An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 21: Sunday, April 14th, 2013
Painter Branch Campsite to Deer Park Mountain Shelter area = 28 miles
Miles to date: 270
Back in the days of yore, when I was but an immature lad--and not the immature middle-aged man whose meandering mental musings you leaf or labor through today--I hated Boy Scouts. This was probably because I wanted to be one. My parents were divorced and struggling with their own worries and demons, so I was unable to sign my life away to the homophobic organization. It was at this time I began the itinerant existence that continues to this day. Sunday.
I no longer despise Boy Scouts, at least not until I cross their path. That present path is the AT, and like all National Scenic Trails, it is a veritable bull’s-eye for Boy Scouts and their bullshiticus. Especially on weekends.
A few hours after decamping(1) I happened upon a troop totaling about ten, chubby chaperones and all. The boys didn’t make eye contact or utter a single word as they passed, but one of the adults lagging far behind stopped and struck up a conversation. A fat, flaccid fellow (no two ways about it; anorexia had nothing on him), he was winded and worried he might not be able to keep up. I assured him he needn’t worry: he wasn’t keeping up.
Day 21: Sunday, April 14th, 2013
Painter Branch Campsite to Deer Park Mountain Shelter area = 28 miles
Miles to date: 270
A Limp in the Woods
Back in the days of yore, when I was but an immature lad--and not the immature middle-aged man whose meandering mental musings you leaf or labor through today--I hated Boy Scouts. This was probably because I wanted to be one. My parents were divorced and struggling with their own worries and demons, so I was unable to sign my life away to the homophobic organization. It was at this time I began the itinerant existence that continues to this day. Sunday.
I no longer despise Boy Scouts, at least not until I cross their path. That present path is the AT, and like all National Scenic Trails, it is a veritable bull’s-eye for Boy Scouts and their bullshiticus. Especially on weekends.
A few hours after decamping(1) I happened upon a troop totaling about ten, chubby chaperones and all. The boys didn’t make eye contact or utter a single word as they passed, but one of the adults lagging far behind stopped and struck up a conversation. A fat, flaccid fellow (no two ways about it; anorexia had nothing on him), he was winded and worried he might not be able to keep up. I assured him he needn’t worry: he wasn’t keeping up.
“But the boys seem to be having fun without you,” I offered helpfully.
“We just got going a couple hours ago,” he said between deep gasps. “And we’re supposed to be out here a whole week.” He paused and bent down and grabbed his knees with his hands.
“That’s seven whole days,” he added for effect. (Or maybe he knew a thru-hiker’s calendar-counting skills tend toward bankruptcy after lengthy stretches in the sticks. In any case it made me smile.)
“Seven days in the woods does not make one weak,” I joked, but to no avail. He lifted his head and gave me a hollow gaze.
“It’s the boys’ spring break. I’m about to break.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I told him it was only going to get easier the more he hiked. It was not going to get any easier, but lying to him was easier on me. Another case in which honesty is the second-best policy. (My motto: always be sincere, whether or not you mean it.) We parted ways and I made a silent pact to never let my fitness drop to the point I can’t at least limp in the woods.
I didn’t feel bad for the impropriety. I felt sorry only for his (chosen) plight, that he’d let his body descend to such a sad state, that he couldn’t hike with his kid(s). His body’s the only thing he’ll have with him throughout his life, yet there it was, left in neglect and decay. My wish--that his boy, or boys, would choose a healthier path in life. (Another wish--that I keep aging into childhood.) It’s much easier to appreciate and value Nature when you’re capable of accessing it under your own power. It’s got a little to do with what Wordsworth deemed “natural piety.”
Fatty had caught up to me at noon. The female Fatty, not the bowling-pin-esque troop leader. We’d reached a famed AT landmark called Max Patch, a distinctive grassy bald on the TN-NC border. At four thousand six hundred and twenty-nine feet, it stands proud and tall. It is isolated from other lumps of land in the region.
“We just got going a couple hours ago,” he said between deep gasps. “And we’re supposed to be out here a whole week.” He paused and bent down and grabbed his knees with his hands.
“That’s seven whole days,” he added for effect. (Or maybe he knew a thru-hiker’s calendar-counting skills tend toward bankruptcy after lengthy stretches in the sticks. In any case it made me smile.)
“Seven days in the woods does not make one weak,” I joked, but to no avail. He lifted his head and gave me a hollow gaze.
“It’s the boys’ spring break. I’m about to break.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I told him it was only going to get easier the more he hiked. It was not going to get any easier, but lying to him was easier on me. Another case in which honesty is the second-best policy. (My motto: always be sincere, whether or not you mean it.) We parted ways and I made a silent pact to never let my fitness drop to the point I can’t at least limp in the woods.
I didn’t feel bad for the impropriety. I felt sorry only for his (chosen) plight, that he’d let his body descend to such a sad state, that he couldn’t hike with his kid(s). His body’s the only thing he’ll have with him throughout his life, yet there it was, left in neglect and decay. My wish--that his boy, or boys, would choose a healthier path in life. (Another wish--that I keep aging into childhood.) It’s much easier to appreciate and value Nature when you’re capable of accessing it under your own power. It’s got a little to do with what Wordsworth deemed “natural piety.”
Fatty had caught up to me at noon. The female Fatty, not the bowling-pin-esque troop leader. We’d reached a famed AT landmark called Max Patch, a distinctive grassy bald on the TN-NC border. At four thousand six hundred and twenty-nine feet, it stands proud and tall. It is isolated from other lumps of land in the region.
In January this year, vandals broke through fencing in their four-wheel-drive trucks and drove up the face of the mound, leaving deep visible ruts and causing all kinds of erosion. A plan to deter future hooligans is in the works. The rusty barbed wire that has guarded the area for decades will be replaced with ugly impenetrable barriers. Thankfully, spring growth is helping to expunge the damage done; Mother Earth always takes back what’s rightfully Hers.
The balds are unique. They’re virtual mountaintop meadowlands, similar to the windswept moors of England, where they have a newspaper called The Sun, the only sun they know. But, unlike the balds there, no one really knows how these hills ended up treeless.
 |
| Jenna taking it all in |
Perhaps natives cleared them for gathering spots for religious ceremonies. Maybe fires scalped them. But the hills stand out, allowing us to stand out and enjoy the outstanding views. Deep down I almost wish the entire length of the AT would catch fire, so there’d be more panoramas presented. But then that might only help to attract more vandals. Trees are good barriers.
After the spacious glade, I hummed along riparian terrain in a mental state sandwiched between absence and presence, teetering toward one or the other as swayed by the surroundings. When scenery was present, so was I. When it wasn’t, I wasn’t. The scenery is always present of course, but on the AT it’s often only found at the microcosm level. Only when the trail forces me to crawl, or the path becomes so steep that the ground is immediately in front of me, can I appreciate that littlest of levels.
 |
| A day hiker protecting his cargo |
But I opt not to stop and bend over for the little world, unless something worthwhile captures my eye: a dropped M & M or a neglected gummy bear, for example. Backdrop or not, dropping to the ground with a backpack on might mean not getting back up without calling for back up.
Late in the day I realized I had walked far too many miles. Pathetic-peripatetic. I accused myself of BEING IN A HURRY, a serious offense of which I abominate myself for committing. I don’t hike to hurry; I hike to slow down. But twenty-eight miles on foot, in one day, isn’t slowing down; it’s laying down. Laying down the miles. And it’s criminal. I must not be caught continuing to carry out such transgressions, for the penalty is a harsh one: exiting the trail early, be it by way of injury or premature completion. What a waste, such haste.
“The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail.
Travel too fast and you miss all that you are traveling for.”(2)
~Louis L’Amour
"Foot"note 1: Turning trend on its head, I was first to get going this morning.
"Quote"note 2: Employing quotations helps a blogger appear well-read. But in this day and age, that which we dub The Information Age, it is easy to appropriate the appropriate line for any situation. Have Google, appear smart. Have Google, become dumb. Information ain't intellect.
"Quote"note 2: Employing quotations helps a blogger appear well-read. But in this day and age, that which we dub The Information Age, it is easy to appropriate the appropriate line for any situation. Have Google, appear smart. Have Google, become dumb. Information ain't intellect.
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