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Scott “Tuba Man” Rimm-Hewitt Hiking the Appalachian Trail with a Tuba My bass tuba, named Charisma, took up 30 pounds of my 70-pound load. To save weight I didn’t bring a tent or underwear, and carried only half of my music book. I wouldn’t hike any other way; there’s something about combining the arts and nature that inspires me. My trail name was “Super Scott the Tuba Man.” Maine I decided to ditch the tuba pack and slack pack around the 5.2-mile Gulf Hagas loop, known as the “Grand Canyon of the East.” I took off at lightning speed and saw many beautiful falls along the way, then went skinny-dipping with biodegradable soap. A nice family offered me some fresh water, but I said that I’d pump my own from the freshest streams of Maine. I had just helped a lady cross the small river to the Hagas Trail, when a sixty-year-old man tried to do it himself and slipped right into the water. He seemed to twist his leg pretty bad so I quickly went to his aid. I started pulling at his arm, but he was heavy and pulled right back. He pulled so hard that I lost my footing and fell in. Another man came to help and he got pulled in as well! There we were, all wet and getting nothing accomplished. Eventually we were able to move the old guy in two shifts, lifting him under his armpits, with one of us on each side. He had apparently dislocated his knee but it popped right back in. He was on his way back to his car when he came over to thank me. Now I had to hike up a mountain, with pack and tuba, in wet boots. I met “Zigzag” and we climbed the beginning of the mountain together, but I kept going when he stopped. I had my first real digger and slid down a small hill with my pack in back. But I was fine and kept going. Now came the tough part: big strides uphill. I burst up a big step, then paused for the 202 pe a k e x pe r i e n ces next step, but the momentum carried my sleeping bag out of the bell of the tuba, and down the mountain it rolled. This happened at least ten times and was very frustrating. When it began to rain, I hurried to the lean-to, reaching it by 5:45. The Gulf Hagas Trail had only taken about 2 hours of hiking time and was definitely worth the side trip. While hiking into Monson, Maine, I was told about Shaws: Keith Shaw, the owner of the hostel, offers an all-you-can-eat breakfast. Ed Garvey’s Appalachian Hiker (Book 3) mentions a hiker who attempted to break the egg record at Shaw’s all-you-can-eat extravaganza. He got up to eighteen when his stomach couldn’t take one more egg; he had to have his stomach pumped.Theguywasupset becausehehadhiked2,000milesandwasabout to finish the A.T., with just the 100 Mile Wilderness and Katahdin to tackle. I was just beginning the trail and figured that, if I got sick and had to end my hike, I wouldn’t be as disappointed. My plan was to eat only eggs and drink juice. This way I could consume as many as possible and break the record. That morning I hiked in from the trail on an empty stomach. Keith Shaw asked, “How many and how you like ’em?” I was so hungry that the first dozen went down quickly. Now, these eggs weren’t your typical farm eggs; they were extra-jumbo-sized, cooked in sausage grease. After the first dozen I asked for six more, over easy. Keith said that the last guy that came in there and ate eighteen eggs left on a stretcher; I said that I was there to break his record! After eighteen eggs went down, I told Keith I could go for six more before I was done. One of the eggs had been double-yolked, and I was starting to slow down. By the time I finished the last egg, I was in no condition to hike that day. I ended up eating twenty-five, topping the record at Shaws by seven. But I will never do that again! My sister, Brooke, wanted desperately to hike the entire...

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