I am Bill Bryson and I had the pleasure of meeting Bouncy Bunny
while out for a walk in the woods one day.
I was telling Bouncy Bunny about my hike along the Appalachian
Trail which I did with my buddy Katz. The time that we bumped into
Mary Ellen was of great interest to Bouncy Bunny.
On the fourth evening, we made a friend. We were sitting in
a nice little clearing beside the trail; our tents pitched, eating
our noodles, savoring the exquisite pleasure of just sitting when a
plumpish, bespectacled young woman in red jacket and the customary
outside pack came along. She regarded us with the crinkled squint
of someone of who is either chronically confused or can't see very
well. We exchanged hellos and the usual banalities about the
weather and where we were, then she squinted at the gathering gloom
and announced that she would camp with us. Her name was Mary Ellen,
she was from Florida and she was, as Katz forever after termed her
in a special tone of awe, “a piece of work.”
She talked nonstop, except when she was clearing out her eustachian
tubes, which she did frequently by pinching her nose and blowing
out with a series of violent and alarming snorts of a sort that
would make a dog leave the sofa and get under a table in the next
room.
I have long known that it is part of God's plan for me to spend a
little time with each of the most stupid people on earth, and Mary
Ellen was proof that even in the Appalachian woods, I would not be
spared. It became evident from the first moment that she was a
rarity.
“So what are guys eating?” she said, plonking herself
down on a spare log. “Noodles? Big mistake. Noodles have got
like no energy. I mean, like zero.” She unblocked her ears,
“Is that a Starship tent?”
I looked at my tent. “I don't know,” I said. “Big
mistake. They must have seen you coming at the camping store. What
did you pay for it?” “I don't know,” I said.
“Too much! That's how much. You should have got a
three-season tent.” “That is a three-season
tent,” I replied. “Pardon me saying so, but it is like
seriously dumb to come out here in March without a three-season
tent.” She unblocked her ears. “It is a three-season
tent,” I repeated. “You're lucky you haven't froze yet.
You should go back and like punch out the guy that sold it to you
because he's been like, you know, negligible selling you
that.” “Believe me,” I said, “it is a
three-season tent.”
She unblocked her ears and shook her head impatiently and indicated
Katz's tent, “That's a three-season tent,” she said.
“That's exactly the same tent,” I replied. She glanced
at it again, “Whatever.” “How many miles did you
guys do today?” she said. “About ten,” I replied.
Actually, we had done eight point four, but this had included
several formidable escarpments, including a notable wall of hell
called Preaching Rock, the highest eminence since Springer
Mountain, for which we had awarded ourselves bonus miles, for
purposes of morale. “Ten miles?” said Mary Ellen.
“Is that all? You guys must be like, really out of shape. I
did 14.2.”
“How much have your lips done?” said Katz, looking up
from his noodles. She fixed him with one of her more severe
squints, “Same as the rest of me, of course,” she said.
She gave me a private look as if to say, “Is your friend like
seriously weird or something?” She cleared her ears, “I
started at Gooch Gap.”
“So did we,” I replied, “that's only eight point
four miles.” She shook her head sharply as if shooing a
particularly tenacious fly, “14.2.” “No, really,
it's only about eight point four.” “Excuse me,”
she said, “but I just walked it, I think I ought to
know.” And then suddenly: “God! Are those Timberland
boots? Mega mistake! How much did you pay for them?”
And so it went. Eventually I went off to swill out the bowls and
hang the food bag. When I came back, she was fixing her own dinner
but still talking away at Katz.
“You know what you're problem is? Pardon my French, but
you're too fat.” Katz looked at her in quiet wonder.
“Excuse me?” he said. “You're too fat. You
should've lost weight before you came out here. Shoulda done some
training ‘cause you could have like a serious, you know,
heart thing out here.” “Heart thing?” said Katz.
“You know, when your heart stops and you like, you know,
die.” “Do you mean heart attack?' said Katz.
“That's it,” said Mary Ellen.
Mary Ellen was not short on flesh herself and unwisely at that
moment she leaned over to get something from her pack displaying an
expansive backside on which you could have projected motion
pictures for, let us say, an army base. It was an interesting test
of Katz's forbearance. He said nothing but rose to go for a pee,
and out of the side of his mouth as he passed me he rendered a
certain convenient expletive and three low, dismayed syllables,
like the call of a freight train in the night.
It was a pleasure to tell my story to Bouncy Bunny and she in
return told me all about geocaching. Before we departed she had
indicated that she would be placing a cache in honour of my walk
along the Appalachian Trail. However, she also indicated that it
wouldn't be that simple to find, as the posted coordinates would
not be for the cache, but within 5km. She told me I would have to
find out the coordinates somewhere from the information given.
Click on the photo above to listen to the portion of the story
that I told Bouncy Bunny.