A Limp in the Woods (Day 6)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 6: Saturday, March 30th, 2013
Just past Wolf Laurel Top to Red Clay Gap = 13 miles
Miles to date: 48

Shell Shocked

Some days you feel like the toilet; other days you feel like shit. This is the Appalachian Trail--sorry for the inconvenience.

Upon waking, research showed that Ruth and I felt 83% better than we did yesterday morn. We felt 21% okay yesterday (and okay isn’t all that great, since 100% is considered the acme on the official ‘How Do You Feel? Thru-Hiker Scale’), but this morning we felt an additional 83% better, or 38.4% overall. (100% better of 21% is 42%, naturally.) (Please keep in mind that math is not my forte; idleness is.)

The Official “How Do You Feel? Thru-Hiker Scale”
Dead = 0% or less
Egregious = 10% or less (e.g., unmotivated, injured, sad, depressed, irate, etc)
Lousy = 11 to 20% (e.g., grumpy, exhausted, selfish, etc)
Okay = 21 to 30% (e.g., “my feet hurt and my pack weighs too much”)
Not all that bad = 31 to 40% (e.g., “my feet still hurt; the pack is almost tolerable”)
Pretty good = 41 to 50% (e.g., “my feet continue to ache, but I’m loving life!”)
Good = 51 to 60% (e.g., “this rain ain’t all that bad...”)
Really good = 61 to 70% (e.g., no foot pain, buckets of sunshine, contentment, etc)
Great = 71 to 80% (e.g., “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now...”)
Friggin’ incredible = 81 to 90% (e.g., “I wonder what the poor people are doin’ right now...”)
Orgasmic = 91% or more (e.g., “OH YEAH!!!”)

We were satisfied, almost content, near pleased, though true contentment would’ve been too drastic a jump on the scale. Still, there was no complaining for either of us, or none to one another. There was certainly no complaining about one another. Maybe Ruth just buried it beneath breaths.

Emotions run amok when toil is undertaken. The trail is only part of the test; anchoring the emotions can be just as challenging. Most the time backpacking is robotic, devoid of commotion or emotion--slow-motion locomotion. If a thru-hiker’s thoughts could be monitored on an EKG type of device, he or she would appear dead--impassively passing through. But there are moments when all hell breaks loose. 

Emotion-commotion is related to the trail’s many challenges, but the relationship is often conflicting and anything but direct. If, for example, the trail heads upward--and it does--the moods tend to head downward, at least until a peak is reached, at which point emotions also peak. True colors, ever evolving.

~~~~~~~~~~

Apropos the preceding monologue, the path began complacently enough before turning downright nefarious. Downright nefarious on the Appalachian Trail usually means up, but the nefariousness becomes that much more wicked when the up part is atop treacherous footing, as it was this morning. The AT is completely insensitive to the needs of the pedestrian. It rarely sits on anything but treacherous footing. Footpath...yeah, right.

Much of the time when we walk--which is much of the time--we aren’t even afforded any views. This isn’t only because the trail is smothered by trees. It’s because it’s so damn technical. The hiker is forced to keep her eyes aimed directly downward at all times. Take your attention off the ground, if even for a single stride, and it’ll spell trubble, spelled incorrectly or not. There is no walk-n-gawk. This is chaos walking.

So far there’ve been rocks, roots, ruts, divots, drainages, sticks, snow, ice, mud, moss, and litter, to name a few stumbling blocks. Landmines, all. Each is capable of halting a hiker’s hike. Forget Maine; focus has to be Here Now, always. The Appalachian Trail is the world’s longest obstacle course. A long, narrow mosh pit. The path of most resistance. Of course, the biggest obstacle we face is ourselves, but never mind that. “Maybe the AT is another planet’s hell,” Ruth joked.

Mid-morning and we had floundered enough. We were primed for a siesta. We’d climbed from Hogpen Gap in the Raven Cliff Wilderness and were only a sloth’s handful of miles into the day, but the invite for respite was simply too tantalizing. The AT fight song would wait; we were more in tune with The Eye of the Three-Toed Sloth. Muzak to our ears. And as far as our aching legs were concerned, it was pretty much obligatory. The legs may feed the wolf, but they could just as easily starve the hiker.

Ruth down with dirt

Outdoor siestas are a revered activity. That’s assuming inactivity can be considered an activity--which is how we loafers see it; our predilection is to each be a human being and not just a human doing. Doing nothing is doing enough.

But siestas depend greatly on the surrounding environment. Here now that environment carried too much nip to allow us to unwind and relax. Direct sunlight is imperative, but direct sunlight is seldom seen--or felt--on the southern end of the AT. (The woodland has sufficient sunlight for its needs.) We enjoyed what rest we could, but soldiered on before we lost the battle entirely. Being cold is getting old.

Continuing northward, we reached the Low Gap Shelter, where thirty hikers had congregated. By now the sky was the same general shade as motor oil and rain looked imminent, and I guess everyone felt it necessary to sleep under a roof. The lean-to might’ve been able to house eight hikers, so we weren’t sure what the other twenty-two were hoping for. I suggested they start fabricating an ark.

Ruth and I decided to carry on and set up shop farther up trail, knowing all too well that sleeping near others means, well, not sleeping. And we’d already done enough of that during our siesta.