Keeping in touch with the world of words on-trail

That store-bought white is pure,

Not destined to endure

The hiker’s daily flood

Of sweat and dirt and mud.

Some grimy, smelly blight

That ten washings will not smite.

So radiant garments gray;

Nothing white can stay.

People who know me well know that I can sling cute poetry all day. The above is one of my efforts from the AT, and the only one that I bothered to record in my own journal. The rest were scattered in trail logbooks up and down the East Coast, and those don't end up in a centralized location, so they're basically lost and I don't remember any of them anyway. It turns out that someone out there thinks a lot like me, because there was a poem posted on WhiteBlaze a while ago called "Sand and Snow" that was a takeoff on "Fire and Ice," also by Frost.

I remembered a few days ago that I had written that little ditty and it got me thinking of how I handle literature while I'm hiking. The practical concern of weight infuses every decision: most thru-hikers are not willing to carry long books because they're heavy and don't pack well. I'm no exception. When I was on the AT, I didn't really have the urge or necessarily the attention span to be caught up in a novel most of the time. I did finish a few, but what I really needed--and what I pretty much always need, and always come back to if I'm away for it for any time at all--is to see the English language wrought by a skilled artist from time to time. The form in which this is accomplished is immaterial. Long-form feature articles, poems, books, well-crafted entries by the anonymous wordsmiths who wrote in trail registers before me--on the AT, I ate all of these up as they became available to me. Kristin sent me articles that she knew I'd like from The Browser's Best of the Moment feed, printed out in 8-point font and squeezed onto a few sheets of printer paper. I'd read them and then either pass them on to someone else or burn them in a campfire. This worked well, but that was in the Paper Age and I was limited to hard copies for anything I wanted to read.

Fast forward two years and I now own a smartphone and a Kindle. My strategy for reading on the PCT was originally going to be to pack the Kindle, but I decided against it because it's of limited utility to me. To a voracious reader who inhales whole novels every few days, an e-reader absolutely transforms hiking. But for me, I just need to sip from the well of the English language often enough to keep my mind from shriveling up. Therefore, I just have two items, The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry and a Complete Works of William Shakespeare, synced to the Kindle app on my phone (no novels: reading those on a phone would be too eye-intensive). There should be plenty to chew on within those, especially in the opening sections of the hike when I'm too excited to concentrate on books before bed. Maybe later when I calm down and the novelty of the trail existence has worn off, I'll want to sink into novels and I can have the Kindle shipped to myself.

One thing that I look forward to in this setup is the chance to memorize poetry, which is something I used to do more often but haven't undertaken since high school. Someone in the New Yorker wrote a piece recently on the virtues of memorizing poetry but, in a move which will just shock readers of the New Yorker, he did not actually explain any of the virtues, instead finding several ways to state that it's something he's done a lot of and enjoys. I, similarly, can't come up with a good reason for doing it other than that it comes somewhat easily to me and I like it. I do know that it would make for great mental exercise while hiking. For instance, iambic meter is just crying out to be recalled at the rhythm of one's own footsteps: "When IN disGRACE with FORtune AND men's EYES"; "To STRIVE, to SEEK, to FIND, and NOT to YIELD"; "ToMORRow, TO fresh FIELDS and PAStures NEW" and so on.

I've heard that people who hike with FM radios develop lifelong trail associations with the popular songs from the summer of their thru-hike. I didn't even have a radio, but I will never again be able to hear "Strawberry Wine" without thinking of Manks and Perro in Connecticut on the AT in 2011 ... it's a long story. Who's to say poetry couldn't function the same way? If I decide to have a go at memorizing "If—" one sunny afternoon in the Sierra, I would probably remember that sunny afternoon every time I see or think of that poem for the rest of my life. Not bad.

I will close with this unrelated funny story about books and hiking:

In recent years, there have been a lot of Germans on the AT after a National Geographic-esque thru-hiking documentary was made auf Deutsch. One such German was on the trail in Virginia one day in 2011, cleaning out some books and magazines that had been left behind at a shelter. He had just started a campfire and was right in the middle of tossing one of the books into it when his friend (American) walked up and, without missing a beat, said, "Oh, you guys still do that?"

Hiking as a gay man and hiking with a significant other: two guest perspectives

That thing about trail love from a few weeks ago has seemed flimsier and flimsier each time I've looked back on it. I had such grand designs on a three-part series filled with all manner of wit and anecdote—I was all set to deploy some of my favorite terms, like "onanism" and "hide the salami"—but it's never going to happen. What is going to happen is that I will reprint, here and now and without much additional commentary, the contributions of two friends who, prior to me giving up, had produced very thoughtful answers to some of my questions.

First is my AT friend Soulslosher, who was the only openly gay thru-hiker I knew. I asked him to write anything, anything at all about hiking through Appalachia as a gay male, and he gave me this awesome response:

My sexuality, it was one of the last things on my mind when I stood atop Springer Mountain. Yet when my thru hike was fully underway, in my mind, I was confronted with just how I was going to handle my sexuality while hiking the trail. I was far removed from my comfort zone in the liberal Northeast and felt as if I had to dial myself down. Rural communities can be unwelcoming to LGBT people and I was slightly concerned if the inevitable thru hiker feelings of loneliness, sadness, etc. would be amplified since I likely wouldn’t have many, if any, gay people to relate to. 

In the very beginning of my hike, I considered if I should promote my sexuality, so it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone, by having some sort of LGBT orientated patch on my pack. I also contemplated trying to hide it or be honest and open about it when the time was right (if I was asked, etc.). I decided to opt for the last option, mainly because I didn’t want to risk a conflict by being too open. Yet being gay is something that is a part of my identity and it was the approach in which I felt the most comfortable. 

I had the assumption that if anyone was willing to go hiking in the woods for 6 months with a bunch of strangers from all over the world—through unfamiliar towns and territories—that most people would be open minded. I was correct in this assumption. Whenever I discussed my orientation with fellow hikers, it never was an issue. If anything, a few hikers were astonished, yet supportive, that a young gay man was out here … in the middle of nowhere, dirty and smelly, hiking from Georgia to Maine. However, I’m unsure if I broke anyone’s perceived stereotypes about gay men. But by deciding to be open and honest about my sexuality, there was a sense of pride in being accepted into the hiking subculture in which masculinity is such a huge factor. 

In another aspect, I found trail romance to be quite abundant for the heterosexuals. But being gay, I’m always asked about my experiences of romance or hookups. Honestly, it wasn’t something I sought out because I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I am uncertain if I would have accepted even if the opportunity did present itself—all the dirt, smells, and muscle cramps would likely make for an unpleasant experience. Plus, I felt that the odds were stacked against me … you don’t go fishing in saltwater for freshwater fish. I was primarily focused on hiking and just being out there. 

Being a gay thru hiker never put a damper on my hiking experience. In fact, I think it helped me create special bonds with other hikers since I often revealed a piece of private information about myself.

In addition to wanting to write about LGBT issues on-trail, I also wanted to tackle the idea of hiking as a couple, which I've never done. The first thing I always think of when this topic comes up is Mitch Hedberg ...

“I got into an argument with a girlfriend inside of a tent. That's a bad place for an argument, because then I tried to walk out and slammed the flap. How are you supposed to express your anger in this situation? Zipper it up really quick? Zzzip, zzzip ... 'Fuck you!'”

But I decided that, as authoritative as Mitch can be on some issues (koalas and acid come to mind), I'd better get a second opinion from my college friend Eva, who tried to thru-hike the AT with her boyfriend in 2011, the same year that I did. Things were going well for them until her knee cartilage began to demonstrate the structural integrity of Jello and she had to leave the trail. But I asked her to say a bit about what it was like to hike as a couple, and this is what she wrote:

I've almost always hiked with friends, so I don't feel like couple-hiking was anything special. For me, hiking the AT as a couple didn't seem like a departure from the norm so much as a continuation of what I've always done. This sense was reinforced by the fact that Ben and I met and became friends as counselors, leading hikes for kids in the ADKs. 

I also think of my AT arrangement not as Eva and Ben the pair, but as the trio of Eva, Ben, and Glide. Ben and I met Glide, a middle-aged, former Ford employee from Detroit, on the Approach Trail. The three of us became instant friends based on our mutual longing for switchbacks and blistercare. Glide, Ben, and I hiked together for essentially my whole time on the AT. Glide was hilarious and also interesting in that he was really the first friend that Ben and I had made as a couple. Before, I had become friends with Ben's existing friends and vice versa, but on the AT, Ben and I entered as a pre-formed unit. In some way, that made me think of Ben as more a part of myself than I had before. Of course, Ben's refusal to take a trail name was a constant source of disappointment, especially since I had the best ideas for sickly-cute, matching aliases: Zenith and Nadir, Crescent and Gibbous, Apogee and Perigee, etc. (oddly, they were all astronomical, I'm not sure why).

I can't really think of any witty/interesting/telling couple-moments. I think that hiking as a couple must be very similar to hiking with the people you become friends with on the trail. One benefit of starting the trail as a pair is that everything (food, shared gear, shared beds in towns) is cheaper, which is nice. And hiking as a pair was convenient when one person could hang a bear bag while the other primed the Whisperlite (yeah, no JetBoil for us). But yeah. No grand insights. Honestly, I would be more interested to read about what it's like to hike alone. Sex on the trail was like sex in civilization: more tasteful in private and I'd be more likely to acquiesce if I weren't in the middle of cooking dinner. Also note that I also lost my virginity in a tent, so, the woods are familiar territory for me. To directly address some of your questions: I personally didn't feel the need for privacy—during the day, we didn't see many people. There was plenty of time for hiking in silence or conversation or singing or "having a moment," etc in the privacy of the the vacant forest. And I don't feel like people treated Ben and me differently than they would have had we been hiking as friends or separately. Again, unfortunately and all too often, Ben and everything else on the trail felt like an afterthought compared to my knee saga.

Mitch Hedberg jokes aside, I don't see why her experience shouldn't hold true for any well-established couple, especially if they've lived together before (because that's essentially what a thru-hike would be). I think a disparity in the enthusiasm for actually hiking long distances would be more of a problem than just being around each other 24/7. I definitely witnessed this disparity once on the AT: eager woman really enjoying her hike, man just going through the motions tagging along. I've also heard other stories, like a man thru-hiking with his wife's pack on his front, and his pack on his back (presumably the wife carried her own whip). But those people probably have other problems not specific to hiking. I'm guessing happy couples stay happy on the trail, for the most part.

That's all for the whole Trail Love deal. Other topics of sex and romance will be touched on in future asides, no doubt. Thanks again to Eva and Soulslosher for their contributions.