Hostels are weird. Even the nicest ones becoming a bit jarring when thirty hikers suddenly appear under one roof.
“Thank you for not murdering me in my sleep last night.” -A weekender from the second full shelter I hiked into Saturday evening. He told me this over breakfast the next morning…. Awkward.
Apparently my “underbreath” comments at 9pm were louder than I thought. I didn’t threaten anyone actually. I did use the F-word a lot, and I may or may not have asked the Universe a few times if it intended for me to hike until the (fucking) morning.
So I went back to the shelter spur trail, sat on a rock and made cous cous by headlamp. I felt grateful for a long enough break in the rain to jam hot food down my throat. I threw four ounces of Cabot cheddar in there for good measure too.
I was dizzy and lightheaded from lack of calories, and navigating by headlamp over the rocks didn’t help the vertigo. Pasta will do wonders to cure (what some perceive as) a murderous rage. Thankfully, I managed to find a tarp spot shortly afterwards. All the little weekenders stayed warm and snug in their bags —safe from the bearded night monster.
Really though, the idea of going to town to somehow sleep better than I can in the woods, is pretty absurd. Moreso in the presence of strangers, all sharing a crampt bunk space together.
I’m 247 miles from Katahdin, which is roughly two weeks. Barring a flooded bag, or some other life-threatening catastrophe, I’m going roof-free till the summit. If it works out, the Southern leg will be that much cheaper. Getting 6000 calories in today was pretty sweet though. I’m going to devastate some pancakes in the morning.