Luck

A couple weeks ago, my new boss, Jon asked me, “So, Rich...why are you here?”

Good question. In fact, great question. I'm a philosophy major--how could I not love that question?

Unfortunately, Jon wasn't asking me for a five minute existential monologue about my place in the universe (which is too bad because I would have nailed it). What Jon wanted to know was why I wanted to spend the summer helping him rent kayaks on the Allegheny River.

I gave him the short answer because it was all I had time for:

“Well, I used to play online poker for a living. I was pretty good, but last year, some hastily passed legislation took that away from me. I woke up one morning, the major poker sites were closed, and I had lost my only source of income. So, here I am: a thirty-year-old, washed-up card player, filling out job applications.”

Yes, that is my real handwriting

I told Jon this because he asked, but honestly, I don't like telling people about online poker getting shut down because when I do, people start to feel sorry for me. The story makes me sound like someone who is down on his luck.

And nothing could be further from the truth.

I'm not an unlucky person and if I came across that way to my new boss, it was only because he couldn't see the bigger picture.

If I had more time to answer that question, I could have explained to Jon that after college (and a brief Peace Corps stint), I had chosen to play poker for a living. No one made me do it—it was my choice. I could have started a more traditional career, but instead, I drove to Las Vegas and started playing cards.

Looking at Canada from the US side of Niagara Falls

And I didn't stop playing for five years. No work. Just poker.

I hung out in Caesar's Palace with crazy tourists and B-list celebrities. When I got tired of Vegas, I hitchhiked and rode Greyhound buses to Mount Rushmore simply because I'd never been there before. I spent half a year living a few minutes away from Niagara Falls because I liked the way it looked at night. And then I walked from Georgia to Maine.

I told Jon that it was unfortunate that I can't play poker for a living anymore, but what I didn't get a chance to say was that after aimlessly wandering around the country without a care in the world for five years, I came out ahead. I had a great run and when it was over, I ended up in Pittsburgh with a girl I'm crazy about and a kid on the way.

You don't get much luckier than that.

Doctors and Midwives

I like doctors.

That cold, sterile smell of a doctor's office is reassuring to me. That smell means I am in a building with well-trained professionals who are qualified to make serious health decisions. That smell means that the old guy in the white coat with the stethoscope around his neck knows what he's talking about. I like that smell because I trust that smell.

So when my fiancée, Laura, suggested going to a midwifery as opposed to a doctor's office, I was skeptical. Laura assured me that the nearby midwife center came highly recommended and she would receive more personal attention there than she would at a traditional doctor's office. I wasn't convinced, but I also wasn't the one who claimed to have a little person growing inside me, so it wasn't really my call. (You have to pick your battles.)

The first thing I noticed when we arrived was that the waiting room was staffed by girls in their 20s wearing jeans—not doctor's scrubs. I took a seat next to Laura as she filled out some forms, but I couldn't find any newspapers or magazines to read. The only available reading materials were brightly colored pamphlets that contained words like “chakra” and “holistic.”

I don't like that word: Holistic. Last year, I spent a lot of time around new agey hikers and I have a really cool uncle that is a chiropractor, but I just don't trust that word. Call me closed-minded, but when I hear the word “holistic,” in my head it sounds a lot like “super groovy herbal shit that hasn't been tested by western medicine.” I don't want hocus pocus--I want the scientific method.

I only had to spend a few minutes hating the waiting room before they called Laura's name. That was fast, I thought. In a doctor's office, you'd wait far longer than that. Maybe Laura was right about midwiferies giving their patients more attention. I started to think that maybe this wasn't such a bad place after all.

But the enthusiasm fizzled when we entered the examination room. Not only was there no cold, sterile trustworthy smell, there was a bunch of Native American decorations on the wall where the diplomas should be. Laura informed me that the decorations were Mayan, but that definitely didn't make me feel any better seeing how I'm pretty sure the Mayans believe that the world is going to end right around the time Laura is supposed to go into labor. 

The midwife entered the room, but she didn't refer to herself as Dr. [insert last name here]--she enthusiastically said, “Hi, I'm Kathy!” She reminded me of a really upbeat version of the little old lady from the Poltergeist movies. She seemed friendly enough, but I didn't want “friendly,” I wanted “official.” I wanted a crotchety old man who used 13 syllable words that I didn't understand.

To her credit, Kathy seemed very smart and she was a good listener. She answered all of our questions and repeatedly reassured me that we were very close by a hospital that would be easily accessible if anything were to arise that the midwifery couldn't handle. Finally, someone was saying the right thing.

...

After about 30 minutes of questions, Laura was getting a physical examination while I was playing Angry Birds on my smartphone. It's not that I didn't care about what was happening—I just didn't want to distract Kathy and I needed something to keep myself occupied.

I was about to get the third star on a really tough level, when Kathy said that we were going to try to find a heartbeat. I quickly glanced up from my phone to make sure that while she was looking for this heartbeat, there would be some kind of scientific looking instrument involved and she wouldn't be waving around voodoo dolls or something.

I saw the Doppler fetal monitor in her hand and decided that no witchcraft was afoot and went back to my game.

And then, I heard it.

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom...

It was fast, but steady and clear. I heard the little heartbeat and suddenly, the pregnancy became very real.

Maybe up until that moment, I hadn't been totally convinced that Laura was pregnant. I mean, I had seen the little blue cross on the store bought pregnancy test a few weeks earlier, but maybe there had been a mistake or she had accidentally smudged some toothpaste on it. The box said it was 99.9% accurate, but at the end of the day, it was still just a little stick that my girlfriend peed on.

And yeah, Laura had been experiencing some mild stomach problems that she had claimed were morning sickness, but who knows? Maybe she had just eaten a bad burrito or something.

But then there was this heartbeat. And it was real. I couldn't pretend it was anything other than a heartbeat.

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom...

As soon as I heard that beating, I stopped thinking about doctors and midwives. After all, Kathy might have had a bunch of crazy crap on her walls, but she had explained very clearly that she was a certified nurse-midwife licensed by the state of Pennsylvania. She's been delivering babies at this midwife center since I was six. And with that thought in mind, my fairly uninformed, personal hangups with midwifery didn't seem worth dwelling on anymore. 

There are more pressing matters now. I'm going to have a kid in 7 months.

I need a job.

The End

I started walking north from Georgia. 190 days later, I climbed a mountain and when I got there, I didn't find anything but a big brown sign. Nothing was solved and I wasn't any wiser than I was six months ago. There wasn't any great revelations about nature, life, or my place in the universe. My calf muscles are a little bigger and my bank account is a little smaller, but other than that, I'm exactly the same person I was when I started. There aren't any answers out there on the trail--just trees. And that's okay. I was looking for nothing and that's exactly what I found. Long distance hiking doesn't fix all the broken pieces in your life. Whatever problems you leave behind when you put your pack on and walk out your front door are still going to be waiting for you when you get back. You don't "find yourself" out there in the woods and sleeping outside for six months isn't going to turn you into Yoda. The trail isn't like that. At least, it wasn't for me. Who knows? Maybe I was doing it wrong. For me, it was just a game. For just a little while, everything else in the world was put on hold and life was whittled down to one simple goal: walk. I walked amongst wild animals and over mountains. I walked through snow in the Smokies and 100 degree heat in Connecticut. I walked in late March when winter became spring and I walked in late September when summer became fall. I met generous people who gave me food and opened their homes to me. I received encouraging emails, texts, and phone messages from friends, family, and occasionally, total strangers. I befriended fellow hikers along the way and as time passed, we instinctively learned how to look after each other. And all the while, I walked. Some people golf. Some play the banjo. Others like suduko. The reason is recreation, but the purpose is nothing. I hiked The Appalachian Trail. And that's that.

This Is It (Miles Hiked: 2066) (Day 182)

I'm about to lose cell phone coverage and all contact with the outside world for a while. This is the 100 mile wilderness--the last great hurdle of the Appalachian Trail. Wish me luck. "See you on the other side, Ray." -Venkman

2000 Miles (Day 175) (Number of Braids in my Hair: 52)

I'd been fording rivers, dodging lightning bolts on ridge lines, and walking in the rain for 5 straight days. Maine has been tough.

But today, the sun came out.

What Storm? (Day 164) (Miles Hiked: 1890)

I wish I had a cool hurricane story. I wish it had been necessary to tie myself to a tree to avoid being blown away and I wish I had spent the duration of the storm with wind whipping through my hair while I cursed the gods like Lieutenant Dan in Forrest Gump. Unfortunately, when the rains came, I was in a cheap hotel playing cards and eating caramel ice cream. If it weren't for the condition of the trail the next day, I wouldn't have noticed that a hurricane had been here at all. The picture above is NOT a creek--that's the trail. My feet are soaked but I'm in a great mood. Today, I cross a state border for the 13th and final time. States finished: Georgia North Carolina Tennessee Virginia West Virginia Maryland Pennsylvania New Jersey New York Connecticut Massachusetts Vermont New Hampshire States remaining: Maine

My Mountain (Day 152) (1820 Miles Hiked)

The White Mountains of New Hampshire are challenging enough even in the best weather conditions and on that particular morning, the local weatherman said it was going to be awful.

I started the day in Lincoln, NH with two sensible hikers named Coyote and Lady Sherpa. They urged me to take the day off, dodge the rain, and eat chocolate chip pancakes with them in town. I'm not sure why exactly, but I declined. Stubbornly, I hitched a ride to the trail head alone and began hiking.

Around 1:30 PM, I was approaching the peak of Kinsman Mountain when I decided that I had made a mistake. What was I thinking being out here today? Not only was I soaked and climbing a steep incline, I hadn't seen another hiker in 4 hours. I don't mind being alone, but usually, when I'm attempting to climb a waterfall during a torrential downpour, I prefer a little company. (You know, just in case I slip off a rock ledge and need someone to remove two words from the title of my blog.)

I was thinking about maple syrup and warm chocolate chip pancakes when I finally reached the so-called "scenic overlook" on the summit. It was obviously a nice spot. On clear day, I would have seen valleys thousands of feet below and miles of towering mountains fading off into the distance. Of course, on that particular day, I couldn't see a damn thing.

I was wet, cold, alone, and annoyed as I stared out into a sea of white. I couldn't visually tell if I was 200, 4,000, or 50,000 feet above sea level.

I was ready to turn around and begin the arduous journey down, when out of nowhere, a pleasantly ridiculous thought came to mind: There is no one within five miles of me. The rain has kept all the sane people inside. Thousands of tourists will climb this mountain within the next few months, but today, at this very moment, this is MY mountain.

And standing there, gazing out into the infinite abyss, I smiled. And then, for reasons I can't explain, I felt the urge to yell.

I yelled as as loud as I could. I yelled until I ran out of breath and my lungs were sore. And when I couldn't yell anymore, I took one last look at the nothingness below and chuckled a little. Then, I turned around and began the long climb down my mountain with a goofy smile on my face.

The weatherman was wrong when he made his prediction that morning--it was a nice day. And I was alive.

One Paragraph About Vermont (Miles Hiked: 1716) (Day 143)

Vermont has been nuts and I don't have much time, so I'm going to have to write this one fast.

After I spent a night in Bennington with a half blind artist who builds sculptors out of old bicycle parts, I saw a moose on my way to a hostel in Rutland that was run by a cult. I thought I'd be safe at the cult hostel because I was there with another hiker named Thimble, whom I assumed was responsible because she is a devout church going Methodist. But when the cult leader greeted the two of us with a "complimentary drink," Thimble immediately chugged it. Fortunately, the Kool-Aid ended up not being spiked and the cult wasn't all that weird other than the fact that all the men styled headbands and ponytails, their "church service" mostly consisted of square dancing, they ate with chopsticks, and they owned an old van that was used solely for ministry work and road trips to Grateful Dead concerts. (Yes, the Dead still tours--sans Jerry.) After that, I climbed up Mount Killington, only to ride down it on a ski lift where I listened to a mediocre Sublime cover band play a free festival at a ski resort that had no snow because it is the middle of the summer.

Here's a picture of a butterfly that landed on my shoe:

Sorry. I'll try harder next time.

P.S. wisconsinfan--There is no one way to do the trail, so it cost different amounts for different people but imo, it can be done for about $3k and it can be done comfortably for about $5k.

Today (Day 129) (Miles Hiked: 1520)

As we crossed the 1500 mile mark, there was a lot of talk amongst some of the other hikers about a mountain in Maine where we'll (hopefully) be in couple months. Some hikers really enjoy talking about Katahdin. I don't.

At the top of each of these posts, there's definitely a reason why I count “the miles I've hiked” and not “the miles remaining.” “1500 miles hiked” sounds cool. “680 miles left to hike” not only sounds incredibly overwhelming, it makes the whole trail seem like a six month commute toward a destination. It's not.

Yes, I want to get to Katahdin. Yes, it marks the northern most point of the Appalachian Trail. And yes, it sounds like there are going to be some great views if it's a clear day. But the sad truth is that nothing magical is going to happen when I get there. It's just a mountain.

On a day to day basis, I find it helpful not to think about Katahdin. I don't wake up and think about the 600+ miles I have left to hike.

I think about what I'm going to have for lunch. I look at my guidebook and try to decide where I'm going to fill my water bottle. I think about the mountain that is 5 miles ahead and hope there's going to be a scenic overlook at the top. I wonder if the field that's 11 miles ahead is going to be a nice place to stop and rest.

I don't think about Katahdin. I think about today. 

Katahdin is not the destination, it's just a mountain in Maine where I'm going to run out of trail. If there is a destination, I'm not walking toward it--I'm already here.

 

P.S. One of the many, many readers of this blog wrote and asked how I was doing on the "morale-meter." Well, in the past week, I experienced a brutal heat wave that only broke when the rains came and I got completely soaked. Due to the lousy weather, I'd say I'm lower on morale-meter than usual. On scale of 1-10, where 10 is as good as I can possible be, at the moment, I'm only at about a 9.6.

P.P.S. I was totally kidding when I said I had “many” readers. There's like 8 of you. This blog gets about 4 hits a day and I think 3 of those are from my dad.

These Vagabond Shoes (Day 118) (Miles Hiked: 1392)

Pennsylvania did a number on them, but these old pair of shoes made it all the way through Jersey. They were finally replaced in Fort Montgomery, New York by a new pair.

Old shoes:

New shoes (the exact same shoes with 1000 fewer miles of wear and tear):

Other than that, all is well. I'm trying not to get overconfident because I still have at least two months worth of very tough hiking left, including the two most challenging states (New Hampshire and Maine.) However, as I crossed the border from Jersey into New York, I was definitely starting to feel like this might actually be possible. As the song goes, "If I can make it here..."

Pennsylvania Rocks (Miles Hiked: 1264) (Day 111)

Fun fact: In the title of this blog post, "rocks" is being used as a noun--not a verb.

It's universally agreed upon by thru-hikers that Pennsylvania is the least fun state. It's hot, the bugs are brutal, it seems to go on forever, and the trail basically becomes a giant field of jagged boulders that wreaks havoc on your ankles and knees. The shoes you begin Pennsylvania with are destroyed by the end.

I'll enter New Jersey in 20 miles and because I'm choosing to be optimistic about this miserable rock pile called Pennsylvania, I will look back fondly on the one decent view this state offered and celebrate the fact that I'm getting new shoes.

Finally! A Facebook Picture I Can Be Proud Of! (Day 108) (Mile 1208)

After explaining how the washing machine worked to a sweet old woman at the Laundromat, she thanked me and asked, “Are you the manager here?”

“No,” I replied. “No, I am not the manager.”

It seemed like an odd question at the time considering what I was wearing, but the more I think about it, maybe it wasn’t so strange. What exactly is the proper attire for a manager of a Port Clinton, PA Laundromat?

Why yes. Yes, that is duct tape holding together my poncho. Thank you for noticing.

Happy June 26th (Day 100) (Picture taken at the official halfway point)

Solo (1050 Miles Hiked) (Day 95)

I’m not sure why I bailed on the road trip.

Torch, Hardback, and I planned an epic journey out west that was going to hit several major national parks, but I ended up choosing to stay back east and continue walking north on the Appalachian Trail by myself.

I guess I could justify my choice not to go west by saying that I was worried my leg muscles would atrophy if I took too much time off or that I was concerned that I’d lose my focus on the AT or I just didn’t want to leave something half finished.

But that’s all probably BS.

The rational part of my mind that’s coming up with all those excuses is really just a passive observer in a car that’s being steered by unconscious forces that I don’t completely understand.

I don't know why I didn't go west and honestly, I don't care. The "why" doesn't matter.

All I know is that I have 1100 more miles to go and instead of worrying about why I’m walking them, I’d rather just throw my hands up in the air and enjoy the ride.

Yee-haw.

P.S. Hardback,Torch, and Mousebait--It's been a blast and I'm going to miss the hell out of all of you.

Apathy (Miles hiked: 900) (Day: probably 80 something...I don't care)

“I used to care…but things have changed.”
-Bob Dylan



Maybe it was the 95 degree heat.

Maybe it was the little black flies that had been eating me alive for the past few days because I had no bug spray.

Or maybe it was the fact that two members of my hiking group had decided to quit hiking the trail in the past 48 hours.

Updated group photo:

I'm not exactly sure why I stopped caring, but regardless, when I walked into Waynesboro, VA last week, I just didn’t give a **** about anything.

I dropped off my pack at the free hiker hostel and I walked a few blocks away in search of food. I saw the following sign on the door of The Ming Garden Chinese Buffet that was clearly directed at me:

I paid no attention to this sign. I knew I smelled bad, but I just didn’t give a ****.

I ate seven plates of bad Chinese food in the next 40 minutes. I was full, but I had no intention of leaving yet. Instead, I got a plate of salad, brought it back to my table, and stared at it for the next half hour. The waitress eventually brought my check and stopped filling my glass of water, but her subtle hints that it was time for me to leave weren’t going to work. I was enjoying the air conditioning, I had nowhere to go, and I just didn’t give a ****.

Three hours later I was still sitting there at the buffet. I had resorted to filling up my own glass of water every twenty minutes or so in the bathroom sink. I also discovered that while the waitress would not collect the used buffet plates from my table every time I finished a plate of salad, she would begrudgingly pick them up and take them to the kitchen if I placed them on the floor.

The manager eventually walked by, groaned, and said something in Chinese to the rest of the staff while he pointed at me. It was clear that they all hated me, but instead of caring, I decided to stop eating salad and go back to eating bad Chinese food. (After all, it had been three hours since my last meal and I was starting to feel hungry again.)

Four plates later, I left the buffet feeling like I had definitely got my $7 worth and headed back to the hostel.

The hostel did not have a washing machine, but I did manage to find an old bathrobe that may or may not have been laundered in the past 2 years. It definitely smelled, but I definitely didn’t give a ****.

Forty-five minutes later, I was reading a book and washing all my dirty hiker clothes at a Laundromat while wearing nothing but a borrowed, foul-smelling bathrobe. (Lebowski would have been proud.)

On my way back to the hostel, I bought a half gallon of cheap chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream at the Kroger. I ate most of it right out box in front of several amused hikers at the hostel before I passed out on the floor in a food coma.

Most of the other hikers slept in the free cots that the hostel provided. I heard the next day that the cots weren’t very comfortable and I pretended to act concerned when some old guy was complaining that his back hurt because of the cheap cot, but honestly…

The End of the Beginning Approaches (Day 70) (Miles Hiked 775)

From right to left that is Hardback, Torch, Mousebait, and the guy on the end who looks a bit like a Chia Pet is me. Two months ago, each of us started hiking the Appalachian Trail alone, but within a couple weeks we had formed a pretty tight group. For the past 600 miles, we've rarely spent a full day apart.

There's nothing I'd like more than to walk with them all the way to Maine, but unfortunately, real life obligations are slowly pulling some of us off the trail. We aren't going to make it. We just don't have enough time.

And so, plans have changed. Will we walk another 250 miles together and then, with about half of the Appalachian Trail completed, we’ve all decided to step off the trail. Mousebait will return home and the three remaining members of the group will get in a pick-up truck and start driving west for a few weeks. We are not exactly sure where this road trip will take us, but feel confident that it will be a fitting end to our journey.

And while this decision to leave the trail was not an easy one for me, rest assured that while my friends may be hindered by real world commitments, I am not. At the conclusion of our trip out west, I plan to return to the Appalachian Trail and finish the second half of what I started.

I’m not done with this trail yet.

I shall return.

"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning." --Winston Churchill

Technical Difficulties (Mile 646.5) (Day 60)

There were a lot of giant bonfires, hippie drum circles, and drunken dancing at the hiker festival in Damascus, Virginia. Mistakes were made and long story short, my smart phone is gone, so it has become very difficult for me to update this blog.

Fortunately, I bought the insurance on my phone, so I'm trying to fix this problem within a week or two.

I'll write more later.

Time Off (527 miles hiked) (Day 46)

I was in pretty bad shape as I left Tennessee.

I was nearing the end of a 14 hour, 40 mile deathmarch fueled by caffeine and testosterone. I crossed the state line and as the adrenaline died down, I was suddenly aware that the blisters on my heels had become a serious problem. I woke up the next morning, looked at my feet, and realized that I wasn't going to be able to hike again for days.

I wandered off the trail and ended up at a farm owned by a Appalachian Trail legend named "Mountain Man." Mountain Man first hiked the trail 30 years ago when he was 11 and has hiked the trail many times since. He was happy to feed and house me while I recovered if I agreed to help a bit around the farm. So I spent a few days milking goats, feeding pigs, and building a shack big enough for 8 geese to live in.

After three days I was ready to hike again, but honestly, it was hard to leave behind Mountain Man and the animals. He offered to let me stay longer and I was tempted, but the trail was calling and the longer I stayed, the harder it was going to be to get moving again.

I walked on.

And while I still miss the farm, I was definitely grinning as I walked through the Grayson Highlands. I was back in my home state of Virginia, I was surrounded by rolling hills and grazing ponies, and as I played Proclaimers song on my headphones, I crossed the 500 mile mark.

Nero (Day 36) (414 miles hiked)

Ever since the Department of Justice shut down the three largest poker sites in America, hiking has been a bit harder. Overnight, myself and thousands of other poker players lost our jobs. There are no unemployment checks coming our way and I don't think Bono is going to put on a benefit concert for us.

And while the rest of the poker community is fighting this in Washington, I'm trying to justify being out in the woods. Sometimes, I feel like Nero playing his fiddle while Rome burns.

Anyway, I met a friendly girl a few days ago who showed me what a Christmas fern looked like. Then she told me that ants taste like lemonade. I'm not sure if any of what she said was true, but I'm glad I met her because now when I see an ant, I'm not thinking about the Department of Justice. I'm thinking, "Freshly squeezed or the powdery Country Time crap?"

And fortunately, there are a LOT of ants out here.