5/22/17 -- Mile 1023 -- Harper's Ferry, WV Dear Andrew, I have walked over a thousand miles and I think I have learned one, two, or perhaps even three things from the surprisingly glorious state of Virginia. 541 miles and one month of walking later, I have a new appreciation for the state that I used to just think of as Maryland's less sophisticated cousin. Here's what Virginia taught me, and it's best if you read this while listening to that one song about West Virginia that I've heard three different hikers singing since we crossed the state border. 1. Beggars cannot be choosers when hitchhiking in the rain. I hitched into the town of Buena Vista to get groceries (at a gas station) with a truck driver who had removed his passenger seat. I crouched on the floor dripping wet while he mumbled in a nearly unintelligible southern accent about how crazy I was for walking so much. I told him he was the crazy one for driving so much. Buena Vista did not have any good views but they did have a Hardee's, which is the same thing to me. 2. It is surprisingly easy to have the stomach flu in the woods. You can throw up most places, no problem! Say goodbye to the pesky problem of staying in close proximity to a bathroom and just continue to hike all day while floating in a hazy fever dream. Sure, the "smart thing" is probably to go into town to get medicine and become a person again, but the cool stubborn thing is to KEEP HIKING. 3. Virginia is not flat, whoever tells you that is a dirty liar. I guess people probably aren't telling you that very often, but if anyone ever does, you can tell them that your sister would like to have a few stern words with them. 4. Shenandoah is a magical idyllic wonderland filled with trailside restaurants and the well-maintained beauty of national park land. Just about every day of the 100 miles I was able to hike a short distance off the trail to go to a "Wayside" -- overpriced little diners and camp stores serving real human food to real human people. The food was mediocre grill food by any real culinary standard, which of course meant that it was five-star dining after hiking 20-plus mile days. 5. Eating a 24-ounce can of beans in one sitting earns you a surprising amount of respect from your fellow hikers. Sure, there were a lot of juvenile farting jokes thrown around. But as I slowly consumed every last brown-sugar soaked bean in that absurdly oversized can, the congratulations began to roll in. What did everyone eat at the next camp store? Beans Lobo Style (straight out of the can while crouched on the ground in the corner near the trash). 6. Old retired men love to do section-hikes in Virginia and ask you about your boyfriend and your father. The conversations might be stilted with painfully outdated gendered assumptions that they'll never understand, but the good part is that I hike fast enough to never see most of them again. 7. Hiking an Ultra Marathon makes you feel like an Ultra Human (until the pain). I learned about Ultra marathons from my friend Ultra, a soon-to-be grandfather who has the body of a minor Greek God and the beer drinking habits of a college freshman. He runs ultra marathons, which are events like 100 mile races (his record is 19 hours) or six marathons in six consecutive days in six different states, which he will be doing a few weeks after he finishes the trail. Technically, anything over 26.2 miles is a marathon, which he told us at the end of a 28.5 mile day through Shenandoah. I had never felt more alive, until the next morning of delightfully excruciating foot pain. 8. My feet are now so swollen that there are no women's sizes that fit me. But luckily men's shoes have tough masculine colors like red and black and the sales people treat you like a scientific anomaly for having this height-to-foot-size ratio. Look at that, I learned an entire eight things, way above my earlier estimate! I'm now past the 1000 mile mark and can't quite believe it. I am thrilled to be moving into the northern states, including the 42 miles of our beloved homeland. Pretty messed up to think about how I flew to Georgia over two months ago and have now WALKED back. I can't imagine a future in which I won't be walking all day, every day. Maybe there isn't one, who knows?! All I can say with any confidence is that for now I'll keep on walking. Love, Laura
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5/6/17--Mile 728--A Cracker Barrel in Daleville, Virginia Dear Andrew, I must admit that my biscuit rampage has only continued in your absence. Your visit last week made my spirits soar to unparalleled highs, and it wasn't just because Harry Potter was on TV in the motel room. It made me realize what the hardest part of this has really been--being so far from everyone I love, and everyone who loves me. This week I've been thinking about all the love I've taken for granted, and how rich life can be when shared with others--almost as rich as the eight biscuits you saw me consume over the course of 12 hours. But here's a recap of every biscuit I've eaten since we parted: The Pearisburg Hardee's Egg and cheese biscuit: greasy and gooey and wonderful after a rainy night. Good for: giving me enough energy to hike over 20 miles to tent at The Captain's. He's a bearded old southern man (so many of them are) who invites hikers to camp on his yard across a creek from the trail. To get there you clip your backpack to a zipline and pull yourself across on a swing. I slipped off the swing and several hikers had to haul me in; I survived with only minimal physical injuries and severe damage to my pride. The Homeplace Restaurant Never ending baskets of fresh-baked biscuits Good for: eating so many you lose track of who and what and why and where you are. I visited this glorious family style all you can eat restaurant from a "hostel" off the trail. Perhaps flophouse is a more accurate term for this three-bay garage filled with smelly old couches, lawn chairs, yowling cats, and grungy hikers relieved to be sitting down on something a human made. You throw down your sleeping bag and claim a spot and hope that the old man next to you who isn't moving is sleeping and not deceased. Last, but not least: the illustrious Cracker Barrel Free biscuits brought to you even when you order an alarming amount of food for one person Good for: reminiscing about that other Cracker Barrel we went to a week ago because all of them look exactly the same. Was it worth it to dart across interstate highways and trudge through construction zones to get here after emerging haggard and confused from the woods? Almost certainly. All biscuits aside, southern Virginia has been stunningly gorgeous, included are a few pictures to prove it. Hoping you have a wonderful birthday next week! I'll be meandering on as always, until the next biscuit. Love, Laura 4/27-Mile 568.1-Chestnut Knob Shelter Dear Andrew, This is a frigid and tragic tale in which our beloved heroine survives four days of end-of-the-world rain, near-freezing temperatures, washed out bridges, and the loss of childhood innocence that can only come from not even seeing a single pony. But let me switch to first person and explain from the beginning. After Damascus comes Grayson Highlands, a famed stretch of State Park in which wild ponies run free. Imagine sloping green pastures speckled with budding flowers, fluttering butterflies, and majestic ponies doing what ponies do best: being goddamn beautiful. I never knew how much I wanted, needed to see the ponies until I walked 500 miles, and then it became my singular desire. Would they eat instant oatmeal out of my palm? Would their manes be flowing in the breeze? Would they look into my eyes and understand me in a way that no human ever had, or ever would? I was all ponies, all the time, and I couldn’t wait to find out. And then the rain struck. Sideways, pelting rain bullets with 40 mph winds that chilled you to your very bones. There was no seeing, or thinking, or feeling- there was just walking, only walking, always walking. Twelve blurry miles later I made it to a shelter shivering, drenched, and ravenous. It was only noon but I knew I had to stop hiking or risk hypothermia at that elevation, and so I peeled off my layers, pulled on mercifully dry clothes with feeble fingers, and crawled into my sleeping bag to take what I can only describe as an “emergency nap” Are you picturing me doing all this alone? Because I wasn’t, in fact, I survived the storm with three older men who I would now take a (rain) bullet for. There’s Scout, the reluctant civil engineer from Michigan who has spent a life alone traveling the world; Hodge Podge, a 47 year old charmingly witty goofball; and Trainwreck, a retired railroad mechanic from Alabama with a wry sense of humor. These men and your dear sister became a rag tag group as we huddled together in an attic perched on the top of Mount McKinley, Virginia’s highest peak. We passed the storm the only way we knew how: eating, then talking, and then sleeping. When the next day dawned the storm appeared to have no intention of leaving. The magical land of ponies and open pastures was shrouded in a thick, chilly fog; the trail was less of a trail and more of a creek; and I would hike the next 30 miles with drenched socks and shoes. As the Smokies taught us all, this is a recipe for blister disaster. And, well-you know the ending. I did not see a single pony, but I did see a hell of a lot of pony poop. I hiked out of the storm and into the next town with my fellow crisis survivors, where we split motel rooms, did our laundry, and ate even more Subway. We found out that just about every other hiker behind us had gotten off the trail during the storm, except those too foolish and/or stubborn, like yours truly. But as I plodded with squeaking socks across the fogged-out terrain softly singing Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road” to myself, I came to terms with the fact that sometimes when you want to see ponies, you only get pony poop. But then you can turn that soggy animal waste into real human friends who keep you warmer than your $12 Walmart rain jacket ever could. And thus our heroine has learned an invaluable lesson, and takes comfort in the knowledge that somewhere out there those ponies are gleefully trotting across sun-kissed mountain tops while the voice of 90s radio pop tells us that every day “you get a little bit closer to feeling fine” Love, Laura P.S. I saw my first bear with her cub! Have not yet been eaten. |
LettersThese are the letters that Laura has sent her brother over the course of her hike. They are faithfully and painstakingly transcribed in their entirety. They are meant to keep people updated on how many facts she has learned about trees. Archives
July 2017
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