Appalachian Trail Hiker

Night 11: Monson Sweet Monson

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

Tuesday, 6-15-2010
10.4 Miles Hiked, 2,064 Miles to Springer

Brrrrrrr. It was a cold 40 degrees when we opened our eyes this morning at Wilson Valley lean- to. I did not want to get out of my warm sleeping bag and back into my wet and dirty hiking clothes. On the other hand, I did want to be in Monson. I did want to shower. I did want clean clothes and I did want to eat something I hadn’t cooked in my dirty titanium cooking pot. I was also eager to leave my least favorite shelter of the trail so far.

The whole shelter was scattered with left behind items and trash, remnants of hikers who didn’t abide by the code of ‘Leave No Trace.’ A Crocodile Dundee style knife sat on the shelter floor, broken where the handle meets the blade. “Maybe broke during a murder that took place in this very shelter.” I thought. Probably not, this knife was all show and judging by it’s broken state was if shorty quality. Remind me not to buy any Winchester brands knives. Besides the crappy knife someone left behind a two mini propane tanks , a cotton shirt, a sock, several food wrappers, and an old rusty spoon.

After Mud and I got all our wet, dank, stinky crap together we hit the trail at 7:01 A.M. Now that the light at the end if the tunnel shown brightly both if us were eager to get out. I set my stop watch when we entered the 100 MW and we both checked our progress daily. We knew that if we got out by 2:30 P.M. we would have finished in under seven days. Finishing in under seven days had become our goal and unless something awful happened we would do it.

Our first of two river fords came early. There was a steep slope leading down to the river bank. Mud lead the way forward. I watched as a root clipped his foot. He flew forward and stumbled ass over ankles. His walking stick had jammed between another root on the ground. Mud’s arm and leg both pressed against it the stabilized stick in way that made me think both limbs were broken.

Mud stood up. “I’m okay.” He said as he brushed dirt, pine needles, and leaf bits from every garment he wore.

With Mud recovering from his fall I now took the lead on fording the river. I took extra care to tie my boots to the highest point on my pack. The Big Wilson Stream ford was equipped with not one, but two assistance ropes. Even these couldn’t prevent my bad luck with fords from winning out. I slipped. I landed on my back while still holding onto the rope with both hands. My whole pack was submerged and my carefully secured boots were soaked along with my silk liner and wool socks I so meticulously shoved deep into my boots toe.

Mud laughed at my misfortune as he crossed dryly and said, “That fall back there was on purpose. I like to get mine out of the way before the fords, kind of like a sacrifice.”

Our next ford at Liitle Wilson Stream could barely be called a creek and we crossed easily and more imortant dryly. As we hit dry land neither of us was paying much attention. We took the path to the right. We crossed two bridges that were so dilapidated we were both ready to get our angry letter writing pens out to give the M.A.T.C. (Maine Appalachian Trail Conservancy) a piece of our mind. The terrible trail continued void of markers and led us straight to an abandoned cabin that still had all it’s leaded glass windows in tact. I looked through the window and it was completely empty.

“How would you even get supplies to this place.” I thought. “Oh no. This must just look abandoned for appearances. I can only imagine how much human centipeding is taking place in the basement.” There was a workshed nearby with an axe yard to boot and old saws adorned the shed as decorations or possible trophies from murders past. The cabin gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. We kept walking.

Every ten steps I took I’d look back to make sure a murderer wasn’t silently approaching. We walked another quarter mile up the poorly marked trail and still no white blazes.

“I think we should turn around and see if we see any blazes.” I said.

“Okay, just after this turn I think I might see one.” Mudd said. There was nothing. We turned back around. After walking the full half mile we had walked up and passing the abandoned murder shack we got back to the ford and realized we took a right when there was a clearly visible white blaze indicating a left turn. We were back on track. The true trail was flat as could be and clear if roots and it didn’t take us past any abandoned murder shacks.

The trail carried us up to Little Wilson Falls. It was awesome, reminiscent of a mini Niagara. The rocks were broken in mesmorizing geometric rectangles that reminded of Japanese gardens. I also got a good laugh at the fact that our guidebook didn’t list the place as having water when it was a waterfall.

While we filled up on water at the falls we met an older man. His name was Trek. Black gators covered his lower legs, and trailrunners guarded his feet. His hair was slightly thinning and both ears were occupied by head phones.

“Are you thru hiking?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been thru hiking since 2002. This will be my eighth straight year doing a thru hike.” He said.

“Wow.” I said unable to comprehend doing this year after year. “Do you switch directions every year?” I asked.

“Na, I usually Northbound. I’ve gone NOBO every year, cept one year I flip-flopped and that year was mostly SOBO.” He said.

“That’s awesome.” I said not because I’m sure I believed it sounded like something I’d ever want to do, but because it seemed the appropriate response.

“You excited to be finished?” I asked.

“No, I never am.” He said. “You’ll know what I mean when you finish. It’s different out here, and it’ll be hard for you to go back.” Trek said.

I didn’t know what he meant as I felt at this moment very ready to go back, so I changed the subject. “Where are you from?” I asked.

“New Hampshire.” He said.

“So did you do slot of hiking before and that’s how you got into it or what?” Mud asked.

“Not much hiking before my first thru hike. I retired from the military and was looking for something to do with my life. This really is a way of life out here and the commraderie on the trail is a lot like the military. I just love it and it’s a good way to live off my pension.” He said.

“That’s awesome.” Mud said, and I could tell he truly believed it was awesome.

After talking with Trek a small walk seperated us from Monson. Our last four miles were broken up by four ponds, each about a mile apart indicating we were one mile closer with each we passed. North Pond marked mile 110.7. Lily Pond signaled mile 112.6. Bell Pond was 113.3 and Spectacle Pond at 114.4 gave us the go ahead to run as only 0.1 miles separated us from Monson.

We officially exited the 100 MW at 1:26P.M. finishing the 100 MW in 6 days, 22 hours, and 56 minutes.

We walked right up to Maine 15 and decided to give hitch hiking a try. We agreed if no one picked us up in fifteen minutes we’d give Shaw’s Lodge a call and have them get us.

Mud and I were both hitch hiking virgins, but when I brought the idea up Mud was all for it. His enthusiasm for the idea didn’t translate into action. While I worked the goods with my just licked, shimmering thumb pointing straight up on the edge if Maine 15, Mud sat his ass on a stump fifteen yards back.

“If he’s planning on hopping in the car if one pulls over then his ass should be up here sticking his thumb out too. I’m just as tired and hiked the same 100 miles he did so why am I the only one up here?” I thought.

Car after car rejected me. Some drivers waved, but kept right on driving.

I sure as hell wouldn’t have picked us up if I saw us on the side of the road. We were dirty, our hair was greasy, our clothing covered in stains and our arms and legs scrapped and bug bitten. As the umpteenth car drove by I was ready to give up and call Shaw’s.

Then a green mini van pulled over and made room for us. The car was driven by a tattooed man in his late thirties and copiloted by his tan tattooed wife. The back of the van was filled with random junk including an outdated set of speakers and their four year old daughter, Sonia.

I climbed in the junk filled back seat with my pack on my lap, and left the captain seat across from Sonia for Mud.

“Can I put my pack back there with you or should I keep it on my lap?” Mud asked.

“Keep it on your lap. There’s no room back here” I said.

I was unsure why and angry that he had even asked. “Why would I want his and my stinking pack crushing me in the backseat.” I thought. The wilderness had made me an angry person.

We got dropped off at the post office in Monson about a quarter of a mile from Shaw’s. As we walked to Shaw’s I called Old Man River and left a message.

“Hey this is Justin and Matt or Triple P. and Mud. Just wanted to call and make sure you could still take us to Town in Caratunk to restock. Anyways, just give me a call and leave me a message if you can still take us. Thanks again.” I said.

We approached the old, Victirian era looking, white, farm house and entered every door til we found the right one. As we checked into Shaw’s we found out Dawn was out picking up some hikers. We also found out they didn’t need any work for stay. Our fee to tent on the side of the house was twelve dollars each. That bought us one night of camping, a hot shower, and access to the hikers lounge.

After paying for our stay the woman working the house at the moment showed us the shower, the lenin closet, filled with fluffy clean towels, and a clothing rack full of mismatched, but clean clothes to wear after your shower while you washed your dirty clothes. Laundry was another five dollars extra to wash and dry. I would have paid anything for any of the services Shaw’s offered.

Once we were settled in we went to the hikers lounge. We met some more SOBO thru jokers from Sewannee, TN. Their trail names were Yogi, Skittles, Scarecrow and Preacher. Judging by their full looking bellies and empty pizza box on the floor they seemed to be enjoying themselves and each of them was pretty glued to the World Cup game on the television. In the few words we did get out if them they informed us the bacon pizza from the Mobile gas station up the street was the best cheap eat in town.

Mud and I hit the Monson General Store. I bought a Fifth Avenue bar, a jar of Panner peanut butter, and a half jug of chocolate milk. Mud bought a large bag of BBQ chips and a coffe flavored milk thing. Everything was devoured within two minutes. We headed to the Mobile station. The pizza was greasy, cheap, and bacony. It delivered in all my most important categories. To clear the grease out of my throat I washed everything down with my go to raspberry flavored Arizona iced tea.

We returned to Shaw’s. Dawn was still gone. Mud took the first shower and we were both relieved to hear there were no time limits after hearing that the other place in town had a coin operated shower. While Mud showered I called Sarah. It was good to hear her voice. It felt like I was home again.

Mud walked by smelling fresh as Irish Spring. Upon his return I headed to the shower before anyone else might take it. I shampooed three times, conditioned twice, and body washed four times. I felt like a new person. Clean and happy I returned to the hiker lounge and looked at all the pictures of thru hikers who had finished the whole AT and stopped at Shaw’s along the way. “I want to be on that wall someday.” I thought.

Dawn arrived home as we finished our laundry and told us the other hiker hostel in town, the Lakeshore House had good dinner. Mud and I headed there ready for some good grub.

I had a massive chicken quesidilla, which in the menu in parenthesis next to it said(Kay-sa-Dee-ah) which made me laugh, and it came with sour cream, salsa, and guacamole on the side. It was just what I wanted. Mud had a fish sandwitch and a beer. He enjoyed the beer but seemed less than satisfied with the sandwitch.

Most of our dinner was spent talking with a local man named Charlie.

“You guys scuba?” He asked.

“Never have.” I said.

“I have before.” Mud said.

“Yeah. All these lakes are crystal clear. I find lots of cool shit. Old bottles, railroad spikes. I found an old steamboat anchor that was fuckin’ bigger than you.” He said.

“Cool.” I said as I stared at his paint splattered shirt, jeans, and baseball cap and watched him wipe beer from his five o’clock shadow.

“I’m gettin certified as a scuba master. Should be done this summer.” He said.

“That’s great.” I said, unsure of what being a scuba master meant.

“Once I’m certified I’m movin to the Caribein’. If you’re a scuba master for a resort they cover your food, lodging, travel, and your fuckin’ bar. Plus you get like 600 a month, but what do I need that for if they’re coverin my fuckin’ bar tab ya know.” He said. “And the best part is that all I have to do is hang out with girls in bikini’s and tell them not to put their fingers in front of the Mauray Eels mouth. It’s fuckin’ sweet.” He said.

Sounds like a sweet gig.” I said.

“Yeah. This place is a fuckin’ ghost town, especially since they shut down the furniture factory. It’s dead come winter but there’s some great snow mobiling.” He said.

“I bet” I said as I finishing paying my check. “We’re headed back it was nice meeting you.” I said as we shook hands and made our way back to Shaw’s.

On our walk back we passed an old building that said St. Johns Mission. In the window was sign advertising free kittens and on the front stoop was an orange cat with three legs. I figured if that was the spokes cat I wasn’t interested in the kittens.

I called Sarah to say goodnight.

“Are you okay? What was that noise? ” I asked.

“Nothing.” She said.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

“No, it’s stupid. I just felt like I had you back for a little bit since I could talk to you again and now I know I’m going to have to lose you again til the next town. It’s just hard not being able to talk to you, but I don’t want to make you feel bad for what you’re doing. I’m sorry it’s stupid and I am really proud of you.” She said.

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I’m sorry. Night, I love you.” I said.

“Night. I love and miss you so much.” She said.

I hung up the phone feeling pretty shifty and pretty selfish, though I know that’s not how Sarah wanted me to feel. I went to bed homesick and glad I was at least only a phone call away now.

Rose- Showering, Laundry, Talking to Sarah, family and friends.
Bud- Waking up clean.
Thorn- Hearing Sarah cry.

Tags: appalachian trail, Charlie, Dawn, Lakeshore House, Monson General, Monson Maine, Scuba, Shaws Lodge | Posted in Appalachian Trail | 3 Comments »