UPDATE

09/14/04

 

Rick has just finished hiking through the Presidential Mountain Range in NH

and is now on his way into Maine for the final stretch. We are still working on a way to

keep this page updated since the Palm service is no more. We will do our best to get

his posts here as soon as possible. Check the Previous post for updated Mail Drop info.

 For the time being we present to you two different

perspectives from the trail, Swami Bruce’s Tale and some filler from yours truly.

Enjoy-JKA

 

“Swami Bruce’s Tale from Damascus”

I scream GERONIMO every time I jump off a cliff. Even to this day the 

Pavolvic training of my youth bursts forth that involuntary splendor, 

bouncing, sailing, ricocheting and skipping across mirrored Canadian

lakes. 

Then, it may be Scott Frank’s black and white checkerboard Geronimo

turned mercuric by heroin’s needle. I think GERONIMO was my first word when I 

jumped out of the Womb of Infinite Probability into whatever this is.

Every day I jump out of bed, jump into the shower, jump into some

clothes, all this time screaming GERONIMO as I jump into the car all

for the joy of putting my nose to the grindstone, earning my gold watch

and at the end of the day, jump into the car again.

You might be thinking this is all about screaming, or Geronimo, or

jumping, or even nose grinding. It is not. It is about, um, I’m not

sure.

Working on one’s own car goes beyond pastime. It is a rite of passage.

Clear out the stuff in just about any garage and left behind is a

Craftsman tool set. Often it is in pristine condition having never been

used for anything beyond clearing the garbage disposal. Tools, the

icons of manliness.

My mission was to purchase a car on eBay for $700 ... in Maryland ...

pick it up sight unseen and drive it cross country to California with only a

 Swiss Army Knife, a quart of spring water and Billy Graham’s life story

on cassette. Oh yes, also an extra pair of socks and a roll of paper

towels.

 I received odd looks when I yelled ''GERONIMO'' and jumped on AMTRAK’s

Southwest Chief in San Bernardino. I was my turn to begin an adventure.

A month-and-a-half earlier I watched Duke jump on board as he began the

ride east to the Appalachian Trail. Rick denies he yelled GERONIMO, but

I swear 

he did.

Writ of Absolution

I hereby release any liability for (Name of instigating organization)

and (Name of Instigator), as representative of thereof, with regard to any 

injury I may sustain from jumping off Indian Head Cliff without regard

to whether or not I scream Geronimo. (Signature, Date, Witness, Date) ...

My mission was dark ops. All messages were encrypted through home made 

cocktail sauce, an equal measure of ketchup and horseradish with a

little lemon and a dash of black pepper thrown in. I rode the jigglebox east. 

Geronimo echoed through the Galaxy. Duke was on the trail testing his 

revolutionary health and fitness diet . . . beer and endless walking.

Intelligence reports showed Duke striding into Virginia. He mistakenly 

assumed there would be plenty of virgins there, but all he found were 

Virginians. An understandable error given his dietary constraints. I

was in Maryland with my extra pair of socks looking down the throttle body of

a 1985 Mercedes Benz 190E 2.3 liter.

This weren’t no red Corvette convertible mocking me like a beautiful

woman. 

She was a Maryland four-wheeler used to the lush green hills of the

western Chesapeake. I was threatening to take her to dry, brown, dusty, ersatz 

southern California. She didn’t want to go and fight me she did, all

the way. Not a futile experience. More like working a bucking horse in the

ring. 

You have to wait for just the right moment to open the gate and let her

run free.

We ran for Damascus, Virginia. That’s home to Trail Days, a weekend 

especially set aside for Appalachian Trail hikers. Secret Agent Swami, 

through his intimate contacts within the Bin Laden family had gleaned 

adequate evidence that the Duke was there, hanging at a certain bar at

5 PM on Friday.

This was, of course, all on a need to know basis and the Duke,

considering his specific dietary regimen, was duly informed but not expected to

remember a thing. Swami, that’s me, sputtered into town on schedule, parked and 

logged into the Trail Data Base as a year 2004 hiker having walked

precisely 35 feet of the Appalachian Trail.

Duke was nowhere to be seen ... or was he? I considered trying out

Dukes Appalachian Trail Fitness Diet and queued up for a beer only to find

... no, not Gideon’s bible ... that trail jester Lord Duke one step ahead in

line. 

Swami remains silent. Duke remains oblivious, having partaken

substantially already that day. It is a stand off. Swami maintaining covert status,

Duke ruminating over the beer selection with another thruhiker. Then, a

sidelong look and, “Oh Shit!” exclaims Duke. “You bastard ... Swamp ... Jeesus

... what the ... You need a beer!”

Thus begins a Homeric epoch lasting five hours. I thought fishermen and

 loggers told tall tales. Those guys don’t hold a candle to a self

proclaimed thruhiker. We joined several trail named hikers. An indoor picnic

ground slash cyber cafe ambiance cast its amber glow upon my assortment of

gourmet dark beers and Miller Light ponies. My freshly lubricated elbow bent to

the service of beer drinking. My ears were bent to the service of

listening.

There is actually a certain type of root that can reach out and grab an 

unsuspecting foot, the result being a hiker splayed face-first on the

duff if lucky, on the rocks if not. For the deprived hiker, branching tree

trunks appear deceivingly sensual, often causing one to fling oneself headlong

into a raging stream. And, the seasoned hiker can talk to the animals. On

the streets of New York it’s called incoherent mumbling.

When not immersed in the beer and walking regimen designed by Lord

Duke, beer drinking requires solid food. We settled on a journey with another

 hiker (making a threesome) to the other end of Damascus where fat,

juicy burgers and beer were served and consumed with relish.

Our route, on foot of course, took us past the Methodist Church. The 

churchyard was jamb packed with tents and their respective hikers. Duke

 recited the rules:

1)      No Drinking

2)      No Dancing

3)      No Drugs

4)      No sex

5)      ........ ummmm ....... I forgot the rest.

It looked more like a graveyard than a camp ground. Neatly spaced nylon

 gravestones painted Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor dreamcoat. The cast of

 Christian impersonators smiled passively, and convincingly, as we three

 kings stumbled by. It is my personal belief that many new converts were

 drawn to the smooth, soft, manicured lawn rather than a relationship

with their personal lord and savior.

Once upon a time the railroad ran through Damascus. You know, one of

those branch line towns where cars were loaded with logs, bound for the

mills, and a variety of agricultural commodities. These weren’t big trains. Little

 2-2-2 engines delivered empty cars to the sidings ... and boxcars

loaded with goods as well. On the way back out to the stem, newly loaded cars

built a new train, a train so original, so unique, that no other train just

like it has ever existed. A one-of-a-kind snowflake chugging along the

branch puffing steam and smoke as it followed the valley bottoms, clanging its

bell and blowing its whistle for waving children as long johns and linens 

billowed on the drying line.

We walked that line to dinner. The tracks long removed, we trod a

maintained bicycle trail, crossing the clear, rushing waters of a local creek

where it merged with the river the old route followed. Geronimo almost came to

life. An irresistible Geronimo urge to jump from the bridge was attenuated by

the clear realization that the water was only a foot or so deep.

Just beyond the crossing, burgers and more beer beckoned. This was no

neon encrusted MasterCard palace. It was a diner with a plywood sign, a

plywood door, a stoop, a few glowing, buzzing beer signs, clapboard siding,

asbestos shingled roof, a few windows, a plywood bar and plywood booths. Our

reserved booth awaited us. If it wasn’t reserved for us specifically, we barged

in and took it over as though it was.

It’s a busy night, and Kathy, our waitress, hadn’t even bussed the

table. There were no bus persons at this cafe. We added a little to her tip

just to smooth things over. She gave us a nice well rounded Virginia smile and

took our order for two pitchers of beer. We needed that beer just to help us

 muddle through the decisions offered on the menu. Would it be burgers

or pancakes? The beer cried out for salt and the ketchup food group, so 

pancakes it weren’t. Burgers and fries it was. Nice plump, juicy,

fatty, drippy, greasy, fried onion slathered burgers that slipped out of the

bun if one dared try to take a bite. Perfect, and that perfection called for

more beer so more beer was called for.

Kathy was pleased. We were quite honorable drunks. We stared at her

bosom with proper decorum, all things considered, as she bent to hand heavily

 laden plates across the table at nose level. We didn’t make a mess and,

 while a sugar coated desert was not in order, we left a nice tip. That

left a nice smile behind as we wobbled off the step and back onto the trail.

Now it is darker. Not dark black dark, just twilight. Regardless, we 

believed we could see in the dark and found or way back to the car in

spite of our condition. The folks at the Methodist church were singing

KumBaYa and drinking something out of paper bag camouflaged bottles.

 Duke directed us to the hiker tent city, a port-a-potty encrusted

refugee camp turned party zone. We parked and followed Duke through the throng.

He proudly introduced us to everybody while describing, with gusto how

he’d wrapped a garbage bag around his hands and pulled up all the poison ivy

 within ten feet of his tent. Indeed, when we arrived, not only was the 

ground cleared to the soil, but the campsite was isolated with bright

yellow barricade tape. The entrance was marked by a lonely cairn of empty beer

cans and chicken bones. It would take a very smart, red headed, crime scene 

instigator to glean any useful information from that campsite.

Duke’s tent faced a truly beautiful, flowing stream. A willow clung to

the eroded bank by its giant roots. This formed a wondrous sitting area

where one is truly embraced by the willow’s form. We drank more beers in the 

willow. Without warning Duke threw himself headlong into the stream 

screaming GERONIMO. This sent the rest of us into a state of instant

sanity. We simply continued to sip our beer and chat. Duke eventually returned,

 strutting naked through the woods, flailing his shorts like a lasso and

 “yahooing” to the four points of the compass. No one was impressed. I

assume they had see it all before. Besides, by this time, it was pitch black

dark night and the event was mostly unnoticed. Kind of a tree falling in the

 woods and no one hears sort of thing.

A new problem presented itself, we were out of beer. Duke dressed and 

secured his camp. We made our way back to Linda (the car), a

walk-a-bout during which I fell in a stream. It was one of those slow motion old

man falling out of control but making a valiant effort to right himself “I

can see the light in the tunnel coming toward me” experiences. I sang

KumBaYa to myself, thankful that is was not an “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” 

commercial for one of those Dick Tracy radio watches.

 I am usually very careful about driving and drinking. However, this was

a mission of great importance. The Lord Duke needed beer. Not a lot of

beer, but and twelve pack of something not too pissy. Duke had a pretty good

idea of where he was going, but we ended up shooting out the end of town and

into the darkness without accomplishing the mission. I must honestly say

that one did not have to drive far in order to shoot out the edge of town and

into the darkness. Damascus is a small town.

My GPS was down and I figured a safe bet was to make a 180 and head

back toward the light. Unfortunately, my 180 included driving down into some

 completely dark side road trying to find a turn around. We managed and

wound our way back to the edge of the known universe where Duke did spy the

sought after liquor store. A twelve pack of Bud later, we headed home to the 

“sacrifice a virgin” rite of spring hiker campground with three lovely 

hikerettes.

We motored along, immersed in the sultry Virginia spring air. For the

Duke it was a mystical spring night, the kind of moonless night in which the

 forest fills the widened eye with flashes of fairies and gnomes, those 

hidden worlds that children dream possible. This year the cicadas are

coming out, but they are not out yet. The scent of oak, maple, cottonwood and 

willow lingered in the air, air buzzing not with insects, but the

excitement of a future filled with every possible wonderment.

The trail fairies spun in Tinkerbell swirls about the evening’s

bonfire, throbbing, swaying and righteously jiggling to a living drumbeat. We

danced along with the drummers’ rhythm, arms outstretched in dervish topsie.

The fairies danced. Swami danced. Duke danced. Our fire cast its warm 

luminescence across circles and faces. Shadows danced across time.

Drums echoed a memory from which the only release is morning sun caressing

your cheek, awaking you from mojo regenerating slumber. I awoke curled in

Linda’s back seat somewhere along Tennessee’s Music Highway. I don’t know how I

got there, but I knew that I felt and smelled and heard the makings of a

dream.

--Special Agent Swami

4th and Long in NH

Someone once asked the question "Why the hell would

you climb Mount Everest?" and there answer was

"Because its there." I don’t think that is how many

Thru-hikers feel about their quest North towards

victory in Khatadin and I hope to God there reasons

are much more poetic. I’ve heard they go to discover

themselves, to become one with nature or to shake off

a bad breakup or a death in the family. I myself have

been intrigued by Rick’s journey from the start, at

first thinking nothing about the reason but about how

neat it would be to read about the trip and finally

get some positive vibes flowing on Jigglebox and move

away from the forlorn and lost scribes of "Narcoleptic

November" and "We will leave the Nightmare on for

you." 

These older Jiggle Post Headings are of course Rick’s

life, spread out before us much like a Thanksgiving

Dinner complete with all the fixings, everyone present

even perverted Uncle Bud who likes to pinch the young

cuzins bottoms when the Adults aren’t looking. You take

the good with the bad and some people try to ignore

the bad. Not Rick. You get it all, served up hot and

piping and everyone’s invited. This is what makes the

Rants of Jigglebox so unique. Not only do you have a

bevy of incredible journeys and gonzo excursions

through our wonderful country but you get a first

class ticket into his mind. And what a mind it is.

When he asked me to post his musings from the trail I

didn’t think twice, I would be honored. I also knew his

route would take him into NH and I would get a chance

to hike some of the AT with him. This of course if he

made it that far. Well he did make it and I did get

that chance and now I know for sure that no one in

there right mind would hike this trail "because its

there". No one except maybe for Rick Mckinney. Maybe

because he is crazy enough to do it for just that

reason. That and the written word, ones we hope you

all have been enjoying so far. 

So did I mentioned I hiked 10 miles of the AT and

nearly died? No, no Bear Attacks, No frostbite just

gravity and age. And smoking and Drinking and Madden

2005. These things can put a serious crimp in your

hiking ability. Take my word for it. We picked Rick up

at a Restaurant/Lounge in North Woodstock NH where he

was downing beers and eating with Fellow Thru-Hiker Frank,

a retired NAVY Commander of some sort who used to have

100's of men under his command. Now he commanded my

attention as he told us how he is well known for

hiking 20 miles, camping in a dingy cold shelter then

staying in a $25O Dollar Hotel the next night just to

see the expression on all the snooty aristocrats faces

as he tells the bellboy to "Take my Backpack up to my

Suite!" Funny stuff and on this Friday evening he was

at it again, taking us on a tour of his styling digs

on the second floor of a wonderful Victorian style

INN.

We on the other hand had other plans. We were there to

take part in 10 miles of Appalachian Fun, there were no

Hotels or INN's in our future. So how did it go? Did we

have fun? Yes we did and it went well. Besides moaning

and groaning as we humped up many a hill in the white

mountains spraying such eloquent thoughts about the

trail as "Who the fuck decided to go up the Mountain

instead of around" and "I cant feel my legs" and "If

the trail was all like this (straight and flat) I

could hike the whole thing!" All of these from Jess

and I of course. Rick flew up and down the trail like

a true Veteran even carrying our tent and a bedroll to

help us with the weight factor. At one point he even

offered to carry my WHOLE pack plus his. I refused in

pure embarrassment. That would be too much. Jess even

did better than I, her being nearly 10 years my Junior

probably helped her in that Dept. We survived though

and are glad to have had the chance to Hike with Rick and

enjoy even a small little slice of trail Life.

To Re-Cap our trip: From Friday to Sunday we managed

to:Hike about 11 Miles

   Drive about 250 Miles

   Met 6 Fellow Thru Hikers

   Met 1 Section Hiker

   Met Three Dorks From Boston who stole our Shelter

   Ate alot of candy bars and Freeze Dried food.

   Were Fined $50 Dollars

   Let a complete stranger drive away in our Car     

and witnessed Trail Magic in all its Glory.

I could explain it all but quite frankly im too tired.

I’m sure you will hear bits about some of it from Rick

in upcoming posts. I just wanted to add my little part

of the story. All in all we came away with a much

larger appreciation for the huge undertaking and

incredibly tough mindset one would need to complete a

journey like this. I salute all who went before and

all who will follow in Rick’s footsteps. We eagerly

await his victory. If you’ll excuse me now I have to go

pop a blister on my foot and get back to my game of

Madden 2005.

09/08

Justin K Alessandro

West Franklin NH