Hikers were washing their dishes at an outdoor trough while their washboarded laundry dried on clotheslines. A flashback to a memory of watching my very first Appalachian Trail documentary from my loveseat on Gross Street in 2019. This morning, as I washed my camp dishes in the communal steel sink that calls the center of the living area home, I had a vivid flashback. There are only 114.5 more miles that lay before me. Salivated over a handful of mail dropped quart-sized Ziplock baggies. Bumped elbows over an electrical outlet for the last time. Picked out my last set of ridiculously mismatched loaner clothes while my laundry spun in the foyer of a bunkhouse. Yesterday, as I descended from Buck Hill and onto ME Route 15, I hiked into “town” for the last time. My strength, crippled by my worn body, is nourished by my resolute mind. My giddiness interrupted by pensive pause. Tuning in from the infamous Shaw’s Hiker Hostel, in Monson, Maine, you’re finding me full of whimsy.
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