We summitted Katahdin on the afternoon of September 8th-a warm, sunny and calm accent five months and five days from that other warm sunny day I began this journey. It was weird, I guess, to be atop Katahdin with all those friends I'd trudged up the east side of America. We all touched the sign and smiled and hugged and took pictures. We felt proud and happy and relieved and sad and mildly confused all at the same time. Then slowly, one by one, they trickled off down the mountain and out of view-Baro and Jangles, Shasta and H-bomb, Mouse-hiking out of my life just as they'd hiked in. Corey and I enjoyed the view as long as we could, then set off across the Knife Edge and down a different trail, no longer following white blazes. We had some good times, our crew: hiking all night into Harper's Ferry, sloshing through water in Pennsylvania, eating ourselves sick at The Homeplace in Catawba. It was nice to know those people-they were good companions for a really long walk. I look forward to a reunion of sorts, if ever there'll be one, where I can once again be Donkey (LOVE). We can reminisce about that crazy hitchhike who ran a red light and got us lost in her own small town of Waynesboro, VA. Or the mystery liquor offered by Doc Narly when you first make his acquaintance. We'll try and remember how many Poptarts and packets of oatmeal and Snickers and granola bars and mac & cheese we ate. We'll wonder how we ever lived in such filth and sweat and smelliness. I'm sure, though, we'll remember these things fondly. Everyone asks what kind of great thoughts I had out there-what did I figure out? No much, really. My mind was full with thoughts of food and water and miles remaining and the weather. I unplugged myself, so to speak. It's a culture, really, long distance hiking-the funny names and lingo, hitchhiking and binge eating, being dirty and smelly, sleeping outside so many nights in a row and walking for weeks and weeks. I like that culture, so I didn't think too much about the real world. In an effort to give the life of long distance hiking some poetic justice, I wrote an ode: Sometimes: an ode to long distance hiking (and life, really) Sometimes, it's hard and boring

Sometimes, it's beautiful

Sometimes, it's slow and intense and you can't concentrate on anything else but your feet and your breath

Sometimes, everything clicks

Sometimes, you pass things by and then wonder if maybe you should have taken a look

Sometimes, you do slow down and look and its right where you want to be

Sometimes, it's raining and cold and all uphill

Sometimes, it's warm and sunny and cruisin' on down

Sometimes, you know what's right around the corner

Sometimes, you don't (that's the best part)

Sometimes, you show up at a lean-to and it's crowded and everybody's stuff is everywhere and everything is wet

Sometimes, it's just two of you and you can spread out and air out and make yourselves at home It doesn't really matter, maybe, that we did it-that we hiked every one of those miles from Georgia to Maine. I mean, it's no more important than anything else I might have done, I don't think. It does show an awful lot of determination and toughness, though, and I'm proud to have finished something I wanted to do for a long time. But oh what great things we might accomplish if we weren't off hiking in the woods-ha ha :)

Ahh, the hustle and bustle of New Hampshire's White Mountains--the day-hikers and weeekenders; the crowded huts and tentsites; the awesome panoramic views atop four and five-thousand-foot peaks. The Christmas-like smells of pine forests just below treeline and cold apline lakes and stunning vistas and cool breezes upon the summits are a welcome prize for our trek trough the sweat and humidity and bugs of the mid-Atlantic states. We are, at last, in the mountians where I learned to love hiking. As I write this post atop Mt. Webster (1,832.9 miles/3,910'), I can see giant Mt. Washington to the north and the summits of Mt. Adams and Jefferson--both I hiked as a kid with Big Brothers Big Sisters. Looking to the south and out over Franconia Ridge, I can see Mt. Liberty and Lafayette, Little Haystack and Lincoln, Mt. Garfield and South Twin--all 4,000' peaks and for the first time on this long journey, above treeline. Since passing out of New York and into Connecticut and New England, the trail has weaved trough the beautiful alpine zones and rock ledges and vistas that I know and love. In the home state, I brought Dad from Dalton to Williamstown and up over Mt. Greylock (1,572.0 miles). At 3,491', it is the tallest peak in the Berkshires and the first with any sort of view since Virginia, maybe. Although it was hazy and clouded for us, the lookout from the top of its War Memorial would have shown the Green and White Moutnains and even Canada. I was repaid several days later for that lost view on Greylock with the most amazing sunset I've seen yet on the trail--atop Mt. Bromley (1,639.8 miles/3,260'), just north of Manchester Center, VT. The still ski-lift and wild green grass and brilliant purple flowers and surrounding 360-degree view reflected the last rays of sun that day in a way I know my camera won't be able to show. It was perfect. In Hanover, NH (1,732.7 miles) the trail passed by high-end shops and restaurants catering to the Dartmouth College crowd. So we stood out--trudgeing through with muddy boots and big beards and a "slight" aroma. Though after two years of being stared-at in Ukraine, it was business as usual. Stu Peoples, the director of Big Brothers Big Sisters of Cape Cod, my former boss and long time friend, hiked 17 miles from Hanover to Lyme, NH (1,750.3 miles) with three boys from the BBBS program. After yelling at the boys for throwing rocks off a cliff and sticks at each other, Shasta remarked that she'd never heard me yell before. I told her she probably wouldn't again, unless she started throwing sticks at Chardonnay--ha ha. A few days later, Hot Springs and I washed dinner dishes and swept the dinning room at Lonesome Lake Hut (1,799.0 miles) in exchange for food and a warm floor to sleep on. The "Croo" there told us that the dishes we did were excessively clean. Hot Springs informed them that, if wanted, we could kick it up a notch and make the dishes unessecarily clean :) We did work-for-stay at Ethan Pond Shelter (1,826.7 miles) and Nauman Tentsite (1,836.0 miles) as well. At Madison Springs Hut (1,847.8 miles), my work for stay involved simply finishing off a big bowl of corn. When I asked what else I could do, I was told "The only thing I want from you is to finish that corn!" Ok. You see, all the food that isn't finished has to be packed-out several miles to the road. So the fewer leftovers, the better. And then there was Cut, who hiked fearlessly above treeline along Franconia Ridge and the most beautiful stretch of trail yet with Hot Springs and I. He did this, I might add, with the kind of G.I. Joe or Alvin and the Chipmunks sleeping bag all our parents bought us all when we were children. His happened to be a groovy 1974 plaid. Surprisingly, though, it kept him warm. And it was cold up there. We were in hats and gloves and fleece. Mouse wondered, if it was this cold in August, what was it like in January. I told him January is a good month for staying inside. So we made it through the Whites with beautiful, albiet chilly, weather.We now have 297 miles to go--about three weeks. After almost five months on the trail, that seems like nothing. But these last three weeks will be exciting. Maine is considered by many to be the most beautiful state. If it's more stunning than New Hampshire then I can't wait. So, until next time, Donkey (LOVE) is in Gorham, NH and about to enter the final state on the Appalachian Trail.

The cobwebs covered my face and chest and arms-I wiped them away but I could feel them sticky in the sweat of my hair and beard. As I groggily climbed teh mile accent to the Virginia/West Virginia border (1006.9 miles), I wondered how the spiders could span their webs across the trail like that. More importantly, I wondered where all the spiders were: in my beard, my hair, my arms? I quickly scanned myself with the narrow beam of my headlamp. Nothing. Luckily for Mouse and Hot Springs, I had cleared the trail of everything creepy and crawly! So, we pressed on toward the border-arriving at 3:30 a.m. The 4-State-Challenge-a 43-mile trek across West Virginia and Maryland to the Mason-Dixon Line (Maryland/Pennsylvania border)-had begun. After a sleep deprived four days in Washington, D.C. and a three-hour "nap" the night before, I was already exhausted as we descended the hill back down over the Shenandoah River and into Harpers Ferry, WV. Harpers Ferry (1009.4 miles), made famous by John Brown and his raid of the federal armory there at the onset of the civil war, is a pretty town surrounded by the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, and the Appalachian Mountains. The Trail cuts straight through downtown and past the armory, but at 4 a.m. we trudged by in darkness. Just outside of town, a footbridge led us across the Potomac and into Maryland. Time: 5 a.m. The first eight miles of our ultra-marathon were exhausting and sore and humid and honestly, miserable. We arrived at the Ed Garvey Shelter (1015.8 miles) at 6:30 a.m., scarfed our breakfast, stretched our aching muscles and continued northward. At 8 a.m. we passed by Gathland State Park (1019.4 miles), where the Coke machine we'd been daydreaming about was broken and the bathrooms were locked. Nice. The park did boast a memorial to correspondents of the Civil War-the only one of its kind. Scattered along the 40 miles of trail in Maryland, we would see monuments to Civil War battles and general and veterans. Just past Boonsboro, MD we climbed the first monument to George Washington (1028.9 miles), erected in 1827. It was used by Union troops during the Civil War as a signal station and by local residents in search of a better view of the fighting. It has since been restored and the view of surrounding hills and countryside from atop was hazy, but beautiful. At this monument, we rested from the first 21 miles. It was 12:30 p.m. and I had gotten my second wind. The thunder began about 1 p.m., with a downpour to follow that soaked my shoes but revived me a bit. Just short of Annapolis Rocks (1034.0 miles), I snacked on Snickers and Combos and tried to ignore my wet feet and the tiredness slowly creeping over me again. The next eight miles were brutal-my head was heavy and my eyelids half-closed as I trudged mindlessly forward. I even weaved back and forth a bit like a pinball. I slumped down onto the picnic table at Ensign Cowall Shelter (1040.6 miles), ate a few granola bars and massaged my tired feet. I had been 33 miles in 13.5 hours and I still had another 10 miles to go. But, it was only 5 p.m. and a sudden wave of joy spread over me as I realized what we could do: we could make it to Pen-Mar Park (1050.2 miles)-just 0.2 milies short of the border-by sunset! We could finish this challenge before dark! Wtih the aide of my third wind, we took across the last 10 miles of Maryland. The final five miles of Maryland, named the Devil's Racecourse, involved a tricky manuevering over boulders and pointy rocks jutting up from the ground at different angles and heights. But, I jumped from rock to rock and ignored my sore ankles and creeky knees. At 8:30 p.m., we entered Pen-Mar Park and watched the sunset over nearby Waynesboro, PA. I cooked my noodles and tuna and took off my shoes and breathed a big sigh of relief. We were 0.2 miles from the Maryland/Pennsylvania border, so we kicked back and revelled inour imminent glory. At 10:30 p.m., we crossed the Mason-Dixon Line (1050.4 miles), found a place to tent just north and crashed harder than I think I ever have before. To be precise, we covered 44.6 miles in just under 20 hours. EeeeHAAAWWWW!! The real challenge though-the half-gallon ice cream challenge-came today (June 22nd). Mouse and I-after hiking 23 miles to Pine Grove Furnace State Park (1088.2 miles) and crossing the half-way mark (1087.3 miles)-ate a half-gallon each of Death by Chocolate; him in 25 minutes and I in 34 minutes. We'll be rewarded with a cool wooden spoon! Tomorrow, we'll hitch into Gettysburg, PA to check out the museum there and the bloodiest battlefield in American history. From the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. I looked at the National Mall from the spot were Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I have a dream" speech. I also visited the graves of both John and Bobby Kennedy at teh National Cemetary in Arlington. It's a true jouney, this hiking business. So, from Pine GroveFurnace State Park, Donkey (LOVE) is officially in the north and closer to Maine than Georgia!

While lazing away a sunny afternoon at Hog Camp Gap (799.1 miles)-18 miles already under my belt, my boots off and the meadow a soft bed for daydreaming-I thought about what it is I love so much about this A.T. experience. It IS the sunsets and beautiful vistas; the bright pinks and whites of blooming rhododendrons; the endless greens of plants and trees at lower elevations; the different smells from wildflowers and honeysuckle; the deer and toads and bunnies and grouse and wild turkeys and black snakes; the mountain streams and fresh air. It IS all of these. But what I (and the rest of us, I think) love most about all of this is that out here, we can be kids again :) We can play outside from the moment the sun comes up until it goes down and even then we can sleep out in tents. We can have campfires and make s'mores and tell stories and jokes. We can eat Poptarts and M & Ms and candy bars all day long. We can catch toads and poke at snakes. We can swim in mountain streams and creeks. We can wear the same clothes everyday and never have to take a bath or comb our hair. And when we go into town, we can chug Coca-Cola and grape soda and stuff ourselves full of junk food. Out here, we can do what we want whenever we want. This is our summer camp without the counselors (or, for Hot Springs and I, without the kids). We can do all the things we wanted to do but weren't allowed when we were young. And while doing this, we can walk 2,100 miles through 14 states, from Georgia to Maine. At that field near Hog Camp Gap, I was less than one mile from the 800-mile mark. Both my boots were busted at the seams, my pack's zipper was broken and my poison ivy was in its final stages (but still itchy-scratchy)-but I had hiked nearly 800 miles in two months! In the 180 miles since Pearisburg, VA (and my last post) I have stood face-to-face with a young deer. He was coming our way along the trail when he spotted us, but he darted into the woods too quickly for me to get a picture. The following day, Hot Springs, Mouse, Zoomer, Cabernet, Scarecrow, Puffy Nipples, Cheeto and I sat atop Dragon's Tooth (686.1 miles)-a jagged rocky outcrop at 3,020' that juts up 30 feet and overlooks miles and miles of mountains and valleys around Catawba, VA-and decided we were undoubtedly at the most amazing spot yet on the trail. We had climbed almost 2,000 feet in 5 miles under a blazing sun to get there, but were rewarded with six Mountain Dews left trailside by an Angel and the best view so far! In Catawba itself, we gorged ourselves on fried chicken and ham and potatoes and green beans with gravy at The Homplace. In true through-hiker fashion, we ate until we couldn't see straight. And when the waitress came by to ask if we needed anything else, Puffy Nipples declined with a polite "Bwwaaahhggggggoooohhhhhaaa." In other news, here are some new faces: Ork and Bean, Violet and Clocktower, Just Judy, RushHour, Fiddlehead (Peace Corps El Salvador), Shell Shock, Hellbender, Dinosaur, Natty Boh, Rasta Legs, Sleeper, Thumbs, Gravy, Poptart, Firefly, Jolly Green Giant, Fatcamp, Pebbles, Lucky Dime, Goldfish, Cash, Mudflap and Daisy, Superman, Coconut Monkey, Lonestar, Burner and iPath. Gear, a 12-year-old who takes his name from the MSR Hubba Hubba tent description (it hold 2 people, plus gear) is through-hiking with his father and older sister. He is home schooled on the trail and in towns and seems to love this experience more than any of us. Several nights ago at Punchbowl Shelter (781.5 miles) about 10 of us carried sodas and hot dogs with chips and fixins for s'mores up from Big Island, VA. A Trail Angel who had shuttled us into town provided a watermelon and fresh grapes and we feasted like we never have in the woods. Ah, to be a kid again! I'm writing this post in my journal at Reeds Gap (829.0 miles)-a field bordered by Virginia Route 664 and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Hot Springs and Mouse are asleep in their tents and the moon is almost full as it shines down through the mesh in mine. Tomorrow afternoon we'll be in Waynesboro, VA to re-supply and shower. We'll stuff ourselves full of fast food and junk. I'll get my free replacement pack from Osprey and call EMS about some new boots. And then, Shenandoah National Park and the last 150 miles of Virginia! So, until next time, Donkey (LOVE) is wild in the woods and enjoying the pleasures of childhood all over again :)

In my attempt to heed Bill Porter's advice-to hold off on the nitty-gritty of trail life and instead wax philosophically and comically about what the trail means to me-I've realized that the nitty-gritty of life on the A.T. might be just what you want. What does Donkey (LOVE) eat out there? Where does he sleep? How much does he carry? What's a typical day like on the trail? Well, because you asked for it (sort of), and to spice things up a bit, I'll tell you the not-so-typical tale of Hot Springs and my Mother's Day night-hike. Hot Springs and I began the 13th of May at Trimpi Shelter (512.6 miles). It was a beautiful sunny morning-the first since leaving Damascus, VA four days earlier. Breakfast that morning included two packets of instant oatmeal (the hot water came from my JetBoil) and a package of Poptarts. Breakfast of champions, maybe; breakfast of lightweight through-hikers, definitely. The first 10 miles meandered gently through cow pastures and an abandoned farm-nothing too steep. The sun was warm, my pack was light (I was out of food), my feet felt fine and my spirits were high. Even more noteworthy, I was completely dry for the first time in days. We arrived at Partnership Shelter (523.6 miles), which neighbors Mt. Rogers National Recreation Headquarters, around noon. The nicest shelter yet, Partnership boasted a shower and sink with hot water! And, because you can order pizza from nearby Marion, VA via a pay phone at the Mt. Rogers HQ, it is fondly referred to among through-hikers as the "Pizza Shelter." We'd been hearing about it, reading about it (in the trail registers) and dreaming about it for days. The Pizza Shelter-Mmmmmm! Leaving our packs at Partnership, we hitched into Marion to re-supply our food bags. We needed food for five days. At two pounds of food a day, that would be 10 pounds of grub. Here's what I bought: -peanuts, raisins and M&M's for GORP

-instant oatmeal packets and Poptarts for breakfast

-two sausage rounds and cereal bars for lunch

-mac and cheese, tuna packets and Lipton meals for dinner

-cookies and brown sugar for whenever

-more cereal bars for snacking

-fruit punch mix (water gets old after a while)

-cocoa With heavy food bags slung over our shoulders, we coerced a ride back to the shelter from none other than the pizza delivery girl-she was already on the way to rescue some starving hikers! Hot Springs sealed that deal-good thinking, I thought. Back at Partnership, we lazed away the rest of a sunny afternoon tossing the Frisbee and talking with friends. By sundown, though, we were ready for our night-hike. We'd heard rain was on the way, but when wasn't it? Our cohorts-enjoying leftover pizza and soda-watched amusingly from the shelter as we walked away into the night. In the course of the next five hours, we would see rain and lightning and Hot Spring's headlamp would flicker out, forcing him to trail closely behind me. But then, the clouds cleared and we were treated to meadows and shadows of mountains illuminated by the full moon. The trail even went by an old abandoned one-room school. The door was wide open as we passed and a clock could be heard ticking, so I popped my head in to check the time-11:45 p.m. At 1 a.m., the trail crossed Virginia Route 683 and ran beside an all-night truck stop. Blinded by the neon signs, we stopped for coffee, junk food and a two-hour rest. The old man behind the counter was happy to let us sit, and so we did. At 3 a.m., with light drizzle coming down, we set off again, intending to camp at the first nice spot we found. But there were no spots, and 2.6 miles later we arrived at Davis Path Shelter (537.5 miles). Not wanting to wake anyone there, we pressed on in search, again, of a nice tenting spot. But, our competitiveness and desire to see how far we could hike in one day (and night) got the better of us and we pushed on 11 more miles to Knot Maul Branch Shelter (548.7 miles). I arrived at 9:30 a.m. with Hot Springs not far behind. We were past exhaustion and too tired to celebrate our victory-35 miles in 24 hours! It was as much as we'd wanted to hike in two days. So, we rolled out our pads and sleeping bags and moved in to that shelter until the next morning. Days later, we would meet people that asked, "are you the guys that were sleeping in that shelter when I came by for lunch?" Indeed, we were. The sunrise that morning was amazing-one Hollywood can't capture. We walked by grazing cattle and across beautiful pastures. For this, I'm glad to have pulled an all-nighter in the woods-but not again, I don't think. It was too tiring. As for the things I carry (to borrow loosely from Tim O' Brien's Vietnam War memoir), I've got: -Osprey Atmos 50 pack and rain cover

-Marmot Trestles 30 sleeping bag

-MSR Hubba tent

-Mountain Hardware gaiters

-Leki Ti Luam trekking poles

-Jetboil stove with one spare fuel canister

-Icebreaker wool long underwear

-Sportif USA fleece pullover

-EMS long-sleeve

-Mountain Hardware Mountain Kilt

-Columbia Omni-Dry T-shirt

-two pairs of wool socks, one pair liner socks, one pair waterproof socks

-EMS DryRiver boots

-Aqua Mira water purification system

-Mountain Suds soap

-toothbrush and toothpaste

-binoculars

-Mountain Hardware fleece hat and EMS gloves

-Terramar quick-dry boxer briefs

-Marmot Precip rain gear

-Holey Soles rubber camp shoes

-Thru-Hikers Handbook (Dan "Wingfoot" Bruce, 2006)

-The Firm by John Grisham (for now, anyway)

-food bag

-first-aid kit and sunscreen

-Leatherman Juice tool

-Platapus 2 liter water bag, 1 liter Nalgene bottle and spare Gatorade bottle

-Thermarest air pad

-Petzl Zipka headlamp

-Osprey beer cozy (Trail Days gift) With a full bag of food and one liter of water, I carry about 35 pounds. So, until next time, Donkey (LOVE) is in Pearisburg, VA and heading north.

In our world here in the woods, there's an art to mooching. It may take a week or two, but any good thru-hiker knows how to finagle a few extra snacks and when it's not too soon to ask, "are you finished with that?" The joke out here goes: A day hiker comes across an M & M on the trail and, for a moment of entertainment, crushes it with the sole of his boot. A section-hiker sees the M & M and considers about eating it, but decides that eating an M & M that's been left in the dirt for goodness knows how long is not the best idea and steps over it. A thru-hiker spots the red or blue or green candy from at least 0.3 miles away, lunges for it and devours it. If this seems an exaggeration, then let me humor you with a story from the trail: Hot Springs (formerly Corey), River Weasel and I hiked in to Iron Mountain Shelter (at 433.6 miles) in the rain. It had been raining since the morning and for the better part of four days. There was a section hiker already moved-in when we arrived. We were wet, cold, hungry and thirsty. The section hiker was eating a power bar when a sizable chunk fell to the dirt. He picked it up and peered at it, then wound-up to throw it away. Quickly, I asked, "what is that? Is that food?" He answered, "yeah, it's a piece of power bar-it's a goner." We answered this with a quick, "wait! wait! wait! I'll eat it if you don't want it!" Indeed, it is a hungry business, hiking. In other news, Corey and I have played 27 holes of disc golf and 33 games of gin rummy-both of which Corey is unfortunately in the lead. New faces, as usual: Mystic, ProVo, Nokia, Boulder Rabbit (Aussie), Rhyme & Reason, Postcard, Bugler and Willow. In a stand against normality and the dusk-till-dawn hiking mentality, Hot Springs and I went six miles one day and camped on Beauty Spot. We had the tents set up by 12:30 p.m. and were treated to a lazy, sunny day and a beautiful sunset. We're in Damascus, Virginia now-tired and damp after a 26-mile day and nearly two weeks of rain. Damascus is just short of the 1/4-way mark-I've gone 459.5 miles in 36 days. Yeehaw! We'll be back in Damascus in two weeks for Trail Days-a homecoming for past thru-hikers and a hippie hiker fest for the rest of us. So, until then, Donkey (LOVE) is in Virginia-state #4

It's the A.T. motto: Always room for one more. Room for one more dripping wet hiker in a small shelter; room for one more soda or slice of pizza in town; room for one more mile or one more burger at Trail Magic. hiking the Appalachian Trail is all about FOOD--snacking all day and thinking and talking about food all night. I'm hungry all the time now; I eat every time I stop and even when I'm hiking. And when I'm in town, there's always room for one more! Here’s my new cast of characters: Chardonnay and Cabernet, Three Dollar, Outlaw, Good Times Charlie, Flannel, Granite (State Nate), Pro from Dover, Commando, Mandingo, Jaguar, Miles, Aloha and Little Spoon. I’ve now come 338.7 miles in 26 days. It’s rained eight of the last 10 days—of course April showers bring May flowers, but I’m glad to be in town and dry out a little. You’ve got to remember when Thru-hiking, though, that the rain will eventually stop and you’ll be dry and warm again. The uphills will eventually be downhills, and visa versa. And eventually, you’ll eat a good meal. The trail is beautiful and the journey as good as ever. So, from Erwin, TN, Donkey (Love) is going for another burger!

I stood at the highest point on the A.T.—Klingman’s Dome (6,643 feet)—on my 16th day of hiking. Alongside me were Bare Bear and Mouse, River Weasel and Silverfoot (Peace Corps Malawi), Salt, Gringo, Dick Tracy, Zippo, H-Bomb and Shasta: my Smoky Mountain crew. We stuck together through five days of beautiful trails and amazing ridgeline views. Per park regulations, thru-hikers must stay at the shelters along the Trail, so we spent our days and nights together. It was great. We also survived the storm of all storms, that blew in unexpectently mid-morning on my 17th day. Here’s an excerpt from my journal that day: I just walked through the hailstorm from hell! I got about 1.5 miles from Icewater Springs Shelter and it started to get dark and windy. Then, about 50 feet in front of me, the mist and fog began to swirl and gush and almost immediately huge hailstones began to fall. It was thundering and lightening and so windy—I had to walk the ridge sideways to block the hail from smacking into my face. I was so wet (and much cleaner, consequently) that I trudged 6.6 miles to Pecks Corner Shelter to dry out! Mouse, Salt, Baro and Jane all braved the storm together, hunkered down just below one of the ridgelines—not me though, I kept on going. I’m heading out of Hot Springs today, after a restful day. Corey is with me, too! So, was KrewZer the Trail Angel told me about getting out of camp in the morning: Out by seven, feels like heaven; out by eight, it’s not too late; out by nine, you’re doing fine; out by 10, it’s no sin; out by 11, just like seven! Until next time, Donkey (Love) is on the Trail.

This post was written in my journal on 4/14/06: I’m in Fontana Dam, NC-gateway to the Smokies and southern entrance to Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I’ve come 161.5 miles in 11 days, and among the many things on my mind, I’ll share these thoughts: -Can I bounce my boots to Gatlinburg, TN and trek the Smokies in my Chacos? It’s risky… -Will I see a bear? I’ve been told it’s almost a guarantee. Well, I hope I do. Big X, a 17-year-old escaping “all that Katrina crap” told me you don’t have to outrun bears, you just have to outrun your friends. That sounds like good advice to me. I spent a restful day on the sunny banks of the Nantahala River at the Nantahala Outdoor Center (www.noc.com). It’s where I began this post, soaking my blisters, resting my knee, waiting for my laundry to dry and reveling in my first week and a half on the Trail. Since Franklin, NC, I’ve seen the sunrise on an early morning ridge-walk, saw all the stars and a full moon from my tarp-tent and spent my nights around the campfire. Of the new faces on my journey, there’s Salt and Pepper (the dog), Rip (from Plymouth, MA) and Shasta and H-bomb (both were in Peace Corps Tanzania). The best part of the Trail, so far, has been sharing my daily adventures before bed with my hiking comrades. No matter how fast or slow we hike, or when we stagger into camp, we’ve all climbed the same peaks and long descents; seen the same beautiful ridge-top views and wildflowers. We all treat our water and boil our meals; hang our bear bags and brave the cold mornings. We all come into town looking (and smelling) like homeless people, and we all appreciate the beauty of living so simply and the adventure of hiking so far. Peace Corps and Ukraine gave me the spirit of adventure and the courage to just go. But nothing has prepared me for how truly great this is—hiking north everyday, meeting people at shelters and catching up and falling behind my new friends. As for the day to day aches and pains and sleeping on the ground and using the privy and being more dirty than I’ve ever been before, Bill Porter told me that was the kid of hiker-writing he couldn’t stand. “We all know it hurts and it’s hard,” he said. But for those who think climbing mountains and walking everyday and sleeping outside and getting hungry and thirsty and sunburned and smelly for six months is silly—well, they’ll never see the views I see everyday. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Easter Trail Magic: It’s a wonderful thing to be plodding along and come across a table full of the most wonderful assortment of fruits and sweets and sodas and hot drinks. Or to break up a midmorning hike with Capri Suns found cold in a stream. It’s a wonderful thing, Trail Magic is! I managed an 18.5 mile hike from somewhere between the N.O.C. (Nantahala Outdoor Center) and Fontana Dam, NC. And my reward: a hot dog, hamburger, spaghetti, soda and Easter candy extgravaganza put on by former thru-hikers KrewZer and Rabbit. That, my friends, is Trail Magic. My Easter hike was a meandering and beautiful 16 miles into Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I hiked along a five-mile ridge-top filled with white and lavender spring flowers as far as I could see. The white birches—bare in early spring—along with the blanket of flowers made everything look almost winter-like. The grass poking up between the flowers was so bright—it looked the shredded green in an Easter basket. It was indeed a good Easter. The Smoky Mountains are home to an estimated 1,600 black bears—one of the biggest black bear population densities in the country. I haven’t seen one yet, but I’m bound to. Don’t you think? Now, once again, the new characters on my walk in the woods: Slowcoach and Spindle-shanks (South African couple), Soulive, RAEL, Doc Narly, Slideshow, Nacho, Bare Bear, Dick Tracy, Zippo, Wild Bill, Funk and Eagle. Eagle is the first Army vet to attempt the long distance hiking triple crown: Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental Divide Trail. I’ll leave you this time with some thru-hiker slang (important for those of you planning to join me somewhere along the trail: -I.B. Hikin’ (cause’ without it, I ain’t)—I.B. Profin

-Blue-blazer—anyone who takes a side trail to bypass part of the A.T. Called so because all side trail off the A.T. are marked with blue blazes.

-Elevensies—any snack after breakfast (Lord of the Rings fans should know this one)

-Slack-packing—any hiking done without a full pack on. So, until next time, Donkey (Love) is on the Trail.

Burkina Faso is a small African nation; south of Mali and Niger, north of Ghana, Toga and the Ivory Coast. In the countryside near the capital-Ouagadougou-Drew worked as a business development volunteer with the Peace Corps. He did accounting, among other odd jobs, for a consortium of handicraft artisans. He spent the wet and dry seasons of two years there, eating rice with different pastes and sauces, getting malaria and using the outdoor privy. He finished his service in November, 2005, and four months later found himself at Hawk Mountain Shelter, GA alongside yours truly, Donkey (Love) * story to follow Among others I’ve met at the beginning of my great journey north: Downhill, Clearwater (from Marion, MA), Turtle, Marley, Ramblin’ Man, Naps (a-lot), Universal Solvent, Sage, Zoomer, Gringo, Mouse, Hippie Longstockings, Deedelus, Girl Hobo, Mapman and Robin, Pacecar, Waterfall, Sweet-T (from Lexington, MA)… One man, Power Stroke, from West Virginia, started from Key West, Florida on January 1st. When he reached Springer Mountain on April 3rd, he’d already hiked some 1,900 miles. He’s going all the way to Cape Gaspe, Quebec along the Atlantic Coast Trail-4,800 miles. He crossed the bridge that connects the Keys with mainland Florida in 95 degree heat with not a single bit of shade. He waded through swamps and bogs and,in the bitter mornings of late January, he had to pry open his frozen shoes with pliers and slowly work his feet in. He’ll be 60-years-old this year. And then there was Nick, who for the 2.5 years he studied at UC Santa Cruz, lived 60 feet up in a self-styled tree-house. These are the characters I’m hiking with! A wise man named Bill Porter (he shuttled me from Atlanta to Springer) told me that there are hikers that write and writers and that hike, and he wondered which was I. Well, after 8 days in the woods, I’m not exactly sure. Is it the writer in me that loves the shadowy designs the late afternoon sun casts on the trail? Is it the hiker in me that loves a sunset dinner overlooking the mountains and ridges and gaps and peaks that gave me my scrapes and blisters and “Thru-Hiker grime” of the day? I think I just love hiking. I made it out of Georgia on my 5th day in the afternoon. I had behind me 75 miles, including a 23-mile day. Deedelus told me that hiking the A.T. is like tuning into a radio station. At first, there’s a lot of static and everything is hard and you’re tired and sore and you don’t really pay attention to where you are and what you’re really doing. Your mind is full of song lyrics and past conversations and problems that can’t be solved. But then you tweak the dial just right and you find your station. You start to look around and see the spring wildflowers and watch the insects and bugs and the pain slides away-then you tune-in to the trail. I found my station on my 6th day, sitting by a campfire at Carter Gap Shelter, NC while sharing stories and jokes with fellow hikers as the sun set behind the mountains. We are all alone on our northbound trek, but we use the registers at each shelter to keep in touch with each other. Messages are passed through hikers up and down the trail. We go by our trail names, so as promised, here’s the story of mine: I spent my fourth night at The Blueberry Patch, a hiker hostel and Baptist Mission run by former thru-hiker Gary “Trail Chef” Poteat and his wife Lennie outside Hiawassee, GA. One of their donkeys, SweetBee, took a liking to me as I set up my tarp-tent by his stable. He was blowing me kisses and carrying on such that the boys I was with dubbed me Donkey (Love) because that’s what I got. So, until my next post, I’ll leave you with this quote, popular among through hikers. “The only difference between a hobo and a thru-hiker is Gortex.”

My next adventure begins... On April 3rd, 2006, I will set out from Springer Mountain, Georgia to conquer the grand-daddy of all long trails. The Appalachian Trail, known simply as the "A.T." among those who hike on it, is a 2174.6-mile-long scenic mountaintop footpath used each year by thousands of backpackers from around the world to fellowship with wilderness and commune with nature. "Remote for detachment, narrow for chosen company, winding for leisure, lonely for contemplation, the Appalachian Trail beckons not merely north and south, but upward to the body, mind and soul of man." A little history The Appalachian Trail is a 2174.6 mile footpath through fourteen states along the Appalachian Mountain chain-stretching from Springer Mountain in Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine. Since the first hikers attempted the entire trail in 1948, only about 4,000 people have claimed a successful hike of the entire distance. Physically, the trail is a simple footpath marked by white 2x6 inch painted rectangles known as blazes. The AT passes through deciduous and coniferous forests, moutains above and below the treeline, meadows, grassy bald mountains, and even swamps. Along the trail are various shelters ranging from the popular three-sided lean-to, to converted barns, to small cabins. At some points the trail goes directly through a town especially when it is necessary to cross a large river. Some parts of the trail like the Smokey Mountains and Shenandoah National Park receive very high usage by the public. Other sections like the "Hundred Mile Wilderness" in Maine are frequented by few. My itinerary for the first few weeks (tentative, of course) looks like this:

4/3-Springer Mountain, GA

4/11-Franklin, NC

4/15-Fontana Dam, NC

4/18-Gatlinburg, TN

4/24-Hot Springs, NC (Corey Nunlist joins me) I'll try to post from the Trail bi-weekly, though I've no idea how present the Internet will be on my journey. In a way, I hope my opporunity to post here on Anize is rare, but it's almost impossible to stay unconnected these days. So, until next time...

I wrote the following as a speech to the Osterville Rotary Club on 18 January, 2006. I've been meaning for some time to pen a conclusion to my continuing story about Peace Corps and Ukraine. The speech was well received--that no one got up and left during the middle of it is apparently a sign of good work over there. Anyway, here it is: my farewell to Ukraine and the life of a Peace Corps volunteer. I am thrilled, but admittedly a little nervous to be speaking to you today about my experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ukraine: Thrilled that I've been given this motivation to organize my thoughts on Ukraine and the whole Peace Corps thing, as well as this opportunity to share with you what I've learned about the world and about people and about myself; nervous about the responsibility of painting an accurate picture of the experience of being a Peace Corps volunteer and of being your window into Ukraine. During my time in Ukraine I acted as the Voice of America--an expert on all things American. A little later I'll speak about the opinions and views of most Ukrainians about our country and my experiences trying to straighten out the truth and the fiction from what the Soviets painted as the reality of our world here in America. This is really a unique experience for me, a sort of role reversal to be the Voice of Ukraine and to maybe dispel or confirm some of your opinions and views on THAT part of the world. Firstly, I want to talk about my reasons for joining Peace Corps: what I hoped to accomplish and what I did accomplish; what I learned there about myself and how its shaped my direction in life; and finally what I plan to do and how I hope to use those Peace Corps experiences in the future. Conveniently, dividing my service into a beginning, middle and end along with the three goals of the Peace Corps mission work perfectly to sort of guide me through these points I'd like to make. Peace Corps has played a huge--and significant--part of my life and I want to try and relay to you my experience as personally as I can and to show you how my opinion and understanding of Ukrainian life changed and matured during my time there. So I'll begin with the beginning. I spent my first twelve weeks in "Super Intense and Awfully Exhausting" Peace Corps Training, which involved four hours of Ukrainian Language class a day, 6 days a week--almost 280 hours cooped up in a small apartment with two other Americans and an understandably nervous Ukrainian teacher. I've never used my brain in quite the same way, and though I'm not yet fluent, I can speak about a great many things in Ukrainian and understood almost everything people said to me--unless they were speaking Russian or a Ukrainian/Russian mixture or other, numerous mixtures of Eastern European languages and dialects. Well, perhaps I can't understand most people. My survival there, though, depended on my knowledge of that language and so I studied diligently for twelve weeks and was so completely and utterly wrapped up in learning to communicate with Ukrainian people that days turned into weeks, weeks--months, and quite suddenly, it seemed, I had completed my language training and was separated from my safe Peace Corps protection and set loose to speak to the people. I lived those first twelve weeks in Borova, a small village an hour southwest of Kyiv. With a population of 8,000, it was as old, run down and provincial as you can get. Most, or maybe all, of those people had never seen an American before--not outside their favorite "horribly inaccurate depiction of American life" television shows, anyway. I completed my Peace Corps Teaching Practicum in Borova School, No. 2. This was very difficult for me, and I knew then that teaching would not be my forte. But, the notion that we all must love our jobs to be truly happy is a very American conception--over there, jobs are not meant to be loved, they're meant to be done quickly and forgotten about even quicker. To be miserable at work, I thought, would make for a truly cultural experience. I lived in Borova with a wonderful host family who were deeply religious and kind and taught me to live and survive in this new culture. And the seven young children I lived with helped me immensely to learn this new language. As I said about my time in Australia, and at Syracuse--about everywhere I've ever been perhaps--it's not where you are but the people you're with that make great moments in life, and I sincerely believe that about my time with my host family in Borova. I'll speak a little more about the Ukrainian people later. Peace Corps' first goal is to help the people of interested countries in meeting their needs for trained men and women. How I planned to do that, by way of teaching English as a foreign language to Secondary School students, I'm still not entirely sure. I do know that the Ukrainian economy is in shambles right now--not surprising considering Ukraine seceded from the Soviet Union less than fifteen years ago and capitalism is still a new idea there. If Ukrainian businesses want to compete with the world, and especially if Ukraine wants to join the European Union, Ukrainians will need to know English. And not English from Soviet era textbooks or rap songs, but fluent conversational English. I gave a majority of the people I met there their first experience with a foreigner, and I think I reshaped the way they think about the world and particularly the United States in a more positive way. Most Ukrainians in Mukachevo (my home for two years), and I think nearly all Ukrainians in Borova and the many small villages around Ukraine, had never and will never have the opportunity to learn about anything outside of this city and those villages. It's nearly impossible to get a visa for travel to the United States and abroad, and most people can’t afford it anyway. In fact, most people can't afford any travel, thus their entire sphere of knowledge encompasses merely the city or village where they live and what they can see on television. Ukrainians that know English, though, can become translators and participate in exchange programs with universities in Great Britain and the United States, and gain opportunities to leave Ukraine and see and experience the world, and then return and help others that live there to broaden their own knowledge of the world. Also, I think it gave many Ukrainians a certain self-confidence to think that I would want to leave the United States and come learn about their culture and their lives and live there for 2 years. During my time in the Peace Corps and since leaving, I’ve often wondered if any of that is true. Will any of my students enter universities or exchange programs using the English I taught them? Maybe. Will any of my students ever leave Ukraine or even stray far from Mukachevo? Probably not. What I did do was give my students and colleagues a real friendship with an American. I gave them confidence to speak English with foreigners—even those that don’t speak that well. Most importantly for me, I gave them two years of memories and experiences with me that I know are very special to them. With such limited opportunity to travel and to meet people from different countries and cultures, life over there can become pretty mundane. Most people are married with children and working the job they’ll work till retirement before they’re 23. To be my age and traveling and making plans for a 5 month hiking endevour (the AT) is quite unthinkable there. I gave people something to talk about, something to laugh about and something to remember. This brings me to the second Peace Corps goal: to help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served. This was the most difficult of the three goals to achieve. For 46 years, the Kremlin ruled Ukraine, telling its people where to work, what to do, where to go, what to think and more importantly, what not to think. For 46 years Ukrainians knew nothing of how the world really was outside the former U.S.S.R. Ukrainians were told how great their country was: their technology, their industry, their schools and their way of life--and how backwards ours was. And for 46 years they were told to be distrustful of foreigners, especially Americans. They believed this then, and many still do. In fact, almost all of the people I met in Ukraine--colleagues, friends, host families--had something negative to say about America. They believe our diet of artificial flavors and preservatives is inferior to theirs of fried fat and alcohol, even when I told them we live longer than they do because of it. They believe their system of education—of bribing professors for higher marks and passing every student to the next grade regardless of what they know or don’t know—is superior to ours, even when I told them we have the best universities in the world and when our students graduate high school, they really know something. And they believe that all of America is like New York City--that we have no forests and mountains like theirs--even when I told them we have beautiful nature in every state, and without garbage everywhere. Most of the time, I found myself on the defensive about my reasons for being in Ukraine and about my own country. When Ukrainians complained to me about their problems and how poor they were or how difficult it was to live with all of their family cramped in a small apartment, they were always sure to point out that we have none of those problems in America. I, of course, would counter with a list of the problems we have in America--crime, divorce, poverty, etc. I would tell them many families in our inner-cities live just as cramped as they and struggle just as hard to get by. Of course it’s all relative. Even the poorest families in our Big Brothers Big Sisters program here on Cape Cod live in better conditions than some average income families in Ukraine. On the other hand, most Ukrainian families grow all their own vegetables and raise their own chickens, etc. which makes life, even for poor families, a lot cheaper there than here. Anyway, my struggle to explain and show people a true America was frustrating and never ending. When the Berlin Wall fell in 1989 and Ukraine gained its independence in 1991, people for the first time in the history of the Soviet empire were able to read and watch news from abroad. My Ukrainian coordinator told me that when most people saw how far ahead America and Western Europe were technologically and socially, it was so shocking that it seemed unreal. Many people just couldn’t believe what they were seeing and reading. Old habits die hard I guess, and I suppose I’ve finally realized that the best I could give--and the best I gave--those people was to just be myself--to be American and as absolutely normal as I could be. Before I continue, I'd like to share a somewhat humorous excerpt from an essay I wrote about a day in my life as volunteer in Ukraine. I should first state that, after living with two host families for a total of three months, I found a small, one-room apartment with only a couch to sleep on and running water a mere 5 hours a day. The following bit centers on my struggle to do all that I needed to do with water during my two hours of running water a night. I am--as my friends often say--nearly a Ukrainian. To start, I am a slave to my apartment building’s water schedule. Alongside my neighbors, I rush home at seven every evening to wash my clothes, take my bath, cook and clean, and fill my buckets for the next day--all in two hours. I have perfected the art of filling my bathtub (a 45 minute endeavor) while cooking and eating dinner, then washing my dishes all without wasting any water or turning off my ancient water-heater. More importantly, I have learned to live without running water. To illustrate just what a feat that is: without running water, my toilet flushes just once--Yes. I can drink 100 grams of vodka followed by a slab of pure fat on bread and not vomit. More importantly, I can do this with my colleagues in between lessons and still remember what future-in-the-past tense actually is. Ok, now the third goal of Peace Corps: to help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of all Americans. Hopefully, I've given you an insight into Ukrainian life and personalized a country and it's people about which you may have heard very little, if anything at all. I'd like to talk in more detail, though, about the Ukrainian psyche and the state of affairs in Ukraine today. "Ukraine is not yet dead," is the dramatic, yet fitting first stanza in the country's national anthem. It reminds me of a big storm we had in Mukachevo last May, a storm with stronger winds than I’ve ever seen (or heard, more appropriately). There were uprooted trees and parts of roofs and balconies strewn all over the streets. One large chestnut crashed through my classroom window--incidentally, this did not deter me from giving my 8th grade their final English test of the year, despite the wind blowing in and the Babushkas sweeping up the large shards of glass. Thus I had all my pupils crowded three to a desk as far from the wind and cold and occasional spit of rain as they could get (and with no electricity, in the dark). I thought about postponing the test until Monday, but nobody seemed to mind. I had just read in the Kyiv Post that Nikita Khrushchev commissioned the housing blocks we all abide in during the 1950s and 60s as a temporary housing solution. They were meant to last 20 years. Fifty-five years later, I was sure this "Storm of ‘05" would finally finish them off. But they remain--a little more beaten down and a bit dirtier--but still standing. Since time began, it seems, Ukrainians have survived wars, famines, droughts, floods and repressive political regimes. Afterwards, Ukrainians have picked themselves up, brushed themselves off and awaited the next disaster. Like their buildings after our latest storm, they’re a bit more ragged and slightly more depressed, but life goes on. No one seems to think too much about tomorrow. When the water doesn't come on or the bus is two hours late, no one makes a fuss. When I explain to my colleagues that in America our things don’t break nearly as often as theirs and the bus almost always comes when it should (and when it doesn't, we all throw a fit!), they shrug and smile and say, “such is life in Ukraine.” After Yushenko's election to the presidency, I listened to my colleague's talk about all the problems he would make right. A year later, as I prepared to leave Ukraine, I listened as they contemplated why he hadn’t done what they thought he would do. Why aren’t our salaries higher or the roads cleaner? Then they’d lament their higher taxes (which they don’t pay) and more expensive goods. I explained to them that if they paid these taxes, Yushenko would have more money to raise their salaries and fix their roads. Also, if they put their money in the bank instead of under their beds the economy would grow stronger. Then it wouldn’t matter if goods were a bit more expensive, I say, because everyone would have more money. They don't believe this though—they've never trusted the government with their money before and they don't really trust it now. During the Orange Revolution, I took my camera and watched as millions of Ukrainians crowded the streets of Kyiv and other cities to support their Yushenko, to support a new prosperity and the beginning of their true accent into Europe. But few, it seems, have really put their trust in this new government to improve the quality of life here. One year later, most are still living hand-to-mouth, unemployment is rampant and the only people making decent money in that country are smugglers and software pirates (and they're definitely not paying taxes or using the banks!). In Mukachevo, where most of the smuggling ring bosses (cigarettes and gasoline to Slovakia, Hungary and Poland) live, my plea that paying taxes, saving money in the banks and living honestly fell on deaf ears. This is Ukraine, they told me, and this is how things work here. But what about joining the European Union, I asked. You need to have a strong economy and trust your banks! And yeah, sure things will be more expensive here but everything’s more expensive in Europe. And if you join the European Union, Europeans and Americans will come and vacation here and you’ll make a lot of money! Dzordanchyk, they told me, that would be nice—but all we really want is enough money to have a party on the holidays and still make it to the next paycheck. Oh. It's difficult for me--for most of us--to imagine living hand-to-mouth and having the weight of Ukrainian history on our shoulders. I suppose if I were a poor Ukrainian and someone told me if I paid some taxes (thus making myself, initially, even poorer) to a government that, in my opinion, made me so poor in the first place, I'd say "no way" too. It seems so clear to me what my neighbors and colleagues and friends need to do there, how they need to change, to make living there easier. But they all tell me, usually with a sad kind of smile, that this is Ukraine, and such is life here. It doesn't help that most Ukrainians have never left Ukraine, never seen how other people live and how other governments deal with the same problems. And so, for them, life in Ukraine is how life should be—the only reality. They see images of America and Western Europe on television and they might even envy our comfort and security, but they don’t really believe in it. Ukraine is not dead yet, no. These people have an amazing will to keep living, to keep working and farming and sometimes smiling. But they need to truly want more for themselves if they'll ever have more than this. So that’s my Ukrainian story--hopefully I haven't depressed you with the state of affairs over there. I want to be realistic though, because there are so many good people and traditional Ukrainian culture is such a beautiful thing that all my efforts, and the efforts of my colleagues in Peace Corps are very important in that part of the world. My Ukrainian experience has taught me to value more deeply the connections I have with my family and friends as I witnessed how my Ukrainian host family and friends support each other, and as I was forced to live without mine for so long. I now appreciate in a meaningful way the difficulties of communicating solely in a second language and have a newfound respect for people over here who do it every day. I've learned to be happy with very little and to appreciate more deeply human relationships and the earth instead of materials and money. I know now that I want to work with at-risk and underprivileged children (in America) and to try and teach them that the way things are and the way things have to be are not one and the same.

With everything bad in the world right now and America on the forefront of several global confrontations, there’s a whole community of western Ukrainians who, when they think about America, might now think of me, and smile. They might remember and laugh about the time I got locked inside the school cafeteria or the Women’s Day concerts I performed in. My students might show their friends the autographs I signed for them and my neighbors might tell of the time they had a real American as a guest--and that he was a normal guy. I personalized and helped make understandable our people and our way of life here in America. In this way, I think I succeeded as a Peace Corps volunteer.

Written for Peace Corps Ukraines volunteer newsletter Nu Shcho, September 2005 On the way down from the summit of Mt. HoverlaUkraines highest peakI paused with one of the boys from our Camp TOBE to look out at the Ukrainian Carpathians. With trash bags in our hands, we noticed some garbage down the slope off the trail. We have to make a decision here Artur, I said. How far down are we going to climb just to pick up litter? Ill go get itfor my country, he replied. When Artur and I reached the bottom, we threw our full trash bags into a pile with the rest of our groupwe had filled 12 bags from the trail down Hoverla. Artur told me hed never really wanted to pick up as much trash as he could before. I smiled of course. And so ended our small but successful Camp TOBE 2005. This year we brought together five teenage boys from the Zakarpathian town of Mukachevo for three days of lessons on leadership, civic responsibility, environmental health, anti-smoking and making smart life choices. In the afternoons we played Ultimate Frisbee and American Football. We then camped at Mt. Hoverla for two nights. Peace Corps Volunteers Michael Shanley, Kenny Kurata, Chad Close, Noel Maharaj and I gave the lessons. We then met an experienced guide at Mt. Hoverla who led us up the mountain and helped us set up camp. The camping equipment was bought with money from a SPA grant written for last years campthe rest of this years camp was funded by money raised at Group 23s COS auction. A week before we arrived at the mountain, several people had died while climbing. This (some parents were afraid to send their children) and a few sicknesses contributed to our small number of campers. However, the boys that came were motivated and enthusiastic. We made collages depicting our lives now and the futures we want for ourselves. We created our own definitions of leadership and spoke about our responsibilities to our families and our communities. We then wrote letters to ourselves about our goals and how we could become better leaders during the next six months (well give the letters back around Christmas). The night before we left to go camping, the boys used the skills they had learned in their leadership lesson to create and give us Americans a lesson on how to be good English teachers (well share what we learned with anyone who wants!). They helped cook and clean up while we were camping and even beat a few of us up the mountain. Theres a monument on top of Mt. Hoverla that holds a time capsule. Supporters of President Yushenko put it there recently it reads we go with our President Victor Yushenko toward the future. Dig up what weve buried here in 2015. I have no doubt that in ten years Ukraine will be a very different place. But its how Ukrainians think about their future and their environment and their families and communities that will really change Ukraine for the better, not more modern versions of the stuff buried in that capsule. If there are more boys out there like the five at our camp, however, Ukraine is on the right track.

In conclusion to a second (and last) Peace Corps summer, Ill begin with some transportation troubles in Romania and the first real dead body Ive ever seen. My plan to stay and work and hike at a Habitat for Humanity site in Comnasti, Romania was foiled by massive flooding in the north and west of the country; thus I set my sights on Brasov (the base for hiking around Transylvania and home of the famed Draculas Castle). Liz and I set out from Chernivtsi, a beautiful Ukrainian town on the Romanian boarder and, due to a waterlogged straight-shoot to Bucharest, found ourselves in the capital city 12 hours later and well after midnight. Wed missed the connection to Brasov and so spent our first night in Romania sleeping on an outdoor bench at the citys main train station. Actually, we could have slept on the floor of an indoor waiting area, but this required the purchase of a train ticket. The ticket office, of course, was closed until 4:30 a.m. My conversation with a guard at the waiting room went something like this: Can we go in here? Do you have a ticket? No. Well, then no, you cant. Alright, well buy our tickets. Ok. Wheres the ticket office? Right there, but you cant buy them now. Why? Its closed. So, we need tickets just to sleep on the floor of that room over there but we cant buy tickets right now? Yes. Ok then. Thank you very much. And so we napped on the outdoor bench and bought our tickets at 4:30. We arrived in Brasov mid-morning. Liz, almost immediately, got her wallet (money and credit cards included) stolen on the bus to our hostel. Thankfully, her father cancelled the cards and transferred all her funds to my account the next day. Later, in Turkey, we would meet a boy who told us he opted out of going to Romania because hed heard hed most definitely get robbedheh heh. Brasov was, indeed, a charming Transylvanian town. We visited two castles: one being the infamous Draculas Castle. The story of Dracula and his castle goes like this: A few centuries ago, a man named Vlad Tepes ruled the Order of the Dragon, a military society charged with protecting Christianity in the Transylvanian region from invading Muslims (Turks, I should think). The Order was brutal, and this Vlad had a son (also Vlad) who became famous for impaling his victims in the bum with wooden stakes. His nickname Dragula (son of the Dragon) soon morphed into Dracula (son of the Devil). Centuries later Bram Stoker would change this delightful character from a bum poker to a vampire! As it was, the castle billed as Draculas wasnt where he was bornthe locals say he only stayed there a few times. But as far as Im concerned, I went to Draculas Castle. Liz and I then set our sights on Varna, a popular Black Sea resort in Bulgaria and were almost out of Romania when our train hit and killed a man. The body came to rest right below our window. We were oblivious to why our train had stopped for so long until Liz noticed a gathering crowd of shirtless Romanians outside our compartment. Sure enough, below our window was a mangled, DEAD man. After nearly 20 minutes of staring, then deciding not to look anymore, then going back to staring, we observed a man taking the corpses pulse. Well, this guy was obviously dead. Ten minutes later, two militiamen arrived on the seen and slowly (and from a considerable distance) ordered one of the gawking men to throw a sheet over the body. And finally, as the heat on the train was about to kill a few of us, we started moving again. We were delayed on the Bulgarian boarder a good hourperhaps the driver was filling out paperwork or being questioned about the accidentbefore we pulled in to Ruse. Wed missed our connection to Varna and were a bit disheartened with traveling and Romania and it just seemed that, since wed left Ukraine, things should be easier. And thus appeared our first bit of luck. A young British couple owns the seaside hostel we were heading for and who should be traveling on the train with us but the young wife. We three split a 200-kilometer taxi ride and arrived at the hostel in time to tag along with some other travelers on a jaunt to town for Mexican food and Bulgarian beer. Things were looking up. Varna was a fun city, though the beach was as dirty as the Crimean ones of last summer. We paled-around with an Aussie and a Kiwi and had a delicious traditional Bulgarian feast. It might have passed as our usual Ukrainian fare, but we were happy. Though our minds were already on Istanbul and the stunning Mediterranean coast, we continued our Bulgarian journey to the ancient town and old Roman outpost of Plovdiv. The Roman Amphitheater there looks nearly untouched by time and it still used, I think. The towns winding cobblestone streets provided some nice photo opportunities, though Lviv and Chernivtsi and Ivano Frankivsk and even Mukachevo are just as pretty. Liz and I met an older American woman at our hostel whos been traveling for 15 months now and shows no signs of stopping. We gave her a few tips on passing through Ukraine and sure enough she arrived at my door a few days ago on her way to Slovakiaha. She even gave me the e-mail of a friend working at Big Brothers/ Big Sisters in Haines, Alaska. I suppose if I ever have the hankering for a cold, desolate, northern experience, Ill give this guy a call! Anyway, Liz and I arrived in Istanbul fresh off an 8 hour bus ride from Plovdiv, met our friend Teresa and immediately set off on another 12 hour ride to the southern Mediterranean town of Olymposfamous for its crumbling Roman ruins, stunning beaches and tree house hostels! Our particular bungalownamed the Vegemite Housewasnt really in the trees, but a crazy Australian ran the place, the first beer was free and the food was tasty. Near Olympos, we took a tour of the mythical Chimera, where natural flames spring from a mountain overlooking the sea. Mythology explains the flames as the breath of a mythical beast; geologists suggest natural methane gas. Either way, it was a cool nighttime excursion. We then traveled by bus along a 100 or so kilometer stretch of unspoiled, undeveloped and pristine coastline. The road there is only 20 years oldthis means the scattering of small beaches along the way, where travelers pull over their cars for a dip (we took note of this, quite jealously), were recently only accessible by boat. Our destination this time was Fethiye and Oludeniz. The water there was so clear and clean and warm. On our short boat trip out to the Butterfly Valley, the girls and I were constantly rethinking which blue color from the sea (it changed every time we looked down) we liked best. By the way, we learned several days later that the butterflies in that particular valley are nocturnal, which explains why we didnt see any. They were also orange-and-black Jersey Tiger Butterflies, not green Japanese Butterflies like Id been telling

the girls! Istanbul is my new favorite city. Well, perhaps its tied with Prague, but I could have spent many more weeks strolling the Grand Bazaar and caf lined streets, drinking apple tea and eating delicious kebabs with garlic yogurt. Best not to think about it I suppose; not with my buckwheat and mystery meat stew awaiting me tomorrow at school. My favorite exchange with an Istanbul carpet salesman went something like this: Come see my Carpetsyoull love my carpets! Well, I cant buy a carpet because I dont have a floor! If you know a good floor salesman, then maybe well talk. Hmmm.not a problem my friend. I sell floors too! From Istanbul, we flew to Cimferopl, Crimea, for our last Peace Corps conference. Im back in Mukachevo now, waiting (a bit apprehensively, Ill admit) for that day when Ill say goodbye to Ukraine. But thats for another post.

Ukraine is not yet dead, as the dramatic, yet fitting stanza in the countrys national anthem goes, is on the tip of peoples tongues here in Mukachevo. Three weeks ago, a storm with stronger winds than Ive ever seen (or heard, more appropriately) ripped through our little town. There are still uprooted trees and parts of roofs and balconies strewn all over the streets. One large chestnut crashed through my classroom windowincidentally, this did not deter me from giving my 8th grade their final English test of the year, despite the wind blowing in and the Babushkas sweeping up the large shards of glass. Thus I had all my pupils crowded three to a desk as far from the wind and cold and occasional spit of rain as they could get (and with no electricity, in the dark). I thought about postponing the test until Monday, but nobody seemed to mind. My own windows were spared, though the ragged wooden hutch on my balcony blew over and my flower box dumped a mountain of dirt over everything. During the storm I sat in my armchair in the dark with my flashlight and journal as the wind shook my windows so hard I was sure they would shatter. I had just read in the Kyiv Post that Nikita Khrushchev commissioned the housing blocks we all abide in during the 1950s and 60s as a temporary housing solution. They were meant to last 20 years. Fifty-five years later, I was sure this Storm of 05 would finally finish them off. But they remaina little more beaten down and a bit dirtierbut still standing. Ive written much about Ukraineits peculiarities and problemsbut Ive only touched on the Great Problem; the problem stifling this countrys necessary leap forward: Ukrainian complacency. Since time began, it seems, Ukrainians have survived wars, famines, droughts, floods and repressive political regimes. Afterwards, Ukrainians have picked themselves up, brushed themselves off and awaited the next disaster. Like their buildings after our latest storm, theyre a bit more ragged and slightly more depressed, but life goes on. No one seems to think too much about tomorrow. When the water doesnt come on or the bus is two hours late, no one makes a fuss. When I explain to my colleagues that in America our things dont break nearly as often as theirs and the bus almost always comes when it should (and when it doesnt, we all throw a fit!), they shrug and smile and say, such is life in Ukraine. After Yushenkos election to the presidency, I listened to my colleagues talk about all the problems he

would make right. Six months later I listen, as they contemplate why he hasnt done what they thought he would do. Why arent our salaries higher or the roads cleaner? Then they lament their higher taxes (which they dont pay) and more expensive goods. I explain to them that if they paid these taxes, Yushenko would have more money to raise their salaries and fix their roads. Also, if they put their money in the bank instead of under their beds the economy would grow stronger. Then it wouldnt matter if goods were a bit more expensive, I say, because everyone would have more money. They dont believe this thoughtheyve never trusted the government with their money before and they dont really trust it now. And so, in my opinion, the cycle continues. Millions of Ukrainians took to the streets of Kyiv and other cities to support their Yushenko, to support a new prosperity and the beginning of their true accent into Europe. But few, it seems, really put their trust in this new government to improve the quality of life here. And six months later, most are still living hand-to-mouth, unemployment is rampant and the only people making decent money in this country are smugglers and software pirates (and theyre definitely not paying taxes or using the banks!). In Mukachevo, where most of the smuggling ring bosses (cigarettes and gasoline to Slovakia, Hungary and Poland) live, my plea that paying taxes, saving money in the banks and living honestly falls on deaf ears. This is Ukraine, they tell me, and this is how things work here. But what about joining the European Union, I ask. You need to have a strong economy and trust your banks! And yeah, sure things will be more expensive here but everythings more expensive in Europe. And if you join the European Union, Europeans and Americans will come and vacation here and youll make a lot of money! Jordanchyk, they tell me, that would be nicebut all we really want is enough money to have a party on the holidays and still make it to the next paycheck. Oh. Its difficult for me to imagine living hand-to-mouth and having the weight of Ukrainian history on my shoulders. I suppose if I were a poor Ukrainian and someone told me if I paid some taxes (thus making myself, initially, even poorer) to a government that, in my opinion, made me so poor in the first place, Id say no way too. It seems so clear to me what my neighbors and colleagues and friends need to do, how they need to change, to make living here easier. But they all tell me, usually with a sad kind of smile, that this is Ukraine, and such is life here. It doesnt help that most Ukrainians have never left Ukraine, never seen how other people live and how other governments deal with the same problems. And so, for them, life in Ukraine is how life should bethe only reality. They see images of America and Western Europe on television and they might even envy our comfort and security, but they dont really believe in it. Ukraine is not dead yet, no. These people have an amazing will to keep living, to keep working and farming and sometimes smiling. But they need to truly want more for themselves if theyll ever have more than this. Such is life in Ukraine, now. But it doesnt need to be.