A Limp in the Woods (Day 42)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 42 (the answer): Stinko de Bayou, 2013 (Sun)
Laurel Creek to Helveys Mill Shelter = 9 miles
Miles to date: 589

Bland, not Boring

Yesterday’s misfortunes would not carry over to today, thanks in part to the terrain. Although the trek began with a rude seven hundred foot clamber and ended with a six hundred foot wall, the rest remained docile. The road to ruin had been temporarily rerouted and thus forestalled.

The day’s profile

It also didn’t hurt that we kept the distance down to nine miles, made even easier by a pit stop in Bland. My wonky heel was given the healing it required. I could feel it all day on this Stinko de Mayo, the very day when Earl Shaffer(1) passed, but it was only perceptible, never painful. Rain was the bigger pain.

It came in spurts. One minute it was spurting heavily; the next it spurted like mad. It left us little opportunity to soak up any views--and instead just soak. Photo shoots were shot. Or un-shot. We couldn’t take any pictures since our cameras weren’t waterproof, but we all wordlessly acquiesced: we could picture ourselves elsewhere. Anywhere but in these hydrological hills. 

When we saw an opening to sidestep the deluge, at North Scenic Highway, we cut ourselves loose, securing a ride to the unincorporated village of Bland in the back of a beat-up pick-up. Our driver was a speed merchant and seemed to have forgotten about us, so the ride was especially exhilarating. But then, to the thru-hiker, anything beyond three miles-per-hour is a thrill.

Bland wasn’t just unincorporated; it was barely ‘rated. Legally Bland. But what it lacked in pizzazz, it made up for in pizza. And other freeway food. We strode over an oily I-77 to pay homage to Diary Queen. There, we were confronted by a carbine carrying Christian (ha!) who called himself True Brit. An ex British bloke turned wannabe-cowboy, he wore both the gun and a gut, the latter a thousand times larger than the former. I wondered, but not long: would the OG Christian--street name: son of god--tote a gun? I think not.

In pointy boots that’d never seen stirrups, True Brit commanded: we had to come to his place. It was nearby, he promised, and presumably resembled the Wild West. He said he wanted us to enjoy his company. It was easy--and sad--to see he wished for ours. We let Goat do the declining. Thankfully, he succeeded.

After visiting the Queen we retraced our steps over the interstate to enter Subway. The fast food chain with plastic seats and corporate muzak, not an actual subway, though that would’ve been just as appreciated. A quick look-in into the dollar store--where I requested a price-check on everything--and it was back to the narrow escape. Back to the mud-covered conduit. Back to the reality check. Back to the atmospheric river. Back to the abattoir. Back to the meat grinder. Mud and blood are the AT’s truth serums.

Gator riding the storm out with a Blizzard

The local pastor, Holy Begeebers (note: trailname), took pity on us. She’d inched past in the finer of her two cars, then headed home to grab her more fitting Four Runner--replete with seat covers and towels--swooping in to pick us up. We looked a woeful quintuplet, all drenched. But we were laughing and smiling, overwhelmed and impressed by both the outpouring of strangers and the downpouring of Nature. When the poop hits the fan, you either duck out of the way or don a raincoat and deal. We decided we’d take things in stride.

We wouldn’t take things in stride for long. An hour beyond Bland, we reached the Helveys Mill Shelter. We promptly pulled the plug, using care to avoid electrocution. Any more mileage was, we agreed, above our pay grade. We draped our stuff to dry beneath the overhang and crowded within the rickety structure, appreciative its roof didn’t leak. We’d only get wet when it was time to take a leak.

According to someone’s phone, the forecast calls for “nonstop rain over the next twenty-four to seventy-two hours, possibly longer.” Salvation, in the form of a parish called Pearisburg, lay just forty-two miles north. The challenge--yet another in a long squiggly line of them--has been administered.

"First"note 1: Shaffer, of course, was the Appalachian Trail's first thru-hiker, paving the way (though not literally, thankfully, or else he wouldn't have earned our respect) way back in 1948. One of the four faces you'd put on the Mount Rushmore of long-distant hiking, he embarked on the journey to help recover from the war, before society had given a name to PTSD--aka: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (something I suspect I'll be suffering from after this hike). Shaffer would complete the trail twice more, the final time during his eightieth year, four years before he took his final stride into the ether or some other.