All I wanted to do was go to the mailbox and send in my insurance payment. That's it. The task was simple enough, but I couldn't even make it out of the building before being introduced to a unique dilemma by what I found on the stairs. To be honest, I don't know that they were ladies' underwear. I assumed as much, because dude underduds tend to have less lace, and generally consist of more material and provide greater coverage. Even if we assume that the garment were intended for female use, it's still possible that it was owned by a guy in the building, for reasons I don't care to explore at this time.
What's protocol in this situation? Wander the building like Cinderella's prince, looking for the girl who fits the dainties? I don't see that going well. I felt like I shouldn't just ignore them, because they were in an ideal position to be trod upon. I finally just scooped them up with the envelope and let them slide off to hang on the post at the end of the banister and went about my day, satisfied that I had at least done something, and happier still that I avoided contact with a stranger's most intimate garment.
A couple hours later, I left the building on a new errand and saw that they had disappeared. Suddenly curious, I went to the laundry room, where the building has a sign-up sheet for laundry times. Nobody had been scheduled since 10 the previous evening. The stairs had been clear first thing in the morning, when I drove The Girl to the metro. Apparently, they fell out of someone's pocket.
I don't know what to think about this.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
in the dark
Camp was still almost three miles ahead of me, and the sun was already dipping below the treetops. That happens much sooner in the mountains, because the roots of the trees are sometimes well above your head. You lose daylight quicker when you're below the horizon. I've been out in the dark an awful lot on camping and hiking trips, and I take a certain pride in might night vision, so I wasn't worried. Besides, I felt like I could use the practice, in case my headlamp batteries died at some inopportune point next year. That was the point of all my training hikes: to help me prepare for whatever might happen during my thru hike, often by carrying more than I knew I needed for a short trip, or changing my menu plan. Walking in the dark was just another useful thing to practice.
While it was still dusky I startled two deer who were almost close enough for me to take a bite out of them. When they launched through the brush, I saw a third join them, further from the trail. I was a little startled, too, but I was more focused on closing the distance between me and a campsite before it got prohibitively dark. Most of the leaves were still on the trees, so I couldn't count on much light from stars or the moon to guide my way.
In daylight, the Appalachian Trail is generally very well marked. You'd have to try really hard to get genuinely lost. At night, you have to be more aware of context clues, because you can't always see the next blaze. If the trail is fairly straight, it's easy. It gets more difficult when you start switchbacking down a mountainside. A gap between trees straight ahead can distract you from the sharp dogleg to your right, and unless you realize the footing just changed from beaten path to sticks and leaves, you're in trouble. After a couple moments when I had to look around me, squinting in the darkness, to be sure which way I needed to go, I gave up and put on my headlamp. Maybe ten minutes later I gave up again, and switched it from red to white light. The brighter beam let me see much more, but it ruined any chance of retaining my natural night vision. However, it also let me move much more quickly.
I was clipping along pretty well, having had a calorie-packed snack I knew would replace my cooked meal in camp, when I heard a grunting noise ahead of me, slightly to the right.
I know the word "literally" gets thrown around an awful lot these days, often improperly used, and it makes me crazy, but I literally skidded to a stop. Whatever that noise was, it wasn't something my brain could immediately identify, like a treefrog, or an owl, or even the demented laughter of a pileated woodpecker, and that gave me pause. Immediate pause. A pause which locked my legs in position, leaving my feet no option other than dirt-skating until all momentum was lost. My headlamp caught eyeshine about fifteen feet ahead of me, and once the critter moved a little and I saw the second eye, I knew I was ok. They were far enough from the ground to make a large animal a possibility, but too close together to be anything that bore me a serious threat. When I got closer, I managed to surprise him with the light just long enough to tell it was a raccoon, as I suspected once I saw both eyes. I laughed at myself, and kept going. After the scare the raccoon gave me, I wasn't fazed at all by the skunk I saw fifteen minutes later. Sure, I slowed down and waited for him to get out of range, but he didn't manage to spook me like his arboreal friend.
The shelter was full when I arrived, and the whispering people eating dinner told me the people sleeping in there were already asleep when the diners arrived. They said there was still room for me and my pack, but I knew there had to be tent sites nearby. I kept my light low on the ground, so as not to disturb any tent campers already asleep, and found a good site between two guys I met late the next next day. I made camp quickly, hung my food bag, and went to bed. It was dark. What else was I going to do?
I always have trouble sleeping through the night, but it's different in the woods. In town, I wake up to hear traffic or people. In the woods, I wake up to the chirring chorus of bugs. Later in the night, when even the bugs had gone to sleep, I heard a conversation between some treefrogs (I didn't mean to eavesdrop--I just like the sound of their voices). Much later, I heard a barred owl reciting soliloquies in the dark. Just three reasons I love being in the woods at night.
While it was still dusky I startled two deer who were almost close enough for me to take a bite out of them. When they launched through the brush, I saw a third join them, further from the trail. I was a little startled, too, but I was more focused on closing the distance between me and a campsite before it got prohibitively dark. Most of the leaves were still on the trees, so I couldn't count on much light from stars or the moon to guide my way.
In daylight, the Appalachian Trail is generally very well marked. You'd have to try really hard to get genuinely lost. At night, you have to be more aware of context clues, because you can't always see the next blaze. If the trail is fairly straight, it's easy. It gets more difficult when you start switchbacking down a mountainside. A gap between trees straight ahead can distract you from the sharp dogleg to your right, and unless you realize the footing just changed from beaten path to sticks and leaves, you're in trouble. After a couple moments when I had to look around me, squinting in the darkness, to be sure which way I needed to go, I gave up and put on my headlamp. Maybe ten minutes later I gave up again, and switched it from red to white light. The brighter beam let me see much more, but it ruined any chance of retaining my natural night vision. However, it also let me move much more quickly.
I was clipping along pretty well, having had a calorie-packed snack I knew would replace my cooked meal in camp, when I heard a grunting noise ahead of me, slightly to the right.
I know the word "literally" gets thrown around an awful lot these days, often improperly used, and it makes me crazy, but I literally skidded to a stop. Whatever that noise was, it wasn't something my brain could immediately identify, like a treefrog, or an owl, or even the demented laughter of a pileated woodpecker, and that gave me pause. Immediate pause. A pause which locked my legs in position, leaving my feet no option other than dirt-skating until all momentum was lost. My headlamp caught eyeshine about fifteen feet ahead of me, and once the critter moved a little and I saw the second eye, I knew I was ok. They were far enough from the ground to make a large animal a possibility, but too close together to be anything that bore me a serious threat. When I got closer, I managed to surprise him with the light just long enough to tell it was a raccoon, as I suspected once I saw both eyes. I laughed at myself, and kept going. After the scare the raccoon gave me, I wasn't fazed at all by the skunk I saw fifteen minutes later. Sure, I slowed down and waited for him to get out of range, but he didn't manage to spook me like his arboreal friend.
The shelter was full when I arrived, and the whispering people eating dinner told me the people sleeping in there were already asleep when the diners arrived. They said there was still room for me and my pack, but I knew there had to be tent sites nearby. I kept my light low on the ground, so as not to disturb any tent campers already asleep, and found a good site between two guys I met late the next next day. I made camp quickly, hung my food bag, and went to bed. It was dark. What else was I going to do?
I always have trouble sleeping through the night, but it's different in the woods. In town, I wake up to hear traffic or people. In the woods, I wake up to the chirring chorus of bugs. Later in the night, when even the bugs had gone to sleep, I heard a conversation between some treefrogs (I didn't mean to eavesdrop--I just like the sound of their voices). Much later, I heard a barred owl reciting soliloquies in the dark. Just three reasons I love being in the woods at night.
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