A Limp in the Woods (Day 31)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 31: Wednesday, April 24th, 2013
Moreland Gap Shelter to Hampton side-trail/AT Junction = 9 miles
Miles to date: 419

Of Spring and Springs

Some people hit the trails to get away. Others go to find their way. I go to get lost(1). 

To be lost is to be fully present, and lost is how I’d start the day. Somehow I ventured off path and into the verdant void enveloping it. If I wasn’t lost, I was very much geographically challenged or displaced. (I’ve been displaced since birth.) How ever you define it, I was not where I wanted to be. Just as I’d end up, my head must’ve been elsewhere: a bit of a What the Chuck? moment. There may be pleasure in the pathless woods, but I was having none of it.

“Follow your passion, stay true to yourself, never follow someone else’s path, unless you’re in the woods and you’re lost and you see a path, then by all means you should follow that.” ~Ellen DeGeneres

When I realized the gaffe, I did what I always do when I veer off the beaten path: I went off the rails. Profuse panic.

I worried I’d have to loop back in search of the trail by proceeding east, or west, for approximately twenty-four thousand miles. Cross-country, cross-globe. A little farther than I cared to walk. I looked around and headed west before starting to second guess myself. Then I began second guessing myself a second time. A lot of guessing, I guess. For those like me second guessing is second nature.

If I were the trail, where would I be hiding?

The impasse would pass. I’d right my wrong when I spotted a couple of colorful couples (not colored couples, for that ain’t politically correct), cruising by a hundred yards away, starboard. Eureka! They looked full of purpose. A good sign. Additional panic averted.

They say it’s impossible to get lost on the AT, but they haven’t met me. Thousands of white blazes and signs and cairns mark the trail. (The Appalachian Trail Conservancy says the exact number of blazes is unknown but tally around one hundred and sixty thousand! That’s roughly seventy-three markers per mile, almost one every seventy-three feet.) The colorless graffiti is slathered high and low--on trees, rocks, roots, fence posts, sign posts, signs, ladders, bridges, buildings, roads, sidewalks, and on the bottom of a boat(2).  

Even if the paint peeled, the path to this point is distinct and pretty much always obvious, except maybe during a whiteout. Two blind men have walked the entire AT--trail by braille--each on their own (each with seeing-eye dog), yet I stray into the wooded fray. I was lucky I didn’t step into the boar traps scattered about. Those pigs were pissed. Emotions aren’t unique to humans. (“Darn pigs ain’t native anyway--theys oughtta be shot!” cry the hunters, themselves a non-native, invasive species.)

The first blind person to thru-hike the AT--Bill Irwin, with guide dog Orient (1990)

Duly chastened and back on track--trail is just one letter from rail--I settled in to my usual rhythm, which is anything but rhythmic. I was hoping to catch the colorfully-dressed couples, but never did. I’d bounded along for some time when a hiker I recognized approached and asked if I was a south-bounder. He didn’t recognize me.

I knew what he meant.

“Crap,” I sighed, kicking at the ground. “I’m going the wrong way, eh?”

“If you’re trying to get to Maine, I’m afraid so,” the college-aged, Chaco-clad guy replied. He patted my slumping shoulder, offering his condolences. The hand doing the patting had a ring on each finger, thumb included. I wondered how he could lift it, and what he does during electrical storms, and how he gets through airport security.

He told me his trailname, but in accordance to tradition, I’d forget it then and there. He recommended we hike together, probably because he knew I could use a guide. I told him I’d take a rain check: “I could use a little breather. Maybe I’ll catch you later.” We both knew it was doubtful, even if I were the faster of us two. The lost always lose time.

I sat there for an hour, doubting myself again--third guessing myself. I wondered how I’d made it this far on this goddamn path, and in life. I knew I could never name the date, or the day of the week, not without this little computer’s help, but how could I mess up which side to keep the sun on? My direction of travel? My whereabouts? My defenses kicked in. I told myself that some of the best paths can never be discovered without first getting lost. But in these woods, finding that path, or making that path, could mean never making it back to this one.

I chalked it up to being lost in thought, which has me habitually getting physically lost. A man lost in ever-narrowing circles. Life is too short for all the thoughts I’d like to think; I’m not sure why I regurgitate the same ones over and over. I ordered myself to keep the Spectacular Now in mind, and focus less on what’s been or what might be. I got up and got going. Northward. Sun to the right. (It was still early; later I’d aim to keep it on my left.) Thru-hiking is all about making moves.

The next few hours offered plenty. Although spring hasn’t sprung--there’s no spring in my step either--there were plenty of springs lining the route. And the scenery would prove to be some of the finest thus far, especially the Pond Mountain Wilderness. I never expected the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina to be so vibrant and spectacular, but I knew about it now. I was happily lost beneath the frondescence of the forest.

The springs have made my backpack a lot more bearable. I’m rarely forced to cart more than a half pint of water in a given stretch. Instead, I’m able to stop for a few seconds each time there’s liquid love gurgling from the earth, as there often is. 

My fancy Sawyer Squeeze water filter allows me to dip a bottle into these sources, no matter the nastiness. I then screw the filter back on to the bottle and start sip-sipping away as I head to the next source. A true dip-n-sip. No batteries, no pumping, no chemical use. Quick and easy, cheap and light, and in a teenie-weeny form factor. The three-ounce gadget is becoming my most cherished piece of schwag. Life should be so easy! In the hardpan mountains out west water is the foremost (foremoist) challenge, be it a lack, or having to lug vats of it. I could get used to these Appalachians.

Still, since winter’s wavering and spring hasn’t sprung (sorry, four-legged herbivores--the salad bar’s going through renovations and not quite open), my pack remains oh-so-heavy. I’ve only ever had to tote this much clothing when heading to friends’ houses, to freeload another laundry load. I look forward to ditching the surplus.

By mid-afternoon I descended a moss-slickened series of steps to an impressive cascade. Big, brilliant and boisterous, Laurel Falls is where a father and son drowned just last year; one presumably trying to save the other. (No one may have noticed for a while, had it not been for the backpacks left ashore.) I lounged and lunched, watching the waterfall drool helplessly over its own splendidness. Every droplet shone like a pearl. It was surprising to observe a few hikers come and go in a matter of seconds, each only taking a cursory glance or a quick pic. Some didn’t even do that much. Meh, one knucklehead said. Everyone who passed by said hi, and they all seemed likeable, but we’re definitely not on the same trip. The setting was only ho-hum to a dum-dum.

The route following the falls is as exciting as any part of this punishing path. It was certainly one of the coolest stretches I’ve ever tramped, anywhere. The trail curved precariously around a series of protruding rocks, immediately adjacent to the rushing river. Although the water was scarcely but a foot or two deep, I took great care not to slip and fall in. My pack would certainly have dragged me under and I’d end up with the same fate as father and son.

An hour or two later I pulled into Hampton (pop: dead, which is one of its better attributes), just as it began pouring cats and dogs. No, it was scarier than that. A rain of terror--and not just terriers. I raced along and sought safeguard at a small, smelly Laundromat/burger joint/computer repair store--peculiar combo indeed--where I pleaded with the dryer not to steal any socks. I then wolfed--or at least terrier-ed--a pair of oily cheeseburgers before catching up on this here juvenilia. The burgers tasted terrific, despite having been seasoned with cigarette ash; the lady making them knows, in these parts, health code violations do not apply. My arteries will be none too pleased with the meal, but my belly overruled future concerns.

The one-time bustling town didn’t enthuse. I evacuated after a stopover at the Braemer Castle, after the worst of the rain. The compound isn’t what you’d think. It’s more of a hulking house. It is nonetheless imposing compared to the crappy manufactured homes lining the street. The place now plays host to hordes of hikers as a hostel. A bed was overpriced or I might’ve stayed. Instead, it was back into the belly of the beast, the wet windswept woodlands. Into the trees, into the trees.

"Foot"note 1: Though not having to shower is a definite bonus.

"Foot"note 2: In Maine the AT leads straight into the Kennebec River, at which point a canoe ride or a swim or a long side-trip is compulsory.