As Far as the Mountains Go

As a liar's voice
golden Nebraska grassland
quivers before Fall

Before I started the Trail, someone told me the chances of my seeing another thru-hiker were equal to those of seeing a zebra on the Trail. I didn't see a zebra, but I met two hikers who had started as thru-hikers and decided to take a few days off, then section-hike the remaining miles. I met them at about midday. I didn't tell them this, but I hadn't eaten anything in about a day. No dinner the night before, no breakfast that day, and no lunch yet. Nor had I had much to drink. Maybe a couple one-ounce pulls of water that morning. I had recently resupplied. My pack was heavy with food. I didn't know why my appetite was absent.
I came over a rolling hill in some woods on private land and saw two of the friendliest faces I'd seen in my entire life. For one reason or another, I recognized both of them. They reminded me of family members who I couldn't quite place. Perhaps the transcendence of the Trail related us. Maybe I forced it. Both possibilities are feasible.
"And whose presence do we have the pleasure of sharing?" the man in the orange vest asked.
"My name is Michael Gutschenritter" My head looked down to my shoes. I was exhausted.
"You're the blogger," the woman said.

We introduced ourselves. Chris Miller and Dave. I'd spoken with Chris Miller on the phone. We had tried to meet to hike a section together. After meeting her this day, I wished I had hiked quite a bit with her. When they asked me how I was doing, I suggested we sit together at the picnic table to my left.
I had begun that morning to consider heading back to Colorado within the week. We talked.

Virgil was a Native from Arizona. When I woke up, I told him to look behind us at the horizon. A copper streak spanned the entire earth. A grey tone hummed above the copper until a blazing orange sliced through the bus windows. The skies lightened up a bit. Peaking silhouettes seemed plastered against the western sky and grew with each minute. They began to envelop the crowded bus and the sun rose higher. The yawns and chatter of the waking passengers were unmistakable. The garrulous man behind me started his incessant banter about his younger years, and, for the third time, about how he lived in Colorado Springs when he was in his twenties. He even used some of the same phrases, again making him laugh alone.

The smokers are always the first off the Greyhounds, forcing the rest of us to walk through their rising cloud of smoke. I considered asking one of them for a smoke, but I already felt greasy and rank. A smoke wouldn't have helped. Instead, I walked to a neighboring parking lot and did about 15 sprints until the next bus took off toward Steamboat Springs, my home.

I considered long and hard what my next step would be. Feeling vulnerable and in the midst of a huge decision to leave the Trail, I considered everything cautiously.

I know what keeps me happy, though. I love to experience life in its grittiest form. I love to meet my country firsthand. I love to see the flaws, the vulnerabilities, the stoicism, the beauty of my fellow countrymen. I love to be a part of the woods. I love the rain, the stillness of a naked branch, the winter's blanket of snow, the stare from a dominant owl who's been eyeing me for over a mile of trail. The interactions I have with all these people and nature are the most important aspect of my life. I intend to nurture these relationships as I have been doing. My future holds for me what it holds for most people of my generation: The Unknown. The future, for me, is becoming silly to think about. Summer leads to Autumn, which gives way to a snowy Winter, melting inevitably into Spring, then drying back into Summer. These seasons and transitions are all amplified here in Yampa Valley. And it is great to be a part of. I see myself staying here for some time and working through the seasons. My most consistent goal has been to work with the youth and help them build the same relationships that I have, with people and the wilderness. If I realize that goal, all the better. If my goals change, so be it. For now, I am intensely happy.

Naked for Autumn
like water in the river
aspens seek crystals

Thank you, Chris and Dave.

Natalie, and Spaces Between

I spent the last week laughing. Adam picked me up at a bar in Amherst and we headed out to the Northland Ballroom to catch the last set of Wednesday bluegrass for the night. From there, we went to Stevens Point, expecting the streets to be lively with bustling college students. Not the case. It was dead, unlike the years we attended the University. Had it been like this, we probably would have finished in four years! Adam and I spent the next few days carousing about the town, running into old friends, and fishing on a little stream by Rosholt. The experience begot a slight nostalgia. I've been gone for three years now, but am content with it. Each time I return, I start to think I could move back and slip right back into my comfortable routine. But there's a new scene for me out in Colorado and I love it there.
Natalie flew into Milwaukee and took a bus up to Point for the week. She's considering transferring to UWSP to finish her undergraduate studies. I'm considering doing graduate work just north of Point. It was a perfect time for us to check out the town and see how we felt there. By the end of it, we had a better feel for whether or not we'd be comfortable there for a few years. Neither of us has made a decision, but we're better equipped to make one. We camped out in Schmeeckle Reserve for a few nights, then stayed with my friend Andy Felt and his family for a night of drying out from the rain. It was great to see him. We led a trip together for incoming freshmen to the University. It was a five-day journey down the Namekagon/ St. Croix Riverway and was a huge success. In fact, it bonded Andy and me as well as it did the students.
The next day, Nat and I were walking to a new sculpture park in the northwest corner of town when I got a call, saying the Scmeeckle Rangers found my tent and the director of the reserve had confiscated it along with both of our packs. What's life without a monkey wrench? We walked back to the reserve, had a meeting with both directors and ended up on good terms. They understood our motives and were happy to return our gear, ticket-free. Typically, it would be a $200 fine for those who can't charm their way out of it!
The rest of the week, we stayed at another friend's house. Andrew let us crash on his couch for a few days. He was great for putting us up and it was awesome to see him again. He's the last of the tight group of friends from Point. Throughout the days, Nat and I talked the entire time, but mostly laughed. Having time apart was good for us and we have both developed some prominent understandings of how to have a healthy relationship. I won't get into it on the blog but we are healthier and stronger together than ever before.
Toward the end of the sojourn, Nat and I met with Dan Dieterich, one of my favorite professors. He had a way of engaging his students and letting their creativity bloom. It was great to see him again, if only for the extent of a meal.
The weather in Point was pretty bad. Mostly, it drizzled or poured. Now, back on the Trail, the skies have cleared and the sun shines all day. At last, the fall colors are in full bloom. Trees mound up behind barns, layering back for miles at some places, all full of autumn yellows, browns, bright reds, and deep oranges. People's yards are sprinkled with leaves like a cake celebrating the turn to October. The last skeins of geese bark above me in a "V," stretching their necks south and sometimes west. I haven't heard a crane in several days now. I miss the company of their ancient call. Everything seems different in autumn. Rain is less frequent but is a colder threat than in summer. It's hard for me to separate the senses. The chill in the air becomes visual and the spaces between leaves seem crisp. When the sun beats heavy on my body, there is always an equilibrating zephyr. The ground is covered with pine needles and maple leaves, offering a soft resting ground for the nights. The cows' breath in the morning rises above their faces and the blank stare becomes intimidating. And steam rises when I take a leak under the stars. I like this all quite a bit.
For the first few days after Point, I felt my body regaining its shape, unable to hike 20 miles in a day. But, I'm back in the groove after three days and will soon be able to crank out big miles without a problem. Adam gave me a book to travel with. It's Phil Jackson's Sacred Hoops. It was coincidental or fateful that he gave it to me right then because the content struck me and transferred well into my life and lifestyle. Phil Jackson writes about his introduction to spiritualism, meditation, and leadership. I'd been experimenting with meditation for the past few years with some success and I've been curious about spiritualism for years before that. My role in groups has typically been one of leadership. So, this book gave me the push I needed to incorporate meditation into my life. Being without a schedule, I take about 15 to 20 minutes in the mornings and evenings to meditate. And throughout the days, while hiking, I focus on my breathing, always passing through my thoughts and getting back to the cadence of my breath. For now, it's nothing spiritual and plays a simple role in my day. Ultimately, I'm sure it will play a more directional role in my life. And, as Phil Jackson allowed it to, I would like it play a more profound role in every moment. Perhaps it will intertwine itself into my leadership roles and spirituality.
Tomorrow, I'll head to Wausau and catch a bus to Madison, where I'll stay with Chris Johnson for a night, then head over to our good friend's wedding. Devin will marry Jenny on Friday. Five years ago, I wouldn't have placed my money on Devin being the next groom, but that was a long time ago. He'll be a good husband and family-man. I'm excited and happy for him. He and Jenny are great for each other.
After the wedding, I hope to stay on the Trail for a while, walking through the Chequamegon National Forest and enjoying the changing season and surroundings. I'm eager to maintain rhythm.
More pictures will be up. The link is on the right. I couldn't get them all up, but these are from the very beginning, including the trip from CO to WI.

 

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.
  

Sacred Ground and Quiche

I walked on sacred ground. It's a State Natural Area south of Montello and Packwaukee off of County Highway F. In 1849, John Muir's family moved from Scotland to Lake Ennis, Wisconsin. He was only 11 years old. He lived there for six years. He went on to be a heavily influential conservationist, naturalist, preservationist, writer, and most importantly, adventurer. I hiked the two miles around his boyhood property, letting my imagination run rampant. Which of these trees were around while he was here? Could there be a molecule of his sweat left in the lake? What did his house look like? From what I've read, his boyhood was much like any other country boy's. But his youthful need for exploration and adventure persisted. As a man, he travelled the world, especially Western United States. There is a story about his sitting in a cabin with a friend while a storm brewed outside. He jumped from his chair and ran outside to climb a huge pine tree. He wanted to feel what the tree felt in such wild weather. They are this love for and connection with the natural world that make him one of my heroes. His land was gorgeous. The soil was soft and my feet melted into it with each step. Tall grasses were silent and waving. Grapes hung bundled behind dark, fancy-looking leaves. Few people were there. I met a man who knew a lot about Muir. We walked and talked for a while until he had to catch up with "his Misses."
The day before, I had hiked through Devil's Lake. It's another gem of Wisconsin that I couldn't believe I hadn't visited before. The trails bustled with people, many from Illinois from what I could see in the parking lots. It was kind of nice being around so many people. They smelled great, the way day hikers always do. I can only imagine what they thought of me. Towering cliffs peered over the lake. The Trail, for the most part, traversed across those cliffs, going all the way down to the lake twice. Had it been warmer, I would have gone for a dip, but the weather has really cooled off. The first cold morning was in Riverland Conservatory, south of Devil's Lake. I'm happy to have my 10-degree sleeping bag. A bridge sparkled with frost like the savanna's ephemeral diamonds. The cold nipped at my ears and hands until mid-morning when I thawed out.
Two nights ago, I stayed in Baraboo with Nell and Lou. A few years back, our family helped them load their barn with hay for their horses. It was great to return. Nell remembered my love for her quiche. By the time I arrived, a quiche sat on the counter, waiting for me. I ate over half of it in one sitting, then the other portion the next day on the trail. Not long after the first helping, we ate dinner, a delicious calorie-packed chicken dish followed by fudge-bottom pie. Wow. That was by far the best stop I've had, in terms of home-cooked grub. Freshly showered, I slept like a baby in the cold house with a comforter on me. Thank you, Nell!
The following day, I bought a "Fargo-style" blaze orange hat, complete with a visor and fuzzy ear flaps. The mornings aren't so bad, now.
Since then, it's been a lot of road-walking. In the cold, it's not too bad. A few people have offered rides, which I've taken, but usually not more than a few miles. I'm in Westfield Library right now, soon to make it up to Chaffee Creek Fishery Area, where the Trail will pick up again. I'm back into the rhythm that I'd been on the brink of for a few weeks. I'm really enjoying the Trail. The oak savannas and wooded areas are all beautiful. The prairies are full of life with creeks running along the edges. The towns continue to impress me and the people I meet are, for the most part, generous and curious. I enjoy their company, though it may be for only a short moment or a couple hours.
Thanks for reading the blog!      

Southern Hospitality

Whenever I've been in the South, I've experienced phenomenal hospitality from the local population. They've taken me in to their home to share an evening, a meal, and great company. Well, I'm obviously in the North Country State, far from the Mason-Dixon line, and the hospitality has not attenuated as the people's generosity seems to suffuse into each town and person. Immediately after leaving Ruth's house (from last blog), I was taken into Rita's house for a "boil" dinner, similar to a pot roast, my favorite meal of all time. I picked that up from my grandfather, a man who would never want me to "wither away to nothing." He always demanded that I put some more meat (or ice cream) on my bones. I obliged. Fortunately, Rita and her roommate are major Packer fans. We watched the Pack clean the Saints' clocks in a Super Bowl quality game. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, I was dozing and slept right there on the couch until 6a.m. Rita is section-hiking the entire Trail, which I admire more than a thru-hike because it demands years of persistence. A thru-hike is almost a giant burst of adrenaline. They are different experiences; in fact, they're incomparable. From her house, I headed back to the Trail and walked the shape of a horseshoe around the big city of Janesville. The Trail followed bike paths the whole way around town, reaching down to its southernmost point. Truth to tell, I was not impressed with the city. It was too big to understand and get a feel for. The smaller towns that I've been experiencing are much more accessible and welcoming. I wouldn't even know where to start in Janesville. So, I took the Trail west out of town on the "connector route (roads)" for a few miles and put my thumb out. It was in Chile when I started hitching. The idea of it was romantic and incited a youthful rush that has since died down a bit. Now, I only do it out of necessity and only occasionally do I find it as exhillerating as hitching into San Pedro de Atacama with my friends in Chile. A Navy veteran named Paul picked me up on his way to Madison. He was nice enough to take me all the way into Albany, where  the Trail picked up, several miles out of his way. When Paul and I parted ways, I went to eat lunch on the Trail in shade, only to realize when  I put my pack back on that I'd forgotten my camera in his car. What a sinking feeling that is. I sprinted back to the gas station where he left me, hoping he'd still be there or he'd left it at the station for me to pick up. No Paul. No camera. So, I called Natalie and asked her to search a veteran database of Janesville to home in on who this man was and how I could get the camera back. She called the VFW of Madison and the worker there just happened to know Paul and have all his information. We've been in contact since and he's sending my camera to Nat's house so she can bring it when she visits. He's incredibly generous for going out of his way to help me out so many times. Perhaps my experiences are biased and I only have encounters with goodhearted people, but they are abundant and I'm convinced that people are inherently good. These experiences edify me and remind me to act accordingly.
After a 20-mile day and a night in Monticello (one of the quaintest towns I've visited), I was invited to a couple's house for coffee. We sat outside for two hours at their rummage sale drinking Maxwell House until my bowels began to churn. I took to the woods.
By the time I got to New Glarus (home of the delicious brew), Chris Johnson and Tamara Baker had contacted me, inviting me to their place. Chris recently started PhD work in Madison and Tamara works with the soil at a farm and is now involved in a program getting healthy foods into schools. They're some of my very best friends. We met in New Glarus for a brewery tour and a few suds for ourselves. We sat outside, overlooking the Swiss town, which we later ambled through with Kessey, the Mountain Curr. One thing led to another and by the time we got to Madison, phone calls had been made and we were out carousing the streets of Madison with a groups of people we used to study with in Stevens Point. It was a major highlight of my journey so far. We were in the state's capital, where decisions get made and progress is in the heart of the people. Being around young people, speaking freely, and experiencing Madison made me stay for my first Zero Day on the trail. So, Chris and I toured the capitol building, learning about the construction, history, and stone make-up of the entire building. We sat in Scott Walker's conference room. The lavishness of it, with gold trim and massive leather chairs, makes me question the legitimacy of Walker's presence. Let's not get political, but the whole world is watching, Scotty. Thank you Chris and Tamara for having me in and showing me a good time.
From Madtown, I got a ride back to the Trail with Tamara and walked north. I put in a big day to get to the Ice Age Trail Alliance office before they closed in Cross Plains. I couldn't see much of the town, but Kevin, the Director of Land Conservation, invited me to dinner with his family. We ate at his place with the Trail as their backyard, then Kevin and I watched Miss Universe on NBC for a couple hours. He wants me to assure everyone that we tried to watched Sunday Night Football, but it was conveniently not on his cable set-up. So, instead, we had to grin and bare it as Miss Costa Rica strutted her way across the stage. My bet was on Miss Ukraine, but the worthy Miss Angola took the cake. What a competition.
My time has run out at the library. I will finish later.   

Thoughts of Autumn Harvest

After leaving the Heules in West Bend, the trail led almost immediately into Slinger. The beauty and unique nature of the Trail is that it balances a hiker's time between solitude in the rugged terrain of Wisconsin wilderness and the quaint towns, defined by desolate quietude, bustling farmers markets, or historical plaques celebrating its roots. In Slinger, I met a man named Lance, who had a gentle disposition but the ebullience of a teenager. I interrupted his building a trail on his property and we made a feast of bratwurst, kraut, coleslaw, cukes, and beer. Though it was soon after a pancake and bacon breakfast, I managed to put back two brats and a plateful of sides. It was a quick visit, but we both had Trail duties to tend to, and the company was pleasant. He drove me back to the Trail (which went through town), and we went our ways, and we've stayed in contact since.
That night, I made it just north of Holy Hill, near Monches, WI. Adam Eader met me there to hike the following day. He couldn't have picked a worse day to hike. The humidity had its last (hopefully) push of the season and slung itself full force at us, imbuing our bodies and sapping the energy of us. We didn't make it more than four or five miles, by far my shortest day yet. Our breaks were extensive and abundant, full of good conversation that seems to emerge every time we're together. We decided after a long nap in a cemetery that we are not very good hiking partners, but better conversationalists. It's funny that we're both avid hikers (he hiked the extent of the IAT a few years ago), but we can't make any miles together. He'll meet me later on the trail and give it another shot. We got into Monches, passed a church, and stopped at a bar for a few beers and a mound of nachos, then got a ride back to the Farm in Oconomowoc from a local patron.
We drove over to John's house and surprised Mom with a visit. She was back for 10 days to take care of some things. I caught her on her last day. She and I visited the Knoelkes (long-time family friends) for a Friday night fish fry, a tradition I'd been craving since entering the state. We spent the better part of the night talking outside on their patio. A scent of autumn was in the air, but by no means had the season arrived. The idea of its arrival excited me. It incites more enthusiasm than Christmas morning. Everything that comes along with autumn has a cozy feel to it. The flannels and jeans, the pumpkins and their seeds, soft, crunching ground, crisp apples and chilled nights. I had hoped to be by the Farm while autumn was in full swing, but I'll get to see another part of the state for the season. The Farm is my favorite place to be for fall. The crops get harvested, the fresh cobs lie naked on the hard soil, husks tumble into the yard to join the maple, oak, and box elder leaves. I usually make it out to the back acreage and walk through the prairie grasses. But times have changed and that area is farmed now. Renters will soon be in the farm and someone else will develop their own sentimental attachment to our family's land. I'm happy that someone will experience it. It's been my goal to not become attached to things in my life. Trinkets I've had since childhood, my most comfortable shoes that become part of my feet, or my hiking stick that has smoothened to become an extension of me while hiking. And, for the most part, I've been successful. But land holds superiority in the hierarchy of attachment. My heart settles and my stomach tingles at the smell of the damp lower barn and enjoying coffee on a cold autumn morning on the porch.
The next day, Liesl and I hiked the Monches segment, thanks to a shuttle from Mom. we hiked through Hartland, where we both attended high school, then up to the woods south of Highway Q, where a day before, Adam and I stopped for beer. It rained most of the day, which felt nice. The humidity was falling from the sky, allowing for a cooler evening. Liesl and I chatted about the surrounding area and how great it was to hike the trail as close to our homes as possible. It was almost our backyards, but neither of us had done it before. With so many dreams of travelling abroad and visiting other states, we hadn't even done the Ice Age Trail in our hometown. Goes to show you! We topped the day off with a trip to The Kiltie with Mom. It was great to spend time with everyone in Oconomowoc and I was lucky to catch Mom on her last day in WI.
The next days were tough. Something got into my head. Or maybe something left it. Either way, the hiking, while beautiful and pristine, wore me down mentally. I attribute this to a whiplash effect of being overly social for several days, then entering back into solitude. It was a break in the rhythm that I was finally obtaining. I began questioning my purpose for hiking and considering all the good things that awaited me in Steamboat. my excuses for stopping grew. My knee was hurting, my foot developed more pain, I have nothing to prove. This was all true, but I thought back to the Appalachian Trail when this happened to me. I told myself to stop thinking and start hiking. So, I stopped for the day, did some serious journaling, and woke up with a big day in mind. I knew I had to find rhythm again. That would come with a feeling of progress. So, I cranked out an 18.5 mile day of a mixture of road walking, prairie, and rolling wooded hills. I just put my head down and tried to complete song lyrics in my head. When I started to hurt, I stopped, rested, took my shoes off, and ate some cheese. 15 minutes later, I'd hike another five or so miles, or until I needed a break. The day went by quickly and before I knew it, my mileage was behind me and I felt great. It's a matter of self-discipline and self-motivation that gets me to move and do it with a positive attitude. I'd like to continue the bigger days out of necessity until it becomes natural.
Yesterday, I met a woman named Ruth who had been reading this blog and knew who I was before I introduced myself. I felt like a rock star. She demanded that she take me out for lunch and give me a place to stay for the night after a hike with her IAT hiking group. Twist my arm! I hiked a short section with them, then headed to La Grange General Store for a tasty turkey sandwich and Sprecher Root Beer. There, I saw a friend working on some bikes. I hadn''t seen him in two or three years. Small world. I'll try to make it to his family farm for an evening. Ruth and I did some laundry and went for a great country-side bike ride near her house. She explained much of the surrounding property to me. A lot of it is part of the Nature Conservancy and is being preserved forever. The area was phenomenal. We cooked a huge fettuccine alfredo meal that night, which put me straight to sleep. Come morning, we made an enormous breakfast of thick bacon, seasoned potatoes, eggs, and coffee. I was ready to hike. She drove me to the trailhead with a baggie full of donuts, all of which I've already eaten. Now, I'm in Milton, a town that embraces its history and maintains a clean, active image. And, of course, I found the library. But, I'll move on, heading to the southernmost point (Janesville) of the trail before I start heading north toward Stevens Point, where I'll spend about a week visitng professors and friends with Natalie. Soon, I'll see my breath.       

Libraries, Glaciation

Well, I rode TSB back up to Two Rivers to stay with a new friend Dolly. She offered shower, bed, and nourishment. It was a great time and felt wonderful to start the next day without grease matting down my hair. Dolly is a member of the IAT Alliance and has initiated a program on the trail called ColdCache, similar to geocaching, but instead of finding an ammo box of odd amulets, the seeker finds a specific feature of the Trail (often glacial) and has to answer some questions about it to gain credit. After a certain amount of success, one can earn a series of patches. The program's a great way to get young people on the trail through school programs, etc.

Slowly, I rode out of Two Rivers again and straight through Manitowoc, onto a huge road section, connecting a major gap in the desultory Trail. I took my time, deviating from the route and visiting nearby towns like Elkhart Lake and Valders. The small towns are great. Most are quiet with everyone at work. Streets are lined with taverns and small stores, usually named after last names like Huber, Steiner, Kuhtz, and other wholly German roots. I've come to appreciate a theme of the AT and the IAT. In almost every town, I make the point of finding the library to maintain contact (through email) with friends and family, and to check for more people with interest in joining my expedition. The libraries throughout the country vary in size, literary content, friendliness, and, notably, temperature. Kurt Vonnegut once said that libraries would save our country in the long run. I'm not sure what that means, but I have to agree. The quietude and hour of peace that I experience is different than that of the trail, but it's equally relaxing. Like the glaciers, libraries stand to help shape a community, serving as a refuge for young people during summer break and for elderly people researching a topic that piqued their interest in the local newspaper. The building itself engenders the feel of a permament landmark, inundated with history, both of the workers and the rolodex of literature.  

In Elkhart Lake, I sat with an ice cream cone the size of my forearm and decided with my last bite that I'd hike part of the Northern Kettle Moraine State Forest that day. So, I meandered out of town and rode the five miles to the forest where the Trail picked up. The bike had to stay at the trailhead and my gut cringed as I walked away from it, like abandoning a dog in a house for a week. It is nestled back in some woods in case I want to go back for it later, but it seemed to pout at me as our proximity lengthened. The Kettles were amazing. It's one of the only sections I'd hiked in the past. Some spots were familiar. The maples and oaks reached high above me, the canopy shading my Trail. For much of the walk, the only steady life around was the thick trunks barring me onto the path. It was in a way eerie. But it was also familiar and it offered a sense of comfort. The trail rose up on esker ridge lines, around small kettles, over drumlins, and circumnavigating arboreally riddled kames. It was a walk through geological history. To think that glaciers covered this state, advancing and retreating, depositing earth in seemingly arbitrary spots. It literally shaped the state and now, over 10,000 years later, I can traverse all these features that we think we have completely figured out. Nothing's for sure and nothing ever will be. It's nice to know that I've placed my feet in a moment of time just as relevant as any. The preservation of such places by people like Raymond Zillmer, Dolly, and the IAT Alliance is as fascinating and inspirational as the natural development of the area.

The Kettles have a shelter system. A camper is supposed to reserve sites and pay a fee. I thought up a good story each day to obviate a ranger's demand for the fee. I never saw a ranger. But, the first night, I got to a shelter eight miles in and found three people camping with a fire already started. We got to talking. They're all students at UW-Stevens Point, my alma mater. Not only that, but they all met through a wilderness program I attended and later worked for, called Pathways to Point. We talked all night about everything we could. I couldn't help but offer some advice from my time up there, including skinny dipping in Lake Joanis, being sure to take Eric Anderson's classes, and how to get free meals when they're out of the dorms and off the meal plan. I hope to see them up in Point as I pass that way. I'll probably squeeze out a free meal.

The rest of the Kettles were great. I camped alone from then on, which was nice in the deep woods. That section brought to mind the Appalachian Trail and its ruggedness. I look forward to getting more of that experience, maybe in the Southern Kettles.

I'm in West Bend now, about to head out to the trail. Yesterday, my friend Eva and her family brought me in (they live 100 yards off the trail) for lake swimming and meals. Gordy, Eva's father, is a vintner and it happened to be the day to rack the wine. This means to syphon it out of primary jugs into secondary jugs in order to dispose of the sediment. While doing that (I didn't actually do anything), we drank a bottle of wine from the 237th 5-gallon batch, a 2006 Door County Cherry batch. It got me a bit crocked and I had to swim off the buzz in the lake. The three of us floated silently for a while, then chatted a few minutes, and floated a bit more. We took the canoe across the lake to the only other pier, and harvested water crests foo a meal of beats, feta, and our newest harvest. It went well with a savory venison dog, in true Wisconsin spirit.
It was great to see Eva and meet the Heules. The meals and company were equally fulfilling. The hospitality was above and beyond anything I'd expect, but the Heules are a generous bunch. I now can walk for a day in clean shorts and socks, with something new to think about.