Derick Lugo's Blog, page 2

The Moving Village

The Moving Village

“Derick, did you get a trail name?” asks Soho as she breaks down her tent. 

A meeting of the minds was held yesterday evening and a few trail names were assigned. Nora is now Doc, her brother is Three Week, Kevin is still Kevin and I’m…

“Well, Mr Fabulous is what Overdrive came up with. It sounds fitting, no?” I jest, deciding that if I’m going to stick with such a name, I should have fun with it. 

In response, Soho gives a cute giggle and then says, “I like it.” 

Well, if a pretty German girl likes my new hiker handle, then you’re darn tootin I’m keeping it. 

I must remember to thank Overdrive. 

I continue to be the last one to break camp, yet this time Overdrive waits for me. We start our hike an hour and a half after the rest of our newly assembled trail group, yet by lunchtime, we gain ground and then hike not far ahead of everyone for the rest of the day. Our plan for today is to reach a campground at Rocky Mountain.

My foremost thought of the day is, to be one with the mountain. 

I’m a week into this thru-hike and every climb, whether it’s a mountain or a hill, is my biggest weakness. Although, up to this point, none of the climbs have been as hard as the approach trail from my first day, all form of incline has me panting and stopping to catch my breath… except for today. Today I made up my mind that something had to change, if not physically, it would be mentally. From this moment on, mountains will not be the bane of my Appalachian Trail existence. I’m going to conquer these energy-stealing mountains. No more dreading upcoming climbs, instead I’m going to anticipate, accept, and even enjoy every step up.

Keeping a positive attitude gets me going up Rocky Mountain. Halfway up, Overdrive stops at a stream for water. I’m feeling extremely energetic, more than usual. 

Have I finally gotten my hiking legs? 

Or is it the fact that today is the first day I’m hiking with a trail name? Evidently, being labeled as Mr Fabulous has confidence boosting properties. I’m feeling strong and energetic, stopping is the last thing I want to do. 

“I’ll meet you at the top, Overdrive.”

“Go for it, Mr Fabulous.”

I hike on, enjoying for the first time, a climb and taking advantage of my newfound strength.

When I reach the summit, I wait awhile, but when there’s no sign of Overdrive, I continue on slowly, in hopes that he will catch up. As I merrily stroll down the other side of the mountain I just conquered, two hikers descend behind me. 

“Are you Mr Fabulous?” one of them asks.

I smile at the question. It’s strange to hear someone address me by such a name. 

I wonder what they think about my new trail name?

“Yeah, I am,” I say with what feels like the biggest grin that has ever taken over my face. 

“Your hiker buddy Overdrive, I think that’s his name, said he will meet you at the Cheese Factory campsite.”

“Oh, okay thanks. Are you guys thru-hiking?” I ask, as I continue on. 

The two guys follow close behind me.

“Nah, my buddy John here has done sections, I’m just tagging along for the day,” he says.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Dave. Quite a name you got there,” he says.

“Yeah, I got it yesterday, but so you know, I didn’t name myself,” I say, looking back at him with my best mischievous look.

“It’s a good one and if I had a choice, that would be my trail name,” says Dave.

We chat the rest of the way down the mountain. As it is, they are out for a few days and since they have jobs and other obligations, they can only do a few days every month. Hearing that reaffirms how fortunate and grateful I am for having the time to do the entire AT in one season.

A mile and a half later we get to the Cheese Factory campsite. Dave and John hike a mile farther to another campsite. I would have continued along with them, but I like the company of my small moving village. I’ll wait for my group to join me here. 

The campground is the largest and grassiest I’ve seen thus far, with many sites to choose from. It sits halfway up Tray Mountain, which means I’ll have a climb to start my morning tomorrow. Still, it doesn’t matter anymore because I’m now a conqueror of mountains. 

Let’s hope this suggestive thinking keeps working for me.  

I start setting up my tent at a nice area by a campfire site. I place my tent just right for an expected fire I’m certain Overdrive will build. I’ll make sure to collect some wood after I pitch my tent. I begin to imagine our group around the fire joking and sharing stories of the day. I smile at the thought as I assemble my tent support rods. I look over at the south side of the trail and see hikers arriving. 

Oh, good I haven’t seen anyone from my group in a while. It’s got to be Overdrive with his dad and Big Foot. 

As they get closer, I see that it is not my group, but two guys and a kid. 

“You must be Mr Fabulous,” one of them says. 

I smile and say, “Ha, why do you say that?” 

“Well, we were told to look for a guy with dreadlocks, and unless there’s another, I’m guessing it’s you,” he says with merriment.

“Actually, there’s a guy that just passed…” I begin, “nah, I kid, it’s me. So, you heard from my group?” I eagerly ask, hoping they’re not far behind.

“Yeah, the guy with a white bandana said that they’re camping on top of Rocky Mountain,” he responds. 

The white bandana that he’s referring to is Overdrive.

“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointed.

“One of them has a bad knee and couldn’t go any farther,” he adds.

My downcast turns to concern, “What happened? Do you know who it is?”

“Nah, sorry.” 

Suddenly this camp area feels too large for me.

“Are you guys staying here?” I say, hopeful for more bodies to fill the void at this campsite and the emptiness that I now feel. 

“No, we’re going to Tray Mountain Shelter.”

“Oh okay, thanks for the news,” I say feeling my strength seeping out of me.

They move on and I’m left alone. I could head out as well, but my tent is pitched and much of what was in my pack is laid out on the ground. Nonetheless, I’m sure there will be hikers camping here soon enough. I’ll have company, no reason to fret.

After pitching my tent and not seeing anyone else for over an hour, I grab my water pump and walk to the water source. It’s odd, being out here alone, it’s as if I’m the only one on the AT. The seclusion feels like the Twilight Zone episode, Where is Everybody?… except I’m in the wilderness and not in a big deserted city.

When I return to my tent, I see someone tying a hammock to a tree on the other side of the large camp area where there’s several trees on the edge of camp. 

Great, I finally have company.

As I get closer, I begin to recognize the hiker. He was at Low Gap Shelter last night, sitting at the picnic table with us as we ate. He and I didn’t talk directly, although stories were exchanged among all that were there. Still, I sensed there was something off with him. He seemed annoyed, as if his reason for hiking the trail was to give nature and humanity a fare chance, but then coming to the conclusion that it was a lost cause and that it just wasn’t working out for him.  

He sees me approaching my tent and I give a wave hello. He waves back, and then continues with his set up. I decide I’m going to walk over and restore his faith in humanity. 

“Hey man, I’m sure glad I’m not alone out here,” I express.

“Hey, yeah and such a big campsite,” he replies, as he continues to work on his hammock.

“Yeah it is. A hammock, huh? How is that? Does it get cold at night?” I ask.

“It’s great. It wraps around me, keeping me warm and I have a fly that protects me from the rain. It’s light and as long as there’s trees around, I’m good.” 

“That’s cool. I didn’t even consider getting one. I was just happy to have a tent, being that I never slept in one before,” I say, now wondering if a hammock would have been ideal for me. 

He seems to be busy getting settled, so I leave him to it.

“Well, I’m going to make dinner soon. We’ll talk some more, cool?” I say.

“Yeah, as soon as I get water, I’ll join you.”

Twenty minutes later we’re sitting on a long log by a campfire site preparing our camp food.

“What’s your trail name again?” I ask, relieved that I’m not alone in a Twilight Zone episode.

“Bam Coleman.” 

“Bam Coleman?” I say, not getting it, “What’s a Bam Coleman? How did you get that name?”

“I got it last year when I did a section hike from the approach trail to Atkins Virginia, from September 8 to December 1st…”

“What the heck… you were hiking late in the year?” I say, surprised.

I can’t imagine being out here on a cold November night.

“Yeah, it was a test for my thru-hike this year,” he explains, then continues, “Well, I was at Hawk Mountain Shelter, you know, the third shelter here in Georgia, and it was my first hiking trip. It was around suppertime, there were seven of us just shooting the breeze. Everyone had their Whisperlites, Jetboils and alcohol stoves, but I pulled out a ginormous butane stove that I used for catering and such. It suddenly got deathly quiet, then someone asked if it was a Coleman stove, someone else said, ‘look it says gourmet chef, like Emerill Lagasse, BAM! Bam Coleman, that’s your name!’ And it stuck.”

“Bam Coleman, that’s great, I dig it,” I say, amused.

After dinner, I set out to hang my food bag, something I haven’t done yet. The shelters had bear cables, Big Foot hung my bag at Low Gap, and there’s no need to worry about bears in the cabin we stayed at in Neels Gap.

I search for a branch, away from my tent that I can hang my food bag high enough from a bears reach. 

How high is that? I wonder. 

I find a branch that may work. It’s about, I’m guessing, twenty feet high. After I get my nylon rope over the branch and pull up my bag, it should hang about thirteen to fifteen feet up. It’s high enough, unless there are two bears. One might climb on the other’s shoulder and snatch my food bag. 

What am I thinking, there’s no circus bears out here… is there?

Okay, I know from watching Big Foot and the other hikers that I can get my rope up and over a branch by tying one end to a rock and tossing it over. I thought about using a carabineer, but although it may be heavy enough to get my rope up and over a branch, the weight isn’t enough to get it back down to me. 

I find a fist size rock, tie my nylon rope around it, then I ready myself like an Olympic athlete about to throw a javelin. I aim higher than the branch and over it. With the rock in my right hand and the loose end of the rope in my left, so it doesn’t all go flying away, I swing my arm back and release a throw. I watch it sail past the branch, hoping the rock doesn’t unravel from the rope. The rope stays on and I begin to lower it down. I untie the rock and tie a carabiner to it. I hook the carabiner to my food bag and then clip it to the rope. I pull the bag up until it hits the branch the rope sits on, then I reach up as high as I can and tie a clove hitch with a stick about eight inches long. I let it rise until it hits the carabiner, and there you have it. 

That YouTube video I watched before I left for this trip was useful after all. 

This form of hanging a food bag is what they call a PCT method, not sure why though? I hear that they don’t even use this method on the Pacific Crest Trail.

I could have just pulled my food bag up and tied the other end of the rope to a tree, but I just wanted to test this method. I like it.

The bag is now about thirteen feet high. I can let the loose end of the rope just hang, there’s no chance of a bear figuring out that it needs to pull on the rope to get the bag, still I decide to wrap it around an adjacent tree, just in case. 

You never know about those circus bears, they are super smart.

I walk back to the campsite satisfied with my achievement.

Not bad for my first time. 

I proudly tell Bam Coleman that I hung a bear bag and that he’s welcome to add his food bag to it if he cares to. Bam’s demeanor yesterday may have been dismissive or maybe I misread him. I was indifferent toward him, only realizing it fully when I was out here alone, and in need of company. With our talk, I understood him a bit more and was able to dismiss the image of the person I mistook him for. 

And there you have it… another lesson.

I crawl into my tent, ready to read a book I brought with me. Yet, the sound of the wind blowing hard against my tent, gives off a scary horror movie effect. My mind wanders to the dangers that may linger just outside my tent.

Although Bam Coleman is not far from me, wrapped in his cocoon, this is the first night that I feel alone. I was so content, so safe with my group of hiking friends. It hits me that this trail is too remarkable not to share with others. I make a promise to myself not to take my new trail group for granted when or if I see them again. Hoping I do see them again I doze off to sleep.                                                                                                   

In the morning, Bam Coleman hits the trail twenty minutes before I do. I slowly pack everything into my bag in hopes that Overdrive or someone from my group shows up before I finish and head out. By 9 a.m. I resolve to leisurely move on. While listening to a Spanish MTV Unplugged album, I start up Tray Mountain. 

As I climb up, I suddenly hear a scream. I tear my headphones off and for a split second I suspect a bear attack. I mean why else would someone scream out here? But, then I realize that the scream came from the song I was listening to. Someone from the live recording in the audience was shouting with joy at the song being sung. 

Damn, talk about being paranoid.

I check my pants, no accidents, so I continue to climb. I seem to be on full alert whenever I hike alone. Sudden nearby sounds, no matter how far or small, is a starting pistol for a full sprint from me. I’d like to think that I have unyielding courage and that I would not budge, but instead ready myself with some form of defensive pose. Except I’m fully aware that my first instinct would be to toss my backpack at the beast and run full speed in the opposite direction.

Will I ever be completely at ease hiking alone out here, I wonder?

An hour into my hike, I reach Tray Mountain Shelter. I’m still hiking alone, with no sight of my group. I leave a message in the register in hopes of seeing them again, if not, I’ll continue with my thru-hike, grateful that I met another solid group of people. This seems to be the way of the Appalachian Trail.

In for a break… I’m missing the Moving Village. I’ll wait for you guys at Dicks Creek Gap.

                         Peace, Love & All That Good Stuff! 

                                                                                         Mr Fabulous

Feeling groovy about finally signing with a trail name instead of Derick (no-trail-name-yet). 

During my hike, a Prince song plays on. I then find it hard not to dance to When Doves Cry. Dancing is not an easy task when going down a hill, yet I find a nice rhythm to my steps and I begin to swing my trekking poles over my head. I do a quick spin, slightly losing my balance, but regain control with a Prince like squeal and if it wasn’t for my backpack, I may have attempted a half split. I then hear a faint sound other than Prince and myself singing. I pull off my earphones, turn around and see a hiker storming toward me. 

“Huh… Overdrive!” I excitedly say. 

He reaches up to me and we collide in a big embrace.

“Mr Fabulous! I was calling your name for a while, but you wouldn’t answer. I thought you were mad or something, until I saw you dancing like a madman,” he says excitedly. 

How long has it been? A few weeks? A week? A few days? Nah, only one day, a day that felt much longer. Somehow time and space run on a different zone out here… one I imagine extraterrestrials have access to. (Fact: it’s how ETs travel through space. Yup, that’s the truth) Out here I lose all track of time. I don’t even know what day of the week it is. 

“Good to see ya. Where’s the rest of the Moving Village?” 

“I saw that you called us that in the register, that’s awesome. They’re behind somewhere. I was on Over-Overdrive trying to catch up to you,” he’s racing through his words and is much more enthusiastic than usual, something I didn’t think possible.

“I heard someone was hurt? Who is it?” I say concerned.

“Halfway was having pain in her knee. She wasn’t in any shape to go down Rocky Mountain. We divvied up her gear amongst everyone to carry, so she could make it to this really nice grassy site by the summit.” 

He adds that their campsite was a half-mile past the water source and everyone was low on water. They were exhausted and some were hurting, so Overdrive volunteered to take everyone’s bladder and containers in his backpack and go back down a half-mile, fill them all up with water and hike back up the mountain. 

“Dude, that is way cool. You are a hero, a leader, a kung fu fighting hiker.” 

I say kung fu because they kick ass.

“Haha. Everyone was so done and I just felt energized,” says Overdrive.

“Because you’re an Overdrive,” I say to this machine of a hiker.

“I’m so amped up when I get to camp, I can’t sit still,” he says. 

I get what he’s saying. I’m not as wired as he is when I get to camp, but I do like to socialize and unwind for a while. 

We hike on, stopping at Sassafras Gap for lunch. We wait for our newly named group, the Moving Village. One by one they begin to show up, and with each new arrival, I share a big sweaty hug. 

“The Moving Village is back together again,” announces Soho, who also saw my entry at the shelter.

When everyone finally arrives, we head out to Deep Gap Shelter.

“I saw that you were planning on meeting us at Dicks Creek Gap, farther than we were actually going to go, it’s why I put it on over-over drive,” Overdrive proudly says.

“You sure did. We may have to add that extra over to your trail name.”

“No, I’m not doing that again. I’m taking it easy the rest of the day,” he says.

I wonder how true that statement is? Is he actually capable of a low gear hike?

“Okay, race ya to the shelter!” I egg him on, as I lead the way. 

He follows close behind. 

It’s evening, we’re all in our tents, when I hear Downhill reading from his journal, “Day one: SORE… Day Two: ACHING… Day three: Refer to Day one and two.”

Hilarious.

Lying in my tent, I’m heartened by the knowledge that I’m amongst my new trail family, the Moving Village. Nothing can harm me when I’m surrounded by hikers. I believe that and the fact that if there is a monstrous threat, then I may have a better chance of escape while it’s busy attacking someone else. It’s a comforting thought… one that eases me to sleep. 

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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Smokey the Driver

I do not smoke cigarettes and I always try to keep my distance from those who are smoking. Yet, for some unexplained reason, no matter where I position myself, smoke always seems to work its way to my face, at which point I unwillingly inhale it into my lungs, which then causes me to feel a distinctly unpleasant pressure on my chest. 

Now I realize that New York City doesn’t corner the market on fresh air, but it’s all I have. So, when I’m walking down the street and I find myself behind a smoker, it triggers a response in which I scurry past the poisonous clouds of offending smoke. Annoying to say the least, yet it’s New York City, right? Surely it’ll be different along the Appalachian Trail, where I’ll experience small town hospitality and breathe fresh, clean air that has been filtered by vast forests of vigilant trees. 

I… can’t… wait!

When the train arrives at Gainesville, Georgia, I call a cab for a ride to Amicalola Falls State Park. There I will hike the 8.8 mile approach to the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail at the summit of Springer Mountain.

As I enter the cab, the driver asks, in a less than cheerful manner, “Mind if I smoke?” 

Well, this question catches me completely off guard because in New York City, no one smokes in a cab, including the drivers. So, of course, I lose my bearings, I shrug my shoulders as if it isn’t a concern and say, “Sure, go ahead.” 

Apparently the part of my brain that stores my instinct for self-preservation and my will to live automatically self-destructs when I’m faced with an unexpected situation. I’m not sure why he bothered to ask, since his cigarette was lit and filling the inside of the car with smoke before the word sure was completely out of my mouth. This is one of those times when a little mental sarcasm in lieu of actually saying what I mean helps me to cope with this type of predicament, so I think, Oh, sure, how kind of you to share your second hand smoke with me. Oh no, really, I’m sure I have far too many lung cells… I can spare a few. 

I resolve that with the windows rolled down, there shouldn’t be much smoke to inhale. I start rolling the window down, but it stops halfway. 

Huh, childproof windows? 

A little toddler is safe from falling into oncoming traffic, just so he/she can grow up and one day be diagnosed with lung cancer. I wonder if Smokey the Driver thought of that? 

It appears that the little sarcastic voice in my head was not finished yet and I suspect there is more to come.

I also notice, that my driver has no intention of cracking his window, which I thought would be part of the deal when I agreed he could smoke.

“Can you roll your window up?” says the now ticked-off driver.

By this time we’re on the move and he actually turns around in his seat, for what seems to be an inappropriately long amount of time, to ask me this question. The little sarcastic voice reminds me that his concern for my comfort and safety are touching to say the least, while the voice that is terrified screams, Dude, please keep your eyes on the road! I quickly recover and politely say, “Oh, well the smoke was a bit much.” 

His manner makes me feel as if I have done something wrong and I’m confused as to why he’s making the request.

“The breeze makes my bad shoulder hurt,” he says, not trying to hide his annoyance. 

“Oh, okay, I thought…” I start to say, but I get the sense that he isn’t listening or even care what I think. 

He reaches over to an ashtray and puts out a half-inch cigarette that was lit and puffed on several times before. The sight of his recycled cigarette reminds me of my loco uncle, who for a while thought he was Jesus Christ resurrected. Uncle Moses (yes, a biblical name) would walk the streets of Brooklyn wearing an orange Home Depot apron; the pockets stuffed with gospel pamphlets that he handed out to anyone who would make eye contact with him. With the same zeal he demonstrated while preaching to condemned souls, he would search the ground for a discarded, partially smoked cigarette. When he found a smokable one, he would place the stub in his mouth and light it. The butt was so small that the lit end looked as if it would burn his holy rolling lips. The sight of him placing something in his mouth that, not only had a stranger’s lips on it, but was also on a dirty, urine-covered sidewalk, disturbed me more than his false claim of being the Messiah. 

“I didn’t know Jesus smoked.” I would tease.

“It’s 2,000 AD, kid,” he would say as if those were the wisest words ever spoken. 

Then with a triumphant smile, he would look up to the sky, take a drag of his nasty cigarette, turn to me and ask, “Can you spare some change? I need bus fare.”

Uncle Moses would be a welcome sight right now, but instead, I’m confronted with Smokey the Bandit here. 

A few minutes later the cab driver lights the same mini-cigarette, but this time he’s thoughtful enough to lower his window a few inches. I lower my window a crack as well, although I know that it’s not enough to vent out the cloud of smoke I find myself in. Within minutes, my chest begins to hurt and it becomes difficult to breathe. This isn’t the way I wanted to start my long-distance adventure. This must be what it feels like to inhale fumes from a hose that is running from an exhaust pipe and into a car with its windows rolled up. Funny, I don’t recall asking him to assist me with attempted suicide, but I’m sure he’s just trying to be helpful. It’s good to know there’s someone I can count on if I decide to end it all.

I don’t want to do this to him, but it would seem that my will to live has returned, so I roll my window down further, hoping his desire to relieve the pain in his shoulder outweighs his desire to inhale the chemical cocktail in his tobacco smoke. Without saying a word he puts out his cancer stick. 

Okay, great, that’s settled, we have an unspoken understanding; if he lights that thing again, I’ll just use the same tactic. 

This would be an ideal way to cure people of their addictions. Instead of pleasure, the habit in question would cause pain. I imagine taking a whack at a patient’s knee with a stick each time they exhibited an unwanted behavior. Once cured, they would thank me and limp off to their addiction free future. 

By now, I’m feeling a distinctly negative vibe from my driver. 

What did I do wrong? My mental sarcasm is only meant to ease the situation for me.

Although I’m fairly sure he’s not a telepath, I still feel the need to apologize. He then glances at me in the rear view mirror. 

Is that a look of disgust? 

I’m not even on the trail yet and I already feel like I’m out of place. I begin to suspect that he doesn’t like that I’m in his cab. I try to show my enthusiasm about being in Georgia at the beginning of what I hope will be a memorable experience, but I don’t receive a reaction from him. I understand that we will never be close friends; I won’t be asking him to visit me on the trail. Still, I’m determined to get Smokey the Driver to at least crack a smile or something that resembles one. Although he continues to give me the silent treatment, I keep a friendly demeanor. Eventually I somehow do manage to extract information from the crabby cabbie as to how long it will take us to reach the park. 

Seemly, it will be about a 30-minute nicotine bath for me.

The small amount of air that comes through the window opening begins to clear the smog enough that I’m able to observe my surroundings and the man behind the wheel. He’s small and grumpy-looking. He appears dwarfed by the steering wheel; his neck is stretched to the max from trying to see over it. He looks to be in his sixties and in poor health, which he made evident by the disturbing cough and a wheezing sound I initially thought was coming from the car’s engine. Smoking is the last thing this poor guy should be doing. His skin is rough, reddish and thick, similar to pottery clay. I begin to doubt my ability to transform his hardened features into a smile. His lips seem only to move for the tug of a cigarette; all traces of joy long since gone and forgotten. I start to feel sorry for the guy and a part of me wants to help him somehow. I observe his still, grey eyes in the rearview mirror. Not so much as a twinkle is revealed. 

Is it my imagination, or has he not blinked once? Is that possible? 

While I’m pondering his bizarreness, he notices my transfixed stare. He glances at the road and then darts his eyes back to me, tightening them into a suspicious look. I quickly avert my attention to the sooty seats and the sticky armrest. 

“RAWHCA, RAWHCA!” I jump, startled by what I think is a barking dog, but then I see the driver squeezing his face into his hand. The cough is accompanied by a convulsion that gets my full attention. And no matter how horrible this sight is, I can’t tear my eyes away from it, like watching the proverbial train wreck. In fact, I’m now concerned that we may end up in a wreck of our own. Before I can ask if he’s okay, he reaches over for his remedy. Which is? You guessed it… a cigarette. This time it’s much harder for him to light the fingernail size butt. 

But wait… dang… he’s got it lit. 

Impressive and how convenient; the cause is also the cure. 

Will wonders never cease?

We finally arrive. Yellow faced and nauseated, I step out of the cab in a cloud of smoke. I must look like a rock star in a music video. 

I don’t… feel… so good… I hope my hair doesn’t smell like an ashtray. 

I sniff one of my dreadlocks and jerk my head away from the reek it’s giving off. However, I was wrong, it doesn’t smell like the usual ashtray, it smells more like the ones you see outside that are full of butts and have been soaked in rainwater for several days. My stomach does one more turn.

I grab my gear and mentally thank him for welcoming me so warmly to Georgia and for solidifying my aversion to smoking. As I head to the visitor’s center, I hear a dog bark, I turn back to see the gaunt driver straining to see over the steering wheel while angrily puffing away at the last of his cigarette as he heads off to pick up his next victim… I mean fare. 

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A Race Against Time

Time Flies

It’s Sunday, 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I’m on an Amtrak train to Georgia. The arrival time to the Gainesville station is 7 o’clock tomorrow morning. It’s a 17-hour train ride that I ordinarily wouldn’t consider taking. A flight would have been faster, but not as convenient, due to carry-on restrictions against some of the gear I have; like my poles, a utility knife and alcohol fuel… which is definitely suspicious.

Nonetheless, I’m on a train… and so my journey begins. Though, I did have quite a time this morning getting ready. 

I set my alarm for 9 a.m., in hopes that this would give me enough time to ready my backpack and walk with it on from 91st street to 34th street, Penn Station. I guessed that this would give me the chance to break in my backpack or at least get accustomed to the weight. 

With the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, I awakened an hour and a half before my alarm was set to go off. 

This is it! I’m going to hike the Appalachian Trail! 

While sorting through my pack… for the umpteenth time, I recall that I wanted to cover my gear and clothes with Permethrin, an insect repellent that’s supposed to last up to six weeks or six washes. It’s something I should have done last night, but I somehow didn’t get around to it. My impulse to do this long-distance adventure is uncovering some flaws in my prepping.

A week ago I saw an Appalachian Trail documentary, which revealed that the number one hazard for all thru-hikers is not the wildlife, the weather or even another human being. The biggest danger is the smallest of critters, a tick carrying Lyme disease. Unfortunately, I happen to have dreadlocks that stretch down my back. I’m a tick’s dream come true.

I discovered that hundreds of ticks hang on various plants and tall grasses, waiting for animals like rodents to brush against the plants, taking with them the ticks. Those same rodents can ultimately find their way into the Appalachian Trail shelters, thus sharing their parasitic arachnid passengers with unsuspecting hikers. 

The Lyme disease issue was the first and only fact I found that caused me to doubt my decison to hike the Appalachian Trail. To some degree, it dampened my anticipation of camping or spending any time in the wilderness. To counter that, I quickly came up with a rational solution to always sleep in my tent and not in the shelters. I also purchased a merino wool buff (which is basically a tube of soft fabric about 24” long and 10” in diameter that I can pull over my head) to cover my long dreads. Turns out that merino wool stores heat in cold weather and is light and breathable in the heat. It also draws sweat away from the skin; this process is called, wicking. The beauty of it is that I can use the buff in various ways: as a headband, a facemask, a neck warmer or a headscarf. But, most importantly, I’ll use it to cover every single lock on my head. I refuse to make it easy for ticks to party on my dreadlocks. 

I layout my tent in the living room, ready to spray it down with the Permethrin. Putting the tent together took some time since I had only done it once before and I still had no idea of what I was doing. 

Darn it! It’s the twenty-first century, why can’t they make a tent that I can toss up in the air and watch it twist and turn into a pitched tent? Is that too much to ask for?

As I begin to spray, the logical side of my brain wonders how toxic will this bug repellent be to my system? Yet, as always, my carefree side is tossing caution to the wind, but how carefree am I that I’m actually shielding my gear from bugs. As much as I’d like to think that I’m a reckless cowboy… ready for anything, the cautious astronaut in me seems to take the reign more often than not.

After spraying my tent, I went over the rest of my gear and clothes, and then left it to dry for an hour. It seemed like I had time to spare, but then I looked over at the kitchen clock and saw that it read 12:30 p.m. Ok, I have an hour and a half before the train to Georgia departs. I’m not going to make it in time if I walk there. I’ll have to take the subway. That should give me enough time to get my hiking gear and myself together, right? 

While racing toward my departure time, it occurs to me that I was doomed to lose to this wretched clock on the wall. I go ahead and curse the inventor of those time keeping gadgets. 

I will not be defeated… I will catch a cab to Penn Station. Yes! I bought myself some more time. 

The tent was ready and all my gear was nearly in my pack. 

I got this!

I go over the apartment, making sure all the windows are locked and the dishes were washed. 

Damn, I wish I could bring this Italian percolator with me, is my thought as I rinse out the coffee maker.

I go ahead and bless the inventor of that coffee maker. He must have been a saint. I picture my mother’s holy prayer card with an image of a saint and a ray of heavenly light shining behind him. The white bearded saint is holding a cup of cappuccino that he has slightly tilted forward, just enough to reveal a creamy foam heart dusted with cocoa powder. 

It’s a beautiful vision. 

I snap out of my daydream and finish washing the dishes as the clock continues to tick.

I’m cutting it close. 

Not a problem, I like to think that I’m good under pressure.

The pressure is on and I feel myself cracking under it. Thirty minutes to go. I grab my backpack and I’m surprised or I should say nearly floored by the weight… literally. I brace myself on the dining room table, and then try again. As I attempt to swing the bag over my shoulder, it dawns on me… I didn’t test the weight of a full pack. I should have accustomed myself to having a thirty-pound (at least I think it’s thirty-something pounds… could be more) bag on my back before this day came.

Something else to figure out on the trail… the list keeps growing.

I’m hunched over with the awkward weight of the backpack on my back. I slowly straighten up and have a look at my image on the long, living room mirror. 

So, this is my summer fashion look for the next five to six months? 

I wonder what I’ll look like after hiking for five days? This is a perfect time to take a before picture, looking fresh and clean with my new gear and clothes on. I grab my camera then notice that I forgot to recharge the battery. I take my pack off, nearly pulling a back muscle. I find the extra battery in my pack, and with extra care not to cause myself bodily harm, I get my heavy pack back on. 

I’m now ready for a mirror selfie…whaaa…

I read a no memory card message on my camera. 

Crap! 

I take my pack off, grab a memory card and then once again struggle to put my pack back on. I haven’t even started to hike yet and I’m already sweating in clothes that will not be washed for at least a week. I take the mirror picture, and then rush out the door twenty-two minutes before my train departs. I turn to the elevator down the hall. On my first step, I sway to the left and my shoulder lands on the wall. With my face inches away from the wallpaper, I take a moment to thank it for stopping my sideways fall. I look at the trekking poles I’m holding, and thank the hiking gods that I decided to buy them the day before. I haven’t extended them for use yet, but the idea is that they will help me with the weight of my pack and keep me from falling… I hope.

I carefully step out of the elevator and into the lobby. 

“Yo, that’s a solid backpack you got there. Looks like you mean business, champ,” says Raymond the door guy. 

“I do. I’m going on a long-distance hike for several months,” I say, hurrying past him.  

“Damn, who you hiding from, Smooth Criminal?” He yells after me. 

Raymond believes in conspiracies and alien probing devices.

“From The Man, you haven’t seen me, okay?” I say, glancing back with a smile. 

“Sure thing, I got your back. Be safe, gangster. Don’t let them get you,” he shouts while scanning the street for possible secret agents. 

I get to the corner in time for a yellow taxi to pull up. 

Perfect. 

I open the back door, toss in my poles and clumsily take my pack off, failing miserably at not appearing to be a novice with this big-ass backpack. I shove it further into the back seat and climb in after it. 

I’ll make it, I assure myself. 

“Hey, Penn Station, please. I have less than twenty minutes to catch a train, thanks man,” I say out of breath. 

Without a word, he pulls into traffic. 

Traffic! 

“Can we get out of this?” I say to the driver. 

I’m normally not a back seat driver, but I can’t lose this race against time. He mumbles something about this being the fastest way and continues on his route.

“OK, I trust you,” I say, surrendering myself to the will of the Universe and to this New York City cabbie. 

He then begins to sway in and out of traffic with the skill of a NASCAR driver. 

All right, I may actually make it.

Figures pass by the cab’s window. I try to take in what I can of this remarkable city. 

I’m going to miss this place. I just returned… am I leaving way too soon? 

I look down at my hefty backpack; it contains my survival for the next half-year. I wonder how I’ll actually fare out in the wilderness? I’m torn between my love of this city and my desire to explore life. I place my hand on my new backpack and give into my desire. 

This feels right, plus New York City will always be waiting here for me. 

For a moment, there’s no clock to beat, time is on my side… it’s my ally. I look up and find it easier to take in what I can of my hometown. 

After an eighteen minute cab ride, I thank the driver, jump out and run through Penn Station. The weight of my pack digs into my shoulders, it begins to drain my strength and speed,and so I’m forced to walk briskly. 

Oh man, it’s 2:00. 

I look up at the large departure board and see that my train is boarding on Track 12. I turn around like an out of control top searching for the track entrance. I find it and run like dickens down the escalator. With my back hurting and my heart racing, I leap into the train. 

Aah, I made it! 

Thrilling as it was, I stand there for a while, wondering why this day had to be such a race? 

I haven’t even entered the woods… I wonder what’s in store for me there? 

What a way to start this adventure. Although, one thing is certain, I can leave behind the need to race against time out on the trail. 

Giving in to what will be, I now wish I hadn’t leaped into the train… that hurt!

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

The post A Race Against Time appeared first on Derick Lugo.

A Brotherly Text

My brother Carlos lives in Harlem, and like me, he has never explored the backcountry. He’s clueless about the Appalachian Trail and has exaggerated thoughts of what is needed to prepare for a long-distance hike, or am I being too carefree? Nonetheless, seven years separate the two of us and days before I leave, my kid brother is taking a parental approach at my pursuit for adventure by questioning my better judgment in the following text exchange:

Carlos – Dude, when are you leaving again?

Me – March 18

Carlos – What kind of survival gear did you get for your trip?

Me – Everything; tent, sleeping bag, portable mini stove, multitool, water bladder & more. I’ll show you what I have soon.             

Carlos – I hope you got a striking flint, axe, bear mace and a foil blanket just in case. 

Carlos – A machete wouldn’t hurt either.

Carlos – They come in small sizes.

Me – Yikes, I’m not going off to war! I’m bringing a couple lighters, no flint, maybe mace… but probably not. No machete or foil blanket. 

Carlos – We need to talk. You gotta be prepared for everything. You’re gonna need a machete to get out of a tough spot. Bear  mace is a last resort. You’re not gonna just be running into squirrels. You need to wear a holster and put the blanket in there in case you get separated from your backpack. Man, I wanna go.

Me – Backpack will be like part of my body. It’s NEVER leaving my side. Yeah, I would prefer not to do this trek alone. 

Carlos – You can always be separated from your pack. A striking flint will give you a spark to start a fire just by hitting it across steel, like with a machete, which can be strapped to you. You can put the flint in the holster. Dude, you’re gonna be out there on your own.

Me – Yeah, that’s true & I’m taking precautions in case I do get separated from my pack. But, I know if I lose my bag then this adventure will be over. So, trust me when I say this bag will always be with me. It can’t be otherwise. 

Carlos – I know you’re my big bro, but it doesn’t feel that way right now.

Me – What are you talkin’ about?

Carlos – I’m concerned. Not sure you’re prepared for the worst. It’s not just bears and mountain lions. There’s plenty of rednecks that won’t want you around. 

Me – Ha! I don’t believe that. I’m think there aren’t any mountain lions… I think. Listen, many hike the AT and it’s super safe. It’s a trail with these white markings that I’ll follow. It’ll be hard for me to get lost. It’s not undiscovered territory. Look, if something does happen, which it won’t, but if it does, I would rather go out doing life, than allowing life to do me. But, step off, Grim Reaper, I have life plans, ambitions, Netflix to watch… so much more to do. I’ll be around kickin’ it for a spell. Oh, trust! (Read that last sentence with a diva attitude.)

Me – So, chill little brother, I got this!

Carlos – At least get a small machete. You can strap it to your chest. I’ll order it for you.

Me – No don’t… you are relentless! A multitool is enough. A machete is overkill and I’m not strapping jack to my chest. Who am I, the Punisher?

Carlos – I’m not feeling good about this, but of course, I can’t tell you what to do. Good luck… break a leg… woo, maybe I shouldn’t say that, huh? I’ll talk to you later. 

Me – Hey man, I luv this life. I wouldn’t do anything I thought had the slightest chance of ending it. Don’t fret & especially don’t worry your mother. See ya.

Carlos – I won’t share my concerns. Talk to u soon.

Saturday, the day before I leave for Georgia.

Carlos – How long are u gonna be on this hiking trip? 

Me – 5 months… maybe 6

Carlos – 6 months hiking?

Me – What, you thought I was going for a weekend? The AT is over 2,000 miles… it’s no joke.

Carlos – Damn, I thought 2 maybe 3 months.

Carlos – I thought you would walk fast.

Me – Not a race… I wanna enjoy it.

Carlos – It’s a race when you’re getting chased by a red neck and you don’t have a machete!

Me – Not funny. [image error]

NYC – Up All Night

Book cover – work in progress.

My hiking book, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker is complete, yet due to length and continuity, some stories were left out. It was difficult to add them without causing some hiccups in the progress of the narrative. Still, I know in my heart, the whole story has been told as well as I could have wished for. That said, I would like to share the cut chapters and events in this blog. Let’s start from the beginning, here’s the prologue:

NYC – Up All Night



This is beyond me, beyond what I know…                                                                                                     

The time on the cable box reads 2:32 a.m. and restlessness has taken over my mind. I’m in bed staring into the dark; my head feels like a speedway with a singular thought racing around in circles with no finish line in sight. This Daytona of a thought may change me forever.

Yesterday I returned to New York City after months in Italy. The time spent abroad was extremely gratifying, still I was ecstatic about flying back home. Exploring the world and connecting with new facets of life is what I live for, yet this city has an alluring hold on me.

When I set out to pursue a life full of adventure, part of my plan was to live in a foreign country. Anywhere was fine by me, as long as it was faraway from New York. Surprisingly, after months in Italy, I felt a need to return to where I fit in, to where I didn’t have to constantly struggle to get my point across in a language I had yet to learn. The hardest aspect was the reactions I received when my humor would fall flat; my punch lines were met with straight faces or crinkled noses, as if I offended them with a fart. The laughter I tried to elicit from others was replaced with confusion and worry. I once spent an exhausting amount of time trying to explain to a couple that I wasn’t trying to eat their baby. I tend to turn to humor when I’m put in an uncomfortable situation, but doing so with limited knowledge of a language, made me feel less than witty. In fact, the blank stares I received seemed to convey that I was a non-Italian speaking dimwit. 

So, I’m now back in the States, my time in Europe cut short, in turn, making my stay in America an indefinite one. Thrilled with the situation I currently find myself in, a cross country road trip was my first thought. I can explore this wonderful country I found myself surprisingly missing. I could buy a used car and drive coast-to-coast, meeting English-speaking strangers that will have an easier time understanding my jokes, while eating all the babies I wanted. However, with no solid plan, the idea seemed somewhat rickety.

Hmm, what can I do? 

Around midnight, as I lay in bed, it hits me, it’s what I’ve wanted to do for a long while. New York responsibilities, mainly my job and my apartment, kept it at bay, but now both are nonexistent. There may be no better time, of course if I were inclined to, I could conjure up an endless amount of excuses why I should not do such a thing. However, it’s too late; the idea is embedded into my brain. Changing my mind isn’t going to happen; inspired thoughts invoke a challenge in me that refuses to go away. It’s a simple way, yet at times, not so simple to follow through. 

However, I’ve achieved plenty in my life with this ambitious drive. I’ve also made some ridiculous choices, but luckily the most serious ones were during my pre-adolescent years, while under adult supervision. For example, when I was 8 years old, I thought it would be a novel idea if I jumped off the roof of our two-story apartment building, wearing a homemade parachute, put together with cotton twine that I would tie at each corner of a white bed sheet. I had made parachutes for my toy soldiers before and they worked perfectly, so of course I can easily construct one for myself. With a few design adjustments, it would work like a charm. 

The only problem, I thought I had, was that there wasn’t an access to the roof from our apartment, unless… I made a ladder that would somehow hook to the edge of the roof and placed just over our open living room window. 

In need of tools, I went through my mother’s so-called toolbox. The box contained a small hammer, rusty nails, a dull wood chisel, a miniature precision screwdriver kit, tatting needles, a pocket knife, thread, a roll of stainless steel wire, tattered cloth, pieces of small wood and various other items that were useless to everyone except my mother and that puppet maker Geppetto. 

I grabbed the hammer and the chisel, and then ran outside in search of wood pallets that will help me up onto the top of our apartment building, so I can turn around and jump right off the roof. This was my fail-safe plan… well, until my mother walked in during my ladder construction. 

“¡Ah, Dios mío! ¿Derick, qué estás haciendo?” is something I’ve heard her say throughout my childhood.

It was Saturday, Mom was working overtime and so was I, because I lost track of time and was busted. Normally she’s supportive of my creativity or at least able to tolerate most of my zany ideas, but not when it covers her living room floor with nails and broken pieces of wood. I explained my grand plan as she looked down at me with her hands on her hips. I thought she would find my ingenuity endearing and ask if she could watch, however I was sorely mistaken.  

For years, the thought of soaring through the air with a parachute, I was sure to make, never left my mind. Except for my better understanding of weight and the drag principle of a parachute, not much has changed. If it seems like a good idea to me, it will not go away unless I do something about it or a better idea replaces it. 

At present, I’m not concerned that I have never done anything like what I am contemplating on doing. That said, I’m not sure if I will even like doing what I am contemplating. Nevertheless, it’s a challenge and it’s extreme enough that it dares me; so much so that I’m now convinced it’s something I have to do. Just the same, a part of me wonders, like that 8-year-old Derick, am I leaping into danger?

It’s almost three in the morning and I’m wide awake. As soon as this idea found its way into my frontal lobe, it replaced sleep, keeping me up all night. Sometime after I noticed sunrays shining through my bedroom blinds, I give way to rest, yet I know that as soon as I wake up, I will plunge into this new zany idea. 

A couple of hours later, I stir in bed, unable to sleep any longer. I should be exhausted, but upon opening my heavy eyes, I recall my decision. I then feel a smile making its way across my sleepy face. 

I’m really going to do it. 

I’m going to hike the Appalachian Trail and from that moment on, I thought of nothing else.

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

The post NYC – Up All Night appeared first on Derick Lugo.

Welcome to my Blog!

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.

When I was a kid, drawing was my way of revealing who I was. By sketching comic book heroes, cartoon characters and landscapes, I was letting others into my young mind. It was my way of telling my life’s story, all 8 years of it. My younger sister would sell my sketches for a quarter to her grade school classmates. Man, was she ever a hustler. 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 pull 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 wanted to share 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 get something out of them; whether it’s a lesson or entertainment. As the years go by, I want to be the old man with wondrous stories.

Throughout my life, I knew one thing for sure; I may not be the smartest person in a room, but with experience under my belt, I could be the wisest.

It’s what brought me to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail with zero, I mean nada, zilch, nichts hiking 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.

The answer.

Which brings me to the question at hand; why blog now?

With the completion of my book, ‘The Unlikely Thru-Hiker’, and six months before it’s anticipated release, I found that I still had much more to tell about my AT adventure and I didn’t want to wait a half a year to share it. Which hits a couple important points moving forward:

The purpose of this blog.

One: I want to give my potential readers 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 the bookstore or stroll over to a laptop and order my book without first knowing something about this new published author.

Two: I was forced to condense my book by almost half, in order to make it a comfortable size book to read – hey, brotha had much to say! But, I was not discouraged… well, not for long, the discarded sentences, paragraphs and chapters were not going to lay on the cutting room floor forever.

Hence my reasoning for a blog; to continue sharing my story and hopefully do it in a way that will fulfill both my need to continue telling stories and give you something to chew on while waiting for ‘The Unlikely Thru-Hiker’.

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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The post Welcome to my Blog! appeared first on Derick Lugo.