As I Am, Take Me

Rain has come, on and off, for the past few days. I expected that eventually I'd have to deal with it. For the most part, the weather has been ideal. When clouds block the sun, it's pleasant for walking, especially after hotter days and nights. Now, when the sun breaks through the clouds, I welcome it. For the first week or two, I'd find relief from the sun by resting for a few minutes in the shade of a cornfield or under a burr oak. Now, with the colder temperatures, I lie out in the sun. My hiking attire has also become warmer. I keep my long-johns (top and bottom) on all day, every day, but rolled up above my knees and elbows. The rain typically comes in the afternoon and sometimes lasts through the night. It's not like Steamboat, where we get a 45-minute storm to cool off the valley, followed immediately by more sunshine. The precipitation here takes its time in soaking my tent. It's never torrential, but it lingers for hours. The other night, I finished up my mileage early, with enough time to test my shelter-making abilities. The last time I built a shelter was on the IAT, doing a section near Monches, years ago. It was an A-frame of branches and leaf litter, successfully blocking out the drizzle. This time around was different. I had the top built well, but the rain snuck up on me, not letting me finish the sides, so I stuck my tent under the triangular roof, hoping for only sprinkles. In fact, it was more like 14 hours of drizzle. It trapped me in my tent for too long. I had just finished the book I was reading, so I wrote a bit, but writing is not an activity to simply kill time, so I stared at my tent, sighing, staring at the blue walls of my tent. Finally, I slept a bit, but not much. It was a night of tossing and turning, sinking into the surface of dreams, then awaking, unsure of whether the last hour was a dream. Come morning, the tent and fly were covered in wet leaves and sticks from the roof. From now on, I'll accept the rain and deal with the wet tent.
The next day, I walked until the sun shone. I set up the tent, dried it out in the heat and wind for 45 minutes, and kept on down the trail.
One day, early in the morning, I had finished some road walking and came to the next trailhead. Vans sat in the mist of the morning while people stood with shoulders hunched and hands in their sweatshirt pockets. I approached.
"Are you doing the Ice Age?" I asked.
They were. A few had shirts signifying that they were part of the Boy Scouts of America. I don't know much about Boy Scouts. I've had a few encounters with them while I was a raft guide in South Carolina. They gave me a merit badge for being their guide and overnight host in the woods. It seems like a cool idea, getting kids out in the woods, appreciating the woods.
A lot of them that morning didn't look like they wanted to be there and a few didn't respond when I asked questions. But a few had a glimmer of enthusiasm in their eyes. Some asked questions about the thru-hike and one even suggested to the leader that they do it. I hope that kid does it some day. The leader and I chatted a while longer and as it turns out, he's studying environmental education in Stevens Point. A good role for him, I'd say. I took off ahead of them, eager to put some miles behind me. Alone again, I thought a lot about those kids and whether, in ten years, they might remember our conversation and that section of the trail. Would one of them have it in them to see Wisconsin by foot? I would imagine that if the dew dropping off the leaves strikes them the way it does me, they'll be in my shoes a few years down the line. And, if they recognize that, in the woods, something is always happening, be it the pulsing sounds of the prairie insects or the sounds of waves lapping through the canopy, they may end up with the same ruminations as I do, alone in the woods. And they'll understand, eventually, as I am starting to, that they're never alone. There is always something.
At a road crossing, there was a Prius that I'd seen earlier in the day. I left a note on the handle, curious about their car-shuttling and whether they were section hiking. Well, I ran into Byron, the owner of the car, on the trail. We had a quick talk and bid each other well. He left me with a couple granola bars' worth of "trail magic." Trail magic was something that, on the AT, was expected a couple times a week. The people who help hikers are called "trail angels." It develops, in time, a strong community of those who hike and those who love to help hikers. This eventually develops "trail towns," where hikers know they can find some cosseting from a stranger who has helped others before them, be it in form of a meal or a place to sleep. On the AT, there was generally a feel of superficial kindness attached to the generosity because so many people already knew that if you had a beard and a big pack, you were a thru-hiker and had stories for them. The Ice Age Trail is not as popular. When people see me walking through a town, chances are that they don't know what I'm doing and their curiosity, if they approach me, is sincere. So, when Byron passed his last two granola bars to me, it meant more to me that a full meal and a place to sleep while on the Appalachian Trail. This is not to say I didn't love to meet the east coast folks and didn't appreciate their eagerness to help. They were amazing people. They allowed me to fall deeply in love with the nation. They are the reason we canoed the Mississippi. They are the reason I hike the IAT. They changed my life.
At the next road crossing, I stopped to smear peanut butter and jam on a bagel. Before I could sit down, the Byron pulled up. This was the third time I came across the Prius. He got out and asked my plans for lunch. We went to A&W for a pulled pork sandwiches, fries, and a root beer float flurry. He bought lunch in exchange for picking my brain. I felt comfortable with him, the way I would with family. Complete strangers to each other, we opened up and tapped deeply into the core of people's drive for being in the wilderness. The conversation took off and his companionship seemed to lighten the weight of my pack, clear my mind, and open my contemplations to alternative directions. He is a profound deipnosophist and, now, my good friend. A real trail angel.
When Byron brought me back to the trail, I caught back up with the Boy Scouts.
"Hey, I thought you were ahead of us!"
I told them all about the succulent pulled pork and flurry while one of them sucked down the remaining salty broth of ramen noodles. I got a picture with them and headed north.
The trail itself has been changing each day. As I enter different segments, the volunteers who maintain the trail obviously change. Some sections are cleared meticulously, with fresh sawdust under newly cut trees. The yellow blazes are vibrant and abundant enough. Other sections have not been blazed in years and the paint has flaked off the trees. Down trees cross the trail, forcing me to one side or the other, often into thorny plants or poison ivy. My favorite sections dash between prairies and oak stands. There is strong hum beating out of the prairies and wildlife scurries up trees and over the canopy, hiding from my steps. Squirrels still make me laugh. It's something I picked up from my friend Devin. We used to live together. We'd sit on our porch and laugh at them scrambling around our yard and over the garage roof with their cheeks full of acorns and their fluffy tails chasing them the whole way. I think of Devin when I see squirrels. And I can't help but laugh.
It's clear that the trail is young and the dedication of its volunteers will make it grow. If the trail is maintained, more people will hike it and more people will want the rest of the trail to be completed.
Last night, I stayed in an 1860-style cabin, open to hikers on a first come, first serve basis. It was about 7' by 8' with a loft . It was big enough to sleep about four or five, but I had the run of the roost. Someone donated a radio (running on batteries) to the cabin. It was great to hear some tunes. I tried to get the Brewers game, but it wouldn't hold against static for more than a minute, so I settled for Hank Williams singing "There's a tear in my beer," a personal favorite sing-along. The old country music on AM is great. There are always a few stations in central Wisconsin that hold on to the roots of country, which are also the roots of folk and punk. It's simple and easy to listen to. Conway Twitty, Merle Haggard, and even Burl Ives get their chances to tell their story on these static, blue jean stations.
Today, I meet Adam Eader again. I walked into Amherst on Highway 10. We plan to see some bluegrass, then camp, possibly at the cabin again. Then, tomorrow, we'll cast a line and try for some lunkers out of the Waupaca River or the Tomorrow River. The Tomorrow is my favorite name for a river with so many lingering, procrastinating implications, appropriate for a river.
As I walked into town, I passed the best brewery in the nation, Central Waters. Our graduating class from UWSP had our grad party there. As I remember it, it was a real hum-dinger. I'd like to make it to their brew pub while I'm in town. Downtown, a woman came walking toward me with a confident disposition and friendly countenance.
"Well, we don't many people hiking through our town. We do, but not who look like they're really hiking." I laughed out loud. I look like I'm really hiking. I explained my journey. She told me to go into the building next to us. She would buy me lunch. I was so hungry. She was also a writer and as it turned out, she was the owner of the restaurant we were eating at. She goes there to write in a gently lit corner table. We ordered coffee and a few dishes. The coffee was delicious and the sandwich was up to par with Nell's quiche. And it filled me up- a challenging task. She had the same open feel to her that Byron did. Her pattern within our interaction was mayoral and it demanded candid conversation. We left nothing to the wayside. We spoke of uncertainties in the future and challenges of the past. But it was nonetheless lighthearted and jovial. God, it feels good to meet people. People passed by the table and everyone knew her, giving a small wave, being polite enough not to interrupt our lunch. A few people stopped in for a few minutes of conversation, which was nice. One man, the owner of a paper I used to write for, said he'd love to have a story from me about the Ice Age Trail. Well, where to begin. My head is inundated with fervid thoughts about the wilderness, the towns, the people, the meals, and the personal contemplations I have on the trail. I could write a memoir with everything flying around in my mind right now. It feels good, but I'm not sure I could shrink a piece down to article-size at this point.
This is the end of my hiking for about a week, which, as I've mentioned before, will be spent in Stevens Point with Natalie and a few others. Natalie agreed to watch the Pack clean up the Bears on Sunday. So, we'll find a place with some good nachos and beer to cheer on the Super Bowl champions. probably, we'll camp most of the nights, but we also intend to meet with Andy Felt, a math professor I got to lead wilderness trips with. We've become close friends since. Also, we'll meet with Dan Dieterich, a former professor who fomented my interest in editing, publishing, and writing in general.
Check out the link to the right for pictures.