Alternative title: I’m huddled in a duvet on the sofa, my partner’s hoodie acting as a comfort blanket, my face puffy from crying, with Millie-Mischief the Bengal patting my head in some weird consolation type thing (or maybe she just likes my hair – who knows what’s going on in her kitty mind) … And yet, part of my brain is wondering just where the hell I can get myself a Stephen Katz to go hike the Appalachian Trail with.
To me that doesn’t seem unreasonable, to just simply pack a rucksack, select a 3-season tent, grab a shit ton of Jelly Tots (though I’d settle for Fruit Pastilles) and hike all 2,200 miles. Yep, 2,200 MILES. Total doddle that.
Except I’m the lass who whinged and moaned and turned the air a lovely shade of dark blue during her last jaunt up Helm Crag – which incidentally, is a drop in the proverbial ocean compared with the Appalachian Trail! Much like with running, I love the idea of it … But when actually running/hiking, I bitch for England about how unfair it is and how my poor feet are going to end up as giant blisters which will eventually pop and end up stuck to my socks.
Maybe I’ve got this all wrong …
Maybe I should be looking for a Bryson to hike with because clearly, I’m the Katz!