sausage muffin in my face after our rough snowstorm hike. He brushed off the seriousness of my strict eating lifestyle, then double dared me to eat whatever form of animal was used for the breakfast sandwich he sat on my lap. I did not eat the meat then and now, instead of eating the creamy warm goo in the pot, I grab a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that the boy scouts brought as well. It’s a poor substitute, but this clumsy beggar cannot be choosy. I graciously eat the sandwich without complaint.

When I finish the sandwich, I walk over to my tent. I take three ibuprofen or vitamin I, as fellow thru-hikers call the painkillers. I look over and see that Shanti is still in her tent.

“Hey Shanti, I just dislocated my finger,” I say nonchalantly.

“Whaa, are you okay?” she says, concerned.

“Yeah, I slipped on a log and landed on my finger. I’m cool… I’ve never dislocated a finger before.”

“Okay,” she says, confused.

“Are you going to join us?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry, but I’ll say hi.” 

I head back to the shelter… this time I carefully walk around the logs. When I get back to the group, the conversation is of Lyme disease. 

“Lyme disease has been an issue out here. We’ve seen several hikers leave the trail because of it,” I hear someone say as I walk up. 

“Yeah, but I hiked through it. I just kept movin’ and eventually sweat the Lyme disease out of my system. It’s what I do; I’m different like that. Shoot, I had it three times, but I kept hiking and look at me now… normal.” 

My story is absurd, yet the boys stare at me with astonishment. After seeing my mangled finger popped back into place, the kids might actually believe my tale. 

“Nah, I kid. I know I may seem like a superhero to you guys, but no I didn’t have Lyme disease… okay I had it once, but it went away,” I flash a smile that suggests that I’m still kidding. 

My head begins to spin, I calmly sit down and attempt to play it cool. 

The Boy Scouts can’t see me sweat. 

I begin to sweat.

“Thanks for the trail magic,” says Shanti when she arrives. “So, Mr Fabulous dislocated his finger,” she adds as she looks through the large pot. 

“Yeah, I thought he was doing a magic trick for the Boy Scouts,” says Voice, turning to look at me. “You presented your finger, then you casually popped it back into place. I was like, good trick Mr Fabulous.”

“Yeah, I’m just glad I was able to keep it together,” I explain, then add, “You should have seen it, Shanti. It was awesome.” 

“You should show her how awesome it was and dislocate it again,” says Voice of Reason, who at this moment does not reflect his trail name.

“It wasn’t that awesome,” I say, abandoning any form of enthusiasm that I may have had about the dislocation of my finger.

After spending some time with the kids, we call it a night. I lay in my tent observing my injured finger. 

“Wait until it swells up,” Babe proclaims as he climbs into his tent. 

Strange, but it feels like and looks as if nothing happened to it. I keep flexing my fingers; it’s a bit sore, but other than that, my finger feels fine. I must really be a superhero… yet if I were, would I have dislocated my finger in the first place? Woo woo, I know… I have a quick healing factor, like a vampire. Whatever it is, I’m fine for now, however from this moment on, I will definitely be cautious around boy scouts bearing gifts.

You want more? Check out my travel memoir, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker.

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This Thing Called Trail Magic

I’m at Harpers Ferry having lunch with Boots, Melody and Scholar. Scholar is a college student writing a paper on thru-hikers. She’s section hiking the AT while observing and questioning thru-hikers about their time on the trail. Knowing this, I (a conversationalist… ok, a chatterbox) am eager to drop some AT knowledge for our intrigued interviewer. 

“I was at a shelter,” I begin, “and there was a thru-hiker perturbed about not receiving trail magic, as if all thru-hikers are entitled to acts of kindness. I was perplexed by her complaint; it’s hard to imagine a thru-hiker demanding a handout. These gifts are solely given from the heart, not ordered like a takeout meal. I’m normally not one to challenge a person’s sense of entitlement, because character flaws should have been acknowledged and corrected during childhood. I’m not here to raise adults. If the understanding of generosity does not register for someone, then who am I to show them? I’m at a loss for words, yet this time only, I feel the need to share my thoughts on the matter, although I mistakenly assumed that the way trail magic works was common sense. 

“Trail magic is not a right… voting is a right… the pursuit of happiness is a right… oh and you got the right to remain silent.

However, trail magic is not a right. No one has to do anything for us, we chose to be out here in the woods. There is nothing obligated to us, so when we are given food, a ride into town for resupply, shelter, a shower, or any form of generosity, we should humble ourselves and be grateful. 

“When I first encountered trail magic, I felt a bit uncomfortable about taking something I didn’t earn, like a bartender accepting a tip without making a cocktail. I wanted to give back, return the favor, but what can I give? I don’t have much and like most of us who are thru-hiking, I need what little food and money I already have. Then, it occurred to me, the one thing we all have to offer is our experiences. Nearly everyone loves to hear what we’ve done on the AT and how we are doing it. I always take the time to tell the tales of my journey, for they are normally received with enthusiasm. I can see how much it means to people to hear them. 

When I get on a roll like this, it’s hard for me to stop expressing my affection for the trail.

Another special moment pops into my head and I feel the need to share it with Boots, Melody and Scholar who should be taking notes, but our pizzas are set on the table and we begin to eat the way thru-hikers do. As I start on my fourth slice, I look down at the table and wonder when it became customary for one person to eat an entire large pizza pie.

We continue our feel-good talk while finishing our meal. “There was this young section-hiker I met on the trail,” I begin, continuing with the subject of sharing our experiences here on the AT, “she must have been 16 or 17, we started chatting and she told me she was just hiking for two days and was unsure if she was ever going to do a thru-hike. I shared my story and told her that if she wants to truly thru-hike the AT, then she should just do it. Because… and here comes the corniness… if you allow it, it will change your world. The gleam in her eyes said it all. She left with a better understanding of the AT and a stronger desire to thru-hike it.” 

I’m in a life is extraordinary mood. I begin to feel goosebumps covering my arms. I share a story of when I was in Shenandoah and I ran into a cute 80-year-old couple that made my day. They talked of their teenage years and of when he was courting her. She bartended and after her shift, he would take her to the mountains so they could spoon. 

Oh, I didn’t expect that… I guess that’s sweet.

She then reached behind him and smacked his rear end, as if to say stop, but don’t. Endearing to say the least.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he said, while sharing an admiring look with his wife. 

She then took off her sunglasses so I could have a better look at what he was talking about. The years have been kind to her and I could see the beauty he was still in love with. 

“Yes, I agree, your wife is very beautiful,” I say.

He went on about his affections for her and how it would be their sixtieth anniversary in October. They were delightful couple. After all these years the spark was still there. Before we parted, they introduced me to their son, his wife and their three granddaughters, who approached us after enjoying a view a few yards off the trail. 

That was a feel-good trail magic. I continued on that day wearing the biggest smile, a smile placed on my face by that couple. 

I look over at Boots and Melody, and imagine that in many years from now, they could easily be that lovely couple in their golden years still having the same affection for each other.  

Toward the end of our talk and feast, a server comes over to our table and tells us that our check has been taken care of by a gentleman customer.

“Whoa, where is he,” I say, eager to thank him. 

“He’s gone, but he left this for you guys,” she says, as she sets on the center of the table a note written on paper taken from the servers pad.

We all lean over and read: 

Welcome to Harpers Ferry. 

Please pass it on. Please do something nice for someone else. 

Your conversation indicates that you are lucky. 

Living without roof teaches perspective. 

Best, J.

 The wonders of the AT strikes again.

“Is he a regular?” I ask the server.

“He is.”

“Let’s leave him a thank-you note,” says Melody.

The four of us leave our thank-you message for our trail angel on a similar pad:

This will be a very special pearl on my AT-necklace! Thank you!

                                                             Melody  from Switzerland

Mountains are silent teachers and make quiet students. Thanx!

                                                            Boots from Switzerland

Another important lesson we learn on the trail is the kindness exemplified by individuals such as yourself. We are fortunate to have crossed paths.

                                                            Scholar from Montana

You added some magic to our lives today. It’s the core of what we were just talking about & now living. Thank you!  

, Love & All That Good Stuff!     

                                                           Mr Fabulous from NYC

You want more? Check out my travel memoir, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker.

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Hard to the Core

Breaking rocks to make a new trail on the AT

Overdrive and I say our goodbyes to Peach, and promise to catch up with her when we return from Bob Peoples’ trail maintenance project called Hard Core. We urge her to come along, but she fears the work will expose her to a potential injury that may prevent her from completing her thru-hike. I understand and part of me is apprehensive as well, but I can’t resist a chance to be a part of repairing and building new trails on the AT. Plus, they’re looking for volunteer hikers, not experienced workers. How Hard Core can it be – right?

On Friday morning Overdrive and I signed up at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy booth where they, along with other vendors, were set up at Town Park. Bob Peoples was standing behind a long table with two large poster boards, used for the AT work experience sign up. He anticipates 200 volunteer hikers; 100 thru-hikers from past hikes and 100 from this year’s thru-hike, making it the largest hiker maintenance project. 

Overdrive and I met Bob Peoples back when the Moving Village stayed at Kincora, his hostel in Tennessee. I knew little about the hostel owner, but Overdrive was beyond star struck.

“Bob Peoples, you’re a legend, I’ve seen you in documentaries. I can’t believe you’re here. You don’t understand…” he would jabber on.

It was amusing and I believe there’s probably less devoted praises from teenage girls at a boy band concert than what I witnessed from my hiking buddy. My elated thru-brotha went on and on while Bob just smiled a big smile under a thick white mustache that if placed on a different face, would have concealed all facial expressions. 

Bob is a small guy, he’s five-foot-nothing, with a smile that seemed to be frozen on his face; it’s a mixture of adorable and disconcerting at first glance, like the difference between a happy, balloon-blowing clown and a crazed, knife-holding clown, who appears in your scariest dreams. However, to me he seems to have a friendly face, well at least I hope it is.

Adding to his appeal is his array of one-liner jokes that he delivers with comedic timing and after each punch line he gives a great laugh as if it was the first time he has ever heard the joke. Even if the joke is a cheesy one, you can’t resist laughing along with such a jolly fella. This is one of those guys you cannot help, but like. 

Like the Chuck Norris facts, there are satirical factoids about Bob Peoples. Written on the walls of a shelter, North of Kincora, we see:

Bob Peoples gives his boots blisters.

Also:

When Bob Peoples stays here the mice bring him food. 

I decide on adding my own fact: 

A zombie once bit Bob Peoples. The next day the zombie became human. 

After signing up for Hard Core and enjoying Trail Days weekend, we head over on Sunday morning to the designated place in Damascus, Virginia for a ride to our first work destination at Pond Mountain, Tennessee. Overdrive and I drive with former thru-hikers, Ma and her husband Pa. 

“I hope I don’t break a nail,” I say to the three in the car. “Oh, and heavy lifting is a no-no for me. Also, I need a 15-minute break every 15 minutes. Who’s the union rep here?” 

We arrive an hour later, and I’m carrying a heavy cutter mattock, a fire rake and loppers hooked to the back of my daypack. 

We are separated into groups of ten, with each group taking a different section of an unfinished switchback from last year’s trail maintenance. Bam Coleman, who was my only company when I was separated from the Moving Village on my first week on the trail, joins Overdrive and I, along with a hodgepodge of other thru-hikers.

“HARD CORE!” I hear someone chant, followed by another from Bam Coleman and Overdrive. I catch myself yelling the rally call as well. We are all hyped to get some serious trail work done.

With my new group of Hard Core workers, I climb up Pond Mountain. It’s a long hike that gets longer still as our supervisor begins to stop to catch his breath every 5 minutes. Other groups pass us and I begin to sense my group’s impatience. Bam Coleman is noticeably annoyed and dying to get working on the trail. Sweaty and out of breath, our supervisor finally gets us to our work area. Bam Coleman is feeding our restlessness with his irritability… everyone is ready to get their Hard Core on. But, first our patience is further tested as safety tips are given to us by our out-of-shape supervisor, along with how not to use the tools we just carried up with us. Some more instructions were given on what needs to be done before we are finally allowed to start.

“Psst, what’s duff?” I whispered to Overdrive while our supervisor continues to go over our duties.

“It’s plant matter that has not completely decomposed into the soil,” he explains.

‘Oh yeah, that’s what I thought,” I express, yet fooling no one with my cluelessness.

Moments before what I imagined was Bam Coleman’s breaking point, our supervisor finishes, and we jump right in and begin digging away duff and clearing the trail of rocks, roots and branches. 

I stop for a moment to watch Overdrive, who is in his element. He has cleared twice as much of the trail as anyone else. He is hard to the core. I continue to watch and observe the rest of my fellow hikers. They are putting much zeal and energy into this project. I begin to sense a unity among us. We quickly finish our section, and being the first group to do so, we move on to an area in need of our assistance.

It’s 4 p.m. and this section of the trail is still not open to hikers until we finish painting trail markers. The rule in making a white blaze is that when standing by a tree with a painted white blaze on it, one should be able to see the next white blaze farther down the trail. Yet, from my two-month experience on the AT, that isn’t always the case. In fact, during my thru-hike, I’ve gone some time without seeing a blaze on the trail. At times, I would stop and wonder if I was even on the Appalachian Trail. A fear would begin to creep into my over-exaggerated mind. I’m lost! Oh wait, there it is, I’m quickly relieved just before I would begin to wonder about the location of the next white blaze.

Mainly, the trail is fairly easy to follow. What may turn a hiker around are the other trails connecting onto the AT… and that’s where the white blazes come in. Not surprisingly, blazes are not in sight for us all the time. After all, there are nearly 2,200 miles of Appalachian Trail to cover. 

Someone asks for a dollar bill to use for a measurement comparison, which happens to be the same size as a white blaze.

“Here you go, but don’t play around, that dollar represents a Snickers,” I say, as I hand over my bill. 

The next day we work on Roan Mountain. This mountain was a bitch to climb when I hiked it last month, I could have used the switchbacks then. 

I’m back in the same group of guys I worked with yesterday; as it often happens on the trail, a bond is quickly made among members of our crew. 

“HARD CORE!” Bam gets us going. 

We jump right to work. There are many buried rocks we have to deal with, but we use those same rocks to fill in gaps from large exposed roots.  

“How does our trail look?” I ask a supervisor.

“You’re a thru-hiker, how do you think it looks? Would you be happy if you were hiking it?”

Ah, that’s some ancient philosophical teaching right there. Okay… ‘nuff said. 

“Oh, got it,” I reply.

By midday, after digging out rocks, covering holes, making steps and shaping a trail, we finish our section and spread out to other sections that need additional manpower. I start on two switchbacks with a few veteran volunteers. We move dead trees and rake the ground clean of loose rocks and duff. When we finish leveling the ground, the supervisor looks over our work, then decides that once we paint the white blazes on the trees, the trail will be ready for hikers to use.

I didn’t get a chance to make the special mark yesterday, so I’m eager to do so today. This time, instead of using a dollar bill for our blaze measurement, we use a grey sponge paintbrush. A white blaze is 2×6 inches. The width of the paint bush we are using is two inches, so we mark with the brush once for the width of the blaze and three times for the length, then we fill it in with white paint and there you have it, a 2×6 white blaze. 

There’s something about making a white blaze that elates hikers. Here’s this marker that all thru-hikers rely on to get all the way from one end of the AT to the other. Without a white blaze, there’s no Appalachian Trail to follow. 

“When I painted my first white blaze,” begins an old volunteer and former thru-hiker, “I had a picture taken of me painting the blaze and one of it completed. I then framed them both with the date and where I made it.”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. 

After painting what I feel is a near-perfect white blaze, I take many pictures of it. Surely I’ll find a photo that will be good enough to hang in my home.

All finished. 

Hard Core 2012 trail maintenance has come to an end and we now head back to our rides carrying sledgehammers, loppers and pulaskis through the woods. When we finally make it to Bob Peoples’ hostel, we eat like it’s the end of the world, as we know it. 

“HARD CORE!” I hear someone call, yet this time sounding more like a cheer.

Volunteers cooked a big meal for us field volunteers. A hiker named Impulse, apparently overslept this morning and missed the ride to Roan Mountain. He was assigned to kitchen duty, which left him open to jokes from the rest of us hard working trail workers. 

“Traded in a hard hat for an apron, huh?” was a jest. 

Although cooking for so many people is hard work in itself, but we were sure that his assistance in the kitchen was of little to no help. Yet, his account of the ordeal was a bit exaggerated with sweat, tears and now aches.

Our last night together was full of hiker stories and jokes. Every thru-hiker has a story to tell about their AT experience; from lost gear to wrong trails taken and plenty of poop stories in between. Stories that will bring a smile to your face, even if it’s a slipped fart while eating with a group. Never happened to me, but still a good story.

The next morning, we chant a final, “HARD CORE!” 

This time it’s more of a farewell call.

Overdrive, Impulse and I get a ride back to where we left off on the AT. After dropping off Impulse, several miles south, Overdrive and I arrive at Four Pines Hostel in Catawba, Virginia. It begins to rain, so we make the hard decision to stay the night at the garage turned hostel and return to the trail tomorrow. Besides lugging heavy tools up and down the mountains we worked on, we had five days without hiking toward our Mount Katahdin destination, and it now has us revved up to get back into the swing of hiking every day, yet that will have to wait until morning.

Trail Days and Hard Core were incredible experiences; it brought me close to hikers I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of meeting if I had continued hiking north on the Appalachian Trail. Still, I’m ready to get back on the AT and continue this epic journey. 

You want more? Check out my travel memoir, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker.

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The White Shadow & His Dark Companion

Overdrive & Mr. Fabulous – 2012 AT Thru-Hike

Like his father, Overdrive has a childlike sense of humor and at times only he finds his jest humorous. Still, even a bad Overdrive joke can bring a smile to anyone’s face. It’s not because his stories are funny, but because he, himself finds them to be hilarious. One day Overdrive and I were hiking together along a large meadow. It was a mellow, carefree day for both of us. We walked side by side, instead of one in front of the other along the trail.

“Isn’t this a good day, my Dark Companion?” said Overdrive in his interpretation of a deep superhero voice. 

His tone and the statement caught me off guard, and then filled me with laughter. 

Wanting to come up with an equally quick-witted response, I said, “Indeed, my White Shadow.”

We both had a laugh and for the remainder of the day we addressed each other by our new nicknames.

“You know, my Dark Companion, I wish my brother Matt was here on the trail with me, but since he isn’t, you’re my trail brotha,” says Overdrive. His statement is too corny for me to give him serious response.

“Shut it, White Shadow. I’m not buying the Hallmark card you are trying to sell me,” I protested, with an indignant look that I failed to sustain on my face.

We simultaneously shared a boisterous laugh until it began to affect my breathing. 

“I can’t breathe… stop,” I said, grasping for air.

“It’s not me, my Dark Companion,” he replied, and the laughter continued. 

But, then there’s days like today, when the presence of a family member can get on one’s last nerve. Today Overdrive is over-the-top with his speed-hiking and I don’t care to keep up with him. Eventually, during lunchtime, I see him at a shelter. I race past him and straight to the privy and when I return he asks, “How’s the privy?” a question I once thought odd, but now find necessary, for there are some privies that ought to be stayed clear of.

“Crappy,” I respond, giving him a what did you expect look.

“Oh, I get it, it’s a privy full of crap, so it’s crappy,” he says sarcastically.

“You’re not just a great hiking machine, you’re a genius,” I respond with my own sarcasm.

We hike on to the next shelter, our home for the evening. As we settle in and prepare our dinner at a picnic table with the rest of the Moving Village, Overdrive is eager to share his speed record of the day, “I hiked the last five miles in an hour.”

“Well, why don’t you tell everyone about the time you hiked the entire Sierra Desert with just a quart of salt water and a slice of moldy bread?” I can’t resist halting his boasting, especially this evening.

“First of all, that’s impossible,” says a logical Overdrive.

I exhale a chuckle. He cracks me up, especially when he’s not trying to be funny.

“Yeah, but not for you,” I say, with a caveman voice, I add “Me Overdrive, me best hiker in world!” 

The Moving Village, except for Overdrive, begin to laugh. Yet, it doesn’t take long for my hiking buddy to join in. 

And here’s another reason why I love this guy; he takes it all in stride. 

“Oh, it feels so good to have my boots off,” I say, changing the subject. 

There’s an overwhelmingly soothing sensation I get when I peel my boots off after a long day of hiking. When at camp, the separation of my throbbing feet from my compressing boots, plus the act of eating are two highly anticipated end-of-day activities. 

“It feels good to have your chunk-lettuce on, huh Mr Fabulous?” says Overdrive with a grin.

I almost choke on a mouthful of Ramen noodle. It doesn’t matter how many times I explain to him that the Hispanic word for flip-flops is not chunk-lettuce, but chancletas. His mouth seems to be unable to pronounce the Spanish word. Still, a part of me, hopes he never gets it right. His expression and pronunciation of the word is possibly the funniest thing I have heard him say thus far.

“Dude… you can’t ack… do that… I almost choked. You have to make sure… ack… I’m free from anything that may… ack… obstruct my breathing before you attempttosay chancletas,” I say, trying to clear my airways and laughing at the same time. 

“Are you okay?” says Halfway with genuine concern.

My eyes well up with tears and the word chunk-lettuce keeps running through my head. Like a car without breaks, my ongoing belly laughter is out of control. 

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, leaning my forehead on the picnic table.

“Was it something I said?” says Overdrive.

“I swear, if you say it again I’m going to jam the rest of my Ramen noodles down your throat, so you can get a taste of your own medicine,” I threaten, but he doesn’t listen.

“Chunk-lettuce,” he says and steps back.

The hilarious part is that he’s truly trying to say the word correctly, but his mouth seems to fail him at every try. 

This time I’m clear to laugh without choking. The others join me, it’s one of those moments when a contagious laughter runs amok through a group. It goes on for a few minutes until hunger interrupts and we begin to eat again.

My days on the trail are full of discoveries, beauty and companionship. The hikers I encounter on the trail seem to have a sense of exhilaration about being out here, they are rediscovering themselves and enjoying it in their own way. Still, if there’s one person I feel that has taken every moment of every day of his Appalachian Trail experience and transformed it into something extraordinary for himself, it’s my hiking companion. I know this because I wake up every morning feeling what I can clearly see in him every day. Many may feel this way, but few if any, can clearly express it like my trail brotha Overdrive.   

If you’re interested in reading more about my adventurous AT experience, check out my travel memoir, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker.

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Walmart… It’s A Helluva Drug!

It takes nearly two hours for me to zip out of my cozy sleeping bag, drink coffee, eat breakfast and pack my belongings before I finally step foot on the white-blazed trail. In truth, I don’t see how I can move much quicker, nor do I actually wish to try so early in the morning. Before my morning cup of coffee, nothing seems urgent enough for me to exert extra mental or physical energy. Being more of a night owl than a lark can be attributed to the line of work that kept me up long into the night. At times, I would arrive home just before sunrise and other times I would crawl into bed well after the sun had shined its first rays of light onto New York City. My day would start around midday. 

So getting up, functioning normally and having a coherent thought at sunrise, when I’m normally in the midst of a dream, is not my forte. There’s no need, I’m out here hiking, not hurrying to work or racing to catch a train. Stressful mornings are not what I came out here for. So, it’s easy-does-it for me while the shelter and camp area drains empty of all hiker presence. There’s a shift in the atmosphere when I’m left alone. I have come to anticipate the wilderness sounds that were hidden by hiker voices and their rackety morning activities. The wild finally has a chance to be heard when the last of the hikers leave camp. 

All that being said, this morning is different; I’m moving with swiftness and my thoughts are clear, not blurred with fragments of fading dreams. I’m the first one up and the first one out. Joy, excitement, eagerness and all the feels fill the air.

“I love me some Wally World,” I announce to my little trail family as we prepare to receive a ride into town.

In the small towns along the Appalachian Trail, the locals instantly know where we want to go for a resupply. Many times, when hitching a ride into towns, we’ve been taken straight to Walmart. The superstore is near and dear to many hikers. Even if you’re all for supporting local markets like Shanti, who I can see leading a march through Washington, DC for peace, veganism, organic food and small local farm businesses, you can’t deny the benefit starving thru-hikers get from Walmart’s super cheap prices and multitude of items that are worth more than its dollar value out here on the AT. 

Before hiking the trail, I rarely set foot in a Walmart, but now I find myself getting giddy with thoughts of roaming the aisles full of Pop Tarts, instant oatmeal and Nutella.

Am I a supporter of Walmart?

I’m more like a supporter of an affordable resupply, which Wally World provides for us, unlike the very few so-called hiker friendly places that boost their prices knowing that we’re in need and may have no choice, but to pay.

Exploitation like this reminds me of the New York City blackout in the summer of 2003, when a few small stores and vendors jacked up their prices of bottled water. They were aware that this would be the number one necessity during a power outage in the midst of a heat wave. Then again, wise to their loss, some stores gave away their melting ice cream.  

Damn, now I want some ice cream.

“I don’t think it’s love you’re feeling, Mr Fabulous. What you have is a case of Stockholm Syndrome,” is Babes response to my new affection for Walmart.

“Whoa, I know my feelings are real,” I feign distress.

I’m a bit confused by his statement.

“Listen, Walmart lured you in like a seductive predator and when your guard was down, it kidnapped you. You then formed feelings for your captor, making it seem less of a threat to you. It’s a type of traumatic bonding,” Babe psychoanalyzes.

“What… that makes no sense, Babe,” says Voice of Reason, the wise one. 

But, Babe kind of makes a point… somehow… I think.

“Walmart tricks you into loving it. I’m telling you it’s a real mental occurrence, Google it,” Babe adds with a sly grin.

“I sort of get what he’s saying. Walmart makes me think it’s good for me, but it’s not. It’s like an addiction. It gives you what you need, makes you feel good, and yet leaves you wanting more. Shoot… Walmart’s a helluva drug!” I say with wide eyes.

“We’re here,” announces our driver.

“Let’s do this,” I gleefully say. 

When we approach the Walmart doors, Babe says, “Look how the doors slide right open, inviting us to come right in.”

“Stop making it sound like that, Babe,” Shanti says.

“Like what? I enjoy being inside Walmart,” Babe teases.

“Babe, it’s bad enough that I’m here, even without your sexual innuendos.” 

Babe gives her his best-shocked look.

“Why Shanti, I have no idea what you are implying,” is his nuanced response.

I know how much Shanti would prefer to be at a small local grocery… it’s tough for her to shop at this place.  

“Walmart gives me good feelings. This just feels right. You know Shanti,” I say, with my arms stretched out as if to take in all that Walmart has to offer. 

I can’t help teasing her by exaggerating my feelings of joy at being here.

“This is just an oversized superstore that drives small local stores out of business. How can you support that?” Shanti grumbles.

“Support? We’re in need and you know it. Oh look, here’s an XXX-Large SpongeBob t-shirt on sale.” 

“You don’t need that, Fab.”

“But, look at the price – they’re practically giving it away.” 

“Fab, that’s because no one is willing to buy that crap,” she says, and then moves on to the food section.

I follow and as I walk through the aisle of energy and snack bars, I express a thought to Shanti.

“Hey Shantirooni, what’s one of the first items thru-hikers look for here at Wally World?” I ask.

And without missing a beat, she says, “Snickers,” as she grabs a 6 pack of the chocolate and tosses it to me.

“Exactly, it’s as if Snickers and Walmart are sponsors of the AT,” I proclaim, 

“The Appalachian Trail – brought to you by… 

SNICKERS… Do you have a hiker appetite, then grab Snickers and take a bite.

and 

WALMART… it’s a helluva drug,” 

I say in my best television commercial announcer voice. Shanti just stares at me, and then shakes her head, “Fab, you’re weird,” she concludes.

At the cashier line, scanning my surroundings, I realize how safe we would be here if there was a massive storm or a planetary crisis.

“You know, this would be the best place to be during an apocalypse.” 

“Oh, how so, Fab,” Shanti asks. 

I know she doesn’t take any of my catastrophic, zombie-eaten talk seriously, however she does go along with my delusion of an action-filled end of days adventure.

“Well, there’s enough food and weapons to keep us alive for a while. These walls are probably nuclear bomb proof. Also, imagine how much fun it would be stuck in here with all these goodies. It would be like being trapped in an adult funhouse.” 

“Fab, what is this?” Shanti exclaims, ignoring my banter and pulling a packet of Miracle-Gro seeds out of our shopping cart.

“What… it was only 20 cents.”

“But, you don’t need it. What will you do with seeds on a trail that has naturally growing plants? See you’re being brainwashed into buying this junk.” Shanti says, snapping me out of my trance.

“You’re right… damn you Walmart!” I cry out. 

I make a fist and shake it at the rafters (the brain section of Walmart). 

“Damn you, you’re abusing your power over me. STOP IT!” I feign anguish and try forcing a tear, but it doesn’t happen. 

Shanti gives me a confused look. “This place is making you crazy. We need to get you out of here and fast.”

“Look what I’m buying,” Babe says, waving a travel-size Lego set.

“You don’t need that,” Shanti and I say in unison.

When we reach the cashier, I pull out a small ziplock bag containing my ID, credit card and cash.

“Hiker wallet,” I say to the cashier observing my contents, “it’s light and waterproof,” I explain.

“Okay, cool. Well, here’s your receipt,” says the cashier.

“I don’t need it, it’s too heavy,” I say with a smile.

As soon as we exit the sliding doors, Shanti and I waste no time. We lay our shopping bags on the ground and go to work. We take everything we just bought out of its package and make a quick job of organizing it into our food bags. The speed in which we transfer everything into our backpacks reveals how many times we’ve done this.

“I can tell you guys have been doing this for a while,” says our driver, “there’s no hesitation, you know exactly what to do.”

“That’s what five months on the trail will do to you,” says Shanti.

“I’m assuming that’s dreadlocks under there?” a passerby says while pointing at my buff full of hair.

“No, actually that’s my food bag,” I respond fighting a smile. 

I then grab a Snickers and jam it into my buff.

“See?” I say, pointing to my head.

I stand there with the candy bar sticking halfway out of the side of my buff, waiting for her reaction. I must have looked like Carmen Miranda, but instead of a fruit-laden hat, I sported a chocolate filled hiker buff. 

She studies my headgear for what seemed like an extended period of time, and before I could relieve her confusion, she finally realizes the jest, “Ha, very funny.”

So glad she finally got it… the long silence was getting a bit awkward.

My backpack is now heavy with a Walmart resupply, yet I wonder how much of the weight can be attributed to items I could have done without. Was I tricked into thinking I needed more than I got? They say don’t do your grocery shopping on an empty stomach, because you’ll buy more than you need. How does that apply for always-hungry thru-hikers? Add that we can get so much for so little; Ramen noodles are 20 cents, the same price as the Miracle-Gro seeds, but much more filling. 

What, a 20-cent meal… I want 10 packs, please! Oh Walmart… you’re a hell of a drug.

If you’re interested in reading more about my wacky, yet adventurous AT experience, check out my memoir, ‘The Unlikely Thru-Hiker‘.

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Kein Witz Auf Mich

(No Joke On Me)



When in doubt, the AT always goes up!



“Burrrp!” 

“You know, we don’t do that where I’m from,” says Halfway, with a fixed expression. 

Although there are four other hikers at the shelter picnic table, she addresses her statement to me.

“Oh, okay, but that wasn’t me,” I say slightly defensive. “But, why? Everyone burps,” I add.

“We don’t do that. It’s not right, it’s rude,” she says.

I can tell that the belch has wound her up fairly tight. Still, since she’s rarely in such a mood, I find it quite amusing. So, of course I prod on. Some may say that I’m aggravating the situation, but I prefer to think of it as trying to get to the root of her gassy irritant. 

“So, you’re telling me that no one burps in Germany?” 

“No, we don’t do that,” she insists.

“Then where does all the gas go? Wait, never mind,” I crinkle my nose and nod to my backside.

She gives me a dismissive half smile as I laugh at my cleverness. 

“But, you do know that I wasn’t the one who burped?” I quickly say as she walks away. “Hey Halfway, really… it wasn’t me.” She walks on.

I’ve heard her say that burping is frowned upon many times before. I’m not sure how true it is and does she mean her family doesn’t do it or her town or the entire country of Germany.

When I first met Eva and Sonja, now Halfway and Soho, Soho did most of the talking and Halfway was the timid and shy one. Fast forward a few weeks and it’s been all Halfway. She’s not just cute, but the funniest member of my trail family. Although, when it comes to the gassy noise emitted through the mouth, she reacts as if someone slapped her in the face with a greasy drumstick. 

I wonder how she feels about farts? Nah, I better not probe any further.

Today Halfway and I find ourselves hiking together for the last mile to Spring Mountain Shelter in Greene County, Tennessee. On this warm spring day, we’re both drained and eager to finally finish hiking. The AT guide has the shelter just over a hill, yet…

“Why is it that we always have to climb up before we get to a campsite or a shelter?” I say, as we hike up a climb. 

My complaint may not be a hundred percent accurate, yet at this moment, it’s it feels spot on.

“Always happen,” Halfway agrees, as we continue up another climb.

I’ve come to enjoy every aspect of the trail, even the long mountains climbs, but at the end of a seemingly endless day of hiking, ascending is the last thing any of us wants to do.

Halfway Hikes a few feet ahead of me with a slight limp, her knee is still giving her problems. We pass an area where the guide indicates the shelter should be, or so we think. The day’s hike has been long and weary, our perception of distance may be off; add hunger and you have two hikers not thinking clearly. We hike in silence for another twenty minutes, and then as we start to climb again. Halfway turns to me and says, “Vhere the fuck is shelter?” 

Okay, that’s funny. 

Unintentionally Halfway’s accent has made her statement comical.

“I know,” are the only words I can trust myself to say without laughing out loud. 

I’m staying clear of this woman’s wrath. 

After, what turns out to be a short climb up a hill, we finally arrive at the shelter. We share a fatigued look and then go our separate ways around the shelter, searching for a clearing to pitch our tents. Once settled, we meet the rest of the Moving Village at a picnic table in front of the shelter. 

“You should have seen Halfway’s fury on the way here today. She was spitting fire,” I tell them. 

“No, not true,” she says, looking up from her Rice Sides cheddar broccoli meal.

“She was cursing in German. She said shizee…”

“Scheisse,” she corrects me.

“See, I told you,” I quickly say.

“But, I no say that,” she retorts.

“What’s the word for fuck inGerman?” I ask, Soho.

“Ficken,” Soho gladly answers with a grin.

“Yeah, she said that, but in English,” I say.

Laughing his Herman Munster laugh, Big Foot says, “Why did you just ask how to say it in German, if she said it in English?”

“Huh, because… she must have thought of it in German before it came out in English. Come on Biggie, that’s just common sense,” I say, proud of my explanation.

I turn my attention back to Halfway and before I’m able to utter another word, she says, “No joke on me.” 

“No… joke on me?” I say, through a laugh. 

She realizes that she misspoke and attempts to correct herself, “No joke for me?” 

She looks at me for approval. I give her none. 

“No joke with me?” she says with a smile. 

She clearly doesn’t know, but it has now become a game for her.  

“You joke me too?” I say to her, “Halfway, are you pulling my leg?”

“What is that, pulling leg?” she says to me, and then looks to Soho.

“It means, are you kidding with me or I should say you kid on me?” I explain.

This can go on for days… 

From the start, Halfway has been firm about her decision to only hike to Harpers Ferry, the psychologicalhalfway point for thru-hikers. Still, Big Foot and I have been trying to persuade her to hike farther than that with us.

Big Foot starts with his playful jabs and knowing that I’m unable to resist, he says, “Mr Fabulous, how do we persuade Halfway to stay on the trail?”

“Why are you leaving us, Halfway? Don’t you like us anymore? Was it something I said?” I egg her on.

“I have to go back to work. My boss will not give me three more months off,” she says.

“Why won’t he?” I say.

“She, he’s a she,” Halfway corrects me.

Oh, I get it, I think. 

“Okay, then even better, let me talk to her. I’ll give her some of my Latino-ness,” I sway my head back and forth… my impersonation of Latino hotness.

“No, you will get me fired, also I no leave my boyfriend for six months. I did before and he said, not again,” she defiantly responds.

“Then break up with him. He should support your decisions. What kind of boyfriend is that?” I goad her on, hoping I didn’t go too far for the reaction I’m seeking from her.

“No, never,” she responds as if I told her to commit a felony. 

“See what you do is, break up with him, hike the rest of the AT with us and when you get back to Germany, ask for forgiveness. That simple,” I say and hearing it out loud, I’m certain the strategy will not work, but I got a kick out of saying it. 

Halfway rolls her eyes at me, hoping that I will drop the whole thing. But, I seriously do wish she could stay with us, so of course, I proceed, “I can’t believe you’re not going to hike the rest of the AT with us.”

“Shit happens!” is her final, to the point, response to me. 

I’m both surprised and tickled at her assertion. She’s been around Americans too long, she’s picking up our verbal bad habits.

“Don’t crack wise with me,” I want to say, but I think twice of it. 

During dinner, I share the joke that seems to be going up and down the trail from Georgia to Maine and back again. 

“How can you tell the difference between a black bear and a grizzly bear?” I ask.

“How?” asks Soho. 

“A black bear will climb up a tree to kill you, and a grizzly will shake the tree so you’ll fall down, then it will kill you.” 

It’s a grim joke I know, but it’s amusing.

“Fabulous,” says Halfway with a listen to me tone.

“Yes, All-the-Way,” I respond.

“Not All-the-Way, okay?” she says, disapproving. 

“Oh yeah, that’s right. What’s up, Halfway?”  

“How can you tell difference between black bear and brown bear, I mean grizzly bear, shit?” 

She flubs through it, but I get her meaning.

“I don’t know, how?” I say, already wanting to laugh before she gives me the punch line.

“Black bear has berries in shit and grizzly has bear bell and pepper spray in shit,” she laughs.

“I like that one,” I laugh at her delivery more than the joke itself.

“Good, right?” she smiles.

“It is,” I say. 

I’m constantly entertained by Halfway, yet her compatriot, Soho, intrigues me. I’m not sure what it is, but she easily draws my full attention? Soho doesn’t say much, but when she does everyone listens, well at least, I do. There’s an allure about her easy demeanor and composure. 

Since the first day I met her, just before Lance Creek and the serial killer, I could tell she was on a mission. Their first day on the AT was a 15-mile hike. Something Halfway expressed dislike for and blamed Soho for such a forced day to start their long-distance hike. There’s definitely something going on with Soho. At times, I wonder what’s running through that mind of hers whenever I see her gazing into space. Still, we all hike the trail for different reasons, some more personal than others. Soho has her reasons locked in that head of hers. I’m not one to pry, but my curiosity is out of control out here in the woods. 

“Yeah, I saw the same documentary,” I hear her say to a German couple.  

“What’s the name of the documentary?” I ask her. 

I’ve heard about the film that has many Swiss and Germans flying to the United States for some AT action.

“Durch die Wildnis Amerikas,” Soho responds.

“Oh, cool… in ingrish prease,” I say, wishing I spoke German.

She pauses, thinking of the best translation for the title, “I think… Through… America’s Wild-er-ness,” she translates. 

“Every German hiker here on trail probably saw it, I saw it and wanted to come here,” she adds.

“I guess it was a good documentary, huh?” 

“The best, it followed a few different hikers,” begins Soho. 

I listen to how the documentary inspired her to thru-hike. It’s the most I’ve heard her say about herself… I guess that’s a start.

Yesterday morning the Moving Village stayed at Nantahala Outdoor Center (NOC), North Carolina, where there’s an outfitter, outdoor activities like whitewater rafting, zip-lining, fishing, hiking and bike rentals. There’s lodges and special accommodations for thru-hikers. The Appalachian trail runs right through the outdoor center, which makes it difficult for a thru-hiker to resist. My gang took the bait and like a fish caught in a net, they were not getting away. I, on the other hand, earnestly wanted to hike on. It was way too early in the day. I wasn’t hiking long even enough to expend any sort of energy, so my tank was still full of fuel. Plus, I felt a need to spend some alone time with Gaia. Alone in the woods with my thoughts and the nature, seemed much more enticing to me. So, with promises of seeing them the next day, I hiked on for another 5 miles.

Today however I abbreviated my hike. The blissful solo hike was what I needed, but I am a man who enjoys socializing and the Village is not far behind. So, by 1 o’clock, I find a private campsite just big enough for my tent and away from the larger camping area that would soon be crowded with tents. My camp area is near a path that leads down to nowhere, but is a perfect spot for a hidden outdoor shower. As I finish my shower and shave, it begins to rain. I climb into my tent and begin to read. By 2 o’clock I hear hikers arriving and before I get a chance to greet them, my tent-fly zips open.

“Mr Fabulous what are you doing?” says Big Foot, quickly unzipping my tent door open and hopping right in.

Now, I have a one-person tent, it’s just cozy enough for me. Adding a monster size man in my small portable home is like an 8-year-old hiding under a kitchen sink with a Great Dane. I didn’t think it was possible, but he’s actually sitting comfortably in my tent. 

He has a mischievous grin… I can tell that this large carefree hippie is up to no good, and to emphasize my thought, he presents an orange waterproof match case. He opens it and pulls out a bag of cannabis.

Oh, that’s what he’s up to.

Big Foot is not a lone smoker, he prefers to get baked with the company of others.

“Look Biggie, I don’t smoke,” I say, yet realizing that it’s a futile attempt.

“Ahh, just this once,” he says, ignoring my plea as he packs a bowl. 

“I don’t even think I know how to inhale that stuff,” I confess a half-truth. 

“Come on Mr Fabulous, I hate doing it alone,” he says.

“That’s what she said,” I quickly say.

I couldn’t resist. 

“Haha, you gotta love it,” he begins as he fills his pipe, “I buried this at the approach trail last year, and then dug it up when I started my thru-hike last month.”

“Huh… did you draw a map?”

“I did,” he says, as he finishes packing his pipe, lights it, and then takes a hit. I study his actions, then he hands it to me. 

Oh, well… when in Rome (or when trapped in a tent with a giant).

I take a hold of the instrument and play a tune. I go over all the lessons many have tried to share with me after hearing my admission of not knowing the way of the smoke and that it has little effect on me. 

Inhale, hold, release… nothing… wait… 

Within minutes our conversation goes from talk to laughter, although I don’t quite know what is so funny. My mouth then begins to feel extremely dry, as if I just spit out a mouthful of sand. 

Damn, I could use some water.

“Do you have any water?” asks Big Foot. 

Apparently, marijuana gives him mind reading powers. I search for my Powerade containers and find them both empty. 

Damn, my kingdom for a drop of water.

“My water bladder is hanging on a branch,” I reply, as if the idea of leaving the smoke-filled tent was improbable. 

Big Foot begins to talk of the log home he built, and then we somehow come up with an ingenious way of building a house on a river. 

“You’re German?” the subject changes as if on a progressive assembly line, interchanging without warning. 

Must be the ganja talking.

“Well, I am mostly German. Ma is a hundred percent and my dad is seventy-five percent. Yikes, that’s a lot of German roots,” explains my stoned friend.

“Do you speak it?”  

I’m intrigued by the language and wish to learn it one day.

“Somewhat. I try to practice with Soho and Halfway.” 

Looking over at Big Foot, I catch an unavoidable sight. I tend to hang my clothes out to dry after my day of hiking, airing out the funk of the day’s sweat. But, because of the rain today, I hung what I could inside my tent, and as Big Foot talks, I see my black, boxer shorts unsuspectedly sitting on his shoulder; it’s nearly touching his cheek. If he happens to turn slightly to his right, he will get a nose full of crotch stench. I can’t tear my eyes away from my underwear. I know I should say something, but I can’t focus on how or why I would want to.

“Hey, Mr Fabulous, I just hung my bear bag, if you want to put yours with mine,” I hear Overdrive shout from a short distance outside my tent.

“Nah, I hung mine already,” I laugh, because that’s what you do when you smoke grass. 

Big Foot joins in the laughter.

“Is Big Foot in the tent with you?” says my confused white shadow.

“No, I’m not,” says the laughing colossus.

“Oookay, I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

I can picture his bewildered look, “He’s so confused,” I look over at my monster size friend, “Biggie thanks for sharing…”

I’m not sure if my feelings are chemically enhanced, but at this moment I feel a closeness to Big Foot. His easygoing humor and his fatherly way is what brought this group together. Without his eagerness to start and keep this group together, there would be no Moving Village. 

Eventually Big Foot squeezes out of my tent, leaving my surroundings and my brain in a fog full of nothingness. I’m not sure how and why some people claim marijuana clears the mind and invokes creativity… I don’t believe it. A pounding headache begins to form and I recall another reason why I don’t smoke the doobie. My attempt to convey a structured thought on paper is nearly impossible. I give up on my book after reading the same sentence three times and forgetting what I just read. I grab my journal and scribble what I think are words. I’ll have quite a time trying to read what thoughts I had the day I was ambushed by a smoking Big Foot. 

The next evening, Big Foot and I are the only hikers in our individual tents. The rest of the Village is in the shelter. Overdrive, the weather predictor, swears that it will drop close to zero degrees tonight. I don’t think it’s going to be as bad. Yet, everyone else does and the shelter becomes filled with hikers. I personally can only stand the smell of my own funk when sleeping; I can’t imagine I would get any sleep smelling the stench of my fellow hikers. 

“Biggie, I ate all of my energy bars last night, thanks to you,” I express from inside my tent.

He’s in his tent reading a book.

“Ha, so did I.”

“Guess it’s peanut butter and Nutella… could be worse.” 

“Is that a pterodactyl?” says Big Foot. 

The screeching sound of the nearby bear cables oddly does sound like what you would think a flying dinosaur would sound like. 

“I think so, but I’m too spicy to be dinosaur food, being Latino and all. But, I’m sure it will have a feast with a large German cuisine.” 

Big Foot laughs his big laugh and says, “kein witz auf mich.”

“Huh?”

“No joke on me,” explains my giant, mostly German friend. 

We laugh and for the rest of the evening Big Foot tries to teach me some German phrases.

As sleepiness begins to take over, I try to hold onto the few words I’m able to grasp. But, in the end no joke on me are the only words I take with me into dreamtime.

If you’re interested in reading more about my wacky, yet adventurous AT experience, check out my memoir, ‘The Unlikely Thru-Hiker‘.

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