A Limp in the Woods (Day 13)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 13: Saturday, April 6th, 2013
Wayah Crest Picnic Area to just past the NOC = 22 miles

Miles to date: 137

Hiker Health

No matter which way you lay it, a toilet paper roll makes for a poor pillow. I’d been forced into using one since my usual headrest, a pile of clothing, has been drenched for days. Duds don’t dry in these parts. I require few niceties when backpacking, but a pillow is appreciated. Inflatable, feather, synthetic--it matters not. If a thru-hiker doesn’t sleep well, he won’t be a thru-hiker.

It’s difficult enough to sleep when bedded down in the woods. When not in the typical trigger-happy state of restlessness, I doze in and out of consciousness, as would most fear-abiding folk. There are, after all, large toothy beasts in the forest--the antipode of emotional support animals--and they too do not sleep much at night. Also, at ground level, crickets sound like grizzlies. Rip Van Winkle’s lengthy lie-in in the forest is a lie.

This toss-n-turn behavior is particularly prevalent without the proper equipment, little of which the thru-hiker can afford to lug, short of importing a porter. Earplugs are of benefit, as is decent air mattress. But where do you draw the line? Pillows seem extravagant. You might as well bring a teddy bear. Anyway. Enough pillow talk.

There is nourishment in the mountains, but two health factors dwindle during a long backpacking trip: hibernation and nutrition. Disregard poor dental hygiene, sunburn, lack of bathing, the increased likelihood of drug/alcohol intake, and other reasons thru-hiking is bad for you. These two considerations are harder to maintain, at least for those of us who eat and sleep healthily at home. (It seems most hikers don’t care what they eat. I have no idea how they maintain their vigor under such rigors. My get-up-and-go would stay down and stay put.) The Appalachian Trail is a health hazard.

Already my diet has slipped to ghastly proportions. Not proportions as in caloric extent, though that’s growing by the day as the hike wears on, and as I wear out, but as in absolute grossness. In Hiawassee, I purchased enough Honey Buns to snuff out a small moose. (The box’s ingredient list was longer than a Grisham novel--though more mysterious--and came replete with warning label, in the event I drew near to any small moose (meese?). (Warning: consult your doctor prior to ingestion if you are pregnant or nursing or human.) Harmful side-effects included, but weren’t limited to: explosive diarrhea, oily discharge from the eye sockets, headaches, nausea, rapid dental decay, cramping, internal bleeding, listlessness, suicidal tendencies, cancerous tumors, and the extreme likelihood of death, if more than two Honey Buns were consumed in one sitting.

And although the Honey Bun eater has an increased chance of premature death, the Honey Buns themselves do not die. They taste bad, but they never go bad. My package’s expiration date: 2094. A monument to human engineering. Oh, and about that ingredient inventory: forty-six ingredients(!) yet Honey Buns contain no honey. Instead they contain titanium dioxide and calcium propionate and potassium sorbate and sodium acid pyrophosphate and other delicacies.

To wash my teeth after ingesting such festering food--if ‘food’ is the proper term--and because I care greatly about the health of my remaining teeth, I’d also purchased a pack of sugar-free gum. It was presumably surplus stuff from World War II, as rigid as it was. One never knows what he’s going to get in the small towns along the Appalachian Trail, but it would’ve been easier to chew diamonds. The flavor, though, was fantasmagorical, and lasted for a second and a half.

Good hygiene is an integral part of good health, so I also carry floss, a toothbrush and paste, a comb (for my impending beard, which has been impending since puberty), and a tiny vial of homemade soap-like substance, in the event any of the water along the way ever melts. I don’t mind smelling bad out here, but I care not to be too filthy. If I’m ever able to remove the four layers of clothing that the temperature has thus far mandated, I’ll get a better idea of just how inappropriate that smell is. (In the Victorian Age, they simply donned more attire rather than bathing--a sensible tactic, really, unless you’ve got to carry that clothing everywhere you go.)

Today’s temperatures kept with the arctic tenor. Climbing or no, the jackets stayed on, though partly unzipped. Only the beanie was removed, replaced with a visor, but not for long. Even if the AT were exposed to the sun, I certainly wasn’t. Skin cancer was not going to be a worry for a while. This was good, since there were enough forebodings of doom.

The early going was tough going, as was the late going and the going between. “The swiftest traveler,” said country boy Thoreau, “is he who goes afoot.” He never walked the AT.

After laboring up Wayah Bald and onto the Cold Spring Shelter, I sat down. People were taking pictures of themselves. I didn’t take a picture of myself--why ruin a good picture? Instead, I took pictures of people taking pictures of themselves. Then I gave myself a much-needed foot-fondle, before eating lunch. True germaphobes would do this in the opposite order--lunch, then feet--but we men of the mountains aren’t concerned with things we cannot see. Germs are part of the thru-hiking experience; the salty thru-hiker understands that they, the germs, are frequently the only friends he’ll have en route. Their loyalty to the thru-hiker cannot be doubted.

The top of Wayah Bald

One of innumerable white blazes

My poor feet (RIP) had been taking all kinds of abuse. This was the first time I showed them any affection. They’d surely require more TLC as the weeks and months rolled on. (IF they rolled on; there are no guarantees given out on the AT.) To the trail, your feet are punching bags.

The views had exploded all day. To the east there were mountains as far as the eye could see, but no farther, because that wouldn’t make any sense. The springs all gushed gallons a minute and a few small flowers started to appear. Spring was brazenly making an attempt.

By late day I’d gone twenty-two miles, my farthest forestry yet. I’d reached the Nantahala Outdoor Center (“the N-O-C” in hiker jargon). The place was bustling with both business and busy-ness. I didn’t know a soul, so I slunk by, choosing to camp beyond the chaos. I’m next to a set of shiny railroad tracks in an ankle-deep bed of tree debris, snuggled up beside my teddy bear.

I hate when I’m scared to be social, but it’s a pre-existing condition. There weren’t only a lot of people about; there were a lot of other people. I justified my decision, because deadness defeated diffidence, fatigue flattened fear. I vowed I’d backtrack in the morrow and pay my respects (and hard-earned dollars) to the River’s End. The restaurant should enable me to sleep with something other than hills in my head.