Damnation. Too much weight no matter how I cut it. Started to think the solution was heading out the door in shoes, socks, smile and a bag of Snickers. Bare my soul and body to the world. Then I considered that picture from the world's point of view. Guess I needed clothes. Head to foot. Maybe even a mask. And a pack to carry them in. And coffee. Dear Lord I needed coffee. What point in doing anything without a cup of joe? So I 'spose I needed matches and if it rained, a stove. And fuel. And pots and pans. And toilet paper. Had to have butt wipe or my backside would chafe something awful. And a trowel to bury my leavings. Food, rain gear, book. And so on. What to leave and what to carry? Figured I didn't have to decide 'til I set off. Last minute is always best. No need to waste any hours frettin' over every little detail.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
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