With 6 liters strapped to my back and 16 miles to the next water supply, I headed out for a long and hot day. At the water spigot at about mile 52,5 I met up with a lot of hikers who were all planning on reaching mile 68 wich was great motivation to make it. They were all fun people although one of them asked me if Belgium had an official language. That’s right, he didn’t ask me what our official language was, he asked me IF we had one. How very american. But in the end I forgave him. Because you see about 10 miles into my hike he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if the particular piece of gear he was holding was mine. Let me make something very clear, a tent is made out of sheets of fabric draped over a frame of poles. Without those poles you’d have a blanket on the ground. Just a blanket, nothing more. He was holding my tent poles. Apparently I’d lost them about a mile back without even realizing. Just blissfully walking around, rocking some music, without a care in the world. I don’t mind that he doesn’t know that Belgium is a modern country with three official languages, he picked up my tent poles and caught up with me in time so I didn’t have to walk back looking for them while crying for my mother. He made sure they wouldn’t fall out again and continued on the trail. Tentpoles in place I made it to mile 68 and was in for another toasty night in my sleeping bag.
I have been getting complaints that apparently Alexander Bollaert’s blog has more pictures, so here you go: