A Limp in the Woods (Day 20)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 20: Saturday, April 13th, 2013
Tricorner Knob Shelter area to Painter Branch Campsite = 20-ish miles
Miles to date: 242

In the Meantime a Dreadfully Mean Time

Like oil and water, or me and mornings, condensation and wind don’t mix. My sleeping bag is soaked. Come lunch, I’ll be contractually obligated to pull all my stuff out, in hopes it’ll dry out, if the sun is out; I shall find out. It’s all part of life on the out.

The mist was thick upon stirring--make that upon waking; I did not stir the mist. Within a mile it dissolved. The sun shone and stole the show, spraying its aureate brilliance on everything but the AT. The trail is known as the Green Tunnel for a reason. Now that we’re buried in the evergreens, shadows lord over the land. Unlike the famed weather-predicting rodent, the AT hiker seldom sees his own shadow. The leafless deciduous trees allow admission of some light; beneath the evergreens it’s ever-dark. The bright AT hiker keeps his headlight nearby at all times.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Thankfully it wasn’t ever-cold. The warm-ish day allowed for pleasant hiking, though a massive descent from Mount Guyot to Davenport Gap comforted us in knowing that any such comfort wouldn’t last. Adjectives might include knee-pounding, bowel-shaking, or bone-jarring. I much prefer the flatter parts of this serpentine strip of soil, but I don’t recall experiencing any.

Halfway down the 4,200-foot drop, back in the budding trees in this finest of deciduous forests, I merged stride with The Professor. He’s a sixty-four year-old retiree whose body doesn’t know its age. Freighted with what looked to be a refrigerator (turns out it was just his pack…and presumably a spare one inside; I deduced he was migrating to Canada), the Californian is as hard as nails. Eats lightning, poops thunder. Old school toughness. (I am also old school, but failed all classes.) I had a brisk clip going when I caught him. I kept it going so that I might terminate the pain of plummeting down such a steep slope. The Professor switched gears and kept up, talking the entire time. I missed much of what he said; it was hard to hear over my heavy wheezing.

At the nadir we reached the northern boundary of the Great Disappointment National Park. There in the steep-sided culvert we met the Summit Sweeties, three exuberant middle-aged women parked on the side of a one-lane road. Freebird, Firefly and Flamingo were offering a serious dose of trail magic, in the form of vegetables, all kinds of sticky-sweets, and Dr. Pepper. An effervescent drink from an effervescent trio.

When asked what I’d like, I replied, “all of the above, please.” I was joking, but they’d have none of it. They loaded The Professor and me with all of the above and then some. Biting into a celery stalk, I realized how much I missed biting into a celery stalk.

Sleeping Beauty shooting Fatty & the Summit Sweeties

The Professor and peanut M&Ms that didn't go to waste

By the time I decided to abscond the gap (and the gluttony) ten other hikers were milling about, sharing laughs and cries about the state of their feet. As I started girding myself for the hike ahead, I realized that it’s moments like these I cherish most. It’s why I keep finding myself veering back to these long trails. Not only does the lifestyle make more sense and bring more joy, so too is it almost every individual you meet becomes an instantaneous friend. Not every friendship lasts, but they are indeed friendships. Long-distance walkers have a special talent for friendship. As hard as it was to reach Davenport Gap, it was much tougher to leave.

The ensuing climb added to the difficulty. Fatigue from the past weeks chewed at the nucleus of my being. Every cell had been permeated, though my cell phone worked fine. This much I knew, since I later saw Ruth tried to call whilst I was huffing away.

I’d hoped the Dr Pepper might unleash pep. All it did was slosh around in my gut; I belched a bunch. Hiking uphill with all your belongings is insulting enough, but to deal with stomach distress in the meantime makes it a dreadfully mean time.

I’d plow on and make it to a nice campsite. There The Fanny Pack had reconvened. We were whole again--PaddyCakes, Puddin’, Spanky, Fatty, Sleeping Beauty, and myself. It was too early to camp. We’d go on as a group, soon passing beneath Interstate 40. But we’d separate on subsequent slopes. It’s rare your rhythm suits someone else’s when ascending; you drift apart, only to meet again at a creek-side or a shelter or a viewpoint. Lately, views haven’t been difficult to come by, but most of what you see when hiking is the ground ahead of you. Even a halfhearted glance anywhere else demands stopping, or you could trip and hurt yourself, ending your trip. The AT, make no mistake, is a rugged trip.