Appalachian Trail

A photographic journal, in no particular order, of our forty-mile, nine-day trip.

We started our journey with a slab of ribs and hot dogs.

The west branch of the Piscataquis river.

Bait and tackle.

Near Monson. Hikers are 75% of the economy.

Wylie, licking his jowls, after a chipmunk snack. Whoops.

We drank (unrecommended by the masses) water straight from the brooks.

The trail, at times, was hard to follow.

Near Caratunk. Population 30. Thirty miles from the Canadian border.

My first solo mushroom find. Oysters, in a tree, growing in the middle of a fucking brook.

Whats fishin’ without tobacco? I wouldn’t know.

We quickly switched over to roasting on a birch stick over the open flame.

Our friend from Twinflower Farm met up with us on the last day. She immediately found a patch of chanterelles in which we roasted in rendered hot dog fat. Yep. Hot dog fat.

Oxalis with its tastier flower.

Fish heads and rice, in a chef Boyardee can. Nothing to waste, eh?

Overall, it was a revelatory trip. I caught seventeen brook trout, found some mushrooms, and hiked a lot of mileage. Things that we didn’t have a chance to photograph include—

– Wild sarsaparilla, in which I learned that the ripened blue berries are delicious, although not technically edible. We ate them anyways.

– Porcini

– Pheasant and Partridge sightings

– Deer, red squirrel, bull frogs, garter snakes, chipmunks, wood mice

I’m sore and I smell like a skunk. I couldn’t be happier.

“… you are at the center of your own universe. You are free to create meaning for yourself.”- AWOL on the Appalachian Trail

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