Sorry for the long delay between posts. It's not that I haven't had anything to write. Just the opposite. I fell behind sometime around when we left Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite and have been struggling to catch up ever since.
Some of the longer pieces I've been writing in my journal and will type them up later, but for now I put down a bunch of the ones that I could do pretty quickly.
Tomorrow I should be able to get down a couple more and then hopefully the longer ones will be finished by the time I get to the town stop at mile 1506 (I'm at 1377 right now). After that I should be back to regular updates and whatnot.
As for being so far ahead, the crazy California wildfire season forced us to skip a 138 mile section of the trail, from Sierra City up to Chester. We could have hike a decent portion of that 138 miles, but it would have involved a lot of road walking that nobody wanted to do.
So our plans are for right now to keep on keeping on to Canada and then if the currently closed section is open when we finish, to head back down and complete the unfinished section in September.
That's about it trail-wise. Like I said, I've got a bunch of stories to write up, so keep looking for updates as they'll start picking up again at each town stop.
Goodnight minions.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
An Interesting Bowel Movement #3
Have you ever battled a swarm of mosquitos with an orange bandana while taking a dump in a hole and then one particularly angry swing causes the weight on the hand that's propping you up to shift, causing your left cheek to dip into the mound of filth below? Neither have I. Until June 24, 2008.
Let me just say that this was a top 10 most enjoyable moment of my life. My colon was a rumblin' and the skeeters must have heard it because as soon as my pants came down, it was like handing out free tickets to an all you can eat buffet.
Let me just say that this was a top 10 most enjoyable moment of my life. My colon was a rumblin' and the skeeters must have heard it because as soon as my pants came down, it was like handing out free tickets to an all you can eat buffet.
An Interesting Bowel Movement #2
Have you ever had a deer run by you and then disappear into the woods, making you think that the rock slide tumbling into the canyon ahead of you was just the deer crashing through the brush while taking a dump in a hole below Half Dome in Yosemite National Park? Neither have I. Until June 23rd, 2008.
The $60 Bolivian Hand
This one was told to me by a guy named (Super or Visor) when we were camping at Joshua Tree Spring North of Walker Pass:
Super went down to Bolivia on a teaching mission to a school for kids living in a poor, remote area of the country. Basically what happens in the rural areas is farmers grow acres and acres of wheat and corn, eat enough to keep them alive and sell the rest for nothing close enough to a living wage. The educational system there is non-existent, so the kids learn nothing and end up stuck in a horrible cycle. The school's curriculum is designed to teach them other types of life skills that will help them earn a living in the cities (where the money is) and hopefully allow them to return to their rural villages, ply their trade there and improve the quality of life for the people living there. About as noble of a goal as you can have I think.
Unfortunately things didn't always work out like that and when Super's girlfriend and now wife came down to visit him, the two of them, along with all of the children, ended up doing road construction the entire time.
Despite being one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world, Bolivia is prevented from exploiting that wealth because it is landlocked. No way to ship the stuff out other than driving it to ports in other countries. Other countries of course take advantage of this situation with things like taxes and tariffs thus preventing Bolivia from expoliting their natural resources. Also don't forget that Bolivia is a South American country, meaning that it is required by law to have a corrupt government. So in other words, all future generations of Bolivians are doomed to lives of squalor. In still other words, they're fucked.
This is why an American teacher, along with his future wife and class of students wasted days of time filling giant pot holes with dirt that upon the first drops of rain were immediately washed out and thus the road returned to its perpetually shitty state. A good use of everyone's time.
After hearing of Bolivian road construction and repair policies, it's no surprise then to hear that the Bolivian justice system varies pretty significantly from town to town. Super was warned about this almost as soon as he got down there. The people running the school told him that if there were any incidents involving someone from one of the nearby towns, to get the hell out of there because the locals just might kill you. Like beat and stomp you until your skull cracks open. Have teams of Bolivian horses trample you until you're ear turns into your asshole. Pelt you with rocks until your bones are shattered into thoudsands of pieces. Tickle your feet until the sound of your laughter reaches the ears of angels in heaven and they flyy down to escort you to the golden gates in a chariot made of clouds and silver. You get the picture.
Naturally, Super gets into a motorcycle accident in town with a guy and nearly cuts his hand off. "Hanging by some skin" was how he described it. Super follows orders and takes off, heads back to the school and lets his bosses know the situation. They all decide to go down together and talk with the man and his family, see how they can rectify the situation.
They walk into the house and the guy is laying on the couch, his hand in a beehive of gauze, basically like putting a band aid on a severed artery.
They ask him if he went to the hospital to get the hand looked at, but unbelievably (actually quite believably when you remember that they're in Bolivia) that was what the doctor ordered. Basically, his hand was lost. The only unresolved matter was compensation. What else can you do at that point but throw some money at the problem?
The family demanded 500 bolivianos (Bolician dollars).
"Excuse me?"
"500 bolivianos."
The grand total of 500 bolivianos converts to...50 American dollars. Well then. Super ponied up 60 bucks and they called it a day.
The whole deal was agreeable to both parties. Super got off paying pocket change and El Càpitan Hook was in the black in more ways than one.
He rented out his taxi to someone in town and was making a profit while sitting at home watching telanovelas.
Any naysayers about the success of the school only have to read this story to see how just how profoundly the teachers are affecting the lives of the Bolivian people.
The only person complaining was the guy's wife. He just doesn't lend a...hand...around the house like he used to.
Super went down to Bolivia on a teaching mission to a school for kids living in a poor, remote area of the country. Basically what happens in the rural areas is farmers grow acres and acres of wheat and corn, eat enough to keep them alive and sell the rest for nothing close enough to a living wage. The educational system there is non-existent, so the kids learn nothing and end up stuck in a horrible cycle. The school's curriculum is designed to teach them other types of life skills that will help them earn a living in the cities (where the money is) and hopefully allow them to return to their rural villages, ply their trade there and improve the quality of life for the people living there. About as noble of a goal as you can have I think.
Unfortunately things didn't always work out like that and when Super's girlfriend and now wife came down to visit him, the two of them, along with all of the children, ended up doing road construction the entire time.
Despite being one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world, Bolivia is prevented from exploiting that wealth because it is landlocked. No way to ship the stuff out other than driving it to ports in other countries. Other countries of course take advantage of this situation with things like taxes and tariffs thus preventing Bolivia from expoliting their natural resources. Also don't forget that Bolivia is a South American country, meaning that it is required by law to have a corrupt government. So in other words, all future generations of Bolivians are doomed to lives of squalor. In still other words, they're fucked.
This is why an American teacher, along with his future wife and class of students wasted days of time filling giant pot holes with dirt that upon the first drops of rain were immediately washed out and thus the road returned to its perpetually shitty state. A good use of everyone's time.
After hearing of Bolivian road construction and repair policies, it's no surprise then to hear that the Bolivian justice system varies pretty significantly from town to town. Super was warned about this almost as soon as he got down there. The people running the school told him that if there were any incidents involving someone from one of the nearby towns, to get the hell out of there because the locals just might kill you. Like beat and stomp you until your skull cracks open. Have teams of Bolivian horses trample you until you're ear turns into your asshole. Pelt you with rocks until your bones are shattered into thoudsands of pieces. Tickle your feet until the sound of your laughter reaches the ears of angels in heaven and they flyy down to escort you to the golden gates in a chariot made of clouds and silver. You get the picture.
Naturally, Super gets into a motorcycle accident in town with a guy and nearly cuts his hand off. "Hanging by some skin" was how he described it. Super follows orders and takes off, heads back to the school and lets his bosses know the situation. They all decide to go down together and talk with the man and his family, see how they can rectify the situation.
They walk into the house and the guy is laying on the couch, his hand in a beehive of gauze, basically like putting a band aid on a severed artery.
They ask him if he went to the hospital to get the hand looked at, but unbelievably (actually quite believably when you remember that they're in Bolivia) that was what the doctor ordered. Basically, his hand was lost. The only unresolved matter was compensation. What else can you do at that point but throw some money at the problem?
The family demanded 500 bolivianos (Bolician dollars).
"Excuse me?"
"500 bolivianos."
The grand total of 500 bolivianos converts to...50 American dollars. Well then. Super ponied up 60 bucks and they called it a day.
The whole deal was agreeable to both parties. Super got off paying pocket change and El Càpitan Hook was in the black in more ways than one.
He rented out his taxi to someone in town and was making a profit while sitting at home watching telanovelas.
Any naysayers about the success of the school only have to read this story to see how just how profoundly the teachers are affecting the lives of the Bolivian people.
The only person complaining was the guy's wife. He just doesn't lend a...hand...around the house like he used to.
Happy 4th of July Errybody!
Funny that if you went back and asked anyone living in 1776 what the significance of the 4th is, they'd probably call you a slag and/or a rake before gathering an angry mob to tar and feather you.
The real holiday should be on either July 2nd, the day that the colonies ratified the document; July 6, the day the Delcaration was officially made public in the Pennsylvania Evening Post; July 8, the first big day of celebration when the Declaration was read aloud before a crowd at the State House in Philadelphia; or August 2nd, the day the majority of delegates signed the Declaration. Nothing apparently happened on the 4th.
So said John Adams: The second of July 1776 will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of the continent to the other from this time forward forever more.
I don't know about you, but I always celebrate the 4th with bells. I clang from dusk til dawn. I give Salvation Army Santas a run for their money.
Anyway, John didn't get his way and it's a damn shame. I'll bet it was those meddling Scotsmen James Wilson and John Witherspoon. Probably Caesar Rodney had something to do with it too. Those Delawarians are rascally.
In the end, I say we all blame Ben Franklin. He was fat, he had gout and he slept all the time while all the heavy shit was going down. Damn you Poor Richard to Hades!
The real holiday should be on either July 2nd, the day that the colonies ratified the document; July 6, the day the Delcaration was officially made public in the Pennsylvania Evening Post; July 8, the first big day of celebration when the Declaration was read aloud before a crowd at the State House in Philadelphia; or August 2nd, the day the majority of delegates signed the Declaration. Nothing apparently happened on the 4th.
So said John Adams: The second of July 1776 will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of the continent to the other from this time forward forever more.
I don't know about you, but I always celebrate the 4th with bells. I clang from dusk til dawn. I give Salvation Army Santas a run for their money.
Anyway, John didn't get his way and it's a damn shame. I'll bet it was those meddling Scotsmen James Wilson and John Witherspoon. Probably Caesar Rodney had something to do with it too. Those Delawarians are rascally.
In the end, I say we all blame Ben Franklin. He was fat, he had gout and he slept all the time while all the heavy shit was going down. Damn you Poor Richard to Hades!
A Note on Trail Names
You probably have noticed that nobody mentioned in my blog has a real name. It's always Oliver Gash, Cash Taint, Lord Sexington, John E. Depth or something else that makes you wonder what the hell was wrong with these hikers' parents.
Well, as some of you know, when you get on the trail, it's almost inevitable that you'll end up with a trail name. I don't know why or how the tradition started, but it's a religion with the thru hiker community. Sometimes it's too much like a religion with the trail name fanatics trying to dub you something ridiculous and contrived within the first week.
Someone once told me that there was a guy hiking this year that practically wouldn't recognize her until she got a trail name. That guy probably also speaks Klingon and finds Madeline Albright attractive.
I actually ended up getting my trail name from a trail name obsessor, but not before turning down a couple of crap ass ones.
The day I got to Scissors Crossing (way back around mile 77), a group of us were sitting under a highway overpass waiting out the high 90's heat. I pulled out my cell phone, made a few calls and then headed out to get in a few extra miles because there was a big waterless stretch in the morning.
Two days later when I'm in Warner Springs, someone tells me that they heard I had a trail name. It was the first I had heard anything of it, so I asked him what it was, all excited that I did something in the first few days that warranted the bestowing of a trail name.
Verizon.
Someone who had their sense of humor singed off playing with lighter fluid as a child didn't like that I was talking on the phone either too loudly, too close to them or maybe even at all. That one didn't stand a chance. I refused to acknowledge it other than to hold it up as an object of ridicule.
A few days later in Idyllwild, a group of us are standing around a campfire BS-ing (the line "She has just enough of an eating disorder to be sexy" was uttered, at which point we decided that we're the reason women have eating disorders in the first place) when the topic of trail names comes up again.
Someone had suggested Spot because I have a GPS tracker called SPOT that alows my family to see where I am, but 1) a lot of people on the trail have them and 2) it's a shitty name.
Many names are thrown out, all forgetable and contrived. Finally I get half annoyed (though when I say the fateful line, it's not in a mean way), wanting to just end the conversation and let the process happen naturally.
"I'm not going to have a trail name thrust upon me without meaning."
And so Thrust was born.
It took me a long time to get used to the idea of introducing myself as Thrust. It just felt weird and I didn't think I'd ever really take to it, like when I tried to call myself B.J. the Speedboat in third grade.
At first I only halfheartedly told people my trail name, prefacing it with "My real name's Brad." Saying it that way made me realize that some people don't like giving their real name on the trail. It also made me realize that those people have no lives.
But eventually, and to my surprise, I just dumped the preamble and I started calling myself Thrust. I answer to it and that's how everyone out here knows me. It's kind of weird if you think about it and it's got to sound especially weird to non-hikers to hear a group of people calling each other Thrust and Bonesaw and Dildo Saggins.
I'm obviously going to get made fun of by both friends and family about this, which is part of the reason why I haven't really mentioned it. But now that I've passed the halfway point, I figure it's time.
I don't get the question so much anymore, but at first it seemed like everyone wanted to know where the name came from.
One guy tells me, "Oh, Thrust. That must be because you hike so fast."
Another - "Are you a geologist?"
Coming out of Big Bear, I met two women going in and I introduce myself. The one woman hears Trust (the most common mispronunciation) and says it in a real satisfied way, like "Trust...this guy must be called that because he's a nice, wholesome, trustworthy guy." Then I correct her and she lets out an embarrased "OH!" and almost can't bring herself to talk to me anymore, her mind having wandered in a dirty direction.
Before we night hiked out of Agua Dulce, a group of us went and got pizza at a place near the grocery store. I was chatting up one of the female hikers in the group (turns out she's married to the guy sitting next to her) and when she hears my trail name, she tells me, "You don't look like a Thrust."
Now, I'm willing to bet that she didn't mean that I didn't look like a geologist, and she'd never seen me hike before, so she couldn't be saying that I looked like a slow poke. So that only leaves one other option. Once I worked my way through the thought process, I was pretty insulted. It's one thing to be told you're bad in bed after the experience itself, but to be told that you just don't look like you'd be any good...low blow.
Well, as some of you know, when you get on the trail, it's almost inevitable that you'll end up with a trail name. I don't know why or how the tradition started, but it's a religion with the thru hiker community. Sometimes it's too much like a religion with the trail name fanatics trying to dub you something ridiculous and contrived within the first week.
Someone once told me that there was a guy hiking this year that practically wouldn't recognize her until she got a trail name. That guy probably also speaks Klingon and finds Madeline Albright attractive.
I actually ended up getting my trail name from a trail name obsessor, but not before turning down a couple of crap ass ones.
The day I got to Scissors Crossing (way back around mile 77), a group of us were sitting under a highway overpass waiting out the high 90's heat. I pulled out my cell phone, made a few calls and then headed out to get in a few extra miles because there was a big waterless stretch in the morning.
Two days later when I'm in Warner Springs, someone tells me that they heard I had a trail name. It was the first I had heard anything of it, so I asked him what it was, all excited that I did something in the first few days that warranted the bestowing of a trail name.
Verizon.
Someone who had their sense of humor singed off playing with lighter fluid as a child didn't like that I was talking on the phone either too loudly, too close to them or maybe even at all. That one didn't stand a chance. I refused to acknowledge it other than to hold it up as an object of ridicule.
A few days later in Idyllwild, a group of us are standing around a campfire BS-ing (the line "She has just enough of an eating disorder to be sexy" was uttered, at which point we decided that we're the reason women have eating disorders in the first place) when the topic of trail names comes up again.
Someone had suggested Spot because I have a GPS tracker called SPOT that alows my family to see where I am, but 1) a lot of people on the trail have them and 2) it's a shitty name.
Many names are thrown out, all forgetable and contrived. Finally I get half annoyed (though when I say the fateful line, it's not in a mean way), wanting to just end the conversation and let the process happen naturally.
"I'm not going to have a trail name thrust upon me without meaning."
And so Thrust was born.
It took me a long time to get used to the idea of introducing myself as Thrust. It just felt weird and I didn't think I'd ever really take to it, like when I tried to call myself B.J. the Speedboat in third grade.
At first I only halfheartedly told people my trail name, prefacing it with "My real name's Brad." Saying it that way made me realize that some people don't like giving their real name on the trail. It also made me realize that those people have no lives.
But eventually, and to my surprise, I just dumped the preamble and I started calling myself Thrust. I answer to it and that's how everyone out here knows me. It's kind of weird if you think about it and it's got to sound especially weird to non-hikers to hear a group of people calling each other Thrust and Bonesaw and Dildo Saggins.
I'm obviously going to get made fun of by both friends and family about this, which is part of the reason why I haven't really mentioned it. But now that I've passed the halfway point, I figure it's time.
I don't get the question so much anymore, but at first it seemed like everyone wanted to know where the name came from.
One guy tells me, "Oh, Thrust. That must be because you hike so fast."
Another - "Are you a geologist?"
Coming out of Big Bear, I met two women going in and I introduce myself. The one woman hears Trust (the most common mispronunciation) and says it in a real satisfied way, like "Trust...this guy must be called that because he's a nice, wholesome, trustworthy guy." Then I correct her and she lets out an embarrased "OH!" and almost can't bring herself to talk to me anymore, her mind having wandered in a dirty direction.
Before we night hiked out of Agua Dulce, a group of us went and got pizza at a place near the grocery store. I was chatting up one of the female hikers in the group (turns out she's married to the guy sitting next to her) and when she hears my trail name, she tells me, "You don't look like a Thrust."
Now, I'm willing to bet that she didn't mean that I didn't look like a geologist, and she'd never seen me hike before, so she couldn't be saying that I looked like a slow poke. So that only leaves one other option. Once I worked my way through the thought process, I was pretty insulted. It's one thing to be told you're bad in bed after the experience itself, but to be told that you just don't look like you'd be any good...low blow.
A Case of the Giggles
The day we hiked over Carson Pass and then into Echo Lake, I had the giggles. This happened once before when I kept reciting the whale's vagina scene from Anchorman to myself and couldn't stop laughing for about 20 minutes.
That day it all started when Slider and I came up behind another hiker who very well might have been using the bottom of a dumpster as his tent. You could catch his horrible scent from 25 yards away.
Slider and I try to stop at a lake for lunch everyday to go swimming, so when I brought up our prospects for lunch that day he says, "We should bring that guy with us and throw him in, and his clothes too." And from that moment, everything seemed to bring a burst of laughter out of me. Especially so when I thought about the guy's elbows which were so ashy it looked like he had been erasering chalkboards with them.
It wasn't long before things started getting ridiculous. The height of lunacy for the day - I thought it would be really funny if you worked in a restaurant and when someone ordered a meatball sandwich you give them a horse poop sandwich instead.
I must have laughed on and off for a few hours about that (by the way I was just laughing really hard about that again...still going).
I remember once during my sophomore year of college laughing about an unfunny joke I made up for about 20-30 minutes straight, to the point that I couldn't even tell it to my old roommate Matt Lewis. Everytime I got to the punch line I'd start giggling and chuckling uncontrollably, getting myself under control, letting out a "Whew!" and then get all the way back to the punchline before repeating the cycle.
A small amount of background: I ran with a guy named Dave Masse (rhymes with Lassie) in college and for the most part we called him Masse.
The joke: What do you call Masse after he's had a lot of beans?
Sorry, I'm laughing too hard to write the punchline.
That day it all started when Slider and I came up behind another hiker who very well might have been using the bottom of a dumpster as his tent. You could catch his horrible scent from 25 yards away.
Slider and I try to stop at a lake for lunch everyday to go swimming, so when I brought up our prospects for lunch that day he says, "We should bring that guy with us and throw him in, and his clothes too." And from that moment, everything seemed to bring a burst of laughter out of me. Especially so when I thought about the guy's elbows which were so ashy it looked like he had been erasering chalkboards with them.
It wasn't long before things started getting ridiculous. The height of lunacy for the day - I thought it would be really funny if you worked in a restaurant and when someone ordered a meatball sandwich you give them a horse poop sandwich instead.
I must have laughed on and off for a few hours about that (by the way I was just laughing really hard about that again...still going).
I remember once during my sophomore year of college laughing about an unfunny joke I made up for about 20-30 minutes straight, to the point that I couldn't even tell it to my old roommate Matt Lewis. Everytime I got to the punch line I'd start giggling and chuckling uncontrollably, getting myself under control, letting out a "Whew!" and then get all the way back to the punchline before repeating the cycle.
A small amount of background: I ran with a guy named Dave Masse (rhymes with Lassie) in college and for the most part we called him Masse.
The joke: What do you call Masse after he's had a lot of beans?
Sorry, I'm laughing too hard to write the punchline.
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