Day Hike. Day -148

We went on our first long hike of the year last weekend.  The weather was pleasant--which was a nice change from the torrential downpour we camped in the weekend before (Day -155, -154)--we had breezes and cloud cover to keep us cool(ish).  This is still Florida after all.

We went up to Jonathan Dickinson State Park and hiked the East Loop.  It's a 9.8 mile loop that passes by the Scrub Jay campsite at mile 5.5.  We stopped for lunch there because there is a well with water (must be treated), benches to sit on and a composting toilet.

The trail is mostly flat and in the open.  There are a few spots where there is some shade, but the park is mainly sand, scrub and dead trees.  The first 2.3 miles of the East Loop out towards Scrub Jay has a bit of up and down over some sand dunes.

All the rain last weekend filled up the little dips in the trail and we had more of a swamp slog than we anticipated.  The girls learned the value of proper hiking shoes and why we wear long socks.  (ie: dry feet and fire-ant/cactus/thorn encounters).

We encountered wildlife:

And found a little bit of shade, but not much:

Day -172

Great News!  Iran released the American hikers!

Day -181

This is old news.  And I didn't say anything before because I was hoping that it would just go away.  I have a deep, unconditional love of the Postal Service, no doubt born from nervous anticipation of Mail Call at camp.  I send and receive postcards regularly, I send bills through the mail.  I know how much a stamp costs and I believe it is no small marvel that for $10.75 I can have a package personally delivered to my family 3,000 miles away.

The postal service is required by the Constitution to provide affordable service and delivery to every citizen, but they don't get any funding.  They must support themselves, which is becoming problematic in these times of reduced mail volume (Darn Internet!)  To further complicate things, they need congresssional approval for any major decisions--like reducing delivery days.  My love isn't enough.

Now, instead of nervously awaiting the mail to see if they still loved me back home, now I'm nervous that my mail won't come at all.  Beyond that, I'm afraid I won't be able to afford to send packages for resupply, or that I won't have anywhere to send them.

Closing the post offices in Fontana Dam, N.C.; Glencliff, N.H.; and Caratunk, Maine, would leave hikers without an easy way to get food and switch out equipment at critical points during their treks, which usually take between four and six months

Day -242

This makes my brain go numb. 

Nothing makes me want to be outside more than 6 hours spent thus:  put the purple circle over the green dot.  Repeat 500,000 times.  I wish that was an exaggeration.  I can recall many bad days on the trail that beat a good day at microarray quantification.  Even days that involved frozen rain or leeches.



On the bright side--there's a large comfy chair in the secret office where I do this work, for quick restorative eye resting sessions, and I have a window that I can see out of without pressing my face up against the glass to catch an sliver of sky without buildings.  I can watch the storms roll in across the parking lot now.

Things are looking up!

Day -244

Spent the weekend with a handful of the Scouts giving the Scout House a deep deep clean.  We unearthed many artifacts and made some shocking discoveries.  A can of asparagus that was bulging and older than every Scout in the room.  A mysterious set of rusty keys that don't go to any of the locks in the house, or do they???  Mice eat crayons.  Ok, well maybe it wasn't that exciting.  But, it's clean now.  Hurrah!

Day -249

Night Noises

Whenever I'm on an overnight with Scouts I make sure to anticipate their fears or worries.  A big one on the list of 'things that make Scouties go Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!' is Night Noises.  Before we go to bed, or during campfire we try to come up with as many sounds as we can that we might hear in the middle of the night.  "What noises might you hear tonight?"  The kids usually do a pretty good job of coming up with night time forest sounds (traffic, loud music from the neighbors [we camp inside the city sometimes], owls, coyotes, etc etc etc), and I make sure to add the ones they might not anticipate.  For instance, peacocks at 2 am can be terrifying for the uninitiated.  It gives the kids a chance to think through the noises they might hear, and a chance for the Responsible  Adults (tm) to explain that it's No Big Deal (ie: don't wake me up!).  "There now you've heard all the night noises so you won't be scared!"

Why are we talking about Night Noises?

So last night I'm laying snug in my bed asleep at a time when normal people are sleeping--oh, say 1am.  Slowly I realize that I'm not actually sleeping anymore because there's this really strange noise coming from my bedroom window.  Ping.  Ping.  Ping.  Ping.  Somewhere in my foggy brain I know exactly what this noise is.  Someone is throwing rocks at my window.  But my brain doesn't latch on to that because WHO DOES THAT?  Second option, and obviously the logical one is that I'm experiencing PARANORMAL activity.  (Did you see Insidious?)  I'm sure there are ghosts outside of my window.  I'm scared, but I crawl out of bed to look anyway.  There's no one there.  That was a little disappointing.  I drug myself all the way out of bed and to the window and there's no ghosts or John Cusacks with boom boxes and Peter Gabriel or anything.  Boring. 

Since I'm up anyway I decide to hit the head before going back to sleep.  When I walk out of my room towards the bathroom I hear the softest of knocking coming from the front door.  Robbers don't knock and my dogs aren't barking.  I figure my dogs can't hear spiritual apparitions.  Now I'm sure it's a ghost.  I tiptoe across the living room towards the glowing outline of the front door.  I peek through the peep hole.  Nothing. Can't be anything but a ghost.  I consider fixing the chain lock before opening the door but I figure that the ghost can slip through any gap.  I open the door. 

It's my roommate.  She's not tall enough to show up through the peep hole, or apparently savy enough to take her keys with her when she leaves the house.

Night noises folks.  Scarytown.

Day -251

Happy 4th of July.  Ideally, I'd be at a baseball game with a nice cool beverage.  In reality I'm at work, moving tiny amounts of clear liquid from one tube to another.  The good news is that I'm working on this most hallowed day because I spent the last week in the field! Hurrah!

The fish that I study lives along the entire eastern coast so once a year I get to drive from Florida all the way up to Maine in what I like to pretend is a warp-speed thru-hike.  There are many similarities. 

There's the 'green tunnel' of highway 95.  Driving 4,000 miles in 7 days along with fishing at 6 sites is definitely an endurance event.  


We sleep wherever we crash--rest stops, camp grounds, friends' houses.  On this trip I hung my hammock between trees in Maine and between the support beams inside an old cigar factory.

We obsess about food.  My lab mate and I made up songs about the food we were looking forward to eating ("Chimichanaga chimichanga chimmichanga, yes yes yes") and experienced extreme exhaustion while always pushing to the next site.  ("Are we supposed to be going north or south?")

We encountered wildlife.  I saw my first bear along highway 64 in eastern North Carolina.  It didn't look scary at all tossing its head back and forth watching traffic. 

We experience 'road magic'.   All of our fishing sites were easy except our last one in southern Virginia.  We had to abandon that one and move down into NC--which we'd never fished before so we were not familiar with the area.  We got down to the Outer Banks around 11 pm and realized that it was 4th of July weekend and we'd never find a hotel with 1. Vacancy or 2. rates < $200.  No Bueno.  We drove inland a bit and realized that we weren't going to find another hotel within 50 miles.  We pulled off at a gas station to buy ice for our fish.  There were some cottages behind the gas station.  I said "Hey, that looks like a hotel, but there's no sign or office"  My lab mate called his girlfriend who did a quick search of the internet for us (She's a keeper, it was like midnight and I'm sure he woke her up)  "There's a 'White Store Hotel' somewhere out there, but nothing else for miles" he relayed.  I pointed out the cottages and my lab mate agreed to drive around back and check it out.  At that exact moment, the house keeper was getting something out of the utliity closet.  I spotted her, jumped out of the van (It may have still been moving), flashed a smile and showed just a little leg.  In that manner we procured the LAST ROOM EVER IN NORTH CAROLINA for a mere $70.  The housekeeper didn't have access to the office or even a room key to give us but she let us in and made us promise to pay on our way out in the morning.  We did.


All that fun work has put me behind in my dreary-lab-work.  So here I am.  Ahh, the centrifuge beckons.

Fig. 1.  Field work is fun.

Fig. 2.  We study mummichogs, they love dogfood and will gladly swim into a trap to get it.

Day -258

I'm headed out to go fishing.  We go GA to ME.  Bombing up the coast with rubbermaid tubs of fish and then a respite at a campground in Maine before hightailing it back to FL.

Day -261

One of the traditional homecoming activities my mom enforces is Editing My Stuff.  I've always been a collector of things small and useless which have important symbolic, sentimental meanings.  I tuck them away in shoe boxes and suitcases and rubbermaid tubs piled up on the top shelf in the guest room closet.  Eventually these things (plastic skeletons, pens that have run out of ink, advertisement badges, ribbons of all sorts, notes scribbled on napkins:  "I was here, you weren't.  Call me!") lose meaning.  Mom doesn't like to store these boxes of garbage, but she's sensitive, so the getting rid of process has taken years.  This year my assignment was "Get rid of all those old t-shirts and boxes of crap upstairs"  Ok.  Turns out those boxes of crap were my old journals from about 6th grade on and all my papers from junior and senior English. The titles were things like "Connie Chatterley: A Woman Awakened"  or "A Journey Worth the Loss of Six Toes:  A Review of Pride and Prejudice",  in which I concluded Pride and Prejudice gives the reader a satisfaction upon actually finishing the book that I think can be compared to the satisfaction of a mountain climber reaching the summit of Everest...and though one may have lost six toes along the way, when asked why the journey was undertaken--why this book, why that mountain--"because it is there."  Oh boy. 


I also found these scrawled notes from the first backpacking trip my dad took me on when I was about 11.  [sic] througout

Fig. 1.  On the river age 11

It was a rough morning. Trees down all over the trail. Landslides and crawling up hills. But nothing as beautiful as this treasure goes ungarded. Lucious greenery. Thimble berries. The rambling of the river. The wind. The dew.



It is about 9pm. Everything is all buttoned up and ready if it rains. It rained earlier about 6 or 7. We can't go down the trail any further so we are going to hike out in the morning. We are spending the night on a little beach. Dad built a campfire. [blah blah blah nature is lovely and beautiful...unbridled 11 year old enthusiasm]

Day -263

"Hey!  What's this?"  My nephews have spotted my new hammock hanging between the porch and the garage at my folks' house.
"Oh, that's my new house, what do you think?"
"That's a house?"
"Sure, I'm going to live in that when I hike the Appalachian Trail.  Do you want to get in?"  The boys emit some excited squeals and flap their hands like ducklings--I pretty much feel the same way about the hammock.  The boys, ages 8 and 6, take to the velcro trap door like fish to water.

"What's the Appalachian Trail?"
"Well, it's a long trail in the woods from Georgia to Maine"  They nod, like they know what I'm talking about.
"So you're going to walk that whole way?"
"Yes."
"Carrying all your stuff?"
"Yes"
"How long will that take?"
"How long do you think it will take?"
"A few weeks?"
"No, more like five months.  Want to come?"
"Oh, yes! But only for three months because we can't miss school"  That's my 8 year old nephew, he is a serious student.










I talk them into going on a hike with me the next day.  I took them out to a little patch of forest north of town.  We explored a creek.  Found a frog and some sticks.  Climbed up a ridiculiously steep hill and walked for about 1/2 a mile before my 6 year old nephew expressed his dislike of "All this walking".  Maybe long hikes aren't in his future, but he does have an aptitude for plant identification and taught me a thing or two about the flora of the area.

Day -265

Fig. 1.  This is way better than the guest room

I'm half way through my yearly or bi-yearly trek to Idaho to visit the homestead.  I flew into Portland and hung out with some old Scout friends and drove my little buddy, Hopalong, down the coast to her grandparents' house.  On the way from Portland to Middle-of-Nowhere Oregon we stopped off at REI so that I could buy a new lexan cup to replace the old one I lost.  They didn't have the cup I wanted but I did manage to walk out of there with a Hennessy ultralight a-symmetrical hammock.  So much for the 6-moon net tent and poncho cape.  This baby's got it all.  It's a tent, it's a hammock, its a lounge chair.  And, I'll never have to look for spots to put my tent ever again.  I managed to figure out how to hang it and crawl into it with an armful of gear, though not too gracefully yet. Getting into a sleeping bag inside a hammock is another story entirely.  I've just got to figure out how to keep my backside warm in this thing.  Last night I threw an old coleman square bag in there as insulation and it worked well, but that won't be an option when I'm hiking.  I'll have to try it out with the Neo-Air and the z-rest to see which works best.

Day -270

Leaving to visit my west coast and Idaho families tomorrow, trying like mad to make some progress at work.  Had a dinner date with the scanner and now I'm trying to send myself some work through the internets so I can have it at home. 

I'm rereading Thru Hiker's Eyes.  It's a pretty funny book, if it were a movie it would be a cartoon.  There's seriously improbable things going on in there--like when a tent 'implodes' as someone packs it up without even getting out.  Ha!  I wish my some of my Scouties could learn to do that.  I think they TRY to pack the tent without getting out--that's what they tell me when I holler at them at 9am "Girls, we are packing up to leave.  Everyone else has their bags packed and you haven't even appeared outside  yet"  and they reply "We're Paaaaaaaaaacking!" 

Day -271

Number crunching and RNA-Fail today.  What I wouldn't give for a job where I can SEE what I'm doing.  Lab work is soul shattering.  Also, it may or may not be giving me cancer.

In other news:  Something new that I can no longer live without.

Net tent and Poncho Tarp:  at 19 oz for the set, how could I go wrong?

WORLDS LIGHTEST DOUBLE WALL TENT YOU GUYS!

Only thing I can't figure out is what the best way to set this up in the rain is.  Presumably, I'd be WEARING the poncho if it rains.  So how do you keep your gear dry while you set the poncho up?  Maybe you're meant to crouch down and peg the poncho out around you while you're inside?  Seems unlikely, though I'd love to see someone try that.


Or, I guess you could throw a ground cloth over your gear, put the tarp up and crawl inside.  The bug net may not be necessary in a storm.  Mosquitoes don't like rain, right?

Day -272

Grueling day at work, must have put in 3 miles around the bench. ha.

My iPod reminded me how much I love the song American Pie, probably because it is so long.

I had vivid flashbacks of one late night in the dining hall with the kitchen staff at Camp 4echoes, standing on benches under the wagon wheel light fixtures singing that song at the top of our lungs.  Because we knew all the words.  Because it was late and we were 16.  We had to be loud because everyone else was in bed and because it was finally dark.  In the old lodge there were these dusty corners where the shadows would pass the afternoons when we would sit and sweat and will ourselves to feel cool.  At night they would creep across the floors and spill out the single paned windows that were always open and roll across the lawn, under the starlight, down to the bay.  If we were up to see that happen, and if we were alone then we owned the whole tableau.  Now, it doesn't seem so strange that we were so into that song that summer.  Who didn't want to be a "teenage broncin' buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck"?  We understood profoundly that "the half-time air was sweet perfume".   None of us were born anywhere near to a time where we might have understood the whole significance of the lyrics but we thought we did.  See that was our Kerouac and coffee shop summer were we came down with a case of 'too smart for our own good' that often infects high school kids, and it's a well known fact that everyone feels worldly at 16.  We were so grown up then, not at all like I am now.  And, American Pie seems like the kind of song that lends itself to dusty shadows.  They tore down that lodge this past winter, bummer.

Bohemian Rhapsody occupies the same Long Song space in my brain.  There was a canoe trip where both our party and the river ran out of water, we suffered group heat stroke and became marooned on a desert island with just that song and a deck of cards to occupy our minds.  Thunder bolts and lightning...

I have a huge family.  Lake Devereaux.

Day -273

Sorted out plans to meet up with my old Scout friends next week in Oregon.  They're not real family, but they're chosen family.  Whenever we see each other it's like no time has passed.  Friends fade away eventually but family won't let you get away so easily.  I don't get to spend too much time with them though, I'm only on the coast for 'business'.  I'm dropping my little buddy Hopalong off at her Grandpa's house and then I'm off to Idaho to visit my natal family.  The farm land and open space will be a nice change of pace for a week.

Took the dogs to the beach this morning before visiting one of my co-leaders to sort out the finances.  She was a bit taken aback when I dumped out the jar of receipts on her kitchen table.  Turns out I'm also supposed to open the bank statements?  We got through it without any bloodshed, Hurrah! 

One of my scouts dropped off a tightly sealed up garbage bag yesterday.  I thought it only had the crummy walmart tent the troop owns in it.  Today I was cleaning up my room and I was just going to throw the whole bag in the tent closet when I thought better and opened it up.  Turns out there was my own 2man tent, the troop tent AND a gob of moldy cream cheese in there.  Ugh, 5th graders! I resolve to never let those Scouts out of my sight until we unpack group gear after a trip.  Be it lightning, snowing, raining or dead of night... 

Day -274

Last night and today definitely counted as about three days.  We had our awards ceremony--which was more like "Girl Scouts: Clown Car Edition.  How many people can we fit in the scout house?" We only get all our age levels together (Brownies, Juniors, Cadettes, Seniors AND Ambassadors) once a year so it's quite an event.

The parents said it was a nice ceremony and the girls were happy to get badges and walk across the wooden bridge.  But lordy was it ever hot and crowded.  The house isn't much bigger than a standard-sized living room.  It comfortably holds a dozen kids but we rearranged the furniture and made good use of all the benches and managed to squash 20 girls and their families into the house.  I'm SURE that's not compliant with safetywise ratios or fire code or anything but I did point out the three exits (Here, here and HERE, make sure to look carefully, the nearest exit may be behind you). 

Today we wrapped up the year with a party the Cadettes planned.  It was kept TOP SECRET from me (seriously, Sam you can't know anything!).  Turns out they planned a "Birthday" party for me complete with mildly humiliating party games.  They made me a card shaped like a backpack and they all signed it with sweet sentiments.  Though the highlight was: "Happy Turd-Day you're not Always Stupid"  Trust me that is a compliment from the girl in question.  They're the best.

So that's it, Folks.  The Official end of the GS Year.  Now I can sift through the ruins of my life and build it up again over the next few months before we start again.  I mean, clean my bedroom and sort gear and start making the 2011-2012 calendar.  It's a historic membership year after all...

Here's a list of things I did this year that I swore up and down I would never ever do  (or at least wouldn't have thought I would do).

1.  Accepted brownies into the troop.  Turns out they're pretty cute and easy to handle.
2.  Swam with gators, danced with ticks.
3.  Hosted a Service Unit event.  Film Festival, it went OK.
4.  Attended the Opera Workshop.  Learned a lot but, oops couldn't make it to the Opera performance had to go to wilderness first aid training.
5.  Listened to Lady Gaga for 4 hours straight on the way to O'Leno State Park with the Cadettes.
6.  Doubled the enrolement in Troop 48.
7.  Snagged a really awesome co-leader who's in it for the long-haul.
8.  Helped the Juniors and Cadettes complete their Journeys.  For real!

Next year we're going to be training seriously for the kick off of the Eaglet Express.  We're bringing as many girls and parents as we can up to Springer for the first leg of the Journey.

Fig. 1  My "birthday" cupcake.  It says "Sam's Fault" which is their way of saying they respect me so much that anything that goes wrong must be my fault because the sun and moon revolve around me.  Right?  Right? Anyone?

Trail Magic

Magic.

Day -275

Subtitle:  Scout Awards

Today we're having the end of the year award ceremony.  I wish I could say that I spend lots of time reflecting on how wonderful the girls are in philosophical and eloquent ways, but I don't.  I'm usually busy packing or unpacking gear, running after folks with paperwork, writing emails that may or may not be read, thumbing through the badge book and generally testing the limits of my memory and patience.  This is not to say that I don't think the girls are the coolest kids on the planet.  Obviously I enjoy what I do, or I wouldn't put in the (probably) 300+ hours a year to help make Troop 48 the rockin'est troop in the area.  I love hanging out with them and watching them try new things or pull of something especially challenging is really rewarding.  And they're funny, hilarious even (when they're not screaming). 

Maybe I should hire a speech writer.




In other news:
275 days until March 12, 2012.  I've lost my lexan cup.  I couldn't find it when I was packing for the O'Leno trip a few weeks ago.  I'm really bummed out about that--not because it's a valuable cup or especially fancy or anything but I liked it.  My dad bought it for me before he took me on my first ever backpacking trip in 1995.  So-long lexan cup, you'll be missed.  At least we can say you were durable.  Guess this means I have a reason to stop by REI next week!

Where'd we go???

Ok, so Virginia Skyline Council is organizing this thing called the Great Girl Scout Hike,  it's basically the Eaglet Express. 

They have a website at www.gshike.org.  Check them out there, they're going into it with the ATC and lots of other higher up support.

I'll still be hiking, I'll still be starting March 12, but if you want more official info on the GS Appalachian Trail thru for the centenary contact the GS hike folks.

Tents or Tarps?

Out on Dingle I used the Eureka Backcounty1 tent. My Scouts gave me this tent as an end of the year gift last year. It weighs 3 lbs 14 oz, which is relatively heavy for me, but it's sturdy, holds up well in wind and rain and is free standing--unlike my Spitfire solo--2lbs 14 oz + all the patching I did after the encounter with the cat so probably like 3 lbs even.

Lately, I've been thinking about tarps. This isn't a very attractive option for me in Florida--due to tick-carpeting and mosquito clouds--but I'm thinking that once I'm out of this (God-forsaken) state that tarp-ing will be more of an option.


If a tarp weighs 9.2 oz plus say 3.2 oz for stakes (GoLite aluminum V stakes), 3.2 oz for a tyvek ground sheet and another say 6 oz for a rope that puts us at 21.7 oz, or about a pound and a third--way less than half of the Spitfire's weight.  If bugs really were a problem I could throw in a bug bivy for another 14 oz.  For a total of 35 oz or 2 lbs 3 oz I could have it all. 

Home away from Home

I worked here for a few summers, some of those young staff were my campers.  Le sigh...

Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #4

Dingle Way, Day 4
5 July 2010

Fred and I got up early and humped our gear down to the dining room.  While I was writing postcards, drinking a cup of coffee out of an awesome Batman mug I found in the dish cupboard and worrying about the retired Belgian Army beating us out onto the trail Fred was using band-aids and moleskin in some ingenious combination that I wouldn't have dreamed of in a thousand years.

It was a drier morning than the other two and we were in good spirits as we headed up the road from the hostel.  We had planned to do 17 miles and we were both nervous about the distance--neither of us had done such a long day before. But, we had all day and nothing else to do but walk.

Shortly after leaving the hostel we passed a famous pottery shop (Louis Mulcahy Pottery).  The guide book promised coffee in the cafe, but we were passing by an hour before opening and didn't feel like taking a break yet.  We dropped down over some dunes and passed the beach where Tom Cruise once stood--they filmed Far and Away on Dingle.  Fred and I took a picture, but neither of us had ever seen the movie, so we weren't too impressed.

Three Sisters

We walked over some beautiful cliffs, located Skelator's Island and crossed some fields with the Three sisters in the background.  We started a race with the Belgian Army when we spotted them on the beach.  It rained on us earnestly and we ducked under someone's overgrown garden wall to pull on raingear.  Fred draped his overgrown self with his brittle blaze orange boyscout poncho.  I was embarrassed to be seen with him thus attired but we pressed on.  It stopped raining precisely when we'd left our garden wall shelter.  It warmed up quickly but the damage was done.  My feet were wet and I didn't stop to change my socks.  Trench foot had begun.

We ambled over beaches and fields for the rest of the day.  Around the town of Ballynagall, after we'd walked the square of Smerwick Harbor we crossed a few creeks headed to the bay that were full of giant scallop shells.  I tossed a couple into my backpack for souvenirs.  In town we stopped at the Post to buy some Cokes and candy bars.  Fred was looking for more moleskin, he'd already gone through my whole supply.  Irish Posts have pretty much anything you could want (including fresh baked bread) but sadly no moleskin.  The Belgian Army was there when we pulled up.

The rest of the day was a blur of wet feet and road walking.  We missed a crucial turn around Feonagh and accidentally headed east up a road off the Dingle Way.  By the time we figured out our mistake and made our way back to the Dingle Way we'd added a few extra miles onto our trip.  Around 5pm we were nearing our critical exhaustion point and passed a Bed and Breakfast.  Rooms were 80 euros a night, way beyond our budget so we pressed on.

When we reached what looked like the last house on earth, right at the base of Brandon Mountain we hollered over a high wall into a paddock where a man was working on a tractor.  Fred asked him if we could camp in his yard.  He seemed a bit put off--maybe by our forward desperation, but he offered us a small private corral for ourselves and even showed us where the spigot was.

I hung my socks on the fence, spent some time lamenting my sore feet and discussing nutrition with Fred.  Based on his calculations and the assumption of 10% efficiency of human metabolism coupled with the force it takes to move our weight a certain vertical distance (not accounting for horizontal distance) he figured we needed only 97 calories to power us over the mountain in the morning.  I scoffed and had a second helping of our gourmet trail dinner--rice and cheese.

We kicked the sheep droppings out of the way, dodged the 3 foot high thistles and settled down for the night after watching some tv on the ipad. Luxury camping.

Bears

Bear Safety by the USDA

Discussion on the whiteblaze today is parallel to discussion on the Eaglet Express this week.

In a nutshell:  Bears?  How do we feel about bears?  Do we take bears seriously, or not? The question is whether or not bear canisters are overkill on the AT.

The answers range from "No, a bear canister saved my cache" (including a picture of a well gnawed but not comprised canister) to "Don't be silly, bears don't exist on the AT/aren't real on the AT (compared to the Real Bears Out West)/aren't anything compared to the mice on the AT".  Not a small proportion of responders claimed to sleep in their tents with their food.  What?  Folks, c'mon, really?  

Bears do get bags down from time to time.   If bears become adept at retrieving food bags they can become habituated to an area and become a nuisance--which puts them at risk for being shot. (I hear they're pretty fond of the Spring thru hike season in GA)  So, in that way one could argue that hanging bear bags is actually a bad thing to do and therefore sleeping with a bag of food between your legs, or near your head in your tent at night is good.

But, bears are smart and have an amazing sense of smell.  How long before they decide that it's easier to pluck the bag from the tent you're in?  A layer or two of nylon certainly isn't as difficult to get through as a minivan door.

Besides the risk of losing your food, there's the risk of loosing limbs or worse.  People do get grabbed from tents--it's not common--but it happens.

It seems to me that a bear can is the safest bet, but if the choice is between hanging a bag or keeping a sack of bear bait next to my head, I'm going to hang a bag.  After all, hanging a bear bag seems like common sense, and it's free.

Bear Links

Pennsylvania Bear has an attitude problem. 

Dapper Bear dispenses advice.

Passing it on

One of my Scouts showed up at our meeting last week with her nose stuck in a Campmor catalog.  Her first ever.  "Have you seen this?  They have everything in here!"  She wanted to show it off, like some special treasure.

You never forget your first.  The campmor catalog was a staple in our house but I don't think I seriously picked one up until I was about 11.  I'd grown out of my kid sized bag and needed a new one.  Dad taught me that one must not pick sleeping bags by color alone.

Bears! and the PCT bagging method

My middle school Scouts want to go backpacking over Memorial Day weekend.  They were supposed to go a few weeks ago but we had an unfortunate limb-breakage that precluded us from saddling up (so-to-speak).  Consolation prize is a trip over the last long weekend in the school year.  But it's going to be hot.  They're thinkers though and have decided that we'll go somewhere with springs to cool off in.  Okay by me, but now we're looking at getting into bear country--since there are no places in South East or West Florida that satisfy their requirements for backpacking AND springs.  North/Central Florida does fit the bill.

I won't lie.  Bears make me nervous.  Nervous for myself, but mostly nervous for other people's children.  Maybe I'm irrational.  I've never even seen a bear in my life.  I do find that sort of surprising considering I spent lots of time traipsing through the woods as a kid, and there were probably plenty of bears out there.  There are firsts for everything--for instance, I was never stung by a bee until last summer.  I was sitting in my living room watching TV when one ambled right up and rudely jabbed me in my elbow.  I was just minding my own business, the NERVE.

That's just me though.  These kids are tough and are remarkably calm.  They've handled torrential downpours and freezing overnights (literally, in FLORIDA!), they've come face to face with a roving gator and didn't even pee their pants (though I nearly did).  

Mostly one just has to be a bit more vigilant while in bear country.  The Scouts already know how to hang food bags--they've spent tons of time in raccoon-land--but bear bags require a bit more thoughtfulness.   Some folks even take it to the next level by cooking dinner along the trail a mile or so before making camp and hanging anything that smells (which always includes toothpaste and other toiletries).  I'm not sure if that's totally necessary in the dense wilderness of Florida, but it couldn't hurt.

Fig 2. There are no bears on the beach

Fig. 1 Horses don't steal food

On my first East coast backpacking trip I made the critical mistake (no, not EVERY backpacking story features a critical mistake...just the interesting ones) of forgetting a rope.  I figured that we'd be okay without the rope--there's no bears on Cumberland Island anyway.  Just wild horses.  I've always been careful to hang my food because of bears, so for some reason I never considered the possibility that other animals may also eat food--like raccoons.  Of course, when we got out to the island the ranger reminded us to hang our food and I felt pretty dumb.  We had a couple extra straps and managed to rig up a really pathetic hanging system.  It lasted two nights, but on the third and final night the raccoons stopped feeling sorry for us and raided the stash.  Cumberland Island is a popular place and the campsite we were at was fairly crowded.  It was one of the most embarrassing things that's ever happened to me in the woods--or, rather one of the more embarrassing things that I'll ADMIT to having happened--stooping around picking up plastic and food wrappers sheepishly.  Luckily there was only breakfast in the bag--a couple cliff bars and left over oatmeal packets.  Lesson learned:  it's not just bears that eat food.

I found this really awesome video on the Youtube of the PCT Bear Bagging method which I'll make the Scouts practice before we head out.

Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #3

Dingle Way, Day 3
4 July 2010

Fourth of July, which meant nothing since we were camped out in a kind stranger's back yard in Ireland, began in a cloud and settled on spitting mist heavy enough to rattle the fly on my tent.  I would have liked to lie in and let the moist Irish morning burn off, but that wasn't really an option.  We were in the rose garden, the cows were leaving the barn and clomping down the road and we didn't want to overstay our welcome.  Also:  one shouldn't pee in a stranger's backyard.  So we got up, packed our tents up wet and huddled next to the shipping container that served as the backyard shed to half-heartedly make breakfast.

Maybe we were trying to look miserable.  I didn't have to try too hard.  The rain was starting up harder, it was blowing in my face, and I'd made a critical mistake with my fuel pump.  See, I wanted to strap the fuel bottle to the outside of my pack.  That makes sense because it reduced the risk of spilling gasoline inside my pack--on my clothes or my food or my dishes.  I unscrewed the plastic fuel pump and figured that because it was fragile it needed to be protected, so I naively tucked it into my bowl--There! That'll keep it from getting smashed.  And it did.  My fuel pump was not smashed, but it leaked into my bowl.  Petroleum distillates besides being disgusting are dangerous.  Wind and rain in my face, every layer of clothes I owned, huddled up next to a rusty corrugated box, staring longingly into my fuel-flavored instant coffee I must have looked a sight and tugged the heart strings of the nice Irish lady doing her dishes at the kitchen sink.

The woman came out and told us that we were welcome to come inside and have breakfast and use her bathroom.  I waved my hunk of soda bread at her and tried to convince her that we were really okay.  She wasn't having it and told us to get inside.  Twice was enough.  We threw our packs in the shed and shed our outer layers at the door and padded into her kitchen.

We tried to have a conversation about Obama (they like him) and rashers (she was sorry there weren't any, she forgot to take them out of the freezer last night!) and the Dingle Way while the woman gave us tea and toast and honey and cookies (for breakfast!).  She spoke Irish at our request and tried to explain how to pronounce the various dotted letters.  I think her name was some variation of Katherine, but I had a very hard time understanding her accent.  I did understand that she often offers her backyard to Dingle Way hikers, but we were the first she'd had that year.  The economy, she figured.

 Her kitchen reminded me of every farm house I've ever been in back home--warm and distinctly utilitarian despite the floral pattern of the dishes or the faded wooden plaque above the sink with Irish proverbs in pastel.  We were at the table, the social hub next to the back door where folks come in and out, stamping their feet, removing their hats and looking towards the stove to see what's on after being out working hard on the tractor/bringing cows up/taking hay down.

After we'd had a few pieces of toast and I'd slurped down two cups of tea that didn't contain gasoline we headed out into the rain and down the trail.

The trail lead through a narrow gap between two hedgerows for about a half a mile.  I was glad to have my gaiters.  From there, we headed up a hill on a short road walk before turning north and traveling around the shoulder of Mount Eagle.  This was the best walk of the whole trip.  We walked through pastures along some wickedly steep inclines.  Great Blasket Island and Dunmore Head grew in front of us and there were archeological ruins all around--the clochans, beehive huts and old stone walls were still being used in some places.

The rain had burnt off and the hills were greener than anything I'd ever seen against the turquoise ocean.


After a few miles skirting Mount Eagle we came down steeply onto a road at Slea Head and stopped at a cafe there for coffee.  After we finished our coffee the Dingle Way took us along a gravel road for maybe another mile before we crossed a stream and headed back uphill towards the Great Blasket Centre outside of Dunquin.

It was warming up but we were still a big wet from the morning.  We dropped our packs beside a stone wall and headed into the Museum.  I think the admission was around 4 Euros, which is also what we were paying for a pint of Guinness, so it seemed reasonable.  Great Blasket Island (An Blascaod Mór in Irish) was inhabited by a small community of fishers and farmers and an inordinate amount of artists and writers until it was forcibly evacuated by the government in 1953 following a period of hardship.  Now it's a ghost town of ruined cottages that can be accessed by ferry and explored on foot in the summer.  Fred and I skipped the ferry ride over, but I wish we had gone.

We decided to do a big day to the base of Mt. Brandon on the following day so  Dunquin was the end of the line for us on 4th of July.  We were too early to check into youth hostel so we walked down into the small village of Dunquin to see if we could get a Guinness.  The pub, with a plaque of James Joyce by the door, was closed so we hobbled a bit further up the road to kill some time first in the cemetery and then, tiring of that, with our feet in a small cold stream in someone's back yard.

The youth hostel was fine, it had books and games and a telephone that I managed to call home from but lacked internet.  In the kitchen, we met a group of tough looking guys from Belgium.   They weren't terribly friendly and we didn't chat or linger in the kitchen too long.  I made my dinner and set my pot next to the sink while I went out into the dining room to eat.  Within 2 minutes the lady of the house tracked me down to tell me to Get in there and cleanup after yourself!  I humphed and did her bidding.  I didn't so much appreciate the bossing but Fred and I DID get a whole 10-bed room to ourselves which almost made up for that.   We stayed up late looking at old pictures on the iPad.  It was still light out at 11 when I went to sleep.

What's The Matter with Jane?

In 1920 an editorial “The Matter with Jane” appeared in the New York Times. Jane had problems—oh boy did she ever—Jane was a teenager. We now call this Adolescence and recognize it as a distinct developmental stage—though, at the time was still a relatively new idea, being coined only 16 years earlier.  Thanks to child labor laws and public schooling, kids were finally able to enjoy a longer period of dependence between childhood and adulthood.  Surliness was also invented around this time.

Like all things we do not understand, it was a problem. Adolescence is, of course, impossible to understand by anyone who has survived it thanks to our human nature to repress traumatic memories.


The concerns that parents had for their girls in 1920 are the same as today, with a quaint Victorian twist. Instead of monitoring the dangers of the internet, Jane’s father is worried that his daughter is spending too much time at the movies or reading romance novels. Jane’s mother wrings her hands that her daughter is becoming “self-conscious and vain”. Problems by definition have solutions.

The solution to the problem of Solitary Jane the Adolescent—in whom the biblical battle of good vs. evil rages—is Girl Scouts.  There, Jane would learn outdoor skills through hiking, camping, swimming and woodcraft.  The Girl Scouts would teach her that “her young body is to be used instead of decorated” or “The kindergarten in the great school of citizenship through service”.

The writer lamented that 4,000 girls a month were being turned away from membership because of lack of volunteers; being turned away from the one organization that could save them from their ‘problem’.
In 2010 there was still a problem with Jane—though this time it is high school drop out rates, teen pregnancy.  The modern solution is Girl Scouts, still, but this time around Girl Scouts is rebranding itself as the trendy “Gamma Sigma” to get away from the ‘old-fashioned’ program of hiking, camping and crafts.  “Traditional badges are out.  Gamma Sigma will have speakers, workshops and experiences intended to bolster girls’ self-esteem and decision-making”.

Juliette Gordon Low first brought girls outdoors to help them learn to trust themselves as independent, powerful, resourceful citizens. Girl Scouts has never been intended as only a training ground for park rangers or river guides. Taking girls into the outdoors was also never meant to simply remove the girls from the problem (modern society). Outdoor education removes the problem (self-consciousness, vanity, lack of courage) from the girl. The lessons learned through pioneering and camping were meant to inspire in the girls a sense of comeradere and teamwork—a Can Do attitude. Camping teaches girls that they are powerful and influential human beings, despite being adolescent.

The solution to the problem with Jane is still outdoor education.  The solution is still to give Jane the tools to control her own destiny, even if it is only for one weekend in the woods, so that she will have the confidence to face any challenge in her life with determination.

Wow...

There's an article about Andrew Skurka  in the March issue of the National Geographic Adventure magazine.

Here's a guy who actually walks the walk.  He traveled around the state of Alaska in 176 days.  He says it makes him feel alive.  And that makes sense.  When your only occupation is attending to your basic needs, and moving from point A to point B, it makes sense to be in tune with your existence.  Sometimes the existence is called into question and I think that's when you REALLY get to the core of what it means to exist.

 

We are, for large part, a nation of bystanders when it comes to venturing into nature's realm. Oh, there are day trips, weekend campouts, and occasionally multi-day trips for some of us. But to step entirely out of our comfort zone to head out into the wild for days on end, well, that's why there are the Andrew Skurkas of the world whom we can live vicariously through. 

Today I spent some time sweating at the Sony Ericsson Open.  I work right down the street and the opportunity to play hooky presented itself.  I took it.  Not quite the same as circumnavigating the state of Alaska solo, but it felt pretty hard.

Sam Gardner and the All-in Trek

I ran across this guy over at whiteblaze  He is getting a bit of attention over there.

He set up this website.  He made some big claims.  In one year, starting 1 January 2011, he was going to hike the North Country Trail--4600 miles from New York to North Dakota--then, hop on a plane and start the Pacific Crest Trail --2650 miles from Mexico to Canada along the west coast-- headed north, no doubt to thaw his bones out after a few months snow shoeing.  Again, a plane hop over to the northern terminus of the Continental Divide Trail --3100 miles from Canada to Mexico through Montana (skirting Idaho), Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico.  I assume by here he'd be hitting his stride.  Three trails down and only the shortest trail on his list--the Appalachian Trail-- still to go.  I guess it was to be his victory lap.  By my calculations that would put him at around November to come off the CDT and Again! hop on a plane and hit the northern terminus of the AT.  I'm not sure how he planned to do this one--Baxter State Park closes to overnight camping on October 15th.

I know that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but 12,525 miles in 360 days (- travel between trail heads) = 34.8 miles per day.  That seems a bit unrealistic to me.

Sam had to come off the trail in early March due to a hip injury.  He's planning to start again next January 1.   Best of luck to him.

Fontana Dam

According to my virtual-dream-hike schedule I have here, today would be a zero-day at Fontana Dam.  My fantasy-hike was slow going through the Georgia mountains.

I'm thinking about weather tonight---the skies over Miami are solid red on the radar screen.  There's warnings for nickel sized hail and tornados.  And so the cats have decided to grace us with their presence tonight.  Lizard hunting is no good in a downpour, I guess.  They're inside fighting and the dogs are hiding under the bed, from the thunder or the cats. 

Up at Fontana Dam the forecast for the week is rain and temperatures between 55 and 35. There's a frost advisory tonight. Burr. 

Fontana Dam was built in the early 1940's by the Tennessee Valley Authority and is (somewhat morbidly, I think) named for the town it inundated.  It's 480 feet high and about a half a mile long.  It's the tallest dam in the eastern US.

From a hiker's perspective, though, the dam represents 166 odd miles in the bag and the gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  I hear there's a pretty sweet shelter on the other side of the dam (as you go north).  So nice, in fact, that it's nicknamed "The Fontana Hilton".

I guess it wouldn't be so bad to sit through a rainy zero day at a place that nice.  Taking zero days in the woods is economical--no where to spend money.  I hear resupply is expensive in Fontana Village--which is the remnant/descendant of the town they built to house the folks working on the dam int he 40s--but there is a post office there.  I'm thinking it might be wise to send a box ahead to pick up there.  One could call a shuttle from the visitor center at the dam, or hobble down to the post office under their own steam (it's 1.8 miles from the dam).

Well, here's to imagining foul weather camping while enduring lung-draining-tropical-humidity and nickel sized hail...

Notes on Camp

There is an episode of This American Life about Camp, and how special it is to be one of 100 screaming kids in the woods, and how strong the group dynamic is that persists year after year, even when we're away. Camps, after all, survive on repeat customers.


Here's the link to that show, you should listen to it.

Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #2

Dingle Way, Day 2
3 July 2010

Fred and I woke up on our second day on the Dingle Way to light rain and a thick blanket of mist over the surrounding hills.

*So this is how it starts*  I thought as I packed up my tent, which was damp but thankfully not soaked.  I knew that the Dingle Way has a soggy reputation and I also knew that the forecast called for rain.

Fred and I ate a quick breakfast and then headed off past the gas station, down hill and over a small river before heading back Up into farmland.  The stretch of trail from Lispole to Dingle was mainly on narrow country lanes, with hedges built up so high that if for some reason we needed to get out of the way of any cars or machinery hurtling past us, we would be unable to.  So we prayed for deliverance from fast-moving vehicles.  Luckily we were not squashed but did get to witness some creative cow-hearding.

After the cow-hearding-traffic jam we followed the trail Up and over our first turnstiles through some fields.  Here, we were safe from traffic but eyed the cows nervously and kept our distance.  The trail wound on through the fields until there wasn't any more Up.  We crossed a ravine and then started working on some Dingle Way Down through sheep fields and over big rocks.  We spotted some day hikers and puffed up our chests with a little bit of un-deserved superiority.  We watched herds sheep on the far hills; farmers on four-wheelers and their dogs (though we couldn't see the dogs, we could see their work).  The herds were fuzzy amoebas moving slowly across the hills, sending out pseudopods hither and thither and then being driven back.

For about 2 miles we could spot the town of Dingle, but like the bedroom door in Poltergeist, the more we walked it seemed the further it got away.  It was cold and windy and I was hungry.  Fred stopped on the side of the road to tend to his swollen blistery feet.  I watched a farmer herd sheep in the pasture across the road, but my stomach was growling and would not be ignored.  Plus, it was windy and I was cold.  I may or may not have threatened to leave Fred behind and started stomping loudly downhill toward Dingle.  Empathy is not one of my strongest character traits sometimes I am embarrassed to admit.

When we made it to Dingle Fred was still speaking to me.  We walked through town, which looks exactly like every other tourist town on the face of the earth, only this one is on a steep hill.  We walked down a street, didn't find anything to eat that fit our appetite or budget and then began walking back up hill.  My feet and Fred's feet were not pleased with the arrangement and our appetites conceded to eat at wherever we landed next.

We ended up in a generic Irish pub.  We slunk in around the doorjamb and slid into the first table we found.  We shoved our packs over along the bench and hoped that our stench wouldn't be considered a deal breaker.  It was only day two but we'd managed to work up quite an aroma between the mist, the farmland and my synthetic clothing which started the trail with a reasonable amount of funk.  Lamb stew and half pints of Guinness fixed all that ailed us (except Fred's blisters, nothing could fix that).

We paid homage to Fungie the dolphin and followed the road out of town.  When we got to Ventry two miles later, Fred was done for the day but it was only about 3--too early to stop.  Because we were counting on the hospitality of strangers to find camping sites, it made sense to spend as little time as possible actually camping.  We bought a loaf of soda bread and cheese at the post office there at the cross-road and hopped a low stone fence into an empty field.  Leaning against the fence with our backs to the road, I checked the map.  With a handful of bread in my mouth I managed to convince Fred that it would be an easy mile down the beach to the next town.  He agreed, only barely and we saddled up and headed out, slowly.

Ventry Bay was flat and easy in the late afternoon.  We had to wade through about 100 yards of somewhat squishy flotsam (kelp and some unidentifiable flora and fauna in mat form) to get down to the hard sand.  There were lots of folks out on the beach with their incredibly well behaved dogs and it was getting chilly.


The trail left the beach and took us through the dunes and over several streams.  We were both extremely tired and almost called it quits in a flat spot next to a creek, but we were nervous about breaking some land use laws so we pressed on.  The trail lead up to a road.  Fred was so determined to drop his billion pound pack for the night that, uncharacteristically of him, he asked the first person we passed if they knew anywhere we could camp.

The woman explained that we could use her backyard and that we should just walk on up the road and set up camp.  Her husband may ask us what we were doing but we were to tell him that she had given us permission.  Her accent was so thick, now that we were West of Dingle, we could only understand about every third word.

We found nice flat ground for camping, crawled into our tents and called it a night.

Hey Folks,

I'm a bit under-the-weather/out-of-commission right now.  I haven't been up to answering emails/form submissions.  I hope to be able to next week.

Thanks for your patience,

The Captain

Scout Haute Couture

Figure 1. Subject is wearing long johns under shorts with spandex cape

You won't see it on the runways in Paris, London or even Miami.  The fashion industry is all but blind to it, but there is a whole segment of fashion design that belongs only to the Scouts.  I will call it Scout Haute Couture.

This is something interesting that happens when Scouts are together.  The general conventions of fashion or typical adolescent self conscious behavior flies out the window.  This phenomenon can be observed in as little as 10 minutes, though rare.  Usually after 1 to 2 days removed from society the Scout in her natural habitat will begin exhibiting signs of squirrely-ness in dress and behavior.

Scout Haute Couture can be recognized by the subject's inability to match color, pattern or even material.  Mainstream ideals of acceptable things to put on your face fly by the wayside and banana stickers, magic-marker-mustaches and some types of food become facial adornments.  Anything that can be wrapped around a limb such as grass, flowers, or office supplies become jewelery.  Materials that are usually off limits become highly sought after.  (Fig. 1-3)

Figure 2.

Figure 3.

Even more unique about the Scout fashion movement is the willful disregard by most participants for the customary hygiene habits.  Clothes that would be washed after ever use or every other use can go weeks without cleaning at camp.

The authors conclude that because Scouts have a refined system of friendship the typical societal rules for presentation can be stretched to accommodate more complete outward expression of a person's personality.  The most amazing facet of the Scout Haute Couture is the ability to ignore the powerful odors that can develop after two or three days on the loose.  Scouts can remain friends through experiences like this and have developed their own standards to live by (Yes, the lake counts as a shower.  Yes, babywipes are perfectly acceptable for day to day hygiene).

The level of comfort that allows Scouts to be Best Friends Forever and is both the cause and effect of the strange fashion that manifests itself in Scout settings.  Because how could you Not be friends with someone who is baring their sole to you thus (Figure 2). And if this were you, why would you not want to share it with your friends? (Figure 3).

Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #1

In Honor of St. Patrick's Day, we'll kick off the Trail Tales series with the Dingle Way.

Dingle Way, Day 1
2 July 2010

Fred and I got up early, left our hostel in Dublin and hopped on the bus to Limerick at the Busarus. That's the Irish word for Bus Station I guess. I like to say it in my head like this "Bus R Us" but that's not right.

I quickly learned that Irish buses are among the most sinister car-sick-inducing torture devices in the world. The seats are very tall and so it's impossible to see out the front window from any seat besides the very front. Irish roads are narrow and windy. Irish bus drivers seem to enjoy playing Billy Joel at very loud volumes. I knew I wasn't going to make it if I stayed in the back, so I had to move right up to the front. Right up there, next to the chatty old people who cross themselves whenever they pass a church, and there are a lot, so it's more like an episode of Sit-and Be-Fit than a calm, silent, still bus ride.

And I think I might die.

For 6 hours I focused on not puking, or trying to devise a contingency plan if I do. I decided that in the event of an unexpected voiding of my stomach I would try to aim it for the space next to the door, then at least they could hose it out easily.

Luckily, we made it to Limerick and then to Tralee (which is pronounced Truhhh-lee, not TRAY lee) without any vomiting. From Tralee we got on another bus which we thought was going to take us to Camp. But it didn't. Fred told me "doesn't that sign say Camp? Shouldn't we get off? Maybe you should tell the driver we want off." I said "Relax Fred, calm down. The bus will stop and then we'll get off. We'll know when we're there." But I was wrong. The bus did not stop. In Ireland, you must jump up and down or wave or holler to signal your intention to get off the bus, wherever. Stops listed on the schedule are just suggestions. When we realized that we'd driven past Camp we started to get anxious. When the next-town-looking place rolled around we stood up, and sure enough the bus stopped and let us out.

In Annascaul. This not where we planned on being. We meant to walk from Camp counter clockwise around the peninsula. Now we're forced to go Clockwise.

At least we've finally made it to Dingle.

The first thing I noticed about Dingle, is that it is cold and windy. It's also much more mountainous than I expected. From the map, from home, Ireland looked flat-ish. 950 m Mountains are not really mountains, or are they? They are. Especially when they grow directly from sea level.

I know that I have underestimated this place. We stopped in a small park with the statue of some antarctic explorer. Tom Crean. He went with Shackelton and stuff...and he's from Annascaul. Fred and I hadn't eaten since breakfast and now it's 3 pm and we need to hike at least 6 miles, preferably twelve before we sleep. I pulled out a loaf of soda bread, a chunk of cheese and began to chow down, whilst contemplating Fred's "10 pound more awesome" bag.

I wonder if he can really make it 90 miles with all that Stuff. Who brings an iPad backpacking, anyway?

After we finished eating we cinched up our bags and headed off. Over a bridge, across a road and then Up. We walked up for quite a ways, until there was no more Up and then we could see the ocean, and we walked Down for a while. It was warm enough out to walk in just a long sleeved shirt and it wasn't raining.

So Far So Good.

We came across a beautiful bouldery-beach with a castle.




Thanks Ireland, that'll do nicely.

Then, there was more up. We were mainly walking on narrow farm roads, which was not very exciting at all. There were nettles and whoever was in the back was in charge of hollering "Car!" so that we could dive, quickly, into a ditch or press ourselves up against the nearest nettle-infested garden wall. And it was a windy day, so there were lots of false alarms. We did manage to entertain ourselves though, playing with the local fauna--farm dogs--and arguing about whether Cromwell built the castle or knocked over the castle.




The sheep dogs in Ireland are very friendly. They are generally allowed to roam and seem to generally stay where they're supposed to. More than a few times we were followed for quite-a-ways by friendly dogs. This is the first one we encountered. In DunQuin we were followed all the way home from the pub by a dog. On the other side of Mt. Brandon we were followed for about a mile by a dog who liked to play 'fetch' with rocks that we kicked in front of us, until someone drove by in a car and stuck their head out the window "Bella! Come on!" and the dog turned around and trotted after the car.



After about 6 miles, we spied a gas station. Since I refused, on principle, to pay 10 Euros for white gas in Dublin we decided to just fill the fuel bottle with gasoline at the first opportunity. So we stopped at a gas station that backed up to a really nice canyon that was bridged by an old rail-road viaduct. I filled up the fuel bottle and went inside to pay the 45 cent bill. The man behind the counter looked at me funny and said "Very small car?" I held up my fuel bottle and said "Yes" I bought a postcard and a candy bar and went back outside to see what Fred was up to.

He was lounging against his 10-pounds-more-awesome bag with the nastyiest-pus-ridden-flea bag tom cat I've ever seen in his lap.






I loaded up the fuel bottle and looked at the map for a bit. "Fred, how much further do you want to walk?" I was nervous about where we'd stay, and since there was 6 more miles to Dingle Town I didn't think we'd make it before it got dark.

I convinced Fred to go inside and ask the man behind the counter if there was any place we could stay around Lispole (where we were). Fred came back out with a bottle of water and the message that Dingle Town was the closest place with accommodations. "Did you ask about camping, or bed and breakfasts?" He said he didn't know and I shook my head. It was already 7 and I didn't think we were going to make it to Dingle. I went back into the shop myself to ask the man specifically about camping. I was a little embarrassed because by this time we'd been hanging around in his parking lot, petting that nasty-pus-ridden-flea-bag cat for like 15 minutes. "Do you know anywhere we can camp around here? I don't think we can walk all the way to Dingle Town tonight" The man didn't even pause for a second before he said "Sure, camp across the way in my field. There are no animals in there and the electric fence is off". Of course, it took a few iterations to get the message across--so thick was his accent, or my brain.

Awesome! Our first experience with Irish hospitality. It was easy. The man showed us his field and we set up our tents in a flat spot behind a nice church.





We had a quick dinner. Though we were tired we walked a mile down the road to the nearest pub. The man behind the counter was probably about 80 and by the looks of the decor, was named Tom and had been running the place since the 40s, or whenever he stopped playing rugby on his local team (Go Kerry!). We were the only people in the place. We tried to have a conversation with the old man about the vuvuzelas on the TV (world cup was on) but again, the thick Irish accent was hard for us to get through. The man was really lovely though, and we went and played a game of pool on a tiny pool table (or was it a snooker table?) before we headed back out. By this time it was nearing 9:30 and we toddled back to our tents. It was still light.

Turns out, it never gets dark in Ireland.