beer presi

you ever heard of a beer mile? of course you have. it goes something like this: drink a beer, run a quarter mile. drink another beer, run another quarter mile. and so on. you get the idea. imagine yourself somewhere with a couple buddies. few beers in. one of them pipes up: what if--wait.. what if we did a beer presi? drink a beer, climb a mountain. drink another beer, climb another mountain. and so on. you get the idea. I hate to toot my own horn or put a feather in my own cap if you catch my meaning, but yes that golden egg of an idea was mine. don't pretend you're surprised. however, it was Dan, Mr. Chen himself, who latched onto that idea like a calcified barnacle and refused to let go. in total, 9 beers. one at appalachia, one at every summit, and one at the end. unsupported except for water at huts and pizza/hot dogs at Washington. messages were sent. invites were mailed. bros were egged on. eventually eight persons, six men, two women (the ratios at these things are always terrible), arrived at the chalet on friday night the 26th of June, buzzing and effervescent, negotiating over when to set the alarm and generally getting acquainted. the chalet hasn't been so alive with friends in a long time. the roster thus accumulated: Me. Just some guy, you know? 11/10 whimsy Tori Mason. Doctor, unwritten, community organizer, 12/10 shit talker Owen Tori's Friend (according to my contacts). Musician, Canadian, 13/10 bro adaptation Cristina Tori's Friend. Retired rogue bartender, 14/10 calming aura Dan Chen. Indefatiguable, incisive, 15/10 liver Jon Haggerty. Ineffable, impossible to ignore, 16/10 quipper Ryan Cosman. Broken and remade, shaken not stirred, 17/10 shipyard banterer Avery Turman. The young gun Minnesotan at thirty-one, 18/10 genuine kindness at 3:30AM we woke, affirmed logistics, stumbled to the cars, shuttled to crawford, tumbled out at Appalachia. we cracked the beers and launched. I'm never ready for how wet you get hiking uphill below treeline. we unshouldered our burdens at madison spring hut and listened to a cringey dramatic performance by the croo inside. I changed out of a sweaty tank. outdoor fashion is dying. we must wage a war against a phalanx of monochromatic synthetics. I personally will arm myself with jean shorts and floral shirts. at this point the responsible team decided they would split away from the five beer drinkers as they preferred a more mellow day. on the summit of Madison we cracked our second beers. another crew nearby chuckled. the sky was a bit overcast. some prefer sun and only sun, but to me clouds make the mood. on top of Adams we caught glimpses of Washington and the rest through breaks in the fog. through the day the fog cleared to light puffs of cotton hanging idly in the sky. heading to Jefferson and on to Clay it occurred to me how not-drunk I was getting and how nimble-as-a-deer I was becoming. maybe it was the immediate movement; we had no time to languish in our intoxication. none of us felt more than a light buzz over the course of the day. maybe our aerobic activity burnt the beer as fuel. we must ask a scientist how this works. nothing prepared me for the support we received as we crushed beers in the high above. I do think the northern presidentials draw a cooler crowd than the southern presis. they are hardy people by necessity. at Washington we pushed through the throng and bought pizza slices and hot dogs. we ate like kings. I didn't have anything for the rest of the hike. just past Washington, we met this bitch-ass AMC volunteer named David who I personally witnessed give at least two pieces of bad unsolicited advice, all with an air of deep sagacity. I wanted to fight him. but I am wise in my years. instead I calmly walked away and maturely spent the rest of the day complaining about him. there had been a chance of thunderstorms in the forecast, but nothing materialized. many things make me nervous in the mountains, but nothing holds my anxiety as persistently as thunderstorms. never even been caught in a bad one in a bad place but the spectre always looms. that day the clouds were light and playful. we filled the route to Monroe and Eisenhower with choppy gen Z slang and more beers. I thought the day had reached its peak but it kept getting more fun. maybe it was the alcohol. I expected to feel sluggish, out of it, day-hungover. instead I felt light as a swallow. we sat in repose atop Pierce, looking north and admiring the route we'd been sheparded through. as always there are too many moments and jokes to recount, lost to the wind in the bosom of the hills, and life is a mountain stream, the same yet changing. at crawford notch, yosca the MVP met us with josie (dog). we finished off our last beer 12 hours and 12 minutes after cracking the first. the responsible team went a different route and we had some time to kill before meeting them at the trailhead. we went for a swim in the Ammonousuc river. we threw rocks at or near each other in the parking lot. just at dusk they arrived to cheers and jokes. I imagine their time away from the bros had been peaceful. we drove home. the sun set, the moon rose, and in the morning the chalet was again quiet.