victory hang above the terminus on Springer Mtn

My days of skimping have given way to a new project: skimming.

Though I always try to be thrifty and de-possessed of my self, material goods, and unhealthy attachments, I can no longer skimp like I could on the trail. Alas, I’ve inherited new responsibilities and goals. Already I’m surrounded with goods, garbage, clothes, ads, words. Material abounds. I’m going to keep blogging, post trail, with a new project: to confront and submerge myself in these materials in order to see what floats to the top. Then I’ll skim off the fat–the trashy trash, the wordy words.

What junk don’t we need in order to see more clearly? What words and phrases need paring down, unclogging, or burning off like warts from the surface of our language, so that we can speak more cleanly with each other? My theory is that this blubber of language will float to the surface; it is the stuff that floats most closely to our ears, the stuff that is most readily accessible to loose tongues, most tempting to lazy minds and greedy senses. It is everywhere. If we would but pause for a moment, it would rise to the top and thus be easily skimmed. If we don’t, it remains unrecognizable as we drink it in, clogging up clarity with pop-wisdom and poop-merchandise.

Look for the new format and new posts soon.

For now, I’ll end my AT journey with a scribbling I wrote this past week. For those of you who don’t know, my grandma passed away while I was celebrating atop Springer Mountain. Literally I was at the terminus when she stopped breathing. I spent last week in Indianapolis and now I’m back in Chattanooga working at Rock/Creek Outfitters for the holidays. Here is my final reflection:

So Grandma is dead now—

Finally.

(Can one “be” dead?)

At least I can say it with finality—

(What else makes us confront finality so?)

She has “let go,”

“Had one foot in each world” and made her choice,

Said the nurse from Hospice,

A sweet lady (I’m told).

What an odd bag of spiritual phraseology

Tossed together with precise instruments.

They are precise alright, Hospice,

Had it down to a science—

Months, days, hours, (minutes?)—

A job well done. Well, done at least.  That much is certain.

I take back what I said about odd.

Faith and science, that’s not so odd.

That’s where we’re heading now anyway,

Not because we’ve all thought it through

And expanded our conclusions, nets, theologies,

Done some gymnastics and decided:

The two are (im)perfectly compatible—

Certainly not because we’ve realized language is to blame again,

For drawing lines and distinctions,

For creating edges and fractures

Not necessarily real, but necessary—

But because we haven’t thought it out,

Believed instead, in a culture that looks to science for security,

In precision, which takes the problem of language to an extreme,

Breaking down, breaking down again,

Further, further still (in search of what? A hollow exactitude?)

But to believe in precision still requires a dose of faith,

So let’s retain the other-worldly phraseology.

Nevermind that to live unthinkingly requires a lot of faith

(let’s not call it trust since we tend to trust no one)

Even if you don’t care a lick about precision.

Then we’re at the Cracker Barrell

(you can’t argue with that)

To break her favorite waitress the news.

Turns out she already knows,

That kind of attention earned her four stars on the apron.

Might as well try the Sunrise Sampler while we’re here,

Exchange some tears with this Patti,

And some coffee.

Cut up the pancakes like she would for grandpa,

Who died with Alzheimer’s,

Or, as my mom pronounces it, “Old Timer’s”—

That’s on the menu too, next to the Sunrise Sampler.

I have to silently curb my cynicism

About this franchise and its grand illusions,

Allusions to a bucolic past.

Were those washboards and farm instruments on the walls

Leftover from the depression and decades of disuse

Or manufactured in China?

Do they call it the Old Timer’s breakfast

Because the food is old?

(Nothing get prepared in house, only packages opened and heated).

I have to curb this because Patti’s tears are real

(you can’t argue with that).

An Irish Catholic, grandma went to daily mass,

And then Cracker Barrell—daily.

She had giftcards of course,

Being frugal and a pack rat

Like so many other Depression babies.

(Hey, I think, we’ve got a depression too,

Bloating right in front of us. Where’s the thrift?)

Once I’ve kicked the cynicism,

I realize the food is appropriate

Because grandma wasn’t only influenced by depression

But also by the 1950’s:

She had seven children during that time.

When we’re cleaning out her assisted living apartment,

I pack up the TV trays—

What a revolution in cooking!

My focus returns to the meal, and I think:

If Cracker Barrel can accommodate the sampler platter of emotions

Associated with death and remembrance,

Then swallowing faith with science is gravy.

–MKS

If you want to walk with me anytime from here (Newfound Gap in the Smokies) to Springer, text me and I’ll make it happen.

If you want to show up for the terminus party, you can either let me or my mom know. Or you can make it a surprise. (I’ll be finishing around NOON). Bring whatever food, drink, instrument, firework, boombox, etc you feel appropriate.

If you want to write a final letter, I suggest this template:

“Dear Treebeard (you wandering vagabond of a rascal, you),

Congratulations on completing this journey. Now, go shave, and welcome to 21st century society, a cutthroat capitalist marketplace where there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth. Good luck competing in this battlefield now that you find yourself without money, car, job, or apartment. Don’t fret; hope endures. Your mother will accept monthly rent. You can work for free in order to build your resume. Krispy Kreme doesn’t lock their dumpsters at night. And biking is a great way to keep the weight you lost off. Oh… and here’s 20 bucks just to help your cause and to say thanks for having such an entertaining and thoughtless blog. Go get ‘em!”

The final address: Michael Short // c/o General Delivery // Hiawassee, GA 30546 // please hold for thru-hiker // eta october 23rd

Thanks to everyone for your encouragement and support along the way.

Best,

MKS

On Friday I hiked into Damascus, the trail town on the VA-TN border, with two close friends at my sides. At altitude, the air has become chilly, the leaves colorful, and the nights pleasant for coma-like slumbers. This is what I’ve been hiking for, why I chose to go South, and the season that has been teasing me all the way down the coast since I began in a mild Maine summer. Though I’m not done yet, less mileage remains than the length of Virginia, and Autumn induces a nostalgia such that I’m already reflecting back on the trip. May this reflective mood help me enjoy the final month.

“Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.”

Come visit me in Hot Springs, NC (the closest trail town to Asheville) on October 11th or 12th… or send a mail drop to:

Michael Short // c/o General Delivery // Hot Springs, NC 28743 // Please hold for thru-hiker // ETA October 11th

Or come visit in the Smokies on the 16th or the southern terminus at Springer Mtn on the 31st!

Best,

-MKS

I nervously flip through my guidebook counting the weeks: only 2 more in Virginia to the Tennessee border? Then 1 to the Smokies? Then 1.5 after the Smokies to the southern terminus at Springer Mtn? That’s the sketch.

Really, there’s not much I can do except stay present in these woods and enjoy the fullness of the walk. Attempts at speeding up or slowing down rarely end well on the trail. They seem imprudent and possibly hazardous to the completion of the hike–speeding up leads to injury, decreased awareness, and a narrowed obsession on miles per day; and, curiously, slowing down can also lead to a decreased trail awareness as one’s attention searches out comforts, machines, and entertainment that we’ve spent so long learning how to not miss. Forced slowness can also derail a rhythm, remind the body of its deep aches and pains, and tempt one to cling onto this journey longer than is healthy. The trail, contrary to how some speak of it, is not a reality in itself but rather part of a much larger one. I’ve seen some hikers gain a greater understanding of this reality–widen their worldviews–through this experience of diverse plants and peoples; however, just as many shrink down their awareness and worldviews like a coat clung around their shoulders as they stare into nightly campfires talking about the AT as if it were synonymous with life and the world entire. My affinity for backpacking makes me wish I could say, “and it may be.” But another voice says to enjoy those nights when you can experience the world through walks and campfires and tales, but mind the word “through.”

All in all, I believe most hikers, by this point, have come into a pace appropriate for their own purposes, whether they realize those or not.

Enjoy:

Next address:

Michael Short // c/o General Delivery // Damascus, VA 24236 // please hold for hiker // ETA Sept. 30

As always, best to all,

-MKS

Some want to find out about nature, some want to promote outdoor activity, but you don’t have to be out here to do that either. Most of the time, the AT is equal in “wilderness experience” to your local park, sidewalk, and creek bed. I don’t mean to disappoint; my imagination has spent more years content playing in a creek bed than anywhere else on Earth. Backyards offer many stones to turn over, and the Smokies and Shenandoah are two of America’s most visited, yes, parks. I’m all about advocating the outdoors, but most hikers have pretty bold opinions and advice about what the trail should be, anyway.

Some want to see the vistas. You’d be better suited in a car, hitting 35 overlooks in one day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Some want to see animals. You’d be better suited sitting still instead of blundering loudly through the woods. The deer and bear in Shenandoah are no longer afraid of humans, as they encircle picnic areas and would probably eat from a hand if (when) given the chance. Is that your expectation of wildlife? Whatever satisfies…

Some people want to live cheap. This can be done, relatively well, but at the cost of hikers’ reputation in many towns as freeloaders. Some want beer and no gut. These “thru-drinkers” can also accomplish their goal, but with a similar downside.

I don’t believe any of these reasons are wrong. The number of hikers grows each year, as people are attracted to discovering wildlife, scenic vistas, faith in a Creator, adventure, purpose, and cheap food and drink. But none of these are exclusive to the trail, and no one seems to acknowledge that fact. 

There are, however, a few reasons I can think of that truly fit yet rarely get mentioned. love of walking. It makes sense to hike the trail if you enjoy the experience of walking from dawn to dusk. I had a NOBO ask me, “what’s up with all the SOBO’s still enjoying the walking part?” I don’t know, but I love it, and for me, that’s part of the wonderful mystery of both my body and the trail.

The other part is engaging in a lifestyle that many people don’t believe is an option. They wouldn’t otherwise know it is possible. By being off the radar, I hope to add to other people’s radar a kind of path previously absent. I suppose this logic is similar to Thoreau’s in Walden: “When we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to any other. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke of opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields.”

I certainly have learned to see some “solid facts” and “only ways to do something” as mere smoke of opinion. I wonder if I fit Thoreau’s notion of “an alert and healthy nature?” If not, then add that to the list of reasons.

next addresses:

Michael Short // c/o General Delivery // Daleville VA 24083 // please hold for hiker // ETA Sept. 18th

NOTE: you’ll have to send that ASAP for it to reach me. if not, use this one:

Pearisburg VA 24134 // ETA Sept 22nd

Best to all,

-MKS

The Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers conjoin here, as do railroad tracks and footpaths, the Appalachian Trail and the C&O Canal bikepath among them. One could walk straight into Washington DC, back to Maine, down south, or due west. For 1090 miles of my journey, every sign reminded me that I’d hiked less miles than the number of miles remaining. Finally, the balance has tipped, and I watch the mileage to Georgia grow smaller each day, yes, with a small ache of internal protest to balance out the celebratory aching of my feet. All things, bittersweet. All day, aching feet.

This was my biggest day yet, clocking in 32 miles by 7:30pm. However, I “slackpacked” it, meaning a trail angel (my mom) met me at road crossings, allowing me to carry little. Moreover, today I took the concept even further. I would call it “jackpacking,” because I only carried two things: jack and shit. Jack is my left-hand trekking pole, and shit is my right-hand pole, which slips more frequently than its well behaved twin. I just made that previous sentence up to soften the effect of profanity. Truthfully, I carried only my trekking poles, and I wore only a pair of shorts. Water and food had to wait every 10-13 miles when I met back up with the fantastic trail angel affectionately known as Bev.

Despite all the side adventures, I’m still in one of the first waves of SOBOs to make it to the ATC headquarters here in Harper’s Ferry where they give you a number and take your photo [less than 20 have passed through].

See the bottom of the post for the next mailing address. And to those who complain about the pictures being too dark, unfortunately, that may just be my beard taking over the foreground and background. Heck, it might be taking over the world, so watch out.

Yep

I guess the M-D line is more important than the state boundary

the OFFICIAL halfway sign

Georgia is down in that crevasse?!

Survived hurricane Irene, but not all the trees did. The trail got "greener."

some nice cushy field walking

Q: How to celebrate halfway? A: The half-gallon challenge.

In addition to swollen tongue and belly ache, I felt oddly intoxicated by this point

Mmmm. Victory.

Next Address: Michael Short // c/0 General Delivery // Waynesboro, VA 22980 // please hold for thru-hiker // ETA Sept. 10th

Hope to be seeing some of your faces soon,

-MKS

Sorry for my 500 mile silence. I’ll have to resort to bullet points for an overview. But yes, I’m now 1042 miles in, only days away from the halfway mark. You may wonder what hikers do when not walking. Here is a smattering of my side adventures; regard it like you would the sample platter at a greasy restaurant–some items sound good, others make you curious, and still others repulse you, but to us thru-hikers, it’s all delicious and we eagerly polish our beards:

• Blueberry picking at the “Cookie Lady” residence
• Working for stay at Moon in the Pond Farm
• Roadside hotdog stand
• Canoeing at Upper Goose Pond
• Bellvale Creamery ice cream break
• Startling some naughty teenagers in a park (they thought I was homeless, but I was legally staying at the pavilion)
• Killing, cleaning, and eating rattlesnake
• Hitch hiking 30 miles to tour America’s oldest brewery
• Making friends with our 4-star waitress at Cracker Barrel (heaven for hikers, by the way)

Truly these side adventures make the hike for me. To clarify, I still enjoy the hiking and the nights outside more than being in town, but I also need to have stories to tell, to stumble upon something unexpected like the nudists in VT or the rattlesnake in PA, to understand the broad experience of “trail life”  in addition to the finer details I absorb while walking. A veteran hiker once told me halfway is the hardest part; you feel equally astonished at how much trail you have left to hike as you do about how much you’ve already accomplished. Any side adventure that injects some diversity into my mental game is welcome. The small victories are how we make it, not by a constant drive to say I’ve completed the whole footpath.

I’ve been recalling two quotes recently, both of which I received in letters. From Albert Camus, “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” I won’t elaborate on my developing notion of absolute freedom, but out here, it is something worth thinking about–and experiencing.
Second, from Thomas Merton, “The poet enters into himself in order to create. The contemplative enters into God in order to be created.” Living out here for so long feels like entering into God, and may be. It feels large, sustained, disorienting, clarifying, humbling, confidence instilling, untamed. Certainly I am being created.

Three of my favorite side adventures from the list were blueberry picking, the farm, and the rattlesnake. Blueberry picking has always been integral to my summers, so it was a nice surprise and relief to eat myself sick and stain my fingers on the Cookie Lady’s plump “bluebs.” I carried a bag full of them to Upper Goose Pond where the caretaker put them in pancakes for breakfast. Right on.

Sticking with the theme of food, I made an unexpected stop on an organic farm when the guy (Dom) who picked me up while hitching talked me into coming to his farm. His persuasion point? Good food. He told no lies. Drinking chilled raw milk from the cows, eating chili made with beef from his cattle, and munching on sour kraut that he taught me to make… all worth it.

Finally, the rattlesnake needs explaining, and photographic evidence. PA has been so rocky that I expected to see a snake around every turn, but since you can’t stay alert and on edge all the time, I slipped back into the hiking trance. So when Daniel and I encountered a 5-foot rattler, he jumped back so fast I ran into him. He yelled “Aaah.” I said, “Oo, rattlesnake!” We had previously set a goal of eating one, given the proper chance, and this was it. Eventually pinning it with a trekking pole, we beheaded it and put the body in a ziplock bag for the 7 miles left into town. We then hitch hiked–requesting that the driver roll the window down because “we smelled.” No we didn’t tell them about the snake; we are decent people. They dropped us off at Kmart, where we spotted an out-of-order Lady’s room. Perfect. After cleaning, skinning, and pulling out a section of meat, we scrubbed down the counter and left. Only after we had blood on the counter, though, did I reconsider whether this was a good idea or not. Can you be arrested for making a bathroom unsanitary? Will we be in the newspaper and give hikers bad names? We worked quickly. That night, we cooked it with olive oil, paprika, and a seasoning salt. No, it doesn’t taste like chicken–more like calamari, but not bad.

Now for photos:

After the kill

This is me trying to look tough

sizzle

Mmm. Tastes like proof.

How about a cuppa moo?

I learned how to run behind a tractor and stack hay

Bottling at the Yuengling Brewery

Just before a lightning storm in PA

Me next to a real backpacker

Keep trekking, good luck to all who are starting back at school, and even more luck to those who aren’t!

-MKS

PS- snakes still violently jerk even 2 hours after being decapitated. We learned this when we jumped back at the Kmart, triggering the electric hand dryer. Also, my next address will be coming soon, I hope.

I’m in New Jersey (Mass., CT, and NY went quickly) soon to be PA, home of rocks and the half way point. If the above address doesn’t leave enough time to send a post, then try Duncannon, PA 17020, ETA 26th.

Miles 500-900 seem to drag on a little bit, but I’m thinking the trek will pick back up again come September and Virginia. I hope to post more about the past couple of weeks, complete with many side adventures, soon.

-MKS

I’m currently in North Adams, MA, or mile 597 on the Appalachian Trail. I picked up Molly from the Rutland airport, and she hiked 60 miles with me from Manchester down to North Adams, quite a feat for a first-time backpacker. (Ask her about it, and don’t let her shy away from a healthy amount of bragging rights). During those 4 days on the trail, we saw most of its faces: hot and dry to 50 and foggy, smooth and cushiony terrain to rocky and rooty, nice and interesting hikers to strange and creepy ones. We even saw a bit of ”trail magic.” Some day hikers gave us a Wonka bar; another hiker took our trekking poles by mistake, but then bought us Snickers bars to make up for it; and Chris and Arla let us stay at their house and shower for free.

Whenever I catch some spare internet minutes, I rarely have the space or time to fill in all the quirks, musings, characters, and mishaps from my adventure. I could say much more, for example, about staying with the “Twelve Tribes” in Rutland and going to their Sabbath celebration (they are one of the few intentional communes/communities still in tact from the 70s, and they live out their beliefs in an admirable but unique way. I discovered how their ideas are simultaneously counter-cultural and largely consistent with other faith traditions from Roman Catholic to Methodist). Anyway, if bland updates aren’t satisfying your curiosity or inflating your imagination, then please comment with a request or a question, and I’ll do my best to write about it. Or, text me your address and I’ll send a letter.

Alright, August, let’s sweat this out together in the Mid-Atlantic lowlands. I’m looking foward to Fall in the South.

Pictures and another Address follow:

(Entering into Vermont from Hanover, NH)

 (The Green Mountains)

(Nice trail; love the pine forests and floor)

(White Rocks)

(Some interesting graffiti in Manchester. Interpretations, anyone?)

Next Address:

Michael Short // C/O General Delivery // Greenwood Lake, NY 10925 // Please hold for thru-hiker // ETA August 7th

Don’t they stand awkwardly on top of rocks like this?

I graze and nibble all day long, climb ledges, stare, poop, stare, chew, and stare.

(Those are the White Mountains in the background… here we go! [went])

I feel like I’m in The Sound of Music.

Is that Austria?

I spin and dance and sing up the mountainsides.

False. I trudge up them with my backpack like Georg von Trapp with a child on his back.

(That’s Mt. Madison)

 I feel like a prophet.

 Why do those weighty clouds seem brooding and significant?

 Rock cairns mark the trail along the ridge, after you breach treeline. I’m waiting for a sign or a message to bring  back down to the people. Was there ever a time when I didn’t read into everything as a sign? Still waiting.

 (Actually, those clouds dumped sleet on us precisely when we reached the summit, when we were in sight of the shelter. Looking back, I enjoyed it, respected the power. In the moment I chose to ignore any signs, leaving the interpretation for the next prophet in route).

I feel like a foreigner.

Is that Colorado?

I never knew the Atlantic coast looked as scrubby and craggy as this, but I like it.

(Mt. Carter)

 I feel like Waldo.

 Can you spot me?

 The hat gives it away. The Whites go from 75 degrees and sunny to 40 and foggy faster than those logging trucks that barrel down the back roads up here. Makes for an interesting wardrobe.

 (Layers. So hot right now.)

I feel like a rock musician.

Is that the old group the Sloggin’ Scruffians from the 80′s? Remember the hit “Don’t clog my privy”?

Mt. Washington is the tallest celebrity of the Whites. A road and a railway go to the top, so cart loads of tourists stare at hikers on the way up and at the summit. Their faces say, “Why?” Their noses, “Eww.” Their cameras, “click.”

(Grunge on, dudes)

  I feel like a flake of mica.

 Do I look as transparent and small as I feel?

 A nice day on a nice summit makes the walk worthwhile–that day’s walk, and the whole journey. Though I’m sometimes wary of John Muir’s transcendental outlook, I have to partially agree with how he describes standing near a vista. The body feels like a speck, almost disappears as the sun seems to pass all the way through it and dissolve the weight of matter, the tick of time. Watching the mountains expand radially into the blue of distance while the clouds mimic them above, though building and rebuilding at a thousand times their rate, the imagination can be persuaded that yes, Creation is ongoing. How did I ever believe it had stopped?

  (Or, with less verbosity, a nice summit is perfect for a nap. Calm, clear, warm, and conducive to daydreams).

I feel like a Hippie.

Is that a VW microbus?

Most hostels are extraordinarily welcoming. The trail does encourage communities to form.

Now, on to Vermont!

Next Addresses:

1) Michael Short // C/O General Delivery // Manchester Center, VT 05255 // Please hold for thru-hiker // ETA July 21st

Note: I may be able to retrieve this stop as late as the 24th. However, I’m putting the EARLIEST option so that I don’t miss letters. Next:

2) Michael Short // C/O General Delivery // North Adams, MA 01247 // Please hold for thru-hiker // ETA July 29th

Note: These two drops are at post offices, not hostels. If it is a letter or is a package sent priority, then the post office will either forward me the mail to the next town for free if I miss it or return to sender for free.

Thanks to everyone.

–MKS