Saturday, July 18, 2020, 8:23 PM
Jeffers Brook, Mile 1795.1
If you're wondering how I stay clean out here on the trail, well, the simple answer is that I don't. If there's a pool, I bathe--if I feel like it. Days could pass without the pool being picturesque enough or without having walked enough miles to warrant a dip or without the desire to spend the time it takes to properly appreciate the holy mountain streams. Today was quite different, though. Today nature, i.e. God, blessed me with not one, but two spots to bathe and the wherewithal to pull the trigger and jump in.
The first was early in my day (as opposed to early in the day). I'd summitted and descended modest Mount Cube first thing in the late morning when I arrived at Brackett Brook. I planned to stay at the brook yesterday but instead added two miles to today's goal. Feeling covered in a few days of heavy sweat, I heard the water before I saw it. Hearing water from afar is a good indication that it's flowing full and fast, that it has a lot of room to spread out and pool. My day was only ten percent done, but I was already feeling tired and beat up. I said to myself aloud--I talk to myself often out here--"If there's a nice spot I'm going in." When I saw a wide, slowed section of water aglow in sunlight, I had no trouble keeping my promise to myself.
I bought a bar of Kirk's Castille Soup in Norwich, VT and take that right into the water with me. The AT's bathwater is usually frigid, so submerging for a thorough, environmentally conscious scrub with Kirk doesn't only leave you clean but also with muscles soothed from nature's summer equivalent of an ice bath. My body--mainly shoulders, knees, and feet--takes a royal beating daily. Spending a mere ten minutes in the gloriously cold water out here leaves you feeling healed and rejuvenated, like a Pokémon after a super potion. Unfortunately, these forest baptisms don't provide all-day galvanization. The cleanliness and stimulation earned from enduring such a freezing treatment fades when sweat starts to pour from your body and the pack bears down on you with all its weight as the terrain trends upward for as many as five miles.
I left Brackett Brook after checking out the stealth spot that could have been home the night before. It wouldn't have been worth the extra three and a half miles. I dawned my other half (the pack) and wet clothes swang from it, attached to dry as I walked through miles of sunlit trail. As Guthooks and the sobo from the night before, Trevor of Western NY, had told me, the day's hiking was to be benign, with no major ups or downs after Mt. Cube. I broke out the headphones and jammed to some Judas Priest till they died. Then I listened to most of "The Art of War" from the phone's speaker before going back to music with some Dispatch which gave way to some creepy Poe short stories and most of Beck's Guero album. I kept putting off lunch as I sometimes do to make better time and the day seem shorter. After crossing an ATV path I came to NH Route 25 where a gray Corolla was parked. It had a grocery bag tied to the back driver's side door. Beneath the bag were apples, clementines, and mini candy bars, including my trail favorite, Reese's Take 5. This is trail magic, snacks and drinks left by trail angels for thru hikers who could use a pick-me-up. In the previous eight hours, or fifteen miles, I'd eaten a pack of crackers, a pop tart, and some peanut butter. I was forcing myself to go without because, as Sun Tzu says, "Simulated disorder postulates perfect discipline." Disorder is a resultant sensation of great hunger and thirst. Trail magic showed up a mile from camp at a time when I really needed it. The Trail will provide. While licking the candy wrappers clean of melted chocolate, I noticed the trail angel was a 2019 thru-hiker in addition to being an adoptive dog mom, these facts evidenced by stickers on her car. Cross the road, cross the crystal clear waters of the Oliverian Brook, and up the mountain you go to where the Trail provides a piece of its own endless magic.
Continued at the Notch Hostel, Monday, July 20, 10:18 PM
I never made it to Jeffers Brook shelter because I found a tent spot overlooking that night's bath tub. Water ran down a wide rock face and pooled bubbling and icy to a depth where I couldn't stand. Upon entering, the water takes your breath away, and your heart rate spikes. This leaves you laboring to catch your breath and feeling almost panicky. That's when you focus on your breath and bring it under control, when you let the healing, restorative powers of mountain water wrap you in its freezing embrace. I find a rock that allows my bottom half to be submerged and wash my top half while my muscles below absorb the water's cool energy. At Jeffers Brook I even ditched the shorts and swam around in my birthday suit, feeling like a polar bear pawing through the Arctic--resembling one as well with my basic quadruped paddle. That night I ate and slept well. For once I was on the trail before 6 AM, and needed the entire day to log the 17 difficult miles to another brook, Eliza's.
New Hampshire is known as the most beautiful and the most difficult state on the AT. Did I say that already? It's proving to be true. The climbs and descents are long and steep. Coming down from Moosilauke, one of the highest points in the east, I broke a trekking pole, snapped the bottom half right off. I'm adjusting to life with one, however, and am starting to think its breaking was a blessing in disguise. With just one pole now, I've found different ways of hiking. Sun Tzu also preaches varying your tactics. Since losing a pole, I've discovered new ways of ascending and descending. Trees and rocks have replaced it, and I move sideways and even backwards now depending on the path that I see as least resistant. My rhythm is smoother up here, my step laced with more confidence. I'm beginning to carry myself like a thru-hiker. "If you can hike New Hampshire, you can hike anything," I tell myself. Then there are people who ask if it's worth it, the daily struggle.
Coming down from Lonesome Lake today, a day hiker asked me if it was worth it. "It's always worth it," I responded without thinking and hurried on my nearo way, excited by the wonders that awaited in town (Lincoln/North Woodstock). But down the trail I repeated his question out loud. "Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" It befuddled me. "If you thought it, your three or four mile day hike, might not be worth it, a day off effort, why did you even leave your house?" Whatever the answer, I wasn't the one to be giving it to him. How could I decide what's worthy or unworthy to you? Another day hiker inquiry is how far they are from the top of whatever peak they're climbing to. I want to say, "Will knowing get you there any quicker?" but I usually blurt out the less snarky, more uplifting response of, "You're getting closer every step." Descending Moosilauke was grueling. The way was steep, rocky, and interminable. One day hiker asked me, "Is it this steep all the way up?" I contemplated a response before saying, "I'm not gonna answer that." I could've suggested she turn around right now because I was closer to the bottom than they the top. Is it worth it? I'll ponder the answer to this question forever.
Here at the Notch Hostel. Time for bed. Early start tomorrow. Free pancakes and coffee! Thank goodness for ear plugs!
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