A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales
part fourteen
Duncannon Gone
©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
The Agnostic Monk left Cumberland Valley and ascended up the ridge of Blue Mountain. He stumbled into Darlington Shelter by late afternoon. Joining him for the evening was none other than the King of Bushpigs, Ken Bushpig.
Ken was from Maine and had a distinctly Mainer approach to life, the universe and everything. He had an arid, freeze-dried sense of humor and a grin that peered at you from behind a thick grizzly beard and looked like it could bite your head off. Sometimes it seemed that, for Ken, the funniest part of his day was when he left you guessing whether he was serious or not. Quite frankly he always seemed serious. But, in the things he would say, he would often leave you grooving on a sublime sense of humor and wondering if it wasn't just all in your head. It was warped to the point of being a space-time singularity.
Ken was having difficulties with footwear. Perhaps that was an understatement. He was already on his fourth or fifth pair of boots and was still having problems. He tried to explain it in terms of the idiosyncrasies of his feet, bone structure and family tree, but his comically serious demeanor left The Monk feeling like he might implode from self-contained laughter. There was just something about Ken Bushpig's delivery, coupled with his wry, subatomic, superconductive, wit that made it impossible to take seriously, no matter how serious it sounded. Even when about a subject matter as bonechilling to a thru-hiker as boot-problems! It was as if Ken Bushpig had an inverse factor, the more serious he sounded the harder he was to take seriously. But feet are no laughing matter to a thru-hiker. They are a thru-hiker's bread and butter. The entire foot-boot interface is extremely crucial to the thru-hiker's success in reaching Maine. The day the Appalachian Trail becomes wheel chair accessible is the day it ceases to exist.
The Monk immediately empathized with Ken's situation. Ken was from Maine but his feet might well be reduced to bloody pulps before he got there. The Monk fired up his Amigdala and spoke a silent prayer. He didn't know what else he could do. It was at least good to know that Ken could laugh about it, in his own way, hnyuh, hnyuh.
As the evening progressed, Noel and Foster arrived bringing the total party to four. A small fire was lit around which everyone shared their experiences of the road walk. Noel got to meet the Ice Cream Lady. Many, including The Monk, were offered rides, by a friendly local populous. All got a little sunburned along the way and everyone was glad it was behind them.
The next day began with a brief descent down Blue Mountain, then over Little Mountain. The Trail descended down to and across Pa 850. From there it entered a parking lot, then a farmer's field before entering woods. It twisted and turned like a constantly changing labyrinth. It followed several old woods roads, before making it's ascent up Cove Mountain. The Monk crossed a pipeline clearing and reached the Thelma Marks Memorial Shelter for lunch. Steve Trailnameless left a special account of his roadwalk as a multipanel cartoon. He met the Ice Cream Lady too. But what gave The Monk moment to pause was the fact that Trailnameless was now almost two full weeks ahead! Yet still no sign of the Sandbaggers and party. He could only conclude they were now somewhere behind him. Their sojourn to DC for the Fourth of July was the likely culprit. The Monk gave a shout out to those behind him, then burned rubber out of there.
He didn't get far. The vortex at Hawk Rock swallowed him whole. Foster and Ken Bushpig soon joined him and they enjoyed a peaceful afternoon siesta amidst full panoramic views. Below them the Susquehanna River wound like a silver ribbon through the land. On the other side, the Ridge continued on, undaunted by the fact that the river had sliced it cleanly though over a millennia ago.
After an eternal moment or two had passed, the group soon thought it best to discontinue their timeless reverie. Clouds had begun to appear, foreboding portents of an ominous forecast. Suddenly there was a push to get going if they were to make it to Duncannon without getting soaked. That was when The Monk notice the damage to his Jansport. At some point along the way the weld had failed on his frame. The irony was, the pack had never felt better. But the problem looked serious, the frame was clearly broken. Luckily, it did not seem to pose an immediate problem and he was able to make it in to Duncannon without difficulties. Then, it poured.
"...If you need to buy or repair equipment, an excellent outfitter is in Harrisburg (15 miles south) called Wildware Outfitters..."
The 1988 Philosopher's Guide, pg 32
This was the first time The Monk could recall it raining since leaving Damascus. And did it pour! From within the warm, dry confines of the Doyle Hotel, he watched and listened with excitement to the thunder and lightning outside. It was cause to celebrate the fundamental differences between indoors and outdoors: windows, walls and, especially, roofs! And celebrate he did, over numerous 40 cent draughts. And it so happened that haters of bad poetry everywhere may cringe in the knowledge that he put Vogons (considered by many to be the absolute worse poets in all the Universe) to shame. Alas, this would not be the last time he would try to write poetry on the trail...
A Sandbagger in DuncannonHere I sit at the Doyle Hotel
quaffing brewski's for a spell.
Hard at work, the fifth one gone,
think I'll crash on someone's lawn.A room's been bought so here I'll be,
carbo-loading, I foresee.
And here I sit, the eighth one down,
God, I love this Duncannon town!A toast! A toast! To all who hear,
let us down another beer!
A round around, the night's still young,
and tales I'll spin of songs unsung.Of times a-wild and troubles near
and all about my favorite gear.
The Trail I've followed, the path I've led
and of strange animals left unfed.The more I drink, the more I'll tell,
Hiking north, in a nutshell.
And the more I tell, the more I'll drink,
and so on forever, or so I think.One final verse, I leave to all,
it's best to heed the Bushpig's call.
And before I crawl on out the door,
could I please have one final more?The next day it continued to rain intermittently and in a lull who should appear but The Sandbaggers and Bushpigs! Mr. Rogers was there also. Pablo and Mom looked perfectly soaked at first but after removing their rain gear, were completely dry. Zero on the other hand, was whisking water away from his skin as fast as his polypropylene underwear and shorts could. He was soaked but effervescent. As for the Sandbaggers, they looked, as ever, like the only reason they stopped in was to consume large quantities of beer. The Bushpigs grabbed rooms for the night and set to cleaning up and drying off.
Later, after everyone had showered and settled in, Pablo and Mom, Zero, The Sandbaggers, Mr. Rogers and The Monk got together a pow-wow at the bar. Pablo told fabulous tales of their adventures to and from DC, as well as of the fireworks and the many wonderful people they met along the way. Pablo of course managed to meet some special strangers who wound up having the entire group stay at their place in DC for the night. It was clear either Pablo had a way of just sailing through life or he had magical powers. Once, he confided in The Monk of a particularly clear vision he had of himself being gently carried down stream in a huge river. He realized all he had to do was to stop fighting with the current and the river would take him to where he wanted to go. And when he realized that he saw himself floating along, above the river! That seemed to be much more than merely an apt metaphor for Pablo's life. It seemed to be a living actuality! Either that or he was a master hypnotist! For many, Pablo had become something of the Trail's own enlightened Guru to whom everyone turned for wisdom. He was like the Shaman of the group, at least in the tribal sense of each of them having been reduced to their most primitive elements, yet all the while fueling the fires of pure genius.
So as they sat there talking, The Monk mentioned his recently discovered broken frame and asked Pablo and Mr. Rogers to take a look. Mr. Rogers immediately recommended The Monk call 1-800-JANSPORT. He told him that the pack had a lifetime warranty and Jansport would replace his frame free of charge. Just tell them you're a thru-hiker, he added.
The Monk was speechless. He hadn't even thought of calling Jansport, let alone that he could just tell them he was a thru-hiker and they'd help him out. He still seemed a little incredulous so Mr. Rogers slowed it down a bit and explained it one word at a time. The Monk was a thru-hiker. He was thru-hiking the world-famous Appalachian Trail. And that carried clout. Mr. Rogers insisted Jansport wanted to help him because that helped them sell their packs. All he had to do was ask.
So The Monk got on the phone with Jansport. Minutes later he bounced back happy to report that Jansport was over night express shipping him a brand new frame! It would be at the Wildware Outfitters in Harrisburg first thing tomorrow morning! He couldn't believe it! The next question was, how was he going to get all the way to Harrisburg to pick up his frame? But just then, one of the many friends of the Trail and it's thru-hikers, who happened to be standing near by, offered on the spot to take him there tomorrow. He was left speechless. Synchronicity strikes again.
The Wildware Outfitters was reputed to be the best outfitter on the Eastern Seaboard, bar none. To corroborate the story, one of the leading reputers came along for the ride. Ken Bushpig never could say no to a new pair of boots.
When they arrived, the new frame was waiting just like they said. As per the arrangement, he brought his pack with him and proceeded to remove and replace the frame. It was like a full skeletal transplant. When he was done, the kindly outfitter took the damaged frame and mailed it back to Jansport.
As for Ken, he was amazing foot specialists from around the world in his head with the bizarre and unorthodox bone structures of his feet. He scientifically proved his left foot was a full size bigger and wider than the other. The Monk swears Ken Bushpig bought two different sized Merrills that day.
"His left foot's bigger
than the other one is
like a regular zombie hoof
...the zombie woof..."
Frank ZappaBack at the ranch, The Monk learned his family had sent him something in the mail so he had to wait until Monday for the PO to open. Meanwhile, Pablo, Mom and Zero decided to use a break in the bad weather to make a break for it. They were leaving without the Sandbaggers and Mr. Rogers who were staying behind a few more days to carbo-load and pick-up packages at the PO as well. Besides, said Mr. Rogers, to some unspoken narrative running in his head, I sense more rain on the horizon. Just then The Monk had a brainstorm and had them sign his pack before they left! He hit upon the idea that this would be an excellent way to remember everyone, so he had them sign his pack. Then the thru-hiker train departed.
That evening, Buddy Bear and Bare Bait arrived, as did The Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell. Once again the bar burst forth in fiesta. Once again, life was good on the AT.
The next day it rained just like Mr. Rogers said it would. Just before noon, more thru-hikers straggled in. Through the door strode Rhode Island Red, the Lemondrop Kid, the Mad Norwegian, and Toothpick George, in short order. Toothpick George had a distinctly English accent and indeed, along with Wandering Star, was one of the few thru-hikers from Europe on the Trail that year. He quickly added a bit of European wisdom to the conversational soup simmering about at the bar. The Monk had not heard this kind of neo-pragmatic, multi-cultural, and vociferously-outspoken rhetoric since his tour of Germany two years ago, when he visited England.
During his time in Europe, The Monk came to realize that many Americans held tightly to a singularly one-sided outlook on life, a sort of my Country, take it or leave it kind of attitude. They tended to behave, even in Germany, as if Germans needed to learn American ways rather than Americans learn German ways. Which was sad, as many Americans missed out on that which could only have enriched their lives immeasurably. One such group he met, in his guise as Airman Page, would sit in their dorm rooms on base and play Dungeons and Dragons all day and night. They left only to go to the mess hall, the NCO club, or work. All remaining free time went to playing roll-playing games. So Airman Page worked with this and managed to get a few to go out and visit some of the local castles which dotted the German country side. As that had a passing relevance to D&D, which was played in a sort of quasi-medieval fantasy world of the Dungeon Master's choosing, this allowed them some fresh air and some time in the sun. It became a sort of weekend hobby for a while, to find a new castle. But it also served to expose a culturally myopic group of Americans to something more than the confines of a stuffy dorm room and the adventures of a 14th level Cleric.
For Page, this was his reason for going overseas, this was his reason for enlisting! To this end he traveled often during his time there. Undoubtedly, his most moving experience was in Amsterdam, Holland, at the Anne Frank Museum. Being an idiot, he didn't even know the Anne Frank Museum was in Amsterdam! He had gone to Amsterdam because he found a good deal on a tour and he had talked a fellow Airman into going. Besides it was one of the few countries where pretty much everyone spoke English!
After his first two visits to Paris, Page decided to try a professional tour for the third and discovered a good many things he otherwise had missed and not known about during his first two trips. He fully realized his ignorance. This was why he joined the military, to address this issue. Professional tours were an excellent way to learn. But they were also efficient at taking care of the many little things, so that he did not have to. It was nice to leave the details to others. Thus, when Airman Page traveled to Amsterdam, this time he took a tour. That was how he found out about the Anne Frank Museum.
Of course, once he did, he had to go. One thing he has never done is spared any expense to feed his head. In strange ways, this was why he enlisted rather than remain in the stale, sterile world of Community College. It goes without saying that there is a deep and profound difference between reading about Anne Frank in a book and visiting the very house she hid in during the Nazi Occupation. Airman Page knew, the instant he found out about the Anne Frank Museum, that the real reason he went to Amsterdam was to go there. He just didn't know it until that moment. The universe moves in mysterious ways.
The museum washed over him in powerful waves. He felt their very fears in the walls, their incredible courage behind every door. When he saw the bookcase and the secret staircase behind it, a kinetic wave passed through him with a palpable force. He felt as though he had been hit with a sledgehammer. It moved him to tears, to the very core of his being.
He had never made it to Dachau or Auschwitz, it would have been too much, but he made it there, to the very place where Anne Frank and her parents hid from the horror of some of history's darkest days.
What he felt was indescribable. The reality of something that had hither to been abstract and distant, something that happened elsewhere, crumbled away. This. This had happened here! Page felt sublimely awakened by this. Not just in the mind but in the heart and soul. He felt as though enlightenment wasn't the realization of supreme bliss but the awareness of supreme sorrow. He had been deeply touched, as though the very ghost of Anne Frank had been there that day.
Page's experiences in Europe were something many Americans not only didn't have, many didn't know they were missing them either. Many held to the parochial view that the universe had nothing more to offer than fast cars, fast food, and fast women. Disneyland, television and football, that was the be all end all of existence. He intuitively knew he had to escape all this to grow, he had to broaden his being and deepen his roots to reach for the stars.
Toothpick George, similarly, could see beyond the bland superficiality which composed the singularly one-dimensional views of the average American. He knew it was idealistic at best, and reckless at worse, to think that man could remake the world in his image without paying a mortal price for such colossal hubris. He felt that Americans generally suffered from this unique characteristic. They cared nothing for the law of unintended consequences, nor the world that is left to continue on behind them. Everything was a pleasure-pain response, nothing more.
The Monk had encountered such "pseudo-enlightened anarcho-radical liberalisms" many times during his two years in Europe. He felt it came from a synergetic multi-culturalism far from equilibrium, a growing hyperkinetic, dissipative structure, founded on the complete exhaustion which crept over Europe after centuries of border disputes and wars.
As it was an election year, the conversation naturally turned to politics. Bush vs. Dukakis. The Monk, naturally, choose neither. He would vote Independent.
Ken Bushpig felt this was a waste of a vote.
The Monk explained that many people also feel that if you don't vote, you don't have the right to complain; The Monk voted to ensure this right, not to darken himself by choosing the lesser of two evils.
This effected a chuckle from Mr. Rogers who confessed he did not vote at all. He explained how he felt both parties only served the interests of Big Business, not the people. The Monk agreed with him but suggested that was precisely the reason to vote! But not just to vote, voting was merely the tip of the iceberg...
Voting 'other' was not to get 'other' elected, he explained, it was to send a message. The Monk didn't for an instant believe voting meant anything in terms of who won. He felt it only mattered in terms of ratings and spin.
He felt voting merely provided the illusion of Democracy without providing the actuality of it. It was all a big con. He voted just so people couldn't tell him he couldn't tell them this. He felt that if you wanted to effect positive social change you had to do more than vote. You had to innovate. You had to create change in conformity with will. You could not simply elect somebody else to do it for you.
Ken Bushpig found this annoying. He felt everyone's vote very much mattered and that they all needed to make sure they voted Democrat to vote the evil Bush out of office!
Of course, Buddy Bear strongly disagreed. He called Dukakis the biggest danger to democracy since the Fourteenth Amendment. He defended Bush as being the only credible choice.
The Monk disagreed. Neither Bush nor Dukakis offered real choices. They were just two well-funded spokespersons for various corporate lobbyists and business groups. The Democrats had no more interest in the voters, beyond their votes on election day, than the Republicans. The Monk used Iran Contra as an example. Many people he spoke with felt the Democrats had to win so as to get to the truth about Iran-Contra, the CIA and the Cocaine Connection. But as soon as Dukakis gets into the White House, that will be the last we'll hear of it, he said. This blew Ken's mind as this was his entire reason why Dukakis had to win - to get to the truth about Iran-Contra!
Ken and Buddy Bear decided to strike The Monk's comments from the record and continue on without him. As far as they were concerned there were only two choices, Bush or Dukakis. Anything else needlessly muddied the waters.
The next day, bright sunshine welcomed many of the night's occupants of the Doyle Hotel, during their quick, early morning dash to the Post office. By noon, the last of the packs had departed. However, as the Monk was preparing to leave, he noticed a problem. One of the bars of the frame was pressing against his back in a most painful manner. He tried everything he could think of but could not fix the problem. At last he shackled himself in and headed out anyway.
As he followed the white blazes out of town, he noticed the Sandbaggers sitting on an elderly couple's porch. They had seemed so gung-ho to leave but now, at the couple's invitation, decided to stay another night. The Monk said adieu, thinking they'd go speeding by in the next couple of days. However, that was the last he ever saw of the Sandbaggers, at least together. He ran into John Sandbagger again in New Hampshire. When he asked where Rick was, John explained that he gotten off the Trail in Duncannon.
Pennsylvania on the Rocks
The Agnostic Monk crossed the Clarks Ferry Bridge in the direction of Maine. After crossing US 22&322 and Conrail Tracks, the Trail ascended quickly up to the top of the ridge. From there it was a smooth, easy walk to Clarks Ferry Shelter where he cameled up at a fresh piped spring and had lunch. He also took the time to examine his new frame. One thing not apparent after he replaced the frame at the outfitters, was an obnoxious bar which now pressed painfully into his back. Leaving town, it became immediately obvious this was not going to work. He wished now that he had just kept his old broken frame. After all, that one was blessed by the blood, sweat and tears of the fine folks at Neils Gap. But it was too late for misgivings, so he struggled on.
At the top of the ridge, looking back, were excellent views of Duncannon across the Susquehanna River. He ate a granola bar and fiddled with his pack. The frame had looked absolutely identical to the one he replaced. That is, everything except the broken weld. Yet this one was set to hurt. This one had teeth.
From Clarks Ferry Shelter it was a cake walk to Peters Mountain Shelter. There were many fine vistas along the way, so he took his time. From the crest were views of the Rockville Bridge to the south.
"Points of interest along the Trail include Shikellimy overlook, Table Rock overlook, many large rock outcrops, and excellent views up and down the Susquehanna River. The Juniata River can be seen to the north, and to the south is the Rockville Bridge, the longest stone arch railroad bridge in the world. This bridge, built in 1902, carries Conrail's mainline tracks across the Susquehanna River. It also carried the A.T. until 1955."
Appalachian Trail Guide - Pennsylvania, Tenth Edition, p133As The Monk hiked along the ridge, he listened to the symphonic silence which surrounded him and was him. He noticed his breath playing out rhythmic melodies to the beat of his footsteps. It was a curiously detached feeling in which he seemed to linger in the background of his own mind. But this time it was different. There was him listening, him aware of himself listening, and him aware of himself aware of himself listening. Yet, nowhere was the thought, I am listening. He did not think yet something existed. Returning to this detached state, he marveled at how silly Rene Descartes seemed for having declared 'cogito ergo sum,' I think therefore I am. It was clear to him that, even after his thought processes ceased, something remained. Om Mani Padme Hum. The jewel in the lotus. He realized, momentarily breaking the spell with thought, that a fundamental awareness of one's existence was not dependent on thought to exist. It was implicit in being.
But he arrived too quickly at Peters Mountain Shelter to explore these states further. He made a mental note to think more about it later, then quickly forgot. He had more pressing concerns. His new frame was killing him. It reminded him of the times he slept on a castro-convertible Couch. The couch was constructed with a bar which ran across the back like some kind of medieval torture device, just like this! It dug into his back and made hiking torturously unpleasant, to say the least.
He cranked up the central scrutinizer but could detect no abnormality. Everything seemed okay. He cursed himself for not having discovered this problem sooner. He tried taking the pack apart and re-assembling it. But when he put the pack back on, the obnoxious bar once again arrived on schedule. This was a serious problem. He could not continue to hike without resolving it, obviously. He looked to see if it could be re-assembled any other way but could only assure himself that it could not. The evening fell so he left the problem for morning.
The next day, he again examined the pack. He tried to tighten the wire mesh which pushed the frame away from his back but this did not solve the problem. In the end, he was left with stuffing a shirt behind his back for padding.
For the first part of the day, the Trail coasted along the ridge but The Monk could not escape the plague of thoughts which continued to focus on his new-found packframe dilemma. He reached Shikellimy Rocks but did not stop. Ignoring the annoying bar, he continued on. The Trail dropped down off Peters Mountain to cross Pa 325 then ascended up the ridge of Stony Mountain. The inner chatter continued so he began imagining characters to go along with the chatter. One character would say something and another character would respond and so on. Soon a steady cast of characters began to parade before his mind's eye, too many to record here. He began to see certain patterns however and began to map them out in mental space. He discovered they fell into two main categories, a left brained, analytic, rationalistic collection of characters and mental chatter, and a right brained, synthetic, artistic collection of characters and mental chatter. He found that lingering-in-the-background-feeling and mentally stepped back to allowed the current of thoughts to flow and the circus in his head to enjoy a three ring extravaganza.
As he hiked along, he occasionally forgot about the sadistic pain barely a neuron away. When he didn't, he imagined that "in reality" he was in a dungeon in Spain during the Inquisition and he was being tortured. But, while they wanted him to confess his sins, he was escaping from the torture by imagining himself hiking along a trail somewhere, perhaps in the future. From that, left and right hemispheres would pick up and begin chatting back and forth, drifting, merging, wandering, and generally just going with the flow, as he hiked along.
The Monk began to see how perspective shapes perception, how thinking in terms of one mental frame work over another was too narrow, too limiting as to be unreliable and useless. He saw how the various people he met on the trail, while generally moving toward a more unified brain, tended to favor one modality over an other. He noticed rarely could anyone entertain two modalities at once. He found this fascinating as he seemed to be doing just that. The modalities merged and danced and played together all day long.
He had discovered a rich tapestry waiting just below the surface, it raced by in a blur and was forgotten. It was too much data, he could not retain it. It passed and was gone. Yet, there was that which remained.
©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
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