Today was a "Zero Day", hiker slang for putting in no miles on the trail. On the AT, while we were in the Smokies last month, hikers were constantly talking about their zeros -- frankly, at the time, they sounded like a bunch of whiners to me. I recall a particularly brilliant conversation by the campfire on our last night there: one guy, after a lengthy recollection of his two-day beer run into Gatlinburg, sighs plaintively, "Zeros are the best. Really, man, zero's my favorite number." I am just finishing up Saul Bellow's "Mr. Sammler's Planet", in which the brainy protagonist bemoans, disinterestedly, bewildered (though, not amused), the self-deprecated and devoted allegiance of today's American youth to obscurity, falsehood, nothingness. He was writing of the 60s actually, but much of what he says rings very true. Having this book, incidentally, has been a wonderful and complimentary addition to my trip so far. From what I've experienced on the PCT, the zero is enjoyed much more sparingly out here than back on the AT. There is also, among the sundry modes of finding time for R&R, the widely excercised "Near-O" day -- a day of just a few miles, on the way in or out of a town, back to the trailhead, etc. A couple of Near-Os, back to back, with a bunch of tiresome schlepping around on busy roads with no sidewalks back and forth from the grocery store to the PO to the pizza joint, this has been the typical town stop. Not all that relaxing, really. This week we had to wait for Monday to hit the PO, and since we had a place to stay here at the McKenzie's, the full day off was more than welcome.
Things aren't always as they seem. The zero turns out, quite often, to be a just a haze of a day. At first so full of infinite possibility, the horizon so wide and distant, the present so promising . . . and then before you know it, you're three beers into an early afternoon, sitting in some stranger's house watching "Elf," wondering if you ever even got out of bed this morning. Feet ache inordinately, a cup of coffee after a week of relative chemical purity sends the mind spinning, too much food still in the belly after last night's three hour gorge . . .
Today, we did our shopping, which shortly turned into a down and out junk food spree. Yes, we've officially slipped ourselves over to the dark side of the nutritional balance spectrum; our bags now brimming with Cheetos and Fritos and vanilla cream cookies . . .
We loafed around the tiny town of Wrightwood, a pleasant vacation location, retirement town, ski resort village. Apparently the Olympics were slated to be held here back in the winter of 1928. They built all the facilities, put up a new stadium and rink, even brought in a railroad line. Then, to the utter disappointment of all interested parties, no snow fell that winter. In Wrightwood, they pulled down the bleachers, tore up the railroad ties and rails and hung their heads right into the Depression. And the Olympics, they were moved to Lake Placid. This is the story I was told, at least.
In the evening we were treated, once again, to a second four-course feast. Marion, the lady of the house, prepared pork, chicken in a mushroom cream sauce, potatoes, stuffing, mixed vegetables, a huge salad. Bottles of wine were popped open, coffee and ice cream closed out the gut-tearing affair. The hosts went on and on about one of their Canadian excursions, from years gone by, as each and every one of us lurched in his seat, queasy, stuffed, filled to the brim.
The difficult thing here is that between the trail and the town there is no barrier of moderation. All week, we ration and skimp, licking the peanut butter jar clean with our finger tips, emptying the last morsels of dehydrated mashed potatoes into our mouths dry lest we waste even one of these precious, albeit empty, little calories. And then we charge into town, half starved, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to fill ourselves with as much food as humanly possible. I suppose the ability to moderate comes with times, and actually, from what I can tell, Eliza and I are a bit more adept at avoiding this comsumptive extremism than most.
Again, my belly is overfull, though. The McKenzies prepared and left us a big fritata before running out this morning to see the doctor and pick up their grandson. We are cleaning up and preparing to set out again soon.
Everyone has been debating about how to go about this next section of trail -- Mt. Baden-Powell. There is a great deal of snow, even on the alternate routes around the mountain itself. Even the scenic highway which circumvents conveniently the trickiest of the twelve-mile stretch has been washed out at points, and we've been informed that CalTrans highway workers will turn us back if they see us trying to use the road as a trail.
We've also started getting reports of bear activity in the area. I guess we'll have to learn how to hang our food from here on out.
No comments:
Post a Comment