June 4
8 am in the morning found me at Casa de Luna, looking at a "hiker" dude pound Miller High Life and huff a Parliament to kill his hangover. Ah, youth.
This is the second iconic trail angel house in 90 miles (the Saufleys being the first, Hikertown being the third).
The Andersons are the ying to the Saufley's yang. Or vice versa, I forget which is which. Anyway, where Donna has responded to the rapid growth in hiker numbers by being organized, Terrie and Joe Anderson have responded by allowing things to take their course. Thus was it that some 40 or 50 dirty hippies were lounging in their yard, with pancakes being handed out to people just waking up from the day before. Want to play guitar, man? Now is a GREAT time to start teaching yourself. Want to do laundry? Use the bucket and the hose, man. Want to hike, man? Trail is that way. Or not. The Andersens will abide.
Terrie herself DID recognize me from 2008, shockingly. I asked for a picture with her, which I got -- she kinda grabbed my ass, giving the photo a shock/joy vibe. I asked about the detour around an upcoming fire closure and was directed to a crudely-drawn map on construction paper, taped to the wall. It looked a bit like a treasure map drawn by a blitzed pirate. And given the company, it was entirely plausible that it was just that.
8 am in the morning found me at Casa de Luna, looking at a "hiker" dude pound Miller High Life and huff a Parliament to kill his hangover. Ah, youth.
This is the second iconic trail angel house in 90 miles (the Saufleys being the first, Hikertown being the third).
The Andersons are the ying to the Saufley's yang. Or vice versa, I forget which is which. Anyway, where Donna has responded to the rapid growth in hiker numbers by being organized, Terrie and Joe Anderson have responded by allowing things to take their course. Thus was it that some 40 or 50 dirty hippies were lounging in their yard, with pancakes being handed out to people just waking up from the day before. Want to play guitar, man? Now is a GREAT time to start teaching yourself. Want to do laundry? Use the bucket and the hose, man. Want to hike, man? Trail is that way. Or not. The Andersens will abide.
Terrie herself DID recognize me from 2008, shockingly. I asked for a picture with her, which I got -- she kinda grabbed my ass, giving the photo a shock/joy vibe. I asked about the detour around an upcoming fire closure and was directed to a crudely-drawn map on construction paper, taped to the wall. It looked a bit like a treasure map drawn by a blitzed pirate. And given the company, it was entirely plausible that it was just that.
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| Yikes! Gotta love Terrie |
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| Pretty serious outdoor enthusiasts congregate to discuss possible drink-til-we-barf session tonight |
After pancakes, coffee, and more hugs to Terrie, I walked out with a woman named Mighty Mouse to start the detour. About my age, she was an air force vet who was imi g to celebrate the end of her service. She had been bitten by a rattlesnake (maybe not such good luck), which story I listened to in rapt attention. We talked motorcycles, having supportive partners, cancer and whatever else, and walked the road all the way to a biker bar.
Stepped in, got a couple beers and a BBQ sandwich. The place was a buzzing nest of hikers, getting drunk in the mid-morning. Many were people I had just seen at the Andersons who had hitched to the bar. Kind of lame but oh well.
I hiked out alone. I passed another tavern and stopped long enough to listen to five Merle Haggard tunes and talk to a local who had spent his career as a land surveyor. Hiked on into the afternoon heat, regretting the beer I had but cherishing the conversation and the cool hour I had spent.
Right before turning off the road onto trail again, I was accosted by a minivan. It pulled over, and who to my wondering eyes did appear but Terrie Anderson, handing me a slice of pizza.
"There's pepperoni if you prefer," she said. "Oh yeah," she added, rooting around in the van like I had forgotten something at her house. I waited a few minutes for the search to conclude.
"Aha! Wanna sno-kone?" she asked, holding an ice shaver aloft. Yes, I did. Bubblegum flavor, please. More hugs and then she drove away.
So I was standing on the side of the road, somewhere between half drunk and half hung over, one mitt filled with pizza and the other with an electric-blue sno kone. Man, I really fucking love the Andersens.
Soon as I hit trail, I was overtaken by a dozen plastered hikers. They had just hitched up from the bar. This was dispiriting. I mean, what are people out here to do? Experience leisure and drink beer? They should get season tickets to their baseball franchise, much more efficient means to an end.
Having not yet hiked that day versus my like 20 miles, they bounded ahead of me. I dogged on, sweating and grumbling. When I finally topped out around sunset at a dirt road, I was met by MORE people who had gotten someone to drive them to just that point on the trail.
My anger flipped right over into defeated sadness. Yeah, the trail is crowded, but that's democracy in action. The culture of through-hiking, however, is being diluted to the point of losing something really special. It mattered that we once all did the same thing, all passed the same trees and rocks, felt the same heat. It engendered a sense of camaraderie and mutual respect. Now, it's just like any other safety-through-consensus experience of modern consumer culture. If you don't like any facet of it, that facet doesn't apply to you.
So yes, I get bitter.
Of course, here is another side -- the trail itself remains the same. The stark beauty and gentle open slopes are the same. It's still the only place I want to be right now. People come and go, or they just ride around in strangers' cars, but the trail, like the Andersons, will abide.
Stepped in, got a couple beers and a BBQ sandwich. The place was a buzzing nest of hikers, getting drunk in the mid-morning. Many were people I had just seen at the Andersons who had hitched to the bar. Kind of lame but oh well.
I hiked out alone. I passed another tavern and stopped long enough to listen to five Merle Haggard tunes and talk to a local who had spent his career as a land surveyor. Hiked on into the afternoon heat, regretting the beer I had but cherishing the conversation and the cool hour I had spent.
Right before turning off the road onto trail again, I was accosted by a minivan. It pulled over, and who to my wondering eyes did appear but Terrie Anderson, handing me a slice of pizza.
"There's pepperoni if you prefer," she said. "Oh yeah," she added, rooting around in the van like I had forgotten something at her house. I waited a few minutes for the search to conclude.
"Aha! Wanna sno-kone?" she asked, holding an ice shaver aloft. Yes, I did. Bubblegum flavor, please. More hugs and then she drove away.
So I was standing on the side of the road, somewhere between half drunk and half hung over, one mitt filled with pizza and the other with an electric-blue sno kone. Man, I really fucking love the Andersens.
Soon as I hit trail, I was overtaken by a dozen plastered hikers. They had just hitched up from the bar. This was dispiriting. I mean, what are people out here to do? Experience leisure and drink beer? They should get season tickets to their baseball franchise, much more efficient means to an end.
Having not yet hiked that day versus my like 20 miles, they bounded ahead of me. I dogged on, sweating and grumbling. When I finally topped out around sunset at a dirt road, I was met by MORE people who had gotten someone to drive them to just that point on the trail.
My anger flipped right over into defeated sadness. Yeah, the trail is crowded, but that's democracy in action. The culture of through-hiking, however, is being diluted to the point of losing something really special. It mattered that we once all did the same thing, all passed the same trees and rocks, felt the same heat. It engendered a sense of camaraderie and mutual respect. Now, it's just like any other safety-through-consensus experience of modern consumer culture. If you don't like any facet of it, that facet doesn't apply to you.
So yes, I get bitter.
Of course, here is another side -- the trail itself remains the same. The stark beauty and gentle open slopes are the same. It's still the only place I want to be right now. People come and go, or they just ride around in strangers' cars, but the trail, like the Andersons, will abide.
OMG yes! I didn't have quite the same experience with Terri Anderson last year, but close. I really laughed at your last encounter with her. A million times yes!
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