A Limp in the Woods (Day 29)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 29: Monday, April 22nd, 2013
Clyde Smith Shelter to US Hwy 19E = 23 miles
Miles to date: 391

The Gift of Pain

“Befriend pain and you’ll never be alone.”

This droll proverb comes from AT thru-hikers--the legged forces. It was made mainstream by McDougall’s Born to Run, and by those obedient jarheads--the armed forces. The only original material the military ever comes up with is murder technology--those costly devices concocted to kill. Costly indeed.

Throughout this journey I’ve been forced to befriend pain. Like a devoted dog, it won’t leave my side (or my back or my knees or my feet or my shins or my hips or any other part of me). Yes. Pain is an acquired taste. And pain is everywhere on a long trail. 

And so it was I feasted on Advil and sleeping pills last night, so that I might recuperate. (I did not, however, take a laxative; one should never ingest laxatives and sleeping pills at the same time…)

I’m pleased to write the cocktail worked! Upon waking, I thought if drugs are the answer to this test, count me in! Better living through poison! I can easily be on the All Painkiller Diet! It’ll liberate me from the liability of lugging large loads!

Nah, I’m not an advocate of medication, nor an avocado of it. I worry more about my insides than my side (or my back or my knees or my feet or my shins or my hips or any other part of me). I don’t plan to make a pattern of this pill-popping. I’d like my liver to continue to deliver.

How come all my body parts so nicely fit together?

All my organs doing their jobs, no help from me!

~ The Crash Test Dummies

I’d slept in the shelter with just two others, Raven and Chainsaw. The young guys were still sawing logs as I made tracks, likely dreaming of locations less mountainous and more majestic. Or perhaps they were dreaming of women. There are few females found in the forest, so one must use the power to contrive, concoct, conjure. My guess is 85% of those out here are bearded and possess deep voices. Although that percentage does include some of the women I’ve met, most of them have been men. (Some individuals, gender-benders, are tough to tell apart and remain unidentified; thankfully, classification means nothing to Nature.) That leaves the AT as an officially appalling place to meet a member of the opposing team, unless you’re female. And aren’t bothered by beards.

It’s not that women don’t revel in thru-hiking--those out here clearly do and are routinely the first to share a smile or a laugh--it’s just that the activity remains dominated by dudes. This, despite huge percentages of women competing in marathons, triathlons and other organized endurance events. I suspect part of it is because there’s still an underlying macho mentality revolving around long trails, a toxic masculinity of sorts. These type of “men” need to man up (or shut up), but so many guys like to think it’s a man’s world out here, and only a man’s. It only goes to undermine their masculinity when women start showing up and passing them. Their gigantic--masculine--buck-knives start to look even sillier. (In French the word blade is lame.)

And of course, there’s fear. Interestingly, like so many others companies, outdoor manufacturers even package and sell fear in their advertising, which doesn’t help matters, for men or women: “A million things could go wrong out there,” says SPOT’s website(1). These fear mongers, these con artists, are purposefully pitching terror, as terror helps sell products. What they don’t tell you, though, is that a million things could also go right. And these things are, in fact, a million times more likely. Unfortunately, SPOT is just one example of many.

It’s understood a profound fear can exist for women when it comes to being in isolation. (Many men share this.) Although it is tough to seek complete and lasting isolation along the AT, there’s definitely a feeling of vulnerability in being alone, away from the safety blanket of society.

Society, as we call it, isn’t really any more secure. For anyone. Going back to the “news” for a second, almost all of what we see (and absorb) is bad news. Rape; murder; women or children gone missing or found dead; deadly auto accidents; senseless crimes; white collar crimes; theft; gang activities; war; terrorism; pollution; silent species extinction; and other thrilling pandemonium. All of it COMING UP SOON! Don’t turn your dial! Wait, who still has a dial?

It’s frantic. Although none of it has ever affected me, it still affects me. So like any sane customer, I walk away from it all.

I’m unsure of others, but I feel safer in the sticks--with the bonus of not having to hear about all those wrenching revelations. Besides, Satan and his roommates would find the AT much too sinister.

I hope more and more women will be attracted to the trails, for they--the trails--offer so much. I identify with fear as well as anyone--I’ve lived endured most my life with crippling trepidation and anxiety and other homegrown drama and trauma--but I know unless something is done, that action is taken, it never gets any better. One of the truest forms of happiness is in overcoming our fears, in achieving that which lay deep within us(2). I forever remind myself: put your ears next to your soul and listen closely to its whisper, before it’s too late.

Anyhow, enough sobriety for a single journal entry. It’s best to stick to the story of the sticks…

Once upon a time

On a trail long and brutal

Lumbered a limping lad

Whose every stride felt futile

Most today’s hiking directed the northbound hiker southbound. It also veered toward the tough. (Yada, yada, yada; when you dance with the devil, you don’t get to pick the tune.) But it also swerved splendidly, making up for the extended sock-ins inside the Sylvan Subway. Roan Mountain, a gargantuan 6,286-footer, was magical, as were conditions. It seems spring’s moodiness is finally passing in favor of its promise of serenity and lushness. Slow as the going was going, I made sure to take it all in on this Earth Day 2013.

Shouldn’t every day on Earth be Earth Day? This ludicrous day of recognition is nothing more than hype and propaganda. Its celebrations likely lead to more pollution and litter. Hordes of affluent humans feigning concern for their planet while they fill their gas-guzzlers, empty their organically-grown lattes, and stare into their electronic abysses! I say we rename it Earth Alarm Day!

I’d eventually be caught (and caught off-guard while peeing) by Moxie, a post-graduate psychology student from Beantown with a few empty weeks on her plate. The twenty-nine year-old is piece-mealing the AT together in true step-by-step style, driving or flying to sections she hasn’t yet walked, as her schedule allows.

We ambled along and each shared a short synopsis of our lives, before parting ways. She...forging ahead. Me...forging behind. Trail interactions tend to be fleeting affairs. As quickly as someone walks into your world, so too do they exit it. It is, nonetheless, nice to share brief moments in time in this manner. Soul reassuring nuggets, they are. I was able to finish peeing later.

Moxie and a pair of friends near Roan’s acme

Better Man and Smothers enjoying lunch

So far I seem to be connecting with others more than I am with the countryside, despite an intrinsic aversion to humans. I originally decided to walk (what I could of) the AT because I didn’t know it. I wondered if it was worth knowing. I’d only been to a few of the states it traverses, and only--gack!--in cities. I still don’t know the trail. I may never know it. But, like those I meet, it is worth getting to know. For me it’s not about reaching a finality as it is about finally reaching out. After all, getting there isn’t half the fun; it’s all the fun.

"Foot"note 1: SPOT is a GPS-based transmitter that sends signals and your location to loved ones or, if need be, to emergency personnel, letting them know your whereabouts. In the latter sense it acts as an emergency beacon similar to those a sailor might use. As per this day and age of signing your life away to own or operate anything, a contractual agreement must first be ratified.

"Foot"note 2: Happiness is homemade, says the homeless guy!