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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
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...
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.
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...
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
Here's the link to that show, you should listen to it.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Scout Haute Couture
 | ||
| Figure 1. Subject is wearing long johns under shorts with spandex cape |
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. |
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).
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
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.
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