Racing Light excerpts

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39663880862382615122008-12-05T07:13:41.993-05:00Racing Light excerpts4,000 miles of long-distance hiking spanning the North American east coast,<br> documented with 500 B&W photos / illustrations and commentary. Charlienoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-44712990107906739932008-08-18T17:30:00.036-04:002008-12-05T07:13:42.037-05:00Directory<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2008/08/foreword.html"><span style="color: #cc0000;">>>> first excerpt</span> </a></span> or  <a href="http://cduane.net/book/2000/07/long-trail-day-1.html"><span style="color: #cc0000;">>>> first journal entry </span></a></div><br />To "read the book" front to back, select a link at the upper right, <br />starting with the introduction or the first trail entry.<br /><br />To read selections grouped by topic, you can click on the "label" tags below the posts.<br />These labels are listed below.  Try clicking on the <a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/journal.html">journal </a> label. <br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-size: x-small;">The excerpted groups are sorted in Z-A sequence, so start reading them from the bottom.</span><br /><ul><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/overview.html">overview</a></li><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/background.html">background</a></li><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/summary.html">summary</a></li><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/journal.html">journal</a></li><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/philosophy.html">philosophy</a></li><li><a href="http://cduane.net/book/labels/anecdote.html">anecdote</a></li></ul>You can always return to this starting page by selecting the "directory" link at upper left.Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-13214068726981261232008-08-18T17:29:00.012-04:002008-11-21T09:19:16.271-05:00Hiking Safely<ul><li>This book is a photo-documentary - a snapshot of a moment in time. Methods and philosophy evolve with experience.  The hiker assumes full responsibility for safety in all conditions and emergencies.</li></ul>Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-19815232639316338752008-08-18T15:00:00.001-04:002008-08-21T16:38:05.963-04:00Endorsements2007.10.15   <span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Page one of two.</em></span><br /><br />“Long-distance hiking is a physical test for the body, but it is also a test for the mind and spirit. Linguini’s book defines this journey of the mind.”<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dick “Nopack” Anderson</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Founder, International Appalachian Trail</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">President, Maine Chapter</span><br /><br /><br />“There are four good books here in one… I have always thought that the cure to a lot of human illness lies in the body of a backpacker… You have pointed out with photographs way more than you could say with words.”<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Aaron “Twofiddy” Sworden</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker, 2003</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Founder, www.hikersupply.com</span><br /><br /><br />“A great book, filled with a wealth of information for those who have hiked the trails, as well as those who harbor the “Dream.” Linguini recreates the “Trail experience” in a meaningful, masterful way. I only wish his book had been available before I undertook my first Appalachian Trail thru-hike. Definitely a winner!”<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">J.R. “Model-T” Tate</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">4-time Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Author, “Walking on the Happy Side of Misery,” “Walking with the Ghost Whisperers”</span> <br /><br /><br />“A tale of encouragement and of illumination!”<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Robert “Red Wolf o’ da Smokey’s” Croyle</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker, 1971</span><br /><br /><br />“I enjoyed reading your book. You had some perspectives that were very unique. Keep movin’ Linguini!”<br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dr. David Horton, “The Runner”</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Professor of Health Sciences & Kinesiology, Liberty University</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Established time records for the Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail</span><br /><br /><br />“Your photo-journal is great. I think it worked out real well. Am proud of my copy. I am an Eagle Scout, too.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></em></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Gene Espy</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">The second Appalachian Trail Thru-hiker, 1951</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-47560409638627918592007-12-31T06:00:00.002-05:002008-08-22T07:49:09.341-04:00Foreword<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/1997/09/1-star-light.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />My first impression when meeting Charles "Linguini" Duane was that he reminded me of my brother Earl in many ways. Slender, not a towering giant but rugged and determined. Earl always did say that hikers were surprised many times when they met him to find a person of ordinary build, not a muscular hulk. Long-distance hikers need to be wiry and tough but not necessarily huge and domineering. I think the reader will find this book interesting from the standpoint of presentation of the four separate hikes described in detail with photos and reflections along the way.<br /><br />"Racing Light" immediately brings to mind a speedy trip, however as you venture further into the book, the idea of traveling "light" as Earl did on all his hikes begins to shine through. The big difference is Charles used modern fabrics and more unique camping items than Earl, which afforded him very light loads with more comfort than Earl allowed himself.<br /><br />The "Photo-Diary" format is a new twist. The phrase "A picture is worth a thousand words" rings true and is a pleasant change from many of the books on scenic trails available today. I'm sure Earl would be pleased to see so many photographs along the various Trails. Earl had the foresight to use color film for his slides so that much of the beauty is preserved. In the late 1940’s color film was scarce. Black and white pictures can also be exciting, it just takes a little more care in selecting and presenting the subjects.<br /><br />Relax and enjoy hiking and traveling with " Linguini." I know I did when he afforded me the opportunity to review his manuscript.<br /><br /><br />John H. Shaffer<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-12587683140788122242007-12-30T10:58:00.004-05:002008-08-22T11:09:22.916-04:00The Canadian Penny<div style="text-align: right;"><em><span style="color: #cc0000;">go to beginning:</span></em>  <a href="http://cduane.net/book/2008/08/foreword.html">>>> first post</a>  </div><br />On the thirty-third day of my road walk, I planned two more days of hiking to reach the Southernmost Point. I had always secretly wished to complete a 50-mile distance in one day, but the swelling of my balky ankles ruled that idea out of consideration.<br /><br />It was just plain odd that my motel was located right before the 50-mile marker on US Route 1 in the town of Marathon, and that I walked past that marker several times on the way to buy groceries and dine. Further, it was odd that my Chinese fortune cookie predicted I would get my heart’s desire. What was my desire? Maybe to get home to my sweetheart by Valentine Day. <br /><br />And most unusual, I found a Canadian penny on the pavement somewhere near that 50-mile marker. Of the several dollars of coins found during a month on the road, only this coin had been Canadian. I prized the symbol of my long walk.<br /><br />As for my heart’s secret desire, I did walk 50 miles all in one day. At 2 p.m. the next day, after 30 miles, I took the decision to go for broke. Going 50 miles did not make me feel wonderful. I simply wanted to say I had done it at mid-life.<br /><br />I also made it home in time to give Tricia a pair of conch shells for Valentine Day. My ankles healed, and I have since learned to keep my physical build in hiking form. The trail has not beckoned again. <br />Six months after getting home, the phone rang. It was my friend Darek, who once sat in council with the Chiefs of the Lakota Sioux. When I described how some events in my walk seemed to take place on a spiritual plane without my planning them that way, Darek commented, <br /><br />“Don’t you see? The coin was a gift from Pamola. That Old Spirit was saying you passed the test.”<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-56452209130914897882006-01-02T10:38:00.004-05:002008-08-22T10:52:06.642-04:00Postponement<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2007/12/canadian-penny.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />The path of my research into the mysteries of walking is littered with hundreds of books on vitality. It seems that the pursuit of health aims at longevity, and ultimately at immortality. Likewise, pursuing knowledge eventually leads to wisdom and perhaps even enlightenment.<br /><br />I am grateful for the research and insight of many authors who have taught me valuable lessons. However, do those books benefit me much more than walking for an hour daily? <br /><br />You gain enlightenment for what? <br /><br />To put it aside quickly as possible, in order to sharpen your mind for the challenge before you.<br /><br />A hiking journal can only tell you to find nourishment in rays of light, drink from pure mountain springs, and breathe invigorating clean air. These words tell you that ordinary people have increased my faith in the human spirit, and that the future depends on the character of our people.<br /><br />The long walk let me taste a drop of the eternal. But the daily grind of “real life” makes that experience seem distant. I have stayed indoors in order to describe the outdoors, and feel like a pocket turned “inside out.” <br /><br />Every now and then a jotting on scrap paper makes me smile. One of them reads, “The first hundred years are the hardest.” Another says, “Your petition for enlightenment and immortality has been indefinitely postponed.”<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-16337659094229353942006-01-02T10:35:00.003-05:002008-08-22T10:50:36.275-04:00Home<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2006/01/postponement.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />A home is what you return to. Otherwise it’s just a house. A house can be empty. You must have a starting point in order to return home. A home is lived in, has familiar comforts, associations, and emotions. A home has spirit. Life can grow in a healthy home. On the trail, home is a temporary shelter, or that secret place which holds your memories.<br /><br />For a plant, home is favorable soil. For a bird, it’s a nest. For a boat, it’s a safe haven. Otherwise you have only rocks, twigs, or puddles to return to. Make your own definition of home, and keep it in your heart. Then if you are displaced, neither rocks, nor twigs, nor water can wear your place down.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-91376739326369123462006-01-01T01:00:00.004-05:002008-08-22T11:11:24.039-04:007. Star Bright<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2006/01/home.html">>>> next</a>  </div><br />The inspiration for my distance hiking centered on gaining the health and vitality to lead a long, productive life. The inspiration answered a secret wish deep within, and it provided the drive to endure discomfort of all kinds.<br /><br />I thought I was done when I finished thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. Yet the “idea” wasn’t done with me. Time and again, I returned to the trail and to roads in order to wrap up unfinished business. At times the “idea” became an elusive quest for enlightenment and immortality. On the last day of my last hike I went 50 miles, my symbol for longevity. Finally I was done, or so it seemed.<br /><br />Once again, the “idea” had not finished with me. The persistent challenge to compile the data of the hikes and reflect on their outcome was hardly what I wanted to face. I can only hope that there will be an unforeseen benefit. The challenge has been, like the mountain of rice in my childhood, too much to stomach.<br /><br />The walk grew beyond my expectations into a bigger “idea” than my own. One strand of the bigger story tells of a father’s love for his stricken daughter and how her prayers were answered. The story arc of this strand crosses above the steps of my walk like a rainbow. <br /><br />The “idea,” after all, is weightless, radiant “light.”<br /><br />[12-page concluding chapter]<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-50964899960344996402005-01-01T03:00:00.004-05:002008-08-22T10:48:29.164-04:00Functional Efficiency<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2006/01/7-star-bright.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />For planning purposes, it is useful to consider the average consumption of food needed to cover a distance, such as a pound of dry food for 10 miles. Obviously allowances must be made for mountain miles or flat miles.<br /><br />Some people insist that the same amount of calories are burned, whether you walk or run the same distance. While this statement makes sense as a general rule, there must be exceptions. You do not expect bicycles to be made with a single gear or cars to get the same mileage in the city as on the highway. <br /><br />As a person a) warms up, b) becomes more skillful, and c) improves physical conditioning, the heart rate gets lower. This improvement in performance, signifying better efficiency, is routinely proven by marathoners and heart patients alike on treadmill tests.<br /><br />Functional efficiencies permit you to complete a given distance on fewer calories. This advantage allows you to arrive at a destination with greater energy in reserve, or to go farther on one meal.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-34712695885756232682005-01-01T02:00:00.002-05:002008-08-22T10:47:44.791-04:00Continual Effort<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2005/01/functional-efficiency.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Easy walking provides aerobic exercise, which means the whole body becomes oxygenated. Aerobic exercise counters diseases that thrive in the absence of oxygen, and it promotes the body’s fat-burning metabolism. Soft aerobic exercise can be continued almost perpetually.<br /><br />On the flip side, strenuous activity calls for frequent rest breaks. Fast uphill climbing, with bursts of effort and heavy breathing, represents anaerobic exercise. Lacking oxygen, the body triggers its sugar-burning metabolism. Too much anaerobic training wears you down.<br /><br />While the body burns both fat and sugar all the time, you can train in the aerobic state, getting both stronger and healthier in the process. Thus, advanced training coordinates bursts of effort with continual effort. <br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-53777524200752307062005-01-01T01:00:00.003-05:002008-08-22T10:47:04.914-04:006. Reflections on the Circle<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2005/01/continual-effort.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Everyone travels a unique path. My four distance hikes over five years took 180 days in total, the last day ending with a 50-mile walk. Although these figures were not planned, they coincide with the midpoint of my life and evoke the experience of coming full circle. Their synchronicity seems fitting to me.<br /><br />The idea of circularity must be native to the mind, if not the pulse of life itself. Whether the cave dweller views the passage of the seasons as one thing, or the scientist views the earth spinning around the sun as another, the basic concept of a cycle remains the same. A single line returns to its starting point at a later time. If you graph the cycle in time, it becomes a wave, just like the ripples of a pond, elevations of a trail, or rays of light.<br /><br />In reaching back to the origins of my hike in family life, I see childhood influences persisting today. Our dog Stella, who introduces and closes the journal, must be one of the happiest examples. Her coaching drove much of my accomplishment in hiking. Tricia hardly expected Stella’s training to propel me the length of the east coast!<br /><br />Maintaining continuity in “real life” challenges me. How do you attain success in business, remain happily married, and retain the respect of your children? How do you attain the health to accomplish lifetime goals? <br /><br />Maybe the “idea” is to develop soft power, the basic energy found in a daily walk.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-13111465819021930312004-02-09T17:41:00.001-05:002008-08-22T10:46:14.578-04:00South - Day 34<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2005/01/6-reflections-on-circle.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />With the Seven Mile Bridge coming up immediately, I awoke early and departed at 3:15 a.m. Back on dry land at 8:45 a.m., the day was turning into a scorcher. US-1 took me over many bridges, through remote areas, and past trailer campgrounds. Brutally hot by 9:40 a.m., I doused my head and clothing at every opportunity, occasionally drawing stares. The cooling effect lasted for about 45 minutes. Passing the last available campground at 2 p.m. with 20 miles to go, I went for broke. The landscape and life around me streamed by in slow motion at 3 miles per hour. By 4 p.m. I was taking US-1 around the US Navy base on the nasty outskirts of Key West and at 5:50 p.m. I was still negotiating fast thruway traffic. Reaching the island proper, I improvised a southern route through residential districts along Flagler Avenue. A woman tourist agreed to take my victory photo. At 8:10 p.m. I posed at the Southernmost Point, then scrambled over the rocks to touch the water.<br /><br /><i>At day’s end, my t-shirt and socks stiffened like waxy cardboard from dried sweat. My thighs developed a rash from friction with my shorts. Minutes before finishing I chanced upon a youth hostel and signed up for the night. Against all odds, I had found a place. Maybe the angels were looking after me...</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-46560320433455017442004-02-07T23:26:00.002-05:002008-08-22T10:45:30.948-04:00Celebrity<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2004/02/south-day-34.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Towards the end of my road walk in Florida, a resort on Long Key in the town of Layton offered the only convenient option for lodging. Having already stayed in places with broken bathrooms, unwashed sheets, and dirty walls, I simply wanted a secure landing place from which I could depart before dawn. Okay, this time I would pay double the cost of a trucker’s motel.<br /><br />Across the bridge to Long Key, the vegetation in remote, outlying areas blocked the wind. The heat verged on oppressive. My path carried me over the disturbing charred spot of a recent car wreck. Roadside scenes such as this were difficult to ignore when traveling at 3 miles per hour on foot.<br /><br />Eventually I arrived in Layton, consisting mainly of a fire and police station, where a town dinner was being planned. I reported to the cooks that I had placed a lost license plate beside a police cruiser. The cooks told me to keep my trophy and come back for dinner, too.<br /><br />So I checked in at the resort and headed for the hot tub. Then I resupplied at the convenience store, socialized at the town party, and broke away to turn in early. Despite feeling groggy, I decided to relax in the hot tub one more time. Gale force winds blew off the water, but the hot tub made any discomfort vanish. <br /><br />The young man sharing the tub had just driven with his wife and another couple from Michigan, chased by a big snowstorm. Incredulous about my walk, he began praising me enthusiastically. Somehow in his mind, his adventure had been rewarded by meeting me. <br /><br />Thinking out loud, as if he were planning to tell friends about this chance event, he recited the outline of my story. “I know I talk a lot,” he said. Then he recounted the whole story all over again, adding how impressed he was. After my fifteen minutes of fame concluded, I excused myself and retired to bed.<br /><br />Shortly afterward, there was a knock at the door. I put my clothes on and answered the door. Evidently the young man had observed which room I retired to, because he brought his wife to meet me. They made a very attractive couple. <br /><br />“Honey,” he said, “This man walked ALL the WAY to FLORIDA!” As we shook hands, his wife said, “I know he talks a lot. It’s very nice to meet you.” Somehow, she seemed genuinely glad to meet me. As I closed the door, I too felt his sense of elation, for just a moment. <br /><br />Later, when a noisy car passed me on the road, with arms waving out the windows, I figured it was them. After being mistaken for a criminal, I didn’t much mind their celebration.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-78902293929092350932004-02-03T17:38:00.002-05:002008-08-22T10:44:35.597-04:00South - Day 28<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2007/12/celebrity.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Limping past docks with boats alongside bobbing quietly in the darkness, I approached Pompano Beach at dawn and walked on the sand. Along Fort Lauderdale Beach, the teeming public numbered over a thousand. The road then veered inland, crossing an enormous drawbridge. US-1 became an 8-lane divided highway out in the open by the airport. After cooling off under a bridge abutment, I circled an accident scene, where a friendly policeman recommended the shore route around Miami. A mile later I turned left in Dania on his advice and returned to Route A1A. The Hollywood resort area had a kaleidescope of beach umbrellas and thousands of bathers. The road narrowed dangerously in Hallandale Beach where I scooted underneath bushes and between driveways. Then city streets and beaches for a few more miles.<br /><br /><i>My injured ankle might not take me far, but after several miles of shuffling I could walk almost normally.<br />In Fort Lauderdale Beach, a dalmation dog wore a red bandana around the neck and sunglasses rakishly perched on the nose. Shortly afterwards, a flock of multi-colored parrots flew into the tree above me. <br />Joel the Concierge in Sunny Isles got me a room farther ahead. At Days Inn, the lady at the desk told me to take the elevator to my room. That round-trip ride was my only mechanical transportation for 34 days.</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-85678239865009023422004-01-30T11:18:00.002-05:002008-08-22T10:43:58.300-04:00Armed with Sunscreen<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2004/02/south-day-28.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />It had been a rough few days of hiking in steady traffic. This morning, the stretch along Route 1 into Vero Beach was a freeway. A lot of hard effort in close proximity to the 18-wheelers.<br /><br />In downtown Vero Beach a shopping plaza appeared on the left of the four-lane main drag. A highway sign announced the good news: 11 miles to Fort Pierce. Feeling exultant over my progress, I sat down in an empty lot in the shadow of a phone pole to prepare for a hot day. I systematically put sunscreen on head, arms, and legs, along with antiseptic on my feet. At 9:50 a.m., with 69-degree temperatures, and sun shining through hazy skies, the weather had already begun to cook. Apparently the rest stop of exactly twenty minutes lasted too long, because a door slammed in the adjacent flower shop across a driveway, and a pair of young men jeered at me from a car pulling away.<br /><br />Ten minutes later, about a half-mile further up the street, a police cruiser driven by a woman officer pulled in front of me at a gas station. She jumped out of the cruiser and screamed, “Freeze!” In shock, I stood motionless like a scarecrow, with arms held out from my sides in plain sight, as she patted me down. She asked if I had a knife, so I told her where to find my tiny Swiss Army knife, buried in the pack. As another cruiser drove up, she glanced over the contents of my pack and said that I matched the description of “a bearded man in a baseball cap flashing a knife.” Trying to be helpful, I said the only things I could have been flashing were tubes of ointment.<br /><br />The tension decreased as she learned more about me. “So you said you’re staying in motels?” she asked, probably thinking ahead to filing a report. I showed the newspaper article about me to the other officer, who relaxed and suppressed a smirk. For an awkward moment, the woman officer appeared uncomfortable. With business concluded, they both left. People at the gas station ignored my pleasantries.<br /><br />I meandered out of town in a bewildered frame of mind, having lost the advantage of my early progress. As the days passed, I gradually connected the dots. The flower shop had used the police to roust the riff-raff. <br /><br />The incident taught me to move briskly in future situations where my presence could be considered provocative. Cutting back on rest stops inevitably compounded my foot problems. So when four hurricanes hit the area later that year, I imagined that nature fully repaid the kindness of my benefactors.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-4665945911644568142004-01-22T17:28:00.001-05:002008-08-22T10:43:20.925-04:00South - Day 16<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2007/12/armed-with-sunscreen.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />At 4:15 a.m. I departed for the Florida border. Safety grooves all the way, and no breakdown lanes afterwards. Second breakfast in the pleasant urban town of Hilliard. Further on, US-1 took a long, wide arc to the right through vast, open, flat farmland, where I had a close call involving a tire blow-out (see page 6w25). After an early lunch in Callahan, I went through a long, hot, tedious stretch into the outlying districts of Jacksonville. The backfire of a passing wrecker truck, making me jump in the air, renewed the warning to be careful. An hour later, a car with boat trailer in tow barreled down the highway at me, overlapping the breakdown lane. The volume of traffic forced me to adopt the policy of walking facing the traffic unless there was a curbed sidewalk. The landscape reflected changing commercial patterns. Old 1950s motels had disintegrated, leaving only their signs. New motels had been built on nearby highways. Fortunately the Shakir Motel, inside the 295 beltway, had a super-clean room for me.<br /><br /><i>With itchy, sweaty, hot feet, a tightening right calf, and sunburned face, I gratefully showered. <br />Hammock Hanger (AT day 33) visited me with chicken and pizza. Departing, she said, "Oh, I brought a quart of ice cream, but it's probably too soupy now." I decided to have a taste. Twenty minutes later, it was all gone. Welcome to Florida!</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-35222629844902061312004-01-10T17:28:00.001-05:002008-08-22T10:42:32.973-04:00South - Day 4<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2004/01/south-day-16.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br /><i>At 10:25 a.m. I finally got out the door and immediately saw a restaurant around the corner. A message painted on the windows read, “We support our troops.” The decor had dimly-lit dark colors, clean tables, and a buffet of various freshly cooked foods laid out next to the kitchen. A short black man wearing a knit scull cap welcomed me as a tall, young black woman walked into the kitchen. Then an older black woman, who evidently just finished preparing the lunch buffet, put on her coat and exited the front door with purse in hand. “Could I just buy a piece of chicken?” I asked, thinking of the miles ahead. “Sure,” the man said, “That’ll be $1.50. Make sure to take some bread.” Pleasantly surprised, I helped myself to some freshly baked cornbread. “Do you have some water? There’s some spring water over there,” the man said. I gratefully filled my water bottle, thanked him, and made my way to the door. The young lady called out from the kitchen, “Have a good trip!” or words to that effect. Chicken never tasted better. What a blessing to stop at the House of the Lord!</i><br /><br />Waking without a headache for the first time in ten days, but still coughing, I studied maps and got a late morning start. Amazing hospitality at a local cafeteria. Picking up food along the classic Athens center, I negotiated Route 78 southeast up a big long hill with strip malls. The urban sprawl led to massive supermarkets and parking lots on the left. A brand new retro car-hop on the right. The road abruptly condensed into two country lanes. I sent gifts home from a country store at the next junction. At darkness, I inquired at a video store in the small town of Crawford and eventually found a bed a couple miles away.<br /><br /><i>The owners of the local B&B had gone out of town, so Melanie at the video rental store was calling laundromats and such places to find me a place to stay. Her little son played hide-and-seek with a dachsund while another lady cross-examined me about my wedding band. Unaware of television reports about fugitives, I joked, "My wife said to come home soon, but not too soon!" Then they sent me across the street to eat, where I had salmon and met 70-year-old Rose, who had seen "everything but Mount Rushmore." Sure enough, she described my little New England town to me. Back at the video store, Shirley came in during a shift change, and offered to put me up. No, I didn’t need a ride. When I arrived in the dark, her daughter Kim let me in. While I lay on the cozy shag carpet watching the New England Patriots qualify for the Super Bowl on TV, Shirley's pregnant grand-daughter and her husband visited with Kim. A clean stars-and-stripes flag, neatly folded in a triangle, resided in a corner display case of my bedroom.</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-43234441921779456532004-01-07T01:00:00.003-05:002008-08-22T10:41:34.697-04:005. The Long Way Home<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2004/01/south-day-4.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Any sane person knew it was “over.” The logistics of a self-supported hike demand a lot of time and money. Three years of going away supplanted the duties of keeping house and home together. On balance, there was no way to consider another foray.<br /><br />When external events pointed to my setting out “one more time,” the process of breaking away from home became far more difficult than words can describe. However, once the southern road walk began, all kinds of unexpected encouragement appeared. Perhaps the upstroke of the cycle had begun.<br /><br />New kinds of challenges occurred while traversing the urban landscape, yet in some way the drama involved the same characters wearing different costumes. The stimulation of the great outdoors invigorated me, but I thought more about home.<br /><br />Walking the Appalachian Trail had been like going away. The extra legs in the North and South during the next two years became the return trip. The “idea” of heading out one last time came from outside, just as the original inspiration had. I now began to face the challenge of applying my lessons to daily life at home.<br /><br />Everything has a starting point. How can you return, if you don’t know where you began?<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-77421945061228108542002-10-08T17:13:00.001-04:002008-08-22T10:40:31.399-04:00North - Day 28<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2004/01/5-long-way-home.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />During breakfast a wave broke against the rocks, sending a huge white plume fifty feet in the air. At first, massive hills on my right kept me in shadow for distant stretches while bright light shone on the water. The whitecaps of large rolling waves blew streams of mist for 20 or 30 yards, forming rainbows. 55 mph winds challenged my balance and foot placement like the most difficult trail. The road passed several interesting village inlets that offered some shelter and sunlight. Anse Pleureuse provided a big morning meal. In Manche-d’Épée the road finally turned inland, where a daredevil driver nearly clipped me from behind. At Madaleine a grocery manager forwarded me to Paradis de Jude et Diane in Rivière-la-Madaleine. The elements had drained the force from my legs and mind. I slept for an hour, feasted for dinner, and then slept another ten hours.<br /><br /><i>A lady in a convenience store mentioned the winds. Then she wrote “90 km” on a piece of paper for clarity, because in French you say “60-30” to mean “90.” People paid me compliments, “You must be in good shape.” I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders, thinking that chest congestion could still stop me. Only two months earlier I had been sick and overweight, so I hoped they were right.</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-68236575949258363992002-10-04T17:13:00.002-04:002008-08-22T10:37:49.008-04:00North - Day 24<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/10/north-day-28.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />After a gentle downhill grade for a couple kilometers, the trail arrived at magnificent waterfalls feeding Rivière Duvivier. Then began an arduous 3-hour climb up Mont de l’Ouest, part of the same ridge I had been running the prior day. The trail afforded magnificent views of valleys back to the northwest before passing by a side trail leading to the peak. After cresting other satellite peaks, the trail followed a ridge along Lake Matane before descending steeply to the shore. I was too “beat” from recent exertions to be grateful for this cool, cloudless day. Stumbling out of the woods at 3:30 p.m., I found hospitality with the hunters at Chalet Matane #1.<br /><br /><i>At dawn I awoke to a glorious light raking across the treetops from the right. Nature paused in a delicate balance of breezeless, cool conditions with ice forming on the water. Already I contemplated getting another layer of fleece for warmth at night. Departing quickly to generate heat, I heard a crashing sound on the opposite shore. Emerging from the woods came a huge bull moose — the counterpart of my nocturnal wildlife encounters. On more than one occasion during the day, I heard moose scatter from the trail ahead before I arrived.</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-83322386989917863832002-09-26T10:30:00.002-04:002008-08-22T10:36:41.946-04:00North - Day 16<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/10/north-day-24.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />It took an hour of walking to shake the chill of a heavy fog. Turning right from Ch. Robbinsville Rd., I strode up the steep incline of Route 17, and stopped for a snack at Art & Pat’s convenience store, remade from a filling station. Good-natured customers bantered. I departed as a full-fledged member of the “Liar’s Club.” The mist began to burn off around 10 a.m. Changing my clothes out of sight in a ditch, I stepped into a pointed branch and narrowly avoided an eye injury. Was a guardian angel named Pamola actually watching over me? Turning left near Dawsonville, I enjoyed views of waterfowl, beaver dams, a beautiful lone horse, and a bald eagle casting its shadow across me. The road walk along the Restigouche River featured brightly painted houses. Reaching Matapédia meant walking away from it along the river in order to reach a great highway bridge and return on the other side.<br /><br /><i>On this short hiking day I collected my maildrop at the post office, shopped for food and bought my passport to the Québec trail system from David Leblanc. In the Motel Restigouche restaurant Pete Dube indicated that hikers usually complete the Québec IAT in 25-27 days. After dinner I washed clothes in the sink.</i> <br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-23554179227964676572002-09-24T23:00:00.003-04:002008-08-22T10:32:38.295-04:00Emma Jean<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/09/north-day-16.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />...Canoe builder Bill Miller had recommended I contact the trail angel Emma Jean in Kedgwick. When I reached her by phone, she agreed to pick me up that evening after I hiked further ahead on the rail trail. When Emma Jean drove me back to Kedgwick, the wide open views from the road astonished me. The landscape had been obscured by trees all afternoon.<br /><br />Gratefully, I treated Emma Jean to a fish dinner at a local restaurant. We had a pleasant conversation, part mundane and part philosophical. What a nice lady! <br /><br />When we finished eating, she announced in a matter-of-fact way, “There are a lot of unemployed guardian angels waiting for jobs. I’m going to assign one of them to you. Tell me the first name that comes into your head.”<br /><br />Her announcement took me completely by surprise. I blurted out the word, “Pamola,” if only because I would prefer to have that demon on my side, rather than against me.<br /><br />After I had described the terrain of Mount Katahdin, my experiences at the Chimney, and the Indian legend about the fierce spirit of Pamola Peak, Emma Jean again spoke matter-of-factly. “Pamola is your friend.” Emma Jean stated, “She saved your life.”<br /><br />In truth, I was more preoccupied with my sore toe and knee than with angels. This talk of spirits and angels perplexed me. I had thought the “demons” I faced on that foggy passage of the Knife Edge were my own, and that such words represented convenient simplifications.<br /><br />In my mind, the mountain had spared me, not saved me. And why was this spirit a “she” instead of a “he?” How happy would Pamola be to take this assignment? Not very happy at all, I thought...<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-54518985767340467312002-09-17T17:13:00.001-04:002008-08-22T10:31:20.961-04:00North - Day 7<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/09/emma-jean.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />Chores and errands took me until 10:30 a.m. After glimpsing ducks in a dammed pond upon leaving town, I climbed the ski trail at Mars Hill. The route took an undulating, puddle-filled dirt road to an isolated communications tower on the northern summit. A new trail descended the hill to Knoxford Road. Next, the barricade at the New Brunswick border. A rough 4-wheel-drive route went along the border strip. Emerging from the woods, the strip had views of patchwork-quilt fields on the U.S. side. After about 7 miles, it became unmaintained and descended into swampy areas filled with water run-off. I tied my shoes around my neck and waded through hip-deep water where wooden ramps floated randomly. At other points I followed meandering bypass roads or soft-shoed through marshes.<br /><br /><i>Returning to higher elevations as darkness fell, I watched a boy ride an ATV out onto a field on the Canada side to dig up some potatoes for dinner. After passing an abandoned border checkpoint, I bedded down on the edge of a Christmas tree farm, falling uncertainly asleep to the barks of a dog in the valley who simply KNEW I was there.</i><br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-14680282498029424702002-07-18T08:55:00.002-04:002008-08-22T10:30:22.872-04:00North - Day 0<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/09/north-day-7.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />On the Helon Taylor trail at 6:10 a.m., I carried 35 pounds excess weight on my body and in my pack. Reaching Pamola Peak in 4 hours, and falling behind schedule, I experienced shortness of breath. Sore legs and a body tired to the bone. Dizziness. I conceded defeat at 10:30 a.m., a mile short of my intended starting point on Mount Katahdin. A young Polish couple would have helped get my pack up the technical climbing section on the Chimney, just a stone’s throw away, but I wasn’t feeling well enough to cross the Knife Edge. “Go home,” the trail told me. I stumbled 3½ hours back down the mountain, and started walking on the sandy access road. The same luck, which frustrated my climb earlier in the day, now propelled me home to Massachusetts. To Tricia’s astonishment, I walked in the door at 10:00 o’clock that night. <br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3966388086238261512.post-41900091783816829342002-07-01T01:00:00.002-04:002008-08-22T10:28:30.496-04:004. Racing for Life<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://cduane.net/book/2002/07/north-day-0.html">>>> next</a>   </div><br />The loss of my health, the loss of Tricia’s mother, the bad planning, the bad diet, the failed first day of hiking, the two weeks of illness, and logistical frustrations on the trail, all contribute to sadness about this leg of the journey. <br /><br />Perhaps the mistakes could have been prevented, but nothing could change the downstroke of the cycle. Adversities had to run their course, forcing new adaptations and different ways of thinking upon me.<br /><br />Stubbornly refusing to quit, I returned to the trail, encountering remarkable people, animals, and a mountain spirit along the way. Yet the experience felt like a losing effort. Upon completing my northern journey, I felt relief, not joy. <br /><br />The flame of the “idea” had gone out. My enthusiasm was spent. The costs and time committed to distance hiking mounted too high. Passion burned no more. <br /><br />On the plus side, the experience planted seeds of renewal, for a life plan to live a healthy, productive 100 years. Surely, the time had come to get on with real life, at home and at work.<br /><br />Charlienoreply@blogger.com