A Limp in the Woods (Day 30)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 30: Tuesday, April 23rd, 2013
US Hwy 19E to Moreland Gap Shelter = 19 miles + a 5-mile round-trip side-trip
(AT) Miles to date: 410

A Pathogenic Path (aka When the Trail Goes Viral)

The thru-hiker has two options when resupplying from US Highway 19E(1). I chose the lesser of the two. (But I attest: ‘twas not the road traveled less.) In this case the lesser meant Elk Park, NC, and the two-plus mile side-trip to reach it. Let it be known Elk Park is no park, and the walk to it no walk in the park. I’d tried my hand at hitchhiking, but to no avail. Hoofing it was the only option. That or starve there roadside.

On paper Elk Park is charming and picturesque. It’s neither. More trailer park than town park. (The Elk in Elk Park is also a misnomer; the last surviving Tennessee elk was shot and killed in the mid-1800s, likely by a man with a small penis and a large ego, although back then hunting was more survival than sport.) On my insistence, Elk Trailer Park was where Ruth sent my first resupply parcel. It included shoes, which were now in dire need. Brand spankin’ new shoes, ready for brand new spankings from the trail. My first pair had done its duty, making four hundred miles, about what I’d estimated they would. I should’ve jettisoned them a hundred miles ago. Sorry Mr. Joel: you don’t get more mileage from a cheap pair of sneakers.

A shoe in (or two in)

Post post office I bolted across the semi-busy highway--that is, busy with semis. At an (in)convenience store flying the Gadsden flag--Don’t Tread on Snakes!--I stocked up on what few things they had. Sugar, fat, and things caloric. A sign in the store’s window, replete with a dapper thru-hiker-looking dude, asked, “Where will YOU spend eternity?” What could I say? Christ, it’s tough enough figuring out what to do with the Here Now!

I shambled back down the highway another two-plus miles to the AT. “Non trail miles don’t count,” a hiker friend once informed me. But boy, do they ever. Especially when they’re paved. Paved miles don’t allow the stride to change much, and the repetitive motion invites agony, which is quick to RSVP.

I sat at the highway/trail junction for twenty minutes, hoping to recover a little before setting off, and that’s exactly what I did: recover little. Just as I forced myself to move, a young hiker happened along. He introduced himself. “Dino DNA,” he said, thrusting a gloved hand my way. He looked a respectable sort--clean, bespectacled, scholarly, smiling, contemplative. Science with a human face. He had an air about him. One made up of eminence and intellect and, well, rancidity. I could tell I was going to like him immediately.

“I’m Funnybone,” I returned, shaking his hand.

I offered him some cheddar popcorn. I’d just realized six family-sized bags would otherwise last a week, by which time I’d pass by Hampton, TN, Shady Valley, TN and Damascus, Virginia--three more trailside towns wherein I could pop in and buy more. Thru-hiking presents this logistical challenge between every resupply point. When in towns, the hiker has to ask himself: how much do I need and how little can I get away with? For he knows the only thing worse than going hungry is carrying too much. I went wrong in thinking I needed provisions for an expedition, when there were plenty of resupply spots ahead, all over the place. The AT is relatively straightforward when it comes to restocking, at least on its bottom half.

“That’s alright,” Dino DNA replied. “I just ate at the Mountain Harbour Hostel. The place was amazing--enormous portions and totally affordable. And the folks were so friendly.”

Naturally, I didn’t care to hear this. The hostel was just a quarter mile down the highway, in the opposite direction I’d toiled. Had I studied my guidebook, I would’ve known this. (Even when resupply towns aren’t all that frequent, hostels are.) If it weren’t for the hills and the moisture and the mud and roots and the tree-created claustrophobia (and soon I imagine the bugs), the AT would be a pleasure cruise. Today kind of was...

AT thru-hiker Easy E relaxing on a trailside bench

Jones Falls (Best not to try to keep up with the Joneses here)

Which reminds me. Just like it happens on those stupid-big cruise ships, there’s been an outbreak along the trail. A number of hikers have been laid out, puking, pooping, and popping pills. The Center for Disease Control, an expansive organization in buildings devoid of natural light, has even taken an interest in the goings-on of the trail and the hordes of hikers living and feeling under the weather. The culprit: the winter vomit bug. Norovirus.

(Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on the Interwebs. But I’ve had noro before-o and cannot recommend it. My cockroach DNA couldn’t even stop it.)

The pathogen is primarily spread by fecally-contaminated food or water. (You can catch it from yourself(2).) It is also circulated through person-to-person contact and aerosolization of the virus and subsequent contamination of surfaces--for example, a shelter floor or picnic bench. The bug drops in annually on the AT. This is because, and the CDC should know as much, hykers and hygiene are diametrically opposed. The AT is a long-ass petri dish. Terra germa.

I’d speculated if there was a name for the enigmatic reason I felt so feeble ever since stepping onto this undulating strip of dirt. I now knew. Although I hadn’t been ralphing solids or pooping liquids, I’ve had an overall weariness and malaise for about thirty days now. Precisely thirty days. Most my dreams have been nightmares. (They end in a state of bliss, once suicide commences.) 

I was in the germinal stages (so to say) of worrying the trail might be the source. Although I didn’t feel any better, I now knew better. “It is the microbe,” said Monsieur Pasteur, “who will have the last word.” Biology is destiny.

For about fifteen minutes Dino DNA and I walked as one. In time though his svelte sprightliness outperformed my pitiable plod. He wasn’t in a hurry. The mountains, we concurred, should be a No Fly Zone. He just had a bionic body (as guys his age do) and a longer, faster stride than I.

This ‘stride length/stride rate’ stuff is highly scientific and need not be fully understood to be appreciated. But it explains why some hikers are faster than others, and why I’m slower than all others. It also doesn’t help that I’m constitutionally lazy and would most often rather camp than hike. Laziness requires little maintenance, but when it does, I usually skip it.

Dino DNA certainly wasn’t missing out on anything with his innate gait and rate. His brain works fast too. And from what I could gather, he halts to inhale the flowers. It’s just that I stop to smell everything. Even scat. My inherent speed (to use a term loosely) isn’t too different from what others might think of as a standstill. Slow is good; it’s a chance to halt life’s advance.

“Speed can give you a great feeling of excitement, and there is a place for that in life and in music...but you have to draw the line, and not always use speed. It is stupid to drink a glass of wine quickly. And it is stupid to play Mozart too fast...the great benefit of slowing down is reclaiming the time and tranquility to make meaningful connections--with people, with culture, with work, with nature, with our own bodies and minds...”
~Carl Honoré, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed   

Following my floundering feet--oh how I flounder like a fish--I’d ultimately reach the derelict Moreland Gap Shelter. There I came to a true standstill. The possibility of ROUS (Rodents Of Unusual Size) lurking in the ramshackle shack reminded me I was best served by pitching my tent nearby, but not too nearby. A near full moon would soon cast shadows throughout the forest, so I’d be well warned of any creatures prowling.

"Foot"note 1: Elk Park, NC or Roan Mountain township, TN.

"Foot"note 2: Since there are no toilets to clog in the woods, I use an inordinate amount of TP post-poop, to avoid any such self-inflicted infection. Toilet paper is also known as TRAIL MONEY; it is the perfect bartering tool for working out a trade with a desperate hiker, so it's important to carry extra. (I once swapped a half-used roll for an unopened industrial-sized bag of peanut M & Ms.) TP also has other uses: a large roll can double as a pillow; it's great for wiping cook-pots after a messy meal or wiping sunscreen off the body; it absorbs tent condensation; it's a great fire starter; and so on.