break. Katz, on the other hand, just always felt terrible. Whatever restorative effects a town visit offered always vanished with astounding swiftness on the trail. Within two minutes it was as if we had never been away—actually worse, because on a normal day I would not be laboring up a steep hill with a greasy, leaden Hardees breakfast threatening at every moment to come up for air.
We had been walking for about half an hour when another hiker—a fit-looking middle-aged guy—came along from the other direction. We asked him if he had seen a girl named Mary Ellen in a red jacket with kind of a loud voice.
He made an expression of possible recognition and said: “Does she—I’m not being rude here or anything—but does she do this a lot?” and he pinched his nose and made a series of horrible honking noises.
We nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, I stayed with her and two other guys in Plumorchard Gap Shelter last night.” He gave us a dubious, sideways look. “She a friend of yours?”
“Oh, no,” we said, disavowing her entirely, as any sensible person would. “She just sort of latched on to us for a couple of days.”
He nodded in understanding, then grinned. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
We grinned, too. “Was it bad?” I said.
He made a look that showed genuine pain, then abruptly, as if putting two and two together, said, “So you must be the guys she was talking about.”
“Really?” Katz said. “What’d she say?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, but he was suppressing a small smile in that way that makes you say: “What?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.” But he was smiling.
“What?”
He wavered. “Oh, all right. She said you guys were a couple of overweight wimps who didn’t know the first thing about hiking and that she was tired of carrying you.”
“She said
that?”
Katz said, scandalized.
“Actually I think she called you pussies.”
“She called us
pussies?”
Katz said. “Now I will kill her.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll have any trouble finding people to hold her down for you,” the man said absently, scanning the sky, and added: “Supposed to snow.”
I made a crestfallen noise. This was the last thing we wanted. “Really? Bad?”
He nodded. “Six to eight inches. More on the higher elevations.” He lifted his eyebrows stoically, agreeing with my dismayed expression. Snow wasn’t just discouraging, it was dangerous.
He let the prospect hang there for a moment, then said, “Well, better keep moving.” I nodded in understanding, for that was what we did in these hills. I watched him go, then turned to Katz, who was shaking his head.
“Imagine her saying that after all we did for her,” he said, then noticed me staring at him, and said in a kind of squirmy way, “What?” and then, more squirmily,
“What?”
“Don’t you ever,
ever
, spoil a piece of pie for me again. Do you understand?”
He winced. “Yeah, all right. Jeez,” he said and trudged on, muttering.
Two days later we heard that Mary Ellen had dropped out with blisters after trying to do thirty-five miles in two days. Big mistake.
chapter 6
D istance changes utterly when you take the world on foot. A mile becomes a long way, two miles literally considerable, ten miles whopping, fifty miles at the very limits of conception. The world, you realize, is enormous in a way that only you and a small community of fellow hikers know. Planetary scale is your little secret.
Life takes on a neat simplicity, too. Time ceases to have any meaning. When it is dark, you go to bed, and when it is light again you get up, and everything in between is just in between. It’s quite wonderful, really.
You have no engagements, commitments, obligations, or duties; no special ambitions and only the smallest, least complicated of wants; you exist in a tranquil tedium, serenely beyond the reach of exasperation, “far removed from the seats of strife,” as the early explorer and botanist
We had been walking for about half an hour when another hiker—a fit-looking middle-aged guy—came along from the other direction. We asked him if he had seen a girl named Mary Ellen in a red jacket with kind of a loud voice.
He made an expression of possible recognition and said: “Does she—I’m not being rude here or anything—but does she do this a lot?” and he pinched his nose and made a series of horrible honking noises.
We nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, I stayed with her and two other guys in Plumorchard Gap Shelter last night.” He gave us a dubious, sideways look. “She a friend of yours?”
“Oh, no,” we said, disavowing her entirely, as any sensible person would. “She just sort of latched on to us for a couple of days.”
He nodded in understanding, then grinned. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
We grinned, too. “Was it bad?” I said.
He made a look that showed genuine pain, then abruptly, as if putting two and two together, said, “So you must be the guys she was talking about.”
“Really?” Katz said. “What’d she say?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, but he was suppressing a small smile in that way that makes you say: “What?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.” But he was smiling.
“What?”
He wavered. “Oh, all right. She said you guys were a couple of overweight wimps who didn’t know the first thing about hiking and that she was tired of carrying you.”
“She said
that?”
Katz said, scandalized.
“Actually I think she called you pussies.”
“She called us
pussies?”
Katz said. “Now I will kill her.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll have any trouble finding people to hold her down for you,” the man said absently, scanning the sky, and added: “Supposed to snow.”
I made a crestfallen noise. This was the last thing we wanted. “Really? Bad?”
He nodded. “Six to eight inches. More on the higher elevations.” He lifted his eyebrows stoically, agreeing with my dismayed expression. Snow wasn’t just discouraging, it was dangerous.
He let the prospect hang there for a moment, then said, “Well, better keep moving.” I nodded in understanding, for that was what we did in these hills. I watched him go, then turned to Katz, who was shaking his head.
“Imagine her saying that after all we did for her,” he said, then noticed me staring at him, and said in a kind of squirmy way, “What?” and then, more squirmily,
“What?”
“Don’t you ever,
ever
, spoil a piece of pie for me again. Do you understand?”
He winced. “Yeah, all right. Jeez,” he said and trudged on, muttering.
Two days later we heard that Mary Ellen had dropped out with blisters after trying to do thirty-five miles in two days. Big mistake.
chapter 6
D istance changes utterly when you take the world on foot. A mile becomes a long way, two miles literally considerable, ten miles whopping, fifty miles at the very limits of conception. The world, you realize, is enormous in a way that only you and a small community of fellow hikers know. Planetary scale is your little secret.
Life takes on a neat simplicity, too. Time ceases to have any meaning. When it is dark, you go to bed, and when it is light again you get up, and everything in between is just in between. It’s quite wonderful, really.
You have no engagements, commitments, obligations, or duties; no special ambitions and only the smallest, least complicated of wants; you exist in a tranquil tedium, serenely beyond the reach of exasperation, “far removed from the seats of strife,” as the early explorer and botanist
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