A Limp in the Woods (Day 28)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 28: Sunday, April 21st, 2013
Powerline at Mile 351 to Clyde Smith Shelter = 17 miles
Miles to date: 368

Cowboy Camping

Last night, as I prepared for what I hoped would be a solid night of sleep, I decided to try my hand at an old cowboy trick, one I learned during my professional cow-tipping days. Since I was cowboy camping and planned for cowboy coffee in the morn, it only made sense. The trick is tricky but goes like this:

1) Start a camp fire (this is the tricky part when buckaroo here is involved). A camp fire, for you young’uns in the dark, is a primitive contrivance since replaced by gas stoves and propane heaters. Also know as ‘outdoor TV,’ a fire has no annoying commercial breaks. I watch reruns often.

2) Encircle the blaze with an orderly fire ring, fashioned from gluten-free baseball-sized stones. (Ideally, you’ll want to accomplish this before igniting the flames; this I keep forgetting.) Be sure to leave no stone unburned.

3) Then, when said fire starts to sputter and the day’s diary’s done, and it’s time for torpor, place warm rocks deep within sleeping bag.

4) Oh, and yearn for s’mores.

Much delight. The trick worked, and reasonably well. It stayed toasty in my bag till the wee hours. The bags beneath my eyes proved I’d slept well to that point. After that point, not so much. It was the coldest night on the trail since the first pair, both of which had tanked into the teens. Here now I’d guessed low twenties. For three hours I scrunched into a full-on fetal configuration--a taut knot: knees to neck, nose to knees--when I’d finally had enough. It was time to get my AT on.

If there’s one advantage to cowboy camping, besides a clearer connection to the universe (and the one beyond that, power-lines notwithstanding), it’s that you can decamp in short order. I removed the rocks from my sleeping bag and those pinning down my Tyvek groundsheet; shook the ice crystals off both the sheet and the bag (hot rocks definitely added condensation); crammed everything into my rime-coated pack; slipped my state-of-the-art shoes on; and gingerly rose to my feet nubs in just over two minutes. Seconds later I left the clear-cut and followed the clear-cut trail, getting my ga-me on. 

So much for cowboy coffee.

Both the aim and the name of the game was the same: Walk. Lots. And I was okay with that, for it was another wonderful day in the life. (I suppose if we knew what the finality of death was really like, we’d appreciate fully how wonderful every single day is, irrespective of weather or scenery or, for that matter, transpiring events--no matter how bleak they may appear; indeed, every day above ground is a good one.) If being out here wasn’t reason enough to celebrate, it was also John Muir’s birthday. Indeed, a red letter day, both then and now. I warmed in no time.

TN is one of five states offering a special Appalachian Trail license plate 

The scene at Iron Mountain Gap; trail magic courtesy of Rob Bird

The trail ruthlessly ushered me toward Unaka Mountain, yet another thousand-foot climb just over a mile long in a long, long line of them. It is difficult to walk flat-footed on such an abrupt scramble and I often found myself tiptoeing, though not by election; the heels simply won’t contact the ground without risking injury to the Achilles tendons. Side-stepping would be a possibility, except that the trail is only so wide. As if the AT hiker wasn’t already getting enough exercise, he or she also has to exercise great caution. Always.

I took the road less traveled and, well, it made no difference

The trail can be one big Dream Crusher; injury has already knocked a fair few off this great green obstacle course. GA-ME over, for this is the game that plays people. Although I’ve always known my limits quite well, they transform(1) with age and fatigue; the body has a mind of its own. Plus, my brain’s recognition to keep up with it all lags, because it too fatigues. I’m not old, but fatigue makes me feel that way; it’s nice to know there’s more to come. By day’s end I’d be almost seventeen percent into this trail trial. My rate of fatigue is approaching one hundred percent. The math doesn’t bode well.

One of the friendly faces I met today

After Unaka (pronounced “you-knock-uh”…me off the trail), the remnants of this nippley day would slip by in a run-of-the-mill manner, only it was more walk-of-the-mill(2). Scores of trail days transpire this way. An outsider might think it dreadfully mind-numbing, but it’s a good thing. Hiking need not always be eventful to be enjoyable. In this regard, hiking’s a lot like flying. The best flights are those that take off and land without incidence.

"Foot"note 1: 'Transform' is another word for 'decline.'

"Ferment"note 2: The only notable occurrence was a longer-than-touted detour down to the Greasy Creek Friendly Hostel, a dilapidated house where Ce Ce the proprietor sells smiley face stickers for three bucks apiece. Each decal comes with a free beer. It's Ce Ce's way of circumnavigating the strict "post" prohibition laws.

Her neighbor Bill is a card-carrying member of the Jackass Bureau, yelling at hikers as they pass his shack: "You fuckin' asshole!" he barked my way in a slow, gargled drawl. "You better get lost." I'd been forewarned of him, so I just waved and smiled, knowing he meant "You had better get lost." Proper English is scarce in the sticks. These are the only two houses in the area, stuck in the middle of the woods, and their owners can't speak or speak to one another. One hiker joked that Ce Ce and Bill were in cahoots, in attempt to persuade hikers to seek shelter from her "nasty old neighbor," but I think the galoot had simply fallen off his rocker. His dogs were friendly, however.