We’d originally planned to follow the Webster Cliff over Mount Jackson and Webster, but around Eisenhower we began to consider bailing out at the Mizpah Springs cutoff. That became our solemn plan as the afternoon wore on, and we were greatly cheered by a sign indicating that we would reach Route 302 in just 2.6 miles.

Signs lie. There’s no way it took us that long to walk 2.6 miles. I felt as though I could have kept slogging over the last two peaks, but I wanted very much to stop. My legs ached, my feet throbbed and I’d developed an annoying, uncontrollable cough. Michelle was hobbling gingerly over larger rocks and drops in the trail, favoring a chronic foot injury. Twenty miles through the Whites on a fractured foot, and she starts limping…. what a softie, eh?

I’d like to say we were elated, but mostly we were just dead dog tired by the time we reached the car, around 4:30 p.m. Getting off our feet topped our list of things to do. I felt more dazed than elated, changing clothes in a rest area bathroom.

I was hungry, but not ravenous… until we got to Gorham, picked out a restaurant and ordered a pizza and calzone. We waited about 15 very Presidential minutes for our food, sipping beer, gobbling popcorn and staring at the big screen television. I’ve always said there’s no such thing as bad pizza, but I’ve found a few restaurants that take a sincere stab at it. The pizza and calzone we devoured that afternoon were about the best we’d ever enjoyed, and not just because we’d worked up an appetite. It really was good.

One would think we slept soundly that night, for all we’d done that day. I certainly thought we might, but I failed to appreciate the importance of a sound mattress in Michelle’s life. The Thermarest pads we’d packed weren’t performing to her standards, so I offered her a mickey. I have allergies, and I’ve found that waking up is hard to do after a couple grams of chlorpheniramine maleate. I always try to be helpful. Besides, it occurred to me that my own prospects for rest would be sorely diminished if my tent mate wasn’t sleeping.

Michelle doesn’t do drugs, ordinarily. I’ve never seen her take so much as an Ibuprofen. She was exhausted and eager to recuperate, though, so she tried one of my little yellow pills before we plopped down to sleep.

I tossed and rolled for a few minutes, and slid into slumber. At some point it dawned on me that Michelle was thrashing around. I don’t remember the details, but I was half asleep, and she was tripping her brains out.

Thus passed the night. I nodded in and out of sleep, while Michelle twitched and turned and swatted at the little green bugs crawling all about the inside of the tent.

Later, I did a little research out of curiosity. WebMd offers the following advice about chlorpheniramine maleate: “Tell your doctor immediately if any of these unlikely but serious side effects occur: mental/mood changes (e.g., hallucinations, irritability, nervousness)….”

The forecasted rain still hadn’t shown up, come morning, but we’d had enough adventure for a weekend. We made coffee, packed up the car and headed home.

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