Chapter 10
A Field next to Dennytown Road, New York
1392 miles down and 776 miles to go

Niday Shelter:
"Finally the darkened veil of self-induced monotony has lifted to see again the transparent rays from above in the golden green rainbow which shines forth from the ground below. Glad to be alive and in the woods.

Doubletime
GA > ME

Mailbox Register at Yellow Springs Village site:
"Dear Mom, Please send me some dry socks, my youthful optimism, and the blow-up doll in my closet. Thanks Much."

Love,
The Supply Guy
GA > ME

     Crossing from Pennsylvania into New Jersey had been like walking into Eden. They passed over the bridge out of the Delaware Water Gap on a rainy morning. Moist air flowed through the rich green trees. The rain and clouds let everything breathe again. The leaves shed their dry, rough coat and hung heavy and rich. The pale brown path ran dark with lush mud. Jones was impatient that morning and left long before the others were ready. They had only barely talked him into staying for the Thursday night feast the evening before. There seemed to be something gnawing at his insides. Wayah and Squirrel were dallying even more than usual because of the rain when a little trail magic breezed in. A local offered to slack hikers to the YMCA camp where the Vikings were planning on making their camp that night anyway. This meant he would drive the packs to the YMCA and let the hikers walk unencumbered, and Wayah and Squirrel were certainly willing. Several hikers they had met during the days waiting for the feast also joined in the slack. A rather sizable group that was speckled pleasantly with unattached females had started in Harper's Ferry decided to join them. A thru-hiker couple, Flower Power and Uncle Wolf were setting their sights on the camp as well.

     The day was beautiful, the rain light and then gone, the sky overcast and cool. They walked and talked with the new hikers, watching birds and resting on rock outcroppings that had been rare in Pennsylvania until they caught Jones setting up camp on an overlook and urged him to come a little further with them. They were met at the YMCA camp by two counselors who showed them a large cabin with beds and a kitchen and bathroom and bid them stay as long as they liked. Nearby was a lake and other cabins, and across the lake were hordes of screaming children just out of earshot. Apparently the section which had become the Viking Camp was the old summer camp, abandoned by the kids but kept up by the staff. They stayed that night and through the next day when the sun beat down clean and hot. The Vikings found the facilities much to their liking and spent much of the day at the lake on raft like islands that framed the camper's old swimming area. The cold water grabbed at their tired muscles and bones, washing away the heat and hurt. Even after their days off in Delaware Water Gap, none could argue the perfection of their second break in as many days.

     There was more rain in the form of a terrible storm that ripped over them when they were camped on top of the look out tower on High Point, New Jersey. By morning not a piece of gear was dry, no matter how well protected, and few had slept, fearing that one of the lightning bolts ripping down all around them would grab hold of the metal poles in their tent, shearing life and limb. In the days following High Point, though, rain scarcely came, and everywhere they went were stories of drought. Springs dried up and ponds were sunk to murky puddles. The temperature rose until the sun was so cruel that it was foolish to hike under it. They would spend the hottest part of the day at lakes fighting off bugs, or inside if a building presented itself. They would hike in the late afternoon and into evening and night, waking up before the sun to hike a bit before finding a place to hide through the middle of the day. Once they found a bar near the trail where the entire Star Wars trilogy was playing on the television. Since many springs had run dry, locals would often post signs at road crossings offering their houses for water and shade. Once a local supermarket even carted gallons of water to a place along the trail where water was scarce.

     The heat was unbelievable, It reached one hundred and four degrees in the shade one day and they heard at a shelter that a day hiker actually died. Even attempts to move short distances in the middle of the day were futile drudgery. The heat sucked energy like blood. At night Wayah would lay in his tent without his sleeping bag. He couldn't even touch it. He would set up the tent without the rain fly so that it wouldn't be stifling, but he had to sleep inside it to survive the bugs. Luckily his tent was all netting above the six inch mud break, so when air came through he could get the most out of it. He would lay on his sleeping pad all but naked through the hot night praying for a breeze that brought something other than heat.

     One evening the Viking hoard camped along side a tiny dirt road. Camping close to a road of any kind was generally to be avoided, but this road seemed to be far out of the way. Most important, it was home to a small shed and a water pump nailed into the ground like a needle into a vein of the earth. The road broke out of the trees and cut across a wide field where the shed and pump were stationed. They camped in the field so that they could have as much water as they wanted for dinner, cleaning, breakfast, and hiking the next day without having to carry or filter any of it. The tents were scattered over the field in multicolored patches, and the Vikings had cleared a wide spot near the shed under a tree to feast. All the stoves lit up in a tattered ring in the growing darkness, and the smell of fuel and the hiss of the flames was gradually replaced by the smell of dinner and the sound of jostling dishes. Wayah, Jones, and Squirrel were masters at the art of the feast. They potlucked every night and invited anyone camped with them to join in. The Vikings used dehydrated vegetables, dried meats, spices and heavy doses of butter to make their potlucks memorable. Many a hard day gave in to dreaming about dinner, and they never let each other down. New Vikings couldn't always be trusted to offer up the best of dishes, but some blandness would be tolerated for a while in the interest of fellowship.

     Around the circle were the faces of new friends lit by the soft glow of the darkening sky and the flickering of stove flames under their pots. They hadn't known any of these people more than a week or so, but in such close quarters they all knew each other well. Such was the way of the trail. Saprophite and Eft were an odd couple hunched over their large pot of Ramen noodles with meat textured vegetable protein mixed in. They were part of the group out of Harper's Ferry and their relationship, which was spiraling into ruin, was a point of stress in their group. Their meat textured vegetable protein was a point of stress for the Vikings. It tasted like it looked, chewy and off-white. It seemed like the moment they finally broke up, Eft would leave the trail. He seemed to be there only for Sapro, while she was in the woods to vike. Whatever was going to happen, it could only happen fast in such close quarters. Raven was Sapro's roommate from college. She was a tall, dark haired bird watcher who sat gently, cross-legged behind her steaming pot of mac-n-cheese, a standard but acceptable dish with enough butter. Over the last week she and Wayah had attempted and ended a short relationship, though it still lingered about the camp.

     Grover, also of the Harper's Ferry group, kneeled over his Lipton noodles, shining his headlamp in the pot to see if the excess water had boiled off. He was quick to laugh and fell into stride with the Viking ways easily. He had been with a girl named Whichway since the Vikings met him in Delaware Water, but she had since fallen behind. WhichWay had only a short while, perhaps two months, to be on the trail, and was entertaining thoughts of ending her hike even earlier. Except for meeting Grover, she had had nothing but ill fortune. She had suffered through concussions, dog bites, terrible sunburn, and finally Lyme disease. Her enthusiasm was understandably wanting. A few days earlier she had stayed behind in Unionville, New York, where they had stopped to pick up supplies and have some fruit in the shade and some ice cream if they could find any. Grover left Unionville with the Vikings at her request. WhichWay was waiting on some supplies that hadn't arrived and she chose to keep waiting, promising to catch up if she could. She didn't want Grover to get behind everyone else on her account. The Vikings were pretty sure they wouldn't see her again. There was something about the way people held themselves when they were ready to leave the trail. Some slight satisfaction and some remorse, but mostly it was the refusal of help and support. There was always a way to stay on the trail if the will was there, it was just a matter of priorities.

     Cooking something that smelled remarkably like pesto was the new newspaper writer. He and the new photographer had caught them a few days earlier, and the photographer, who called himself Flash Shurpa, had been hiking with the Vikings a bit. Shurpa was as excited about the assignment as the Vikings were about their dinner, but the writer didn't seem quite as enthusiastic. Apparently, the whole concept of the reporter relay hike had been his baby, but he had picked the toughest time to be on the trail himself. The Shurpa was in heaven, and for an outdoorsman, he had been dealt a pretty good hand. The reporters had all their gear and food paid for and got their regular salary while they were in the woods hiking. It seemed like a joke, but a good one. The writer was older and quieter and needed to be given a trail name before dinner was done. He sat poking at his creation, opening little jars and shoving tiny morsels of flavor and smell over the edge and into his pot. Jones was finished and ready to eat, tasting his food but waiting for everyone else to be ready. He leaned over the reporter's pot and dipped his spoon into the steaming darkness to sample the flavor.
     "Oh, Papa," he said with an Italian accent, "Papa Gino. Is'a somthin'a'special tonite!"
     "Whatcha got there, Papa Gino?" Wayah said, peeking over across the circle. His spinach and parmesan noodles with bits of chicken had been done for a few minutes and the lid was on.
     "Its his special homemade pesto," said Flash eagerly. Papa Gino was still quiet. "He's quite a gourmet."

     The piping hot dishes were all shoved to the middle of the circle where they collected into a wide platform of steaming goodness. Sitting or on their knees, the starving group began to sample from all the pots, tasting, sighing, and finally filling little dishes with mixes of food. Actually there were no dishes. Only the inverted lids from the cooking pots. None of the hikers carried any silverware besides a spoon, either. Other utensils were just for show. The group became quiet but for the rattle of spoons on lids and the slopping of food in mouths. They ate and ate until their bellies were stuffed, and the group fell into sporadic chatter as the dishes with food remaining were very slowly emptied by hesitant spoons. As they began finishing in the settling dark, holding heavy bellies and gradually making trips to the pump to clean dishes and fetch water, the hoard began readying themselves to retire to their tents.

     Suddenly there was a faint noise that stopped everyone's chatter and perked every ear in camp like a herd of hunted elk. The growing shift and pop of gravel and dirt was unmistakable. A car was coming. The growl of engine and the patter of tire tossed debris came menacingly closer. Locals at night didn't necessarily mean trouble, but a hiker's worst nightmare started like this. They all sat still in the near total dark hoping the car would go on by them. They would be easy to miss. The tents were somewhat hidden by the shed, and the Vikings were under a tree in the dark.

     The van burst from behind the shed along the road and growled past, its angles and smells strange and foreboding. The van started to slow and finally turned to a stop only a stone's throw down the road. The bright headlights angled back around and whipped toward the group. They were spotted. They all sat motionless, listening, watching, waiting to hear the unbalanced babble of a psychopath, or the terrifying twang of local misfits. The silence held them and stretched thinner and thinner. They were all silently making decisions about whether to rush in attack or flee to the woods without their gear. Jones suddenly broke the tableaux, leaning forward and squinting into the light with a look of a shifting puzzlement.
     "Is that... an ice cream truck?" As they peered at the bright lights apprehension gave way to confusion. The Viking Lord got up to talk to the stranger who had stopped his van some 20 yards from their camp. Approaching the vehicle he could see that in fact, the Viking Destroyer was correct! This didn't necessarily rule out the possibility of sudden violence, but it did open up an entirely new set of scenarios. It was Wayah's office to deal with foreign diplomats, and several other Vikings fell in behind him. Wayah approached the window as a chubby, tired looking man leaned over.
     "Do you know what time it is?" said the ice cream man.
     "It's about 30 minutes after sunset. Are you open for business?" Wayah was still dealing with some caution, for this was obviously no ordinary encounter.
     "I guess. Hold on." The ice cream man reached back behind him and pulled open the window and deck that folded off the side of the truck, and as he did the light inside came on, revealing the colorful menu board and ice cream paintings on the side of the truck. As the man appeared in the window the ice cream truck music began to dance across the field. Everyone flocked to the bizarre oasis. The light from the window spread over a small semicircle beside the truck and into the light they came. It was too strange to bother thinking about.
     "I'll have an ice cream sandwich," said Wayah and out came the treasure, frosty steam trailing from it in the night's heat. And so they went, lining up and placing their orders with patient excitement, money in hand, and one by one walked away with ice cream. All but Squirrel.
     "No way," said the Viking. "This is too strange. I won't participate in this kind of mass hallucination." Perhaps he was right. Biting into his ice cream sandwich, Wayah took in the scene with suspicion. Saprophite was on her tiptoes, elbows on the counter awaiting her Pushup Pop. The cool white light illuminated her hair and wide eyes and several bugs spiraling in the halo, and dropped off where the rest of the line willed itself forward in fear that the hallucination may end before they had partaken. The truck disappeared back the way it came, and aside from the ice cream wrappers in their trash bags there was nothing about the little touch of relief from the heat that they could connect with reality, and Squirrel persisted that they all were hallucinating under the influence of meat textured vegetable protein poisoning.