An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 25: Thursday, April 18th, 2013
A mile past Low Gap to Erwin, TN = 19 miles
Miles to date: 342
It’s always something. Or something’s always it.
If sleep were chess, I’m playing checkers. All night I toss and turn, thoughts adrift in a stormy seascape. Brainwaves aren’t just brainwaves; they’re tidal waves. And the tsunamis keep stacking up. Once daylight disembarks, I stumble along in state of lethargy, sleepwalking through the Appalachian Mountains. It’s especially pathological on this path.
Already my senses have been deadened by the interminable repetition of striding. If Nature has intended for me to develop the instincts and bodily reactions of a wild animal, I suppose I have; I am in hibernation.
Physical hibernation, anyway. The mind motors.
My hope is that unadulterated exhaustion will eventually lay me to waste, to the point I can’t but mentally and emotionally shut down. How strange and distressing it is to be wired and tired all the time. I crave to be comatose! There are people, I’m told, who, when they go to bed, sleep throughout the night. They do not dwell in existential dread; they do not replay every mistake they’ve made. They wake up refreshed. It is hard to imagine. My melatonin is malfunctioning.
Day 25: Thursday, April 18th, 2013
A mile past Low Gap to Erwin, TN = 19 miles
Miles to date: 342
Tennessee Techno Talk
It’s always something. Or something’s always it.
If sleep were chess, I’m playing checkers. All night I toss and turn, thoughts adrift in a stormy seascape. Brainwaves aren’t just brainwaves; they’re tidal waves. And the tsunamis keep stacking up. Once daylight disembarks, I stumble along in state of lethargy, sleepwalking through the Appalachian Mountains. It’s especially pathological on this path.
Already my senses have been deadened by the interminable repetition of striding. If Nature has intended for me to develop the instincts and bodily reactions of a wild animal, I suppose I have; I am in hibernation.
Physical hibernation, anyway. The mind motors.
My hope is that unadulterated exhaustion will eventually lay me to waste, to the point I can’t but mentally and emotionally shut down. How strange and distressing it is to be wired and tired all the time. I crave to be comatose! There are people, I’m told, who, when they go to bed, sleep throughout the night. They do not dwell in existential dread; they do not replay every mistake they’ve made. They wake up refreshed. It is hard to imagine. My melatonin is malfunctioning.
“I’ve been sedated for years,” a fellow heartbroken friend close to me (the patron saint of the tormented) once confided. “You otta give it the ol’ college try. Cure for a messed mind.”
The problem is weed doesn’t work for/on me and booze is too hefty to haul. And where’s the thrill in pills? Are drugs the answer?
Up and moving by the time the sun was, I noticed an electrical outlet on a small structure next to the water tank I (ventured to have) slept beside. Had I known, I’d’ve siphoned from the grid all night, recharging my phone and the small tablet device upon which I scrawl this amphigory. If I could, I would have recharged my batteries.
This technology, mobile, is more than I care to carry when out and about, but it performs its purpose. For example, if I’d like to order some pizzas from the trail, I can. (Rumor has it that there are three or four places where this is possible, and if it is so I must come clean: I long to reach them.)
Me: “I’d like to order three large pizzas. Black olives, mushrooms, pineapple, and Canadian bacon on all of them, please. No sense in complicating matters.”
Pizzeria: “Your name?”
Me: “Funnyboner.”
Pizzeria: “Oh, an AT hiker.”
Me: “Affirmative.”
Pizzeria: “All three pizzas are for you then?”
Me: “Yes. Does it matter?”
Up and moving by the time the sun was, I noticed an electrical outlet on a small structure next to the water tank I (ventured to have) slept beside. Had I known, I’d’ve siphoned from the grid all night, recharging my phone and the small tablet device upon which I scrawl this amphigory. If I could, I would have recharged my batteries.
This technology, mobile, is more than I care to carry when out and about, but it performs its purpose. For example, if I’d like to order some pizzas from the trail, I can. (Rumor has it that there are three or four places where this is possible, and if it is so I must come clean: I long to reach them.)
Me: “I’d like to order three large pizzas. Black olives, mushrooms, pineapple, and Canadian bacon on all of them, please. No sense in complicating matters.”
Pizzeria: “Your name?”
Me: “Funnyboner.”
Pizzeria: “Oh, an AT hiker.”
Me: “Affirmative.”
Pizzeria: “All three pizzas are for you then?”
Me: “Yes. Does it matter?”
Pizzeria: “No, but hikers get a discount. And we throw in a wheelbarrow of bread sticks, so you don’t starve.”
I can only envision this scene has taken place thousands of times on the AT, if the rumors (of being able to order from the trail) are true. I can hardly wait. The long-distance backpacker hikes with many things on his mind, but none quite so recurrent as calories (though the state of his or her stocking stuffers comes close). I vow to eviscerate any pie in my path.
Back to the techno talk. I have five gizmos requiring electricity. I deem the standalone camera wholly necessary, for when it comes to picturing people or scenery, I have horrible recollection skills. The headlamp, also necessary, helps spot nighttime animals out looking for trouble. Then there’s the aforementioned writing tablet and the cheapo pay-as-you-go flip-phone. (This phone is so old its camera uses film.) Lastly, I wear a watch, which is overkill. (Who cares about the numbers on a screen? Most days I can sense sunrise and sundown; they’re the main time-management markers out here.)
I can only envision this scene has taken place thousands of times on the AT, if the rumors (of being able to order from the trail) are true. I can hardly wait. The long-distance backpacker hikes with many things on his mind, but none quite so recurrent as calories (though the state of his or her stocking stuffers comes close). I vow to eviscerate any pie in my path.
Back to the techno talk. I have five gizmos requiring electricity. I deem the standalone camera wholly necessary, for when it comes to picturing people or scenery, I have horrible recollection skills. The headlamp, also necessary, helps spot nighttime animals out looking for trouble. Then there’s the aforementioned writing tablet and the cheapo pay-as-you-go flip-phone. (This phone is so old its camera uses film.) Lastly, I wear a watch, which is overkill. (Who cares about the numbers on a screen? Most days I can sense sunrise and sundown; they’re the main time-management markers out here.)
Perhaps I could’ve brought a “smart”phone type of device, which would have enabled me to toss the tablet, the camera and the watch, but I refuse to buy into a costly contract or into extravagant all-in-one technology. The electronica I cart is economical and effective, and I don’t care if the elements or a fall from a cliff (or a toss from a cliff) obliterate it all. There’s no attachment or sense of ownership to any of it; my life will not be kidnapped by technology.
Like so many others, I’ve found I’m happiest when things are simplest. In this (throbbing) vein, pen and paper has always done the job, but then I wouldn’t be able to peruse all those girl-on-guy (and-on-another-guy) videos when nighttime comes. Pen and paper also wouldn’t allow me to phone in those pizzas. Nor could I post any of this drivel to the web, where it is better preserved. I’ve lost one paper journal once and still hate myself for it. The person who’s found it is probably very afraid.
As I’ve written before, the phone is a new phenomenon for me when on trail. I’ve always refrained from bringing (or owning) one, opting to remain incommunicado, to escape (phone) bars.
As I’ve written before, the phone is a new phenomenon for me when on trail. I’ve always refrained from bringing (or owning) one, opting to remain incommunicado, to escape (phone) bars.
Instead, I reach for--and hope to connect to--Nature. Free to roam, free from roaming charges. To unplug! But I can see its many benefits on trail. I’ve already learned that, unlike during my last long trek, today’s thru-hiker plays with his (or her) texticles a lot, keeping one another abreast on the latest weather forecast or what one might expect to find during upcoming stretches. A fellow hiker might be a million miles ahead and inform you on the latest trail conditions or mistakes in the guidebook, or what choice resupply town might best suit you. Best of all, the phone lets you talk to other hikers without having to smell them.
For a few extra ounces, the device can be swell to have. Still, just as it is with my penis, I find myself embarrassed to whip it out in front of others (but not because of the reception it might receive). If I’m in need of buzzing anyone, whether it’s Ruth or my sister or my shrink’s sister or my parole officer’s sister, I do it away from the trail. A man alone, talking in the woods, Thoreau-like.
Before I veer too far, it’s worth stating that the Appalachians are not in fact wilderness. Industrialized man has had his greasy hands on these mountains for centuries. The AT and surroundings are more park than wilderness. True wilderness could never be confined to a corridor. It is this notion that assured me I was absolved in lugging some toys along. At least that’s how I justify it. Still, I wrestle with all the extras, and extras they are. For me, just being in the woods is plenty.
Anyhow, today’s hiking ran parallel to yesterday’s--assuming hiking can run. It was windy, misty, chilly and muddy. A gray day, painted black and blue. I love hiking in inclement weather, but the ensuing camping not so much, especially after days of the crap.
For a few extra ounces, the device can be swell to have. Still, just as it is with my penis, I find myself embarrassed to whip it out in front of others (but not because of the reception it might receive). If I’m in need of buzzing anyone, whether it’s Ruth or my sister or my shrink’s sister or my parole officer’s sister, I do it away from the trail. A man alone, talking in the woods, Thoreau-like.
Before I veer too far, it’s worth stating that the Appalachians are not in fact wilderness. Industrialized man has had his greasy hands on these mountains for centuries. The AT and surroundings are more park than wilderness. True wilderness could never be confined to a corridor. It is this notion that assured me I was absolved in lugging some toys along. At least that’s how I justify it. Still, I wrestle with all the extras, and extras they are. For me, just being in the woods is plenty.
Anyhow, today’s hiking ran parallel to yesterday’s--assuming hiking can run. It was windy, misty, chilly and muddy. A gray day, painted black and blue. I love hiking in inclement weather, but the ensuing camping not so much, especially after days of the crap.
The hassles are legion, but perhaps the worst of it is having to slip out of wet clothes come day’s end and then--and this is the tough part--back into them to start the next day’s hike. If there’s a more torturous component to thru-hiking, I’ve yet to experience it. Many a hiker has had to thaw out his or her socks, shorts or tights come morning. When it comes to waking up, even the most fortified of coffee pales compared to donning crunchy clothing.
By the time I neared Spivey Gap and the road dissecting it, I’d fallen into stride with Smothers and Better Man, a young, married couple. (This could mean Better Man once had a best man. Mind blown.) They’re from the Beehive State but now live in Alabama. By choice. A pronounced territorial downgrade. Like me, they declared they were drowsy and trippy. (As in trippy over the smallest of undulations.) Like me, he spoke a lot. Unlike me, she did not. Needless to say, she was more pleasant than either of us.
Equally as pleasant, we were lucky to score some trail magic when we reached the gap. Or so we thought. The cooler had been picked clean. Or not so clean; it was littered with empties. Better Man noticed another cooler on the other side of the pavement. We charged over, fingers crossed. Depleted. Sometimes luck just isn’t on your side, no matter what side of the road you’re on.
Unsuccessful though we were, the succeeding climb proved successful; we talked and laughed riotously, unaware we were going up. Up is rarely unnoticeable. Focused on reaching Erwin, I’d leave Smothers and Better Man. The Tennessee town (pop: 6,100, bigger in spring) is a hop, skip and jump (unless wearing a backpack) from Davy Crockett’s birthplace, near my favorite town of Chuckey.
By the time I neared Spivey Gap and the road dissecting it, I’d fallen into stride with Smothers and Better Man, a young, married couple. (This could mean Better Man once had a best man. Mind blown.) They’re from the Beehive State but now live in Alabama. By choice. A pronounced territorial downgrade. Like me, they declared they were drowsy and trippy. (As in trippy over the smallest of undulations.) Like me, he spoke a lot. Unlike me, she did not. Needless to say, she was more pleasant than either of us.
Equally as pleasant, we were lucky to score some trail magic when we reached the gap. Or so we thought. The cooler had been picked clean. Or not so clean; it was littered with empties. Better Man noticed another cooler on the other side of the pavement. We charged over, fingers crossed. Depleted. Sometimes luck just isn’t on your side, no matter what side of the road you’re on.
Unsuccessful though we were, the succeeding climb proved successful; we talked and laughed riotously, unaware we were going up. Up is rarely unnoticeable. Focused on reaching Erwin, I’d leave Smothers and Better Man. The Tennessee town (pop: 6,100, bigger in spring) is a hop, skip and jump (unless wearing a backpack) from Davy Crockett’s birthplace, near my favorite town of Chuckey.
The AT crisscrossed the North Carolina/Tennessee border much of the way. Apart from the weather, the big concern was which of the two states I should drop a dookie in--the predicaments the hiker feces faces. I liked both states and felt that any discharge would desecrate the majestic milieu. I flipped a leaf for it. A Tennessee turdlet it was.
A monstrous--and seemingly bottomless--descent delivered me to the Nolichucky River, another agreeable name. Had the weather been toastier I might’ve tiptoed in. Instead I strode along a loosely paved road for a hundred yards, down to Uncle Johnny’s Hostel. A stockpile of us were then swept up by the radiant Miss Janet, an infamous trail angel of local (and loco) provenance. I’d spend the next forty-eight hours under her care.
A monstrous--and seemingly bottomless--descent delivered me to the Nolichucky River, another agreeable name. Had the weather been toastier I might’ve tiptoed in. Instead I strode along a loosely paved road for a hundred yards, down to Uncle Johnny’s Hostel. A stockpile of us were then swept up by the radiant Miss Janet, an infamous trail angel of local (and loco) provenance. I’d spend the next forty-eight hours under her care.
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| The hostess with the mostest, the two-hearted Miss Janet |
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