Chapter 12
Manchester Center, Vermont
1622 miles down and 546 miles to go

Zion Episcopal Church Hostel Register:
     "And how will I know these Vikings?" Asked the young boy.
     "They Carry no packs," replied the old sage.
     "No packs?!" he exclaimed wide-eyed.
     "They have others carry their possessions," said the old gray sage knowingly.
     "I don't understand."
     "They have powers," whispered the sage..."Diabolical powers." The young boy quivered.

Anonymous

Limestone Springs Lean-to:
     "Wow, I am so grateful for the cool weather today. Stayed at Silver Hill last night & trying for Riga tonight. If we make it, this will be my longest day yet. Looking at the map, it seems doubtful, but the cool weather has given me a second wind. Hello to Lone Scout.

Jingo
GA > ME

P.S. Ludo, who has no interest in writing but only eating says, "Real life sucks, hike on."

     Vermont came on like a dream. The weather was finally getting back to beautiful. The breeze blew cool and the rich green mountains gave shade and cool water. Their first resupply point was in Manchester Center, a colorful little resort town settled at the foot of beautiful ski slopes turned verdant and sunny. The town was five and a half miles off the trail, and they planned to hitch in from the road. Wayah and Jones got to the two-lane highway first and began walking toward town and thumbing. They had become quite used to hitchhiking in the past months. It was the best way to get into a town that was too far off the trail to walk without losing the better part of a day. They had had some creepy rides from local crazies and some really friendly ones who might offer them fruit or sodas or even a shower. Usually they just flung themselves in the back of someone's truck and thanked them when they got out. Even so, it remained the most dangerous aspect of life on the trail.

     Wayah and Jones stood a good chance of getting a ride. The pack was a big help in trail towns where the locals knew that hikers were around and needed rides, but even then, a lone hiker could have trouble getting a ride. Two men together actually stood a much better chance and felt safer as well. Three or more was trouble. Three hikers and packs would fit in no less than an empty truck, and any more needed a U-haul. The packs were almost as big as an extra rider. The college kids in the black jeep that picked up Wayah and Jones were the perfect ride. They were interested in the hike and jovial even if the Vikings' smell was getting to them. Wayah had read in the Thru-hiker's Handbook that there was a Ben & Jerry's store in Manchester Center and asked about it immediately, offering to buy some ice cream in thanks for the ride. Soon they were standing on the posh New England sidewalk looking up at the most glorious of signs. Those bright, colorful letters had been nothing but good to them for so many long months. They had endured the southern states, where they were lucky to find two or three flavors and always the same ones. As they had approached the B & J homeland the selection had grown. When they pushed past the glass door they were faced with a board covered with names and flavors that boggled the mind. Tubs of goodness were lined up in rows under glass shields just thick enough to prevent any hasty advances.

    "The Vermonster," Jones said, standing to the side of the counter reading an advertisement that Wayah had been too mesmerized to notice. "20 scoops of Ben & Jerry's, five cups of hot fudge, five cups of nuts, two large brownies, five cups of crushed cookies," the words started to come slower as Jones' voice trailed into a high pitched mixture of excitement and amazement. "Whipped cream, bananas, strawberries, sprinkles." Jones took a picture of the sign.

   "We'd like the Vermonster please." Wayah was all business now. The girl behind the counter slid over a piece of paper and a pencil for them to write down the flavors they wanted. "All right. Everybody now," Wayah motioned to the college kids, who now stood shocked and unsteady. "C'mon. This is your reward for being kind to stinky strangers."  Wayah was grinning. It was never a bad time to try and make some new Vikings. They made the list and checked it over for flavor balance and melting order stability, and soon there was a huge salad tossing bowl in the middle of their table spilling over with whipped cream and fruit. It was quite a dig before they got to the ice cream. The battle was long and well fought, and in victory they passed the bowl around, taking sips of the mixed flavor soup that was left in the bottom, speckled with sprinkles and wisps of hot fudge.

     Out of guilt over not having been able to have Squirrel and the Kaptain share in the feat, they returned come the next morning to tackle the Vermonster again, and again it was glorious and the Vikings emerged victorious. The Viking Lord sewed a Ben & Jerry's patch to his pack as a symbol of the good fight.

    Squirrel's parents, who lived in New Hampshire, were vacationing at a drive-in campground in Vermont as the Vikings were passing through. They came to pick up the Squirrel and his friends several days in a row, bringing them to their camper each night to feed them big dinners and breakfasts under a wide awning before taking them back to the trail to slack the next day. When they came to the trail they would bring beer and snacks and hamburgers for them and other hikers who happened along. Back at the campground where their trailer sat nestled in a small lot, thinly divided from other camping lots by trees, Mama Squirrelfight fed them enormous helpings of sausage, potatoes, steak, and corn, and would not stop until they were immobile. They had scarcely had any meat in five months and all the Viking's bowels were shot from the sudden overdose, but it was well received. The second night Kaptain Krummholz joined them at the campsite and stayed during the following days of slacking and feasting.

     It was good to have the Kaptain around for many reasons. First, he was a good Viking and his company was always a pleasure. Second, he rejuvenated some of the flagging spirits that had been bringing the Vikings down in the past weeks. Wayah and Squirrel had been worried about Jones, whose mood rarely seemed to improve. Every day seemed to be the worst day of his life, and the fact that Wayah and Squirrel weren't suffering similarly only proved to drive him away from them and deeper into his funk. The arrival of the Kaptain, though, brought him back up a bit. Aside from being a source of humor and creativity, the Kaptain had different experiences and trail stories from the Vikings. The new dynamic had provided a different flavor to their hike. The Kaptain was also an excellent trail cook who appreciated the Vikings' grand feasts and always had something worthy to add. In fact he became the most insistent that newer Vikings bring good food to the pot luck. The Kaptain always wore a graying hat that had a big "V" on the forehead.
    "The girl who gave it to me said that I had to say it stood for vaginal canal'," the Kaptain said laughing.
     "You know, of course, that it really stands for Vikings, don't you?" Wayah said, only half joking. Krummholz just chuckled and shook his head.

     Slackpacking is a subject of some debate on the trail. Again stemming from a hiker's notion of purism, some felt that not carrying a pack was cheating. To Wayah, the adventure surrounding the slack-the faster, unencumbered hiking over longer distances-was as much a part of the adventure as anything else. Squirrelfight felt that as long as he was hiking every part of the trail, it didn't matter if he carried five pounds or 65 or went naked. Jones was always glad for the break, and Krummholz was too busy having a good time to worry about what anyone thought about what he was doing. In all, there was no objection among the Vikings to taking advantage of a slack as often as they came up, and in Vermont they came up a lot. After slacking much of the first half of Vermont with the aid of Squirrel's parents, Squirrel's brother came out and slacked them southward through the last half of Vermont. They would leave their packs in his car and he would drop off half of the group at one end of the day's hike and drive to the other end to leave the car and hike the other way with the other half of the group. The two groups would meet for lunch in the middle and then continue on. The group that reached the car would go and pick up the other. Then they would camp near the road with all their gear ready and available. Going backwards provided a new treat. First, they were skipping three days ahead to start, so they would run into anyone that was up to three days ahead of them, many of whom they would not see again on the trail since they were planning to take more time off in New Hampshire. Second, by the time they finished slacking backwards for three days, they were three days behind the actual distance they had hiked on the trail and could see people who were up to three days behind them.

    The Vikings zigzagged over Vermont's last 45 miles with Squirrel's brother in tow, playing like kids in someone else's back yard. When they came to a bridge, they would jump off it. When they passed a place with a funny name (like Podunk), they would make up a song about it. By the time Jones and Wayah reached Happy Hill Cabin heading south, Squirrel, Krummholz and Jason (Squirrel's brother) had just arrived heading north. Happy Hill Cabin was the picture of neglect. It seemed like instead of maintaining the shelter, it had been used for caging rhinoceroses from time to time. More likely it was being used for college parties and had lost its potential to be useful for anything else. The porch, though, still offered shade and rails to lean on. Jason was flipping through the register and looking at entries, while Krummholz and Squirrel pulled out their lunches and waited their turn. They all sat and talked about whom they had passed, and they traded the car keys and information about what the other group would see when they walked the next half of the day.
     "Some of these people seem to be really mad at everyone else on the trail." Jason said, half amused and half concerned. Wayah leaned over to see the entries and their authors.
     "Oh, yeah. Those guys are always going on and on, but they're more self righteous than mad. There's a few like that up ahead."
     "Probably behind, too," Squirrel said, "we just don't get to read their entries. Jones looked up from the paper he had been reading.
     "Damn purists. They should just hike their own hike and leave everyone else out of it." By the time he had finished his sentence, Jones was looking back at the paper again. In the South, Viking discussions about purism had referred to the ideology that one should hike the trail in the manner that best suited them. "To thine own self be true." It was a concept that helped guide decisions on the trail by reminding the individual of whatever was most important to their thru-hiking experience. Since then, its usage in register discussions had taken on a much darker, more exclusive meaning. In trail discussions, purism had come to refer to the notion that unless very strict rules were followed in hiking the trail, a hiker should be shunned from the thru-hiking community. The most common gripe was with hikers who had skipped sections of the trail, but particularly whiney hikers held dozens of laws that they claimed disqualified nearly everyone but themselves.
    "This guy is saying that anyone who didn't hike the approach trail to the Appalachian Trail isn't really a thru-hiker!" Jason read in disbelief.
     "He's just mad because those eight extra miles kicked his ass and then he found out he could have driven right to the trail head." Squirrel said grinning. They all laughed. "It amazes me that someone could hike this whole trail and still be so insecure. You would think hiking 2,000 miles would boost their self esteem a little."
     "I don't know how many times one of those guys has disqualified me from thru-hiker status."  Krummholz said. "Either I was carrying too much weight, carrying too little weight, looking at the ground too much, making too many phone calls..."
     "Not a Viking among them." Wayah said, shaking his head. "No sense of humor. Besides, exclusive ideologies don't make for good company." Jason handed the register over to Squirrel and shuddered.
     "More politics out here than I would have expected. Purism? More like Puritanism." Jason said. Wayah laughed.
     "Yes," said Wayah, "The undying fear that somewhere, someone is enjoying themselves. At least they're far ahead and we can just turn the page."