Spoon in the Road - Chapter 11
A Novel by Ben Bonkoske
Chapter 11
“Ello, mate, didn’t mean to wake you”
“Oh, you're fine, just try not to wake him, he seems sick.” I awoke, feeling detached from everything.
“Oh goodness, I hope he’ll be fine. Do you know what he’s got?”
“Stomach problems.”
He introduced himself using his trail name, “Rocket.” and pulled out a cigarette. I wanted one but restrained. As he lit the end of his tobacco stick, it reminded me that I needed to make a fire and cook dinner. I got up and looked around for kindling. The place was covered in wood chips, which are useful, along with leaves, which are a great start, but nothing big enough for me to cook off of. I went down the path and found a few logs. I also found a smaller shelter.
It was a toilet, or a luxury in my case.
I began to create a small fire, even though I may have been able to survive on raw foods like nuts and such, I was glad I had the ability to cook. I looked through my food supply. I grabbed out a ramen. I filled up my small pot with water and let the fire begin to sizzle down to embers. The embers are the hottest part of the fire and optimal for cooking.
My water boiled and I took the ramen out of the styrofoam container and into my little tin pot. It was as though it was meant for that exact amount of ramen. While I was doing this, Buck and Rocket got out pocket stoves and began to boil their water that way instead.
We sat together at a bench while I slurped my noodles. They pulled out their booklets.
“Earwin is only sixteen miles away,” Rocket said with an English accent.
“Isn’t there a hostel as well?” Buck replied.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Jeff’s Hostel,” Rocket said.
Buck started rolling a joint, lit it and asked. “You want any?”
Apart from the fact that he was sick, I really didn’t need that as an additional challenge on the trip. Anyone who smokes weed will understand it is a great way to calm yourself down, but I just didn’t feel safe enough to get stoned at the moment. One wrong puff could land me in the wrong place, without any food, lost or dead.
“Nah, I’m good.”
They went on smoking and a mustachioed chirpy fellow came through the camp. He had a Nietzschean mustache, looked about twenty or so, and walked very simply, and quietly into the shelter.
“How old are you, Rocket?” I asked.
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“How long have you been a smoker?”
“I calmed down around the time I was twenty-five.”
“Smells good,” The mustached fellow said with a smile, taking the joint.
“Have you eaten?” Buck asked him.
“I ate up on the Balds, by the view.”
There I sat with three stoned gentlemen, getting more anxious by the second and probably thinking about weirder things than all of them. I wanted to keep the conversation as light as possible.
“Why are you all doing this?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Yeah, why? I met a guy on the trail who said he was running away,” I said.
They all looked at me for a moment.
“Not literally running away. Ya know, just getting away from it all.”
“I went on my first hike about three years ago and decided to do it again. My visa is up in August, though,” Rocket said.
“I took a year off of college,” Buck said.
“I’m a Youtuber,” Said the moustache man.
“Wow. It’s cool to meet a Youtuber,” Said Rocket.
“I’ve been doing it for three years now.”
“Oh, I made some videos last fall,” I said, “but I just make the videos because I enjoy watching them and think it will be fun to look back at someday, like a video journal,” I said.
“Are you going to the hostel?” Rocket asked me.
“How much is it to stay?” I asked.
They looked at each other.
“About twenty dollars or so,”Rocket said.
“That’s a little out of my price range, guys.” I shook my head.
“How much did you leave with?”
“Not much.”
“Well guys, I’m going to get some sleep.” The mustached fellow said abruptly. “Good luck,” he said to me.
I had faith, but luck was a part of it too.
“Goodnight.”
“Night mate.” Rocket waved to him.
Buck went in after that, and eventually Rocket did too. I sat by the fire until night fell, scared by their words of doubt.
Out of nowhere, a green-mohawked man emerged onto the campgrounds, stomping barbarically.
“Is that yer fire?” he asked.
“Well, I built it, but you can use it.”
He didn’t respond and unloaded everything he had, and pulled out an assortment of meats and cheeses, along with a bottle of whiskey and began to take big sips of it. I just watched in awe like…is this guy for real? How is he going to get anywhere if he’s going to wake up with a hangover, or live off of spoiled cheese and meats making him need to shit all the time. And who is going to trust him with a hairdo like that?
I did what anybody would do in this situation.
“Can I please have some cheese?”
“Yeah sure. Her ya go,” and he cut me off a slice of pepper jack.
It was delicious, a little warm and squishy but it warmed my soul with the flavor. He began to cook a cheese stew mixed with the meats. It looked very unhealthy but delicious as hell. He pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke it, and that’s when I called it quits.
I liked the man, but there was no doubt in my mind he was on a suicide mission or something because nobody can just neglect their body like that and expect to get anywhere.
I went to go hang my bear bag since there were clasps on trees to hang it from. I kindly said goodnight to the gentleman and walked into the shelter.
The shelter had a tin roof and I laid in it confused, worried, and happy all at the same time. The traveler, who was out with his cheese and meat stew, bundled everything he had back into his backpack and walked off into the night.
Not a minute later, it began to pour buckets. I was worried about him, but truly impressed by the gritty nature of this man. I wasn’t sure if he was prepared to go all night, hiking drunk in the middle of a storm, and if he was, he was surely going to a place not many men had gone to before.
Alone in the woods
What a terrible excuse
To do what you love
And be who you are
If only I had
A guitar