An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 47: Friday, May 10th, 2013
Mile 644 to Bailey Gap Shelter = 10 miles
Miles to date: 654
Day 47: Friday, May 10th, 2013
Mile 644 to Bailey Gap Shelter = 10 miles
Miles to date: 654
Nervous. Ticks.
Of the copious concerns on trail--tree-falls; lightning; blisters; ‘roided up bears; venomous snakes; hypothermia; sickle-toting hillbillies; injury; norovirus; treacherous terrain; rabid porcupines; wasps; spraying skunks; personal stupidity/navigational no-nos; menacing mosquitoes; biting flies; biting boars; debilitating migraines; thieving mice and their infectious turds; rockslides; slipping and tripping; road crossings; American women; hateful hikers; theft; losing your stuff; losing your mind; and so forth--only tree-falls, blisters, treacherous terrain, mice, and lightning have struck (and struck terror) with any frequency. (I’d lost my mind when I chose to hike this trail.)
Last night, ticks were added to the have-struck inventory. Our lovely little knoll, perched atop the world, was ground zero for the blood-suckers. The land of milk and honey had gone sour. M-80 had to scan Willow’s fur and remove four of the pests. Backstreet also had to extract a few. No one else had any auger in, but we all had to flick a few before they had. The battle had begun.
“It must be nice to take such a long vacation,” Pearisburg’s post office clerk said.
“Oh, we’re not on a vacation,” we corrected her. “We’re on the Appalachian Trail.”
The battle commenced again today with a follow-up tick-check, first on the more accessible body parts and then onto those places I don’t normally care to visit. I checked out clean--or free from ticks, anyway. No self-respecting bug would dare venture near the crossroads of my legs without first donning a biohazard outfit, I’d hazard to guess.
An hour into the walk I reached the Allegheny Trail. I thought it was in Pennsylvania but now knew differently. A little pestering of a day hiker at the junction taught me I’d been thinking of the Great Allegheny Passage, the Rails-to-Trails hike/bike route. “This one’s a true hiking trail, though in most places it ain’t much of one.” I thanked him for the education. One more trail or near-trail to experience someday, I thought, as I moved on, listening to the land.
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| They said, “we’re back,” just like they promised… |
I haven’t a clue how these couples do it, how they maintain their equanimity or, for that matter, their sanity. But Goat and TK, PaddyCakes and Puddin’, and M-80 and Trooper are all coping in copacetic style. I couldn’t think of anything more miserable than being trapped beside someone in a tent after days and weeks of schlepping a backpack and consuming dehydrated food, no matter how much I loved that person. Plus, I have chronic gas.
They say if a couple can survive a long trail together, they’re destined for lasting love. No one’s certain who they are--that referenceless pronoun--but they’ve got to be a couple, or a number of them. I just hope I can survive the they that is myself. Ideally for the rest of this hike. And ideally for the rest of my life.
By midmorning I remained solo, too far back to sniff anything and too far back not to rehearse my whistling skills. A ping pong-ball-sized finch fluttered nervously from the vicinity, while a pair of crows cocked their heads my way, intrigued. Or alarmed. Another bright salamander stood in my path, moving slower than even the slowest of hikers (ahem, no comment). Its vivid, almost unnatural hue made no sense to me or the world at large; they’ve got to be easy pickings for a myriad of predators. Then again, it can only help the hiker avoid that fateful, finishing footstep, as it has with me on numerous instances.
Animal appearances are so subjective to us bigheaded humans(1). At best, the poor creatures are only nebulously self-conscious. They don’t even know who they are, let alone how they look, yet we hominids judge their exteriors so ruthlessly. (Many humans, like myself, also don’t know who they are, but pay no heed to that for now.) A Pug is generally accepted as ugly: pugly. A Labrador is thought of as attractive, maybe even--god how I hate this word--cute. A penguin (Nature’s clown): harmless. A shark: terrifying. (Penguins appear terrifying to small fish, I’m sure.) A snake: gross. A newt: cute. And so on.
Despite 2013 being the Year of the Snake, I’ve only seen two so far, both of whom I granted permission to slither away, after some encouragement. (The legless creatures stood their ground.) Of the dozens of orange salamanders I’ve seen, I’ve stopped and rescued every one, relocating them to less dangerous domain. The path is no place for the apathetic. I’m not frightened of snakes, but I’d rather not handle them. Or charm them. Yet the snakes posed no threat and were equally as vulnerable to predators. They were even as slow-moving as the salamanders, since they’re exothermic, and only recently has it been warm.
Why this behavior, this bias? Was I taught to act this way, or was I born like this, scared of snakes and spiders? An innate archetype? Does man breed fear and ignorance of the animal kingdom? Did my parents? Or are we hardwired to be vigilant with certain appearances and movements? Of course I don’t know the answers. I just know that when I picked up the salamander and found some ticks crawling up my legs I panicked. “You fucks!” I yelled, carefully caressing the amphibian while crushing or flicking ticks.
When chow time knocked (on the revolving door that is my stomach), I’d reached the Pine Swamp Branch Shelter, another lackluster rooftop held in place by four-sided logs, five-sided if you include the outside. The surroundings were well assembled by Nature, however. Backstreet, Klutz and Goat were milling about, sharing smiles beneath darkening skies. Thunderous explosions echoed faintly from a distance. They seemed to be growing nearer, but there was no threat yet. I took a handful of peanut M&Ms, divided them into an equal number of each color--a pair each of green, blue, yellow, brown, orange and red--then closed my eyes and ingested one at a time. The last color left would be spared and saved for a later round of M&M Roulette, increasing that color’s chance of survival. The others did not notice, for this is characteristic conduct for those with too much time on their hands (and feet). Orange won.
Not long after leaving our timbered timeshare the four of us reached The Captain’s Place, a private residence dotted by a small blue house on the other side of a wide and wriggling creek. We had to zip-line across, but it didn’t look like it’d’ve been a life-or-death proposition to negotiate it on foot, just a reduction in anatomical normality for us boys. I’d never done any lines, so I followed the others, after making sure the cable wouldn’t snap. I knew if the cable could support Mountain Goat’s pack, I’d have nothing to fear.
The weather had improved so we lounged for a couple hours and played with The Captain’s border collie, intent on tiring it out. Naturally, we were unsuccessful. Neurotic pedigree that, but oh so awesome. No one but the dog showed. No Captain. No Tennille. It mattered not; hikers were welcomed. We sat at one of the picnic benches in the huge yard and knocked back sodas provided by the Vietnam vet, grinning like we’d just won the lottery. We had, after all.
Our good fortunes wouldn’t last. First, I reached into the dog’s water dish to save a honeybee. It was unable to extricate itself. Bees are the most important living being on Earth, but they need human help. The poor thing was wriggling in panicky circles and no doubt about to drown, so I thought I might assume the role of lifeguard and do the world some good. But after it realized it wasn’t going to drown, the bee celebrated its new lease on life by stinging my hand, intent on dying one way or another. I carried its carcass to the creek, in hopes a famished fish might benefit.
Then, not even an hour later, as we strode over a sturdy bridge spanning Stony Creek, Miss Nature struck. With vengeance. The thunder was closing in like a noose, and the firmament was as dark as night, even though it was but 2 or 3pm. The rain appeared immediately and fell in sheets. And blankets. Lightning soon lit up the area, which lit up a match beneath my backside. I pressed the panic button and started running up the thousand-foot climb leading to Bailey Gap Shelter, as the others had. Only TK refrained, what with the colossal load on her back.
One by one, we dove into the sordid shelter, defeated but relieved. A pair of young lovers were already situated, Toast (female) and Rusty (male). With us four, the shelter’s quota--six--was met. But soon, a guy named Wiki showed up. He looked wretched. “Hop in!” we gestured, scooching closer together on the uneven wooden floor. A poorly-placed beam right in the hut’s abdomen had us even more cramped.
A while later, another pair of lovebirds flew in, a dread-locked, patchouli-scented gal named Paisley, and a deep-voiced raconteur named Mr. Gigglesfit. They’re from Longmont, Colorado, which is a suburb of Boulder, which is a suburb of Denver, which is a suburb of Los Angeles. We packed together tighter, like tinned pilchards. The rain was really just a downward explosion of water and we took pity on the two, as any sardine with a beating heart would have. Shared body heat, we figured. “Mother Nature’s a mother fucker!” yawped Mr. Gigglesfit.
Shelter etiquette is an intriguing aspect of the Appalachian Trail. The only official shelters I’d ever slept in out west were ski shelters, and just two at that: the Peter Grubb Hut near where I tried to grow up, not far from Donner Pass, and an unnamed yurt a day’s walk from the Canadian border, along the Pacific Crest Trail. But the AT is as defined by its shelters as it is by its ruggedness and splendor.
There are more than two hundred and fifty shelters along this path! One every eight or so miles. You’d think this would make for a cakewalk; I mean, why lug a tent?! Well, one never knows if the structures are occupied--or if an axe murderer awaits in the one you’ve had your sights set on all day. I’ve met more than one freak on this trail (myself not included). Each time I’ve sashayed away, despite death sometimes being a more sensible choice than walking.
There’s an unwritten rule that suggests hikers are obliged to make room for anyone who can fit; I learned this on night one atop Springer. But the guidebook acts as de facto rule-book, since it suggests the number that can (in theory) fit, after each shelter listing. If the book says a shelter can house six, six is all it has to host. If five hikers are in the shelter, they ought not deny admission to another individual, unless he’s wielding a chainsaw (keeping in mind he might just be a revered trail maintainer, in which case hikers should accommodate). If nine are squashed in, like we were, anyone else to show was, well, sh!t out of luck and outdoors. First come, first serve. Last come…tent. That is why you carry one.
When nighttime approached, we tended to the usual duties: dinner, dishes and dirty jokes (jokes children shouldn’t hear). We also shared more somber dialogue about protecting yourself on trail. And we spoke of the importance of inspecting your groinal sector for ticks. I listened and participated in conversation, mostly through flatulence, for I am a grandfarter.
By midmorning I remained solo, too far back to sniff anything and too far back not to rehearse my whistling skills. A ping pong-ball-sized finch fluttered nervously from the vicinity, while a pair of crows cocked their heads my way, intrigued. Or alarmed. Another bright salamander stood in my path, moving slower than even the slowest of hikers (ahem, no comment). Its vivid, almost unnatural hue made no sense to me or the world at large; they’ve got to be easy pickings for a myriad of predators. Then again, it can only help the hiker avoid that fateful, finishing footstep, as it has with me on numerous instances.
Animal appearances are so subjective to us bigheaded humans(1). At best, the poor creatures are only nebulously self-conscious. They don’t even know who they are, let alone how they look, yet we hominids judge their exteriors so ruthlessly. (Many humans, like myself, also don’t know who they are, but pay no heed to that for now.) A Pug is generally accepted as ugly: pugly. A Labrador is thought of as attractive, maybe even--god how I hate this word--cute. A penguin (Nature’s clown): harmless. A shark: terrifying. (Penguins appear terrifying to small fish, I’m sure.) A snake: gross. A newt: cute. And so on.
Despite 2013 being the Year of the Snake, I’ve only seen two so far, both of whom I granted permission to slither away, after some encouragement. (The legless creatures stood their ground.) Of the dozens of orange salamanders I’ve seen, I’ve stopped and rescued every one, relocating them to less dangerous domain. The path is no place for the apathetic. I’m not frightened of snakes, but I’d rather not handle them. Or charm them. Yet the snakes posed no threat and were equally as vulnerable to predators. They were even as slow-moving as the salamanders, since they’re exothermic, and only recently has it been warm.
Why this behavior, this bias? Was I taught to act this way, or was I born like this, scared of snakes and spiders? An innate archetype? Does man breed fear and ignorance of the animal kingdom? Did my parents? Or are we hardwired to be vigilant with certain appearances and movements? Of course I don’t know the answers. I just know that when I picked up the salamander and found some ticks crawling up my legs I panicked. “You fucks!” I yelled, carefully caressing the amphibian while crushing or flicking ticks.
When chow time knocked (on the revolving door that is my stomach), I’d reached the Pine Swamp Branch Shelter, another lackluster rooftop held in place by four-sided logs, five-sided if you include the outside. The surroundings were well assembled by Nature, however. Backstreet, Klutz and Goat were milling about, sharing smiles beneath darkening skies. Thunderous explosions echoed faintly from a distance. They seemed to be growing nearer, but there was no threat yet. I took a handful of peanut M&Ms, divided them into an equal number of each color--a pair each of green, blue, yellow, brown, orange and red--then closed my eyes and ingested one at a time. The last color left would be spared and saved for a later round of M&M Roulette, increasing that color’s chance of survival. The others did not notice, for this is characteristic conduct for those with too much time on their hands (and feet). Orange won.
Not long after leaving our timbered timeshare the four of us reached The Captain’s Place, a private residence dotted by a small blue house on the other side of a wide and wriggling creek. We had to zip-line across, but it didn’t look like it’d’ve been a life-or-death proposition to negotiate it on foot, just a reduction in anatomical normality for us boys. I’d never done any lines, so I followed the others, after making sure the cable wouldn’t snap. I knew if the cable could support Mountain Goat’s pack, I’d have nothing to fear.
 |
| Mountain Goat enjoying his third ride |
Our good fortunes wouldn’t last. First, I reached into the dog’s water dish to save a honeybee. It was unable to extricate itself. Bees are the most important living being on Earth, but they need human help. The poor thing was wriggling in panicky circles and no doubt about to drown, so I thought I might assume the role of lifeguard and do the world some good. But after it realized it wasn’t going to drown, the bee celebrated its new lease on life by stinging my hand, intent on dying one way or another. I carried its carcass to the creek, in hopes a famished fish might benefit.
Then, not even an hour later, as we strode over a sturdy bridge spanning Stony Creek, Miss Nature struck. With vengeance. The thunder was closing in like a noose, and the firmament was as dark as night, even though it was but 2 or 3pm. The rain appeared immediately and fell in sheets. And blankets. Lightning soon lit up the area, which lit up a match beneath my backside. I pressed the panic button and started running up the thousand-foot climb leading to Bailey Gap Shelter, as the others had. Only TK refrained, what with the colossal load on her back.
A while later, another pair of lovebirds flew in, a dread-locked, patchouli-scented gal named Paisley, and a deep-voiced raconteur named Mr. Gigglesfit. They’re from Longmont, Colorado, which is a suburb of Boulder, which is a suburb of Denver, which is a suburb of Los Angeles. We packed together tighter, like tinned pilchards. The rain was really just a downward explosion of water and we took pity on the two, as any sardine with a beating heart would have. Shared body heat, we figured. “Mother Nature’s a mother fucker!” yawped Mr. Gigglesfit.
 |
| I see dread people: Mr. Gigglesfit and Paisley |
There are more than two hundred and fifty shelters along this path! One every eight or so miles. You’d think this would make for a cakewalk; I mean, why lug a tent?! Well, one never knows if the structures are occupied--or if an axe murderer awaits in the one you’ve had your sights set on all day. I’ve met more than one freak on this trail (myself not included). Each time I’ve sashayed away, despite death sometimes being a more sensible choice than walking.
There’s an unwritten rule that suggests hikers are obliged to make room for anyone who can fit; I learned this on night one atop Springer. But the guidebook acts as de facto rule-book, since it suggests the number that can (in theory) fit, after each shelter listing. If the book says a shelter can house six, six is all it has to host. If five hikers are in the shelter, they ought not deny admission to another individual, unless he’s wielding a chainsaw (keeping in mind he might just be a revered trail maintainer, in which case hikers should accommodate). If nine are squashed in, like we were, anyone else to show was, well, sh!t out of luck and outdoors. First come, first serve. Last come…tent. That is why you carry one.
 |
| Shelter etiquette: sleep order |
I laugh little with my heavy heart, but tonight’s been the hardest I’ve laughed in years. Guttural goodness, thanks to Gigglesfit and gang. Virginia Blues, my butt. Our group ranges in age from 22 & 364/365ths (Wiki) to mid-forties (moi), but maturity levels are even across the board. Across the boards. It’s good to see not a single one of us has let the child inside die. But by the smell of things, something inside has died.
"Foot"note 1: Humans have humongous heads compared to most animal species, proportional to body mass.
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