Civilization is the cause and nature the answer to some of the problems we face. Understanding natural rights, natural belonging and natural learning will restore a natural balance to our lives. I have 15,000+ miles worth of tales and photography from wilderness backpacking trails for conveying a message of natural balance.
Last week I posted a picture of the ‘75 AT Expedition celebrating our “finish,” though we had to come back two weeks later to actually climb Katahdin. Here is a picture, taken just a short time before the other one, that shows our dejection upon first hearing we could not climb.
I’ve been digitizing old color slides. This is one of the oldest, a group shot of the first expedition on the Appalachian Trail in 1975, taken near the end at Katahdin Stream campground. The mountain actually was closed off that day and the group had to return two weeks later to finish our 2000 mile hike. I’m the one kneeling, wearing a cap. Our leader, Warren Doyle, is wearing the Georgia to Maine shirt.
Thumbs Up from AT Thru-Hikers
After reaching the New York border along the Appalachian Trail, the final leg for TRAIL Journey 2000 was canoeing down the Housatonic River from Gaylordsville to the Long Island Sound.
This is one of my Trail Tales. Here are entry 1, entry 2, entry 3, entry 4, entry 5 and entry 6.
We ended up with only one day available to look for logging jobs. We filled out one application at Weyerhauser. The receptionist asked us what kind of job we wanted and when we wanted to start. Savitt and I answered “anything” and “in five months,” respectively. Her look told us all we needed to know about our prospects.
By the time we packed up the Camaro for the return journey home there was not much time left to spare but, fortunately, we did not have to get to Connecticut by way of Miami. The highlights of the return journey were: purchasing tire chains to negotiate snowbound passes; getting a ride down a ski slope in rescue sleds; and changing pants while driving. I don’t know why the latter upset Savitt and Zwiebel so.
We delivered the Camaro with one hour to spare on our contract. The owner reimbursed us for our deposit on the car with a check (that later bounced and the money never recovered) and dropped us off at the bus station. This did us little good since our anticipated funds for the bus fare was now in the form of a check. We called Warren Doyle at 3:00 a.m. and he immediately came down to rescue us. Savitt and I made it back to school the afternoon before classes started.
Oh, yes, I mentioned this has to do with hiking the PCT. We were driving along the Columbia River on the return trip, with the weather typically overcast and drizzly. To our right were a number of spectacular waterfalls spilling forth from the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, the drifting mists lending a mystical aura to everything. Someone, I forgot who, spotted a sign for the Pacific Crest Trail. I knew nothing about the trail but, not surprisingly, Zwiebel did. He suggested that we all hike it the next year. Savitt immediately took to the idea. They both pressed me to commit then and there, but I remember my response clearly:
“No, thanks, one long-distance trail is enough for anybody.”
If adventure is defined as heading out into the unknown, then that trip to Seattle and back surpasses my thousands of miles of wilderness backpacking as the most adventurous thing I have done. We met some unusual people, like the charitable inner-city teenage girl in Los Angeles who offered us her prized knife for protecting ourselves while we hitchhiked. We did some unusual things, like camp out in back of a dumpster, and play cards in the back of a brand new mobile home being delivered to a dealer. More memorable than any of that was the camaraderie we shared. Sometimes we got on each other’s nerves. Yet the more ridiculous the situation we found ourselves in, the more good-natured we seemed to become. Was this always one of the rewards of adventure? I wanted to know.
My first Appalachian Trail hike, while thoroughly enjoyable, was thoroughly planned by the foremost expert of the trail, Warren Doyle. In retrospect, that thru-hike was more of a happy lark for me than an adventure. Back in the seventies the Pacific Crest was not even a finished trail–an unknown quality unavoidably built in. With a bunch of yahoos like us behind the planning efforts, well, anything could happen. So a wonderfully foolish journey, and a 1971 National Geographic article subsequently sent to me by Zwiebel, were the two reasons why I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail.
After completing the Long Trail in Vermont our TRAIL Journey continued south on the Appalachian Trail through Massachusetts and Connecticut. There are no photos of Connecticut be cause we did a “Superhike,” the entire 51 mile portion of the Connecticut trail in one day. Here are some photos of the Massachusetts AT.
The lodge on Mt. Greylock, taken from the highest point in Massashusetts on Grelock tower.
Kay Wood Shelter, which we shared with a program for teenage girls (which our teenage boys did not seem to mind)
Greenwater Pond
Upper Goose Pond, where we stayed at an AMC cabin and was ferried across the pond by canoe the next morning.
We chose the stretch south of Upper Goose Pond to navigate cross-country with map and compass.
Bennedict Pond
This is one of my Trail Tales. Here are entry 1, entry 2, entry 3, entry 4 and entry 5.
Our next day, the eighth one of our journey, was spent recuperating from life on the road. We called transport car agencies in Tacoma and Seattle to find a way back home, this time without hitching. We found a Camaro that needed to be driven from Seattle to Wilmington, Delaware. Close enough! The next day we would take a bus up to Seattle and sign for the car with all our signatures this time. Then we would be able to use the car to search out all those summer logging jobs that no doubt were just waiting for us to come claim them.
The three of us prepared supper for my brother’s family that evening. We all loved pizza and decided to make our first one from scratch. Since we all like thick crust pizza we rolled out the dough about an inch thick, blissfully unaware that dough rises. We ended up a culinary creation that was more like a loaf of bread with some sauce on top. That should have been the signal that nothing on this trip was going to work as planned.
On the bus ride to Seattle I brought along some schoolwork that needed to be done to resolve an incomplete grade I received for the fall semester. After arriving at Seattle, we planned took a Metro bus to visit MSR before picking up the Camaro. I left my schoolwork behind on that first Metro bus we rode. Instead of a relaxing day touring the city, while making our way towards picking up the Camaro, we spent a hectic day chasing Metro buses around town.
We tracked down a Metro bus on the route we had taken, only to find that buses switch routes. We tracked down the original bus we had taken, now on a different route, only to find no schoolwork on board. We were told to check lost and found at the Metro bus station, but by this time we had to first get to the transport car agency before it closed at 4:00 p.m., then get to the bus station before it closed at 5:00.
We arrived at the transport agency north of Seattle just in time to sign for the Camaro. The car was only marginally bigger than a VW Beetle, but at least we had one less bag of food by now. The car could also get to places in a hurry, which proved necessary. The Metro bus station should have been only fifteen minutes away from where we were, but only if we knew how to get there.
We drove on Route 99 down a long, sloped hill towards the center of town. The distinguishing feature of this main thoroughfare for the city is the cement divider that runs down the entire length, with absolutely no breaks. Want to cross over to the other side? You have to find the right turnoff for an underpass. We found such a turnoff only after our third pass at driving up and down the length of the divided highway. Even then we could not find the right street to bring us to the bus station, though the building was in plain view at times. We ended up back on the wrong side of Route 99.
With about two minutes until closing we spotted a Metro bus that we followed to the station. With the Camaro still in motion I hopped out of the car and ran frantically into the station. I imagined having to run up and down through a maze of hallways trying to find the lost and found office, like the hero in a suspense movie saving the day from some dreadful fate with one second left frozen on the clock. In reality, lost and found was at the main desk. I asked the attendant, gasping for breath, if I had made it before closing. He looked at me somewhat bemused and replied: “Sure, we don’t close until 5:30.”
My sister-in-law, Connie, had made us a terrific lasagna dinner for that night. Unfortunately, our wild goose chase due to my boneheaded move caused us to arrive back at Olympia late and we had to reheat the leftovers. After dinner I slumped down alone in the living room chair, my comrades decided they rather be in another room. I reflected upon what a disaster the day had been, but at least we obtained a car that was a little bit bigger than a Beetle and had to be delivered somewhere near New England. With these thoughts in mind Connie came into the room to deliver a message.
“A transport agency called while you were gone. They have a UHaul truck to be delivered to Boston.”
Our journey went from the hardest terrain to the easiest, ending with a canoe trip down the Housatonic River. These photos are from southern Vermont, a much easier hike than the Mt. Mansfield/Camels Hump areas.
A crowd of hikers camped at Cooper Lodge, near Killington peak
"Trail angels" often occur along long-distance trails
Lunch by Little Rock Pond
Sunset from Stratton Mountain
A bog area near Glastonbury Mountain
We left the Long Trail here and continued south on the Appalachian Trail
This is one of my Trail Tales. Here are entry 1, entry 2, entry 3 and entry 4.
We left Connecticut with sixteen days available to make it back in time for the spring semester. We took three days to hitch to Sacramento from Phoenix, not bad for three guys toting along a whole bunch of stuff, but we were getting short on time. The I-5 ramp in downtown Sacramento at midday proved to be a tough place to hitch. Maybe our vaudeville routine was loosing its pizzazz, or maybe not venturing forth beyond that white line on the entrance ramp dampened our effectiveness. Zwiebel decided to track down a phone directory to locate transport agencies in the area. I had visions of him driving back with a car needing to be delivered to Salt Lake City. During his momentary absence a car finally pulled over, another VW Beetle.
We quickly explained to the red-headed teenager that popped out that there were actually three of us. This did not seem to faze him; in fact, he was apologetic about going only a few exits north. Having to hitch out of the suburbs of Sacramento did not bode well, but we were desperate. For the third time during our journey we crammed three backpacks, three sleeping bags, two grocery bags full of food, one two-burner Coleman stove and one can of Coleman fuel into a Beetle. To close the hood the driver had to climb up and jump on it.
In a short period of time we found out a lot about each other. He found out that we were going up to Seattle to look for logging jobs. We found out that he was about to go into the service in a few days and had some time to kill. As the only person in the car who had been to Seattle before, I began to bill it up as a great place to visit, with much the same zeal and ulterior motive as a travel agent. This customer proved to be an easy sell.
“Hey, do you guys mind if I come along?” he asked.
We, of course, were enthusiastically receptive about the idea.
“Do you mind if I bring a friend along?” he pushed further.
Well, what were we going to say? “No! Bring your car but leave your friend home?”
Our host went to pick up his friend and then to his house where he dropped off a note for his Mom that said something to the effect of: “I’m going to Seattle for a couple days. I’ll call you tonight.” Meanwhile, the other four of us went about the chore of finding the hidden crannies where two more sleeping bags and another body could be crammed into a VW Beetle. A younger sister looked out the window with a puzzled expression as we drove off.
I did much of the driving, with the excuse of being the one most familiar with Washington, but with the real motivation of spending the most time in the least cramped seat. We encountered blizzard conditions at the higher elevations of Oregon, which meant near zero visibility, but the sheer weight in the Beetle kept us on the road nicely. I was the least troubled person in the car over the fact that I could not see.
We made one pit stop in the state to refuel. At the station Savitt and I went into the restroom, where I saw a condom machine for the first time. The novelty alone made me want to buy one.
“What are you going to do with a condom?” Savitt responded sarcastically.
I resented the implications behind his remark, but had no legitimate answer. We left the condoms behind.
We arrived at my brother’s house in Olympia, Washington early the next morning. Everyone had become so tired by the drive that we all spread our sleeping bags out on the living room floor and crashed. In the afternoon we headed up to Seattle to give our benefactors the tour for which they made the trip. By the time we returned to my brother’s house again “Red” and his friend needed to return right away to Sacramento. They made the fifteen hundred mile round trip for a few hours of sightseeing: in a customary Seattle drizzle.
What comes around goes around they say, and taking advantage of two teenagers wanting to see Seattle would come back to haunt me.
The group was in pretty good shape by the time we left Mt. Mansfield behind.
View south towards Camels Hump
Playing cards at Gorham Lodge
Inclement weather on top of Camels Hump
Green Mountains south of Camels Hump
Sunrise at Appalachian Gap