Getting in good with the tree hugging hippie thru-hikers

*Note: This post is not meant to offend anybody – whether hippie, hiker, easily squeamish, or otherwise. It’s all in good fun, so please take it as such.*

Ladies and gentlemen, this may be the single most important issue that I have addressed to date. In fact, I have been mulling over it for months (months!), and I think I finally have the answer. Perhaps you do not know where I’m going with this, so let me explain.

So predictable. Those commie thru-hikers hanging out by a campfire again.

So predictable. Those commie thru-hikers hanging out by a campfire again.

Everybody knows that Appalachian Trail thru-hikers are all good-for-nothing hippies that prance around in the woods for months at a time singing Kumbaya. They spend their evenings sitting around campfires, holding hands and rubbing patchouli in their underarms.

I recommend you safeguard your ice cream with this lock. They're not thieves, but they do beg shamelessly.

I recommend you safeguard your ice cream with this lock. They’re not thieves, but they do beg shamelessly.

Beware, if you offer one of these hikers a ride, he’ll likely spend the entire drive spouting about peace and love. And he might give you a wildflower for your troubles, presenting it as though it were the secret to the universe. Even some of the more introverted hikers can demonstrate a proverbial “tell” here and there. To catch these subtler offenders, I recommend you keep an eye out for grungy-looking people buying Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia or Imagine Whirled Peace at your local grocery store or gas station during “hiker season.”

Oh, hey, remember the time that I generalized A.T. thru-hikers? I really meant all A.T. thru-hikers except for me. Obviously I’m not a hippie. If I were a hippie, I would eschew modern technological advances, such as blogging on the internet. Or maybe I’m thinking about the Amish? Phooey. OK, better proof: hippies certainly don’t shower but on a rare occasion, and I definitely shower at least once a week. Ta da! Not a hippie. Anyway, back to the point at hand.

What do you think? Is this attire subtle enough? My goal is to blend.

What do you think? Is this attire subtle enough? My aim is to blend.

My goal is to infiltrate the hippie enclaves inhabiting the Appalachian Trail and gain their trust. Once I learn all about them, I can record my findings and report back to the outside world. This won’t be as simple as offering my arm out for a handshake and exchange of names. No, they’d be onto me right away for my societal formality.

Well, last night when I was – once again – pondering my strategy, my older sister Lauren called. In honor of Chanukah, I was informed, she wanted to treat me to her rendition of an old camp song I hadn’t heard in years. Not long thereafter, I was in a fit of giggles, singing right along and filling in the gaps.

That’s when I knew: the way to prove my sense of belonging among the hippie thru-hikers will be to come prepared with a ready stock of campfire songs. Nothing gets a hippie to open up more easily than a well-timed campfire song. Trust me; I read it on the internet (or maybe I wrote it on the internet), so it must be true.

It seems that my fixation with fire began at a young age.

It seems that my fixation with fire began at a young age.

Now lucky for me, I spent the summers of my childhood at sleep-away camp. Every Friday night, camp leaders would build a large bonfire that resembled the frame of a log cabin, each wooden beam notched at the corners into its abutting neighbor. There, hundreds of us would enthusiastically sing songs and then listen with rapt attention as the head of the camp told us scary stories. He always ended with the same tale, and each time I would anxiously wring my hands, waiting for the terrifying end. Then I would race back to my cabin in the dark and sleep on edge, waiting for a long, bony set of hands to wrap themselves around my throat as I slumbered.

OK, let’s completely forget the part about the horror stories because I’m giving myself flashbacks, and I want to be able to sleep tonight. Moving onto the songs…when Lauren called, she didn’t know it, but she reminded me of the best ever campfire song, absolutely perfect for bringing down the defenses of any reasonable Appalachian Trail hippie thru-hiker.

It’s called the Five Constipated Men of the Bible and goes a little something like this:

Oh there were five, five, constipated men
In the Bible, in the Bible.
There five, five, constipated men
In the five books of Moses.

The first, first, constipated man
Was Cain; he wasn’t Abel.
The first, first, constipated man
Was Cain; he wasn’t Abel.

CHORUS

The second, second constipated man
Was Noah; he nearly filled the ark.
The second, second constipated man
Was Noah; he nearly filled the ark.

CHORUS

The third, third, constipated man
Was Moses; he took two tablets.
The third, third, constipated man
Was Moses; he took two tablets.

CHORUS

The fourth, fourth, constipated man
Was Solomon; he sat for forty years.
The fourth, fourth, constipated man
Was Solomon; he sat for forty years.

CHORUS

The fifth, fifth constipated man
Was Samson; he brought the house down.
The fifth, fifth constipated man
Was Samson; he brought the house down.

Oh there were five, five, constipated men
In the Bible, in the Bible.
There five, five, constipated men
In the five books of Moses.

And if you have a few minutes, it’s better when you can actually hear the music:

If a delightful campfire song like this doesn’t loosen up (pun intended. Ew, I just grossed myself out) my fellow Appalachian Trail thru-hikers, I don’t know what will.

Meandering on,

Jordana

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