After another quarter mile, I too find that it's real windy up there. But really really windy. It grabs your attention and makes you feel vulnerable and small. The summit of mt. marcy is blowing hard. Wind is the only true magic I've known in this life. Invisible, powerful. Coming down the south face of Mt. Marcy the wind was moving me any which way it liked. The view from the summit is grand but the ever present 40 mph wind insists that I get down from there.

Turning a corner, I become that man with his hood drawn over his eyes, greeting ascenders and saying "boy, it's real windy up there." They are wary of my wild eyes, but soon they'll see. It's good to be out of the wind. I catch my breath and a sense of relief takes over. I made it to my arbitrary spot on the map. Here is an accomplishment I can text my parents and post on an instagram story. But I feel like I forgot something on top of the summit. I was meant to acquire something up there in order to make all this trouble worthwhile. I pause to consider going back up. I take a few more steps forward and my boot explodes.

Most hiking trails don't require true "hiking boots." The ever-present mud of the Adirondacks absolutely demands them. Frequently the "trail" is a stream bed. Boots need to be waterproof and sturdy or you risk getting stuck in the backcountry. The sole of my boot just came off, and I find what I've been looking for. I didn't come 300 miles from home to "summit" mount marcy. I was looking for some difficulty, a challenge, a story. The arbitrary destination merely gets you to the place where "moments" are happening.

I'm still 7 hard miles from camp and the rubber of my boot is dangling. I hike for a half mile using an intricate movement to flop the sole underfoot each step. The sole is nearly off. What was at first funny, suddenly seems like an urgent matter. I take a seat on a rock and attempt to field repair the blown out boot. Using the boot's laces I manage to tie the sole back together and I'm gingerly stepping forward again.

An hour of hiking with this strange gait has my joints aching. The trail takes me down a valley formed by a small brook. The steep gradient creates a series of small waterfalls and perfect swimming holes. Although it's not hot, I disrobe and give my old bones a soak. It's like an ice bath and it numbs me good. I get my clothes back on just as a young couple approaches, the boy asking, "do you know if you can swim here?" I expertly grin and answer, "Yes, I know you can swim here."

I'm a mile down the trail still giggling to myself about the exchange when I realize my knife fell out of my pocket when I removed my pants. Damn. It was a Benchmade. An object I loved, but to return for it would mean hobbling into camp in the dark like some kind of zombie. Hopefully someone found it and appreciated their luck and the quality of that blade.

In any decent hike, there comes a moment when the body is no longer having fun. The bottom of your feet hurt. The front of your toes are sore. The yoke of the backpack is starting to rub you raw around the hip bones. Luckily this misery is usually boiled away later as the trip is distilled into a sweet memory. At times like this, I like to stop and smoke some weed. It takes the edge off the discomfort and focus my mind on other things, like mushrooms. I've just taken my third mushroom picture, so I know I've overdone it.

The weather continues to mist on me. I reach Avalanche lake with it's intriquite system of ladders and wood walkways. The lakes of the adirondacks, are astoundingly beautiful. I start to recogize the trail. I'm close to camp. The boot is gonna hold up. I pull into camp as the sun is setting, make myself a drink, gather up my kitchen supplies and go to the clearing to make dinner. It has been awhile since I hiked a 15 mile day and my body is busted up. The surrounding area is crowded with campers. Every once in a while a couple will pop out of a nearby bush, only to be disappointed at the sight of a grumpy hiker, cooking, farting and hobbling around. After eating, I quickly fade away into my sleeping bag.

I wake up before the sunrise and start packing. Everything is still wet, so I'm super sloppy. Just gotta jam everything into the pack and start hiking. It can all be sorted out in a dry garage a month from now. After two lovely, relaxing days in the woods, I'm itching to get back on the loud chaotic bike. If I time things right, I can indulge in a piece of Vermont Rt. 7 on the ride home.

Besides, I have a good reason for the detour. Several years ago, while vacationing in Bennington, VT, my daughter left a "stuffie" on the floor of a diner. I thought she would get over it, but close to 3 years later, she still mourns the loss of "kitty-kitty." As a joke one day, I dialed up the diner and put her on the phone. Kathy picked up and patiently answered all of my daughter's questions. She still had the stuffed kitten and had been looking for the owner for years. What a sweetheart! Since I found myself this far north, I might as well swing by and pick up the cat. I could take funny photos of it attached to my handlebars then ride back home triumphantly, acting like my true purpose, all along, had been to rescue my poor daughter's stuffed animal.

But alas, people like Kathy, with kind hearts, don't care so much about money like the rest of us. It's a holiday weekend packed with tourism dollars, but Papa Pete's (best food in town) is closed. I give her a call, and leave a message. I wait a good 45 minutes and leave knowing full well, that she'll call me back as soon as I reach a distance at which I can't reasonably turn around.

And of course she calls when I'm 100 miles away, back in New York State. I will just have to bite the bullet and plan a return trip to Vermont for next spring. It will be an extreme sacrifice to ride my bike to vermont but It is the only thing a good father can do.

the end. go home. -jk