The trail turned my mind into a curious child, bored with the toys in his room, who decides to venture up into the darkened attic, where he starts opening boxes.
At times it felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop; that at any moment, some ancient trickster god would look through their portal and say, "Oh this guy? Yeah, let's screw his day way up."
It is a cool, wet morning at Shaw's in Monson, ME, and the cleanup from breakfast has begun in earnest as the household lurches with full bellies
If you'd like to experience an approximation of the wind on top of Mount Adams, hand a friend a sledgehammer and have them swing it at your chest.
The snow has melted, the trees have leafed-out and the black flies are out and biting with a vengeance. I have walked so far and found myself right here. Again.
There are many trail angels between Georgia and Maine, but only one Maria McCabe.
If my muscles and joints have gotten the time to rest, I can usually shuffle onward in the morning.
At 6:30 a.m. the sound of the storm drags me from under the thin film of sleep I have struggled to wrap myself in all night.
Author's note: All credit due to Paul for the title. Skip to the end for the audio. Awah awah aahhhh... This first report on my AT trek follows