A Limp in the Woods (Day 10)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 10: Wednesday, April 3rd, 2013
Dick’s Creek Gap to near Beech Gap, North Carolina = 21 miles
Miles to date: 90

Georgia Carolina on my Mind

Morning. Birdsong. Sun rising. Mercury tanking. Grasses swaying. Leaves rustling, even though they’re land-laid. Decaying foliage infiltrates the nostrils. I have no idea where I am. I’m not even sure I know where I’m going. But I’m going. Or shall be soon, if the limbs comply.

As has been trend, I was up early again today, Wednesday, Hump Day. Hoist it, hump it, heave it, haul it, hate it. “Time to get amongst Nature,” I told myself, yawning uncontrollably. “The legs feed the wolf.” In trying times never quit trying.

For some reason, I don’t sleep deep in these woods. Perhaps it’s because Georgia has a certain feel to it. Perhaps it’s because I’m a wuss. Whatever the reason, I hope the insomnia doesn’t last the length of the trail. This feel has to do, of course, with what outsiders think of when they think of the Georgia backcountry:

Deliverance

If you haven’t read the book or seen the movie or recognize Dueling Banjos, allow me to brief you. (Not as in underwear brief.) [You’ll have to see the film to get that.] The storyline centers on four urbanites who’ve decided to paddle a rugged backcountry Georgia river before an environmental injustice, a dam project, is to ruin the region. 

After given ominous warnings from the yokels of Weirdsville, the men embark on their odyssey, unfazed. But trouble’s soon a-brewin.’ They find themselves separated into two groups of two. Two of the men are then accosted by some country mongoloids, who rape one of them. “Squeal like a pig,” the victim is ordered, while a gun is pointed at him and his friend. Yee haw!

Now, unless you’re a highly-paid thespian, this is not the sort of scene you hope you ever find yourself in, the kind that keeps you up at night. Or the kind that keeps me up at night. Laugh if you want, but you wouldn’t be laughing if you were sleeping alone in the woods. I’ve only met three locals on the trail so far, but their cumulative tooth count was half a dozen. Maybe.

Now, for a brief intermission and an age-old Georgia joke...

~~~~~~~~~~

After a long day’s walk a hiker reaches a shelter and asks if anyone there wants to hear a good Georgia joke. One of the occupants responds, “Sure, but before ya tell it, ya otta know I’m six-two and weigh two-twenty, and I’m Georgian. And see them-there feller returnin’ from the privy? He’s six-four, weighs two-fifty, and he’s from Georgia. And that guy gatherin’ sticks fer the fire--he’s six-foot-six and weighs two-eighty. He’s also from Georgia. So...ya’ll still wanna tell yer Georgia joke?”

The hiker responds with a resounding no.

The occupant says, “Why not? Ya afraid?”

“Not at all,” the hiker replies. “I just don’t want to have to explain it three times.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The day looked to be glorious--it was premature to tell, but it felt suitable--so I wrangled the ice from my shoe laces and decided to stretch the legs. I’d averaged some seven or eight miles a day so far and that wasn’t going to cut it. A check of the math showed such a pace would have me finishing the trail sometime next year. That’s not too bad a thing, but it’s not too good, either. No offense to all you Maine-iacs, but Maine in winter is not my idea of fun.

The problem’s the behemoth on my back. I’m hauling a whole new set of victuals, along with warmer, heavier clothing, the stuff Jill brought in her car. Food and clothing are essential, but my back already wants to jettison the junk. I’ll eat as much as I can, as soon as I can, before hitting the can. I’ll also quit carrying water.

This last consideration is doable this year. All springs mentioned in the guidebook are charged, flowing like fire hydrants. This lightens the load tremendously and I hike from source to source. When you carry your own water, you know the value--and the weight--of every drop. 

Luckily, the lengthiest waterless stretch so far has been three hours, tops. And as cold as it’s been I’ve rarely wanted more than a couple of liters of liquid each day. My life’s mantra has always been--why work any harder than needed? Hard work never killed anyone, but why take the chance? All the hard working people I know are miserable.

The filter I use is a new-fangled contraption made by a company called Sawyer. It--ADVERT ALERT!--is the most prized possession in my pack, proving itself a complete warhorse. (I’ll give you my filter when you pry it from my cold, wet hands!)

The liquid asset weighs just three ounces and filtrates the smallest of infiltrators: cryptosporidium, giardia, fishhooks, minnows, micro-plastics, toenail trimmings, and so on. There’s no pumping and nothing to break*. (*The ceramic element could crack if any water inside it were to freeze and expand, which is why it sleeps beside me--whether I do.) I just dip a bottle in the source, screw the Sawyer back on, and drink to my belly’s delight, free from fear of microbial mayhem. Although the springs have all been issuing safe water--holy water--I like knowing I could drink from even the rankest, unholiest pools and still linger on, as I have to this point.

In the past I courted danger by playing Giardia Roulette, filtering fibrous water with my teeth, only to endure cavities, gingivitis, and some distressing waterborne illnesses. After the last episode, not long enough ago, I vowed never again to play the odds. My sphincter was discharging fluid as fast as I could replace it--literally squirting hazel Gatorade--and I’d lost what little strength I’d had. Strength is crucial on a long trail. Strength of body, strength of mind.

Once, on the PCT near Etna, California, I was bedridden at a stranger’s house for an entire week, recuperating from slurping some contaminated H2O. I had been poleaxed by a blend of dizziness, diarrhea, fever, chills, sweats, itching, nausea, and vomiting. I also didn’t feel very good. I continually thanked my fine hosts for saving my life, all the meanwhile apologizing for the toilet paper consumption and for running up their water bill, what with all the toilet flushing. I heard they had to bathe their bathroom in bleach after I’d left, before burning it.

My body’s playing host

To a number of germs

I’ve got amoebas and parasites

I’ve even got worms

Bad bacteria

Invading my gut

I’ve got constant diarrhea

And a rash on my butt…

So here now the extra ounces were worth the risk reduction. It’s a simple dip-n-sip process; I never have to work or wait for innocuous water. Anyone still using chemicals in this day and age is a buffoon(1), as intellectually malnourished as the gut flora they’re attempting to kill.

Continuing onward, alone and somewhat forlorn, feeling an awkward blend of loneliness and eagerness, I realized I missed Ruth’s companionship. Adventures are best when shared, and not just with gut flora. Each time I stopped to rest my aching feet (and my aching back and my aching knees and my aching shoulders and my aching hips), I sat there hoping she’d appear around a bend and surprise me.

“I decided to quit my job and go for a walk,” she’d exclaim, smiling from ear to ear.

I grinned at the thought, but knew that that was all it was.

Hiking with others is a peculiar proposition. No two persons maintain the same pace throughout the day, and no two persons need to stop at the same time all the time. There’s some give-and-take, some concession. But the companionship is (usually) worth the compromise. Solitude is easy enough to find in pairs, but companionship is difficult to find alone. I was already too versed in lengthy conversations with myself. I guess I just missed my friend.

I passed a number of others throughout the day, but all we’d do is exchange pleasant banalities--weather talk, the hardships of the trail, and details of our gear. I cringe each time I share synthetic discussion, but I know not how to avoid it, except to avoid others. Interaction creates anxiety in me, but head-down hiking is not my preferred mode, and I prefer to hear the sui generis sounds of Nature over the companionship of an iPod.

It was surprising how many others were wearing headphones and avoiding interaction--with me or with the world around them--but I expected as much. The trail was still and silent, many species long since extinct and winter still firmly in charge; the native music was mute anyhow. Plus, the trail was pretty damn humdrum, so why not transport yourself elsewhere?

By midday I’d breached the North Carolina border without knowing. I must’ve been doing some head-down hiking. The Tar Heel State is the second of fourteen states for the northbound hiker--NOBOs, as we’re known--and it signaled, if nothing else, progress. Progress is not my sole aim, but it’s nice to know I’m still going. On the AT the going is often all there is to look forward to.

A tree with a story to tell; near Bly Gap

Some time after the border the trail pitched upward at an angle so laughably steep--a final Fuck You! from Georgia--that I had to stop to make sure I was still on the right course.

Of course I was--the serpentine path obediently pursues the most challenging layout possible. If the trek turns tranquil, that’s when to worry. Soon after the steep bit, before the other steep bit and those that followed, I sat down to soak in the views, and to soak my sweat up with a bandana. The inclines were becoming nastier and rests were becoming more frequent, even though none offered rejuvenation.

There were a handful of others hanging out at the Muskrat Creek Shelter, near the Chunky Gal Trail. In sticking to the aforementioned theme, all of them were glued to their electronic blindfolds. Me, myself, and iPhone. I thought I’d entered the Twilight Zone. Or a silent retreat. A mime convention. A school for the deaf, dumb and blind. Even when a stately eagle hovered just overhead, these pixelated mutants just sat there, fixed to, and fixated on, their screens. It was bizarre behavior to an anachronism like me, and it’d last the entire time I was there--almost an hour. Not a word!

It looked like they each had a battery pack and a solar charger, so as not to run out of the all-important electrical juice. It was imperative they remain connected. The eagle landed, then disbanded. Only I noticed.

Sorry Johnny, the mountains are no longer where you can let your cares fall away like autumn leaves. Gotta remained tethered to the Cultural Apparatus! The AT’s purpose is no longer to get away from it all, but to bring it all.

They say, “dance like no one is watching.” Well, no one is. They’re all staring at their phones.

I wrote in my papers while eating an early dinner. “These androids aren’t just missing the trees for the forest, nor the forest for the trees; they’re missing it ALL. It’s all mixed up, a sickness of sorts. I’m so saddened by it. It makes me feel alone in this world, as lonely as a pin on a map. To think I’ve criticized trail cliques in past journals! At least they’re comprised of humans...”

They scroll, I stroll.

I disbanded. None of the Internet Tribe noticed.

Maybe I’m the mixed-up one, but theirs is a habit I don’t--and probably shouldn’t try to--comprehend. It frustrates, and this frustration gnaws at my core, changing who I am, and who I wish to be. There’s nothing I can do about it, and nothing I can do about others, be they human or cyborg. And for that matter, there’s nothing I even want to do about it. Only complain.

But I wrestle with it in my head over and over, especially out here, where it seems, at least to some degree, we’re supposed to fuse with Nature, the place we latter-day apes were forged from. Nature isn’t a vacation spot; it’s home. We should be building our understanding of it, our appreciation for it, our love of it, and our defense of it. But no. We tie in to elsewhere, thinking of elsewhere, looking elsewhere.

I find it intrusive, a crime against all things sensible and natural. “Smart”phones are the new cigarettes. We simply cannot ignore the call of the phone, even when called to the wild.

A thru-hiking neighbor, self-anointed hiking guru and all-round tolerable guy--despite Italian extraction--Paul Magnanti once told me, “ya gotta accept the trail and all that it brings for what it is, not what ya want it to be. Otherwise, it’s only gonna discourage ya. Trust me, it’s gonna anyway.”

That was back during the winter of 2001-2002, before we’d even heard of cell phone use in the outback, just before my first attempt at a thru-hike. No one needed the portable phones, mostly because the technology still lagged. There was but a fraction of today’s cellular towers on the grid and the phones were big ol’ tanks. Expensive and unreliable too. Dorky, even. And payphones did the job fine--they hadn’t yet gone the way of the dinosaur. In fact it seemed to me a weekly call to friends or family counterbalanced the time away from the phone perfectly. You only seldom missed having access to it.

Well, little of that applies anymore. Not in these advanced times. Today’s phones are sleek, light, reliable, relatively cheap and can do more than the enormous desktop computers of 2001 ever could. Cell towers are everywhere now (often camouflaged as trees, to better suit Nature!), just as cell phone users are.

“Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.” ~John Muir, 1913

“Between every two pines is a cell tower.” ~Funnybone, 2013

It could be argued that these magic boxes are less obtrusive than the older-styled mobile phones, since so many hikers sit and share with one another the silent treatment--texting, sending emojis (five thousand years and humanity is back to using hieroglyphics), reading, watching videos, or listening to music through headphones. The only real obtrusion is the frustration I experience simply witnessing them. Ultimately it’s my problem, not theirs.

But I fear that it’ll lead to fewer people relating to or respecting Nature, which will do us all no good; the fewer who cherish Nature, the tougher the struggle to save (some of) it. There’s evidence it’s happening already, but this societal change, and this slow decay of the world we live in, seems too slow to fret over. Whatever will be, will be.

In any case, it appears the experiences on these large-scale trails have changed in just a short time-frame, as have the hikers. I’m delighted I was fortunate enough--and made the opportunities--to experience a few thru-hikes before the change took hold. There are few authentic escapes from the civilized world anymore--the AT ain’t one of ‘em. My guess is that with each new generation it will become less of one.

Ah, well. What good’s griping? Am I searching for like-minded individuals to agree with me? Then what? We’ll all complain in a circle?

Onwards, at least physically.

In my head I was still stuck on the matter: Would I be the same guy I am today had I grown up with all of today’s electronic gadgets? The “smart”phone, GPS, video game controllers, the computer, the Internet? 

The answer, I believe, is no.

When I was a kid I read books--I had an attention span then. I played outside--I had energy then. I slept outside. I wrote a bunch (shocker, eh?). I played (board) games and participated in sports. I wrote (horrifying) songs and made noise with various instruments. I studied maps. I used a compass to find my way in and out of trouble. I stared up at the night sky and asked the big, unanswerable questions. I made mistake after mistake after mistake. Real ones, not the virtual type.

All of which added to my growth, which all added up to who I am now. (If I only knew who who was!) There are no easy answers, but I suppose the questions shouldn’t be avoided. I don’t know.

After leap-frogging Chris one last time near the Standing Indian Shelter, I called it quits at Beech Gap. Twenty-one miles. It felt good to carry on at my own pace for once. But as soon as I set the shelter up and crawled in, the absence of company struck. I missed Ruth and our nightly games of Scrabble. Life’s better when you’re part of a team. This, even though she’d started beating me more regularly.

“Hyte isn’t a word!” I’d cry, as she laid down the H tile on yet another triple letter score. “And plaint definitely ain’t!”

I pondered: should I text her on my little LG flip-phone? 

LG: Lonely Guy.

"Foot"note 1: Some quick math (warning: not even slow math is my specialty):
...Let's presume the average thru-hiker's H2O consumption is two gallons per day during a thru-hike.
...Let's also presume that that hike lasts 130 days, which is a fairly ordinary length of time for the AT. That's 260 gallons (2 gallons x 130 days).
...It takes a minimum of 4-6 drops to safely treat a gallon of water, though this depends on the water source.
...That's 10 drops of bleach per day for 130 days, or roughly 65ml in all. (It's about 20 drops per ml.)
...That's more than two ounces--or enough to fill two of those old 35mm film canisters--of a known carcinogen that you're putting into your body, a chemical designed to kill (and more frighteningly, designed to clean even a thru-hiker's clothing)!

But here's the thing. Bleach doesn't kill everything! It is fairly ineffective against cryptosporidium, one of the most common water-borne parasites.

Anyway, I ingest plenty of other crap, so I suppose I shouldn't fret; we all die sooner or later. It just seems cancer is such a terrible way to go; why increase the odds?