Take a Trek

Day 12: The Grouch

Timberline to Mount Massive Trailhead
Day: 15.2 Miles
Trip: 169.3 Miles

Late in the morning, I pass the campsite of Beavis and Butthead. I could use some comic relief, so I stop to say hello. “We had a rager of a fire here last night,” Butthead tells me. “I bet you did. Where’s Anton?” I ask. “Taking a shit. Does an Anton shit in the woods,” he begins. I’m waiting for a punchline, when Butthead completely changes the subject. “So we sat down under this nice tree, the other day, to like, smoke some hash. Then this shoeless, overall-wearing, homeless guy showed up. He started telling us about how he had just bated all over the place.” I’m confused. “Bated?” I probably don’t want to know. “Masterbated,” he says with a tone of disbelief. “Oh. Of course.” I must have missed the train on new lingo for jerking off. “Anyway, that’s when I was like, lets get out of here and go to Leadville.” At this moment, everything falls into place. Beavis and Butthead skipped a section of the trail, because a homeless man told them he had jerked off on the tree they were smoking hash under.

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Cruisin’ through the Rockies

It’s noon and I’m sitting beside a campfire, in the blazing sun, drinking hot cocoa. It’s a ridiculous lunchtime scenario, created by my need for insect repellant and calories. There’s an ant in my cocoa, and I don’t care. This probably sounds gross, but when you step on a scale and realize that you’ve been losing a half pound of weight, per day, for the past week and a half, little things like this don’t bother you. I need chocolate, ant or no ant.

I can hear the rumble of thunder, to the west. If the Rocky Mountain weather had a trail name, it would be “The Grouch.” I’m tired of listening to The Grouch and dealing with his grumbly, miserable shit every day. I suppose, I’m getting used to him though. The Grouch is like the bitchy coworker that you anticipate putting up with, when you go to work in the morning. Screw you, Grouch. Why don’t you go pour yourself a drink and relax. Cheer the fuck up, dick.

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Here comes The Grouch

I was wrong. That wasn’t an ant. It was a mosquito. There’s a distinct textural difference.

Thanks to The Grouch, my day is stopped short, once again, at the foot of Mount Elbert. It’s difficult to get miles, when I can’t hike past two in the afternoon. Eating dinner, like a hermit, in the vestibule of my tent, isn’t much fun either. You suck, Grouch.

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Hermit life