I smell like DEET. The mosquitoes have been on attack-mode lately. But I just arrived at the Hiker's Welcome Hostel in Glencliff, NH, and will soon take a much needed shower and do some much needed laundry.
Glencliff is the last stop before the great White Mountains of New Hampshire. Where the weather is fierce and the elevation is high. We will be hiking a 12 mile stretch above treeline and tackle Mt. Washington where we will climb above 6,000 feet: something not done since Clingman's Dome in North Carolina. If I don't make it back alive...you probably wouldn't find out for a while, since I wouldn't be able to blog about it.
Still hiking with Hot Tang, Earthbound, and Briar. Took 2 zeros in Hanover. Had a great time with the family! Good to see everyone one last time before it's all over. Going to Hit 1800 miles tomorrow. woo hoo!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
The Long Shot emerged from the cave that had hung his hat for a night with an eager smile. The Great Montanas Blancas (nature knows nothing of the enyae) splayed themselves out before him, a looming challenge he would conquer with no thought of being gentle. First, however, he would have to trek down into the local village to resupply, the journey through New Hampshire would be arduous, and one never knows how many El Chupacabra he might encounter in the dense coniferous forests of the North. The Long Shot had underestimated his supplies, again, and had spent the last few hundred miles surviving off wild mushrooms the natives had taught him to recognize and harvest for nourishment. Processed food would taste good. His stomach told him to get an early start, and so he set about the march into town, passed locals and tourists and hikers, churches and apothecaries and houses of less-than-ill repute before the spectacular neon sign spilled out across the parking lot. The grocery store. The Long Shot let out a satisfied sigh, pleased with himself for coming so far, and went through the automatically opening doors. He paused to take it all in, and that’s where, as is so often the case in these stories, the adventure really began. Our hero strode through the great bounty, up one aisle and down the next before making any choices. He took in many smells and catalogued them for future reference according to dollars per calorie. It wasn’t until the water aisle that the cacophony of sensory stimulation began to clear and he caught a faint hint of almonds in the air. His midnight trainings with the Appalachian Bureau Of Investigation had sharpened his senses, and when he saw the fine mists pouring out of the air ducts he sprang into action. He turned to a lowly stock-boy, barely old enough to hold a buggy’s crop but full of adolescent vigor. “Go for help, there’s terrorism afoot.”
“Beg pardon, sir?” The soup cans spilled from his hands. “Terrorism.”
“Go boy! Go and tell the nearest supervisory adult!” With that the boy was off and The Long Shot ran for that aisle at the end, the one after cat food but not quite into frozen goods, where they keep the saran wrap and duct tape. If it was nerve gas, people were going to start dropping fast. If it was biological, the customers would scatter and become public disease vectors. He had to seal the vents, even if it meant that he himself might fall victim to whatever foul agency was at work. He grabbed the supplies he needed and climbed a case of cereal to get himself closer to the vent. It was only after planting one foot firmly on top of a box of sweetened puffed rice that he took another look at the mists. They were glowing. Radiation? No, not radiation, his mind raced as he saw the fine particulate blow about the store. Not radiation… Sorcery! Somewhere nearby there was a renegade magician casting spells into the ducts, but to what end? The question had scarcely congealed among his many firing neurons when the box beneath him seemed to hit a critical mass of magical dust. It began to emit its own glowing luminescence. The Long Shot looked closer. The box moved. This wasn’t quite right, usually cereal boxes that move are full of insects and result in your local grocer getting sued or closed down. Without warning, an arm shot out from one side of the box, and then the other. Two legs, and suddenly an anthropomorphized version of a box with a cartoon frog on it was up and running around. The Long Shot was, for perhaps the first time in these lurid tales, confuddled. What harm could a walking cereal carton do? It ran around for a moment, then jumped up toward the vent to be closer to the source of the magical dust. It was there that it entered some kind of magical action movie space, whereby time seemed to slow and lens flare digitally applied by an intern seemed to obscure the goings on, all that need be known about those few seconds is that when they ended, The Cereal Box was nine feet tall and not of a particularly pleasant disposition. A mop-wielding maintainer rounded the corner, alerted by the sound of boxes on tile. He stopped dead from a run to stare at the giant list of ingredients, which was in turn staring down The Long Shot. He tossed the muscled man in coveralls the sealing. “Quickly, before anything else happens.” The mop hit the ground and boots hit the floor. You could have heard a ladder scraping the ground moments later if not for the flurry of fists that thundered throughout the store as a mortal struggle between man and his breakfast of choice began. The Long Shot, fortunately the tallest man in the world lest he be intimidated by a nine-foot monster with +1 70% post consumer recycled product armor, landed many a great blow, and took in kind as he wrestled the manbox past the chips and away from a family of cowering orphans. The Long Shot was handed a beat down in aisle four, but cast back offers of help from local authorities as they entered the store. This was a job for a professional. A lone child stood by the bacon to watch our hero bruise and bleed. With a highly impressive, and slightly indecent given his bekilted nature, roundhouse kick, The Long Shot dropped sent the brutal box hurdling into a display of snack cakes. His teeth gritted through a bloody beard, our hero cracked his neck menacingly before turning to the little prince. “Get me some milk.” What followed was a white mess of carnage, flying spoons and forgotten bowls that would leave customer’s heads spinning in therapy for years to come. When the police arrived there was nothing left to do except mop up. Boxes lay strew about the store and the protagonist lay nearly comatose from the calories he had just ingested. The Long Shot clutched his spoon and burped loudly. “Who wants to do some hiking?” Delirious.
The Grocer would not take money for the supplies our hero went to purchase, both doubting he would need to eat for some time. Refueled, he wandered off into the sunset. Behind, the town was safe. But sinister eyes watched from atop the store. Watched and waited beneath a top hat and cloak. “You may have won this time, The Long Shot. By my Mercilessly Macabre Mercenaries of Mastication will get you yet.” With a puff of smoke, the mysterious figure was gone, and the march continued.
Hiking to 6,000 feet is nothing.. the greater challenge is in trying find and purchase a pair of decent long underwear for you within a 20 mile radius of Hanover New Hampshire
you're right near mt. moosilauke. i hope you brought your gore-tex. keep an eye out for faye and her vbl.
here is a good picture of logan's beard.
http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2351/2230610081_6c23d95f50.jpg?v=0
Post a Comment