An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 24: Wednesday, April 17th, 2013
Jerry Cabin Shelter area to a mile or so past Low Gap = 23 miles
Miles to date: 323
You are never more alive than when you fear for your life. (This is not a TRUE or FALSE question.)
I’d never heard God‘s voice before, but early this morning I felt the Troublemaker fart. It could’ve been a sneeze. (“God, bless yourself,” I replied.) It was 4am. I was still trying to get some shut-eye, after shutting everything down (but myself) at 9:45pm yesterday. Much too late. I could detect the thunderous booms in the distance. They were rolling regrettably closer. Trees began to wobble and creak, a telltale sign that the fan blades were getting warmed up. The shit was on its way. The looming bombardment was gravely disconcerting, for me and the trees. Sirens sounded.
But as the thunder roared louder and louder and the intensity grew, my nervousness ceased. It passed in favor of old-fashioned fright. Astraphobia: an “unnatural” fear of lightning and thunder. Or so say the shrinks. I shrinked into a fetal-like ball and began begging a god I didn’t even vote for(1) to spare me my life; there was still some use in it, although I had no way of proving the notion.
“Thou shall not kill,” orders God, who fails to abide by His own edict.
So much for sleep. Buckle up.
There are times I hate Nature.
Day 24: Wednesday, April 17th, 2013
Jerry Cabin Shelter area to a mile or so past Low Gap = 23 miles
Miles to date: 323
Trudge Mode
You are never more alive than when you fear for your life. (This is not a TRUE or FALSE question.)
I’d never heard God‘s voice before, but early this morning I felt the Troublemaker fart. It could’ve been a sneeze. (“God, bless yourself,” I replied.) It was 4am. I was still trying to get some shut-eye, after shutting everything down (but myself) at 9:45pm yesterday. Much too late. I could detect the thunderous booms in the distance. They were rolling regrettably closer. Trees began to wobble and creak, a telltale sign that the fan blades were getting warmed up. The shit was on its way. The looming bombardment was gravely disconcerting, for me and the trees. Sirens sounded.
But as the thunder roared louder and louder and the intensity grew, my nervousness ceased. It passed in favor of old-fashioned fright. Astraphobia: an “unnatural” fear of lightning and thunder. Or so say the shrinks. I shrinked into a fetal-like ball and began begging a god I didn’t even vote for(1) to spare me my life; there was still some use in it, although I had no way of proving the notion.
“Thou shall not kill,” orders God, who fails to abide by His own edict.
So much for sleep. Buckle up.
There are times I hate Nature.
The cloudburst struck by 5am. Prongs of lightning littered the sky, pounding the defenseless ground with indiscriminate ferocity. The ol’ lightning-to-thunder Count-Five-Seconds-per-Mile rule estimated the electricity a few meters from me. So did, seconds later, a scalding tree. I’d always wanted to see a tree get hit by lightning. On YouTube. Fright was replaced with an expectation of death. In a weird way it was calming. It awaits anyway.
I changed my mind when a robust gust flattened my deathtrap. The (ordinarily A-framed) tent started leaking immediately. Just as well, I thought. I didn’t want the aluminum poles to entice a bolt of voltage. Galvanized from head to heel, I gathered everything and jammed it all into my pack posthaste, shoving it into plastic garbage sacks carried for these situations. On a thru-hike the unpredictable is only unpredictable to the unprepared.
The tent was last to be packed. It was drenched, so I doubled-up the bags it went into, so it wouldn’t soak other miscellany. The world may be in possession of too many plastic bags, but I was happy to have extra here. Plastic weighs naught and is the only waterproof material I put my stuff--and my faith--into. Pack covers are a joke. If plastic bags are good enough for dog poo, they’re good enough for me(2). In this way dog poo and I see eye to eye.
I was alive in a manner only fear could provoke. My heart pounded like Bonham’s bass drum. The act of sprinting could only help slow it. Up and running--literally--I arrived at the Jerry Cabin Shelter in two minutes. I knew the shelter was close, but not that close. It wouldn’t have mattered had I made it there yesterday; it was occupied. With humans and dogs and fleas and dog poo bags.
I was also occupied, trying to flee the wrath of the snarling, spitting gods. Had the shelter had its NO VACANCY sign off, I could’ve ridden the storm out. The guidebook says it suits six; there were ten squeezed in, not counting the cowering canines. It was also abysmal, this Jerry Cabin Shithole. No self-respecting rodent would elect to choose it for raiding purposes. Humans, conversely, have no qualms about filling such landfills.
Don’t even get me started on the outhouse. (I’ll take care of that.) It too was teeming. But not steaming, thankfully. Feces amassed precariously close to seat level. It looked like someone had suffered greatly from irritable bowel syndrome. Had I sat and shat, the pile would’ve breached the brim. My man parts, shriveled though they were, would’ve come into contact--a close encounter of the TURD KIND. I refrained.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I think I hoped that maybe, just maybe, the defecation-station was safe enough to seek shelter in till the storm had blown over. I didn’t have to unload; it was much too early.
As a result of the sun’s slow climb, the sky went from black to leaden. Even when the flaming meatball breached the horizon, all but the lightning remained dark. The path was a muddy mess. Every piece of clothing I wore, which was every piece I had, was a muddy mess. If cleanliness is next to godliness...God bless this mess.
I was now in Trudge Mode. (Head down hiking, the worst kind.) Survival Mode too. The rain helped wash me clean but continued to make a mess of the trail. I’d slip and fall too many times to track, but it mattered not. The ground was warmer than the air, and I liked that. Plus, it provided an opportunity to take a closer gander at the wildlife, my superiors. The lightning would pass, but I kept the pressure on to keep warm, chowing on peanut M & Ms to fuel the sputtering fire.
I reached the Flint Mountain Shelter. The trusty guidebook says it houses eight. There were sixteen hikers inside. Plenty of room left! But no one attempted to make space, so I clomped on. No matter; stopping would’ve had me shivering more, so I thanked everyone for their selfishness.
At Rector Laurel Road, where TN and NC collide again, as they do for countless miles along the AT, an older couple offered hotdogs, potato chips and soft-drinks, despite the weather. Or because of it. It was dreamlike. They had their minivan hatch propped open and were barbecuing beneath it. A herd of hopped-up hikers assembled, each smiling and laughing and repeatedly thanking the pair. Of all days to dole out such kindness, this was the one it was appreciated most.
The hotdogs warmed my innards, enabling the terraqueous trudgery to continue. I clambered over the slippery roadside stile and began another mile. Then another and another. I didn’t have a goal but to keep moving--to keep warm. To keep alive. To keep life. I’d have begged the couple for a ride somewhere, but their van was filled with food. If one hiker asks, they all do.
When the march ended, I’d reached a ridge near a small water pump station. A smattering of empty houses, presumably second homes of the opulent, stood nearby. Vacant vacation homes. I considered breaking into one, but instead took up residence on a lawn next to a water tank. A lower form of trespassing. (I wasn’t tres-passing; I was staying.) The grass was damp but soft, and the place had good wind protection--perfect. Well, almost perfect. I’d’ve preferred a hotel with hot-tub, but interlopers can’t be choosers.
PS: I took but four photos today (D: all of the above). My camera doesn’t work when wet; my fingers don’t work when cold.
As a result of the sun’s slow climb, the sky went from black to leaden. Even when the flaming meatball breached the horizon, all but the lightning remained dark. The path was a muddy mess. Every piece of clothing I wore, which was every piece I had, was a muddy mess. If cleanliness is next to godliness...God bless this mess.
I was now in Trudge Mode. (Head down hiking, the worst kind.) Survival Mode too. The rain helped wash me clean but continued to make a mess of the trail. I’d slip and fall too many times to track, but it mattered not. The ground was warmer than the air, and I liked that. Plus, it provided an opportunity to take a closer gander at the wildlife, my superiors. The lightning would pass, but I kept the pressure on to keep warm, chowing on peanut M & Ms to fuel the sputtering fire.
I reached the Flint Mountain Shelter. The trusty guidebook says it houses eight. There were sixteen hikers inside. Plenty of room left! But no one attempted to make space, so I clomped on. No matter; stopping would’ve had me shivering more, so I thanked everyone for their selfishness.
At Rector Laurel Road, where TN and NC collide again, as they do for countless miles along the AT, an older couple offered hotdogs, potato chips and soft-drinks, despite the weather. Or because of it. It was dreamlike. They had their minivan hatch propped open and were barbecuing beneath it. A herd of hopped-up hikers assembled, each smiling and laughing and repeatedly thanking the pair. Of all days to dole out such kindness, this was the one it was appreciated most.
The hotdogs warmed my innards, enabling the terraqueous trudgery to continue. I clambered over the slippery roadside stile and began another mile. Then another and another. I didn’t have a goal but to keep moving--to keep warm. To keep alive. To keep life. I’d have begged the couple for a ride somewhere, but their van was filled with food. If one hiker asks, they all do.
When the march ended, I’d reached a ridge near a small water pump station. A smattering of empty houses, presumably second homes of the opulent, stood nearby. Vacant vacation homes. I considered breaking into one, but instead took up residence on a lawn next to a water tank. A lower form of trespassing. (I wasn’t tres-passing; I was staying.) The grass was damp but soft, and the place had good wind protection--perfect. Well, almost perfect. I’d’ve preferred a hotel with hot-tub, but interlopers can’t be choosers.
PS: I took but four photos today (D: all of the above). My camera doesn’t work when wet; my fingers don’t work when cold.
"Fail"note 1: I stopped speaking to imaginary friends when I turned seven. I know now few things fail like prayer. Prayer = Velleity. (Velleity \vuh-LEE-i-tee\ noun 1: a mere wish, unaccompanied by an effort to obtain it.) Still, once the curse words run out, prayer always seems to start.
"Filth"note 2: I have yet to see a dog poo baggie. If the AT strayed anywhere near latte-liberal Boulder, Colorado, it would be re-dubbed the PP...the Poo Path. Screw you and your poo bags and discarded bike inner-tubes, you self-righteous Boulderites!
"Filth"note 2: I have yet to see a dog poo baggie. If the AT strayed anywhere near latte-liberal Boulder, Colorado, it would be re-dubbed the PP...the Poo Path. Screw you and your poo bags and discarded bike inner-tubes, you self-righteous Boulderites!
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