A Limp in the Woods (Day 79)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 79: Tuesday, June 11th, 2013
Whiskey Spring Road to Darlington Shelter = 20 miles
Miles to date: 1,131

Head in the Clouds

“I’m packing my bags for the misty mountain, over the hills where the spirits fly...” 

~(Mighty) Led Zeppelin

Clouds are Nature’s most ephemeral invention. They come and go, but where, who can know?(1). They form in a jiffy, then dissipate or dissolve just as quickly. Throughout their natural life they’re constantly changing mood and form--shape, size, color, altitude. They can be erratic or consistent in their behavior. Here in the geologic keloid known as the Appalachians, they conduct themselves consistently: they’re almost always somewhere, now and then on the far horizon, but usually directly overhead. Their erratic-ness is consistent too--clouds never fail to roll in with big bursts of wind every time you attempt to pitch your wind-sail of a tent. Yep, every silver lining has its dark underbelly.

Some of the stranger cloud formations of recent

In the Before Times (i.e., PHAT: Pre-Hike Appalachian Trail) I suppose I knew to expect rain. Something told me the Green Tunnel was green for a reason. But I never figured on the volume we’ve had. The plus side is it’s provided every spring except one, Whiskey Spring, with gushing water, even where leaks aren’t normally found. The minus side is it’s made for some horrendous hiking. The neutral side is, well, there is no neutral side on the AT.

We can’t often tell where path meets feet. The Buddhist dictum says, “you cannot travel the path until you’ve become the path.” There’s no better way to achieve this than to walk the AT. With every step you take a part of the trail with you. We were doing just that after a well-earned day away, thank to Susan and Bruce. Beforehand, in attempt to repay some of the hospitality, we took Bruce to breakfast. (He took us; we, ahem, foot the bill. He didn’t want anyone paying his tab, but we each, ahem, put our foot down.) We encouraged him to eat as though he was thru-hiking, but his bill ended up a sliver of what the rest of ours had. After thanking Bruce, we hit--and became--the path. Back to the daily commute.

He’d dropped us off where we’d left off. I have yet to miss a single step of trail--save for when I’m on my hands and knees. I worry I’m becoming one of those insufferable self-righteous purists. Years of outdoor rehab has helped me escape such a confining mentality. But here I was, cartwheeling straight back into the behavior, revealing the same rigid mindset possessed by those résumé hikers and bucket-listers I loathe so much, those whose trips are little more than trophies.

L to R: Spacey, Bruce, Backstreet, Gator, Goat, TK

A note to my lefty brain: true adventure possesses no rules! There should be no sidelines or guidelines! It matters not how you hike the Appalachian Trail (et al), but that you step forth onto it and live its magisterial entropy as acutely as possible. To live pure, present experience! Just the same, it’s not important to have done the Appalachian Trail (et al), but to be doing it. 

I must remind myself of this latter thought frequently, because I repeatedly want to be done with this fool’s errand. And I have a habit of selling my soul to the accomplishment and not the act.

Ah, whatever. I convinced myself I was an accidental purist and soon forgot about it.

The storm had spent itself--‘twas done doing--but the path was a pigpen, as foreseen. But because of the changing landscape--as in an increasing regularity of rocks and farmland--it presented less of a concern than it could have. My econo-model shoes were doing their job, so I couldn’t complain (theoretically speaking). When we dropped from Center Point Knob and the canopied woodlands into open farmland, the rocks and mud were replaced with manicured, deliciously fragrant grass. Despite the radical change, the trail’s vital signs raged on. In an apparent turf war grasshoppers replaced cicadas.

By the time hunger hit again we’d strolled up to a mulberry tree, like the one back in Harpers Ferry. Trunk, limbs, leaves, and ripe, edible crack. For reasons unknown, hikers ahead hadn’t touched it. We devolved into a feeding frenzy, raiding what berries we could reach and what berries we couldn’t. (A shake of the tree, you see.) We then sat and luxuriated in the campestral serenity. No cicadas could be heard. Their time was drawing to a close, but only for another seventeen years. If only humans took as long to procreate!

I’d always thought of the east half of the US as a crowded, noisy place, but the land here, be it forest or farm or field, has proven that notion nutty. The cities may be enormous, but they pale compared to the sheer immensity of the Appalachians. The mountains seem endless, satisfyingly.

TK leading the charges

We strolled through rolling pastoral farmland, not that flat Frankenfarm overflow that’s gutted the middle of the country, where no more country exists. Then we reached Boiling Springs, where the Appalachian Trail Conservancy hosts another office. One can infer they’re not hurting on funds like they continually claim, occupying multiple headquarters. It’s a good thing though. We hung for an hour before leaving our packs, for a see-through of town. An employee offered to watch our packs, “from a safe distance.”

Boiling Springs was as charming as Hot Springs, NC, which remains my top stop, full stop. If I charted favorites, it’d go like this…

.....Hot Springs, NC

..........Boiling Springs, PA

...........................Damascus, VA

Devising lists like this helps pass the time, when time needs the help. Most hikers, I’d surmise, produce similar ones; best trail town (as per above); worst trail towns (Hiawassee, Pearisburg); best-looking hiker (there hasn’t been one); nicest stretch of path (the one ahead); most alluring shelter (the one ahead, or maybe Virginia’s Overmountain Shelter, where the awful flick Winter People was filmed); highest mileage day; and so on. It can all be quantified. With enough time, you do anything to kill it.

When we finished futzing about, we sought lunch, ending up at a joint called Caffé 101. Despite the numerical insinuation, this was no beginner’s café. It was swanky, yet allowed thru-hikers. Our tabs were also swanky--four times our breakfast bills in Mechanicsburg, for a quarter of the calories. (For me, a soupçon of soup, a microscopic salad, a glass of swamp juice/veggie smoothie--a shot glass--and a kombucha, which I was carded for!) Still, it was impossibly delicious and ignited the depraved senses. We’d forgotten what real food--the enzymatic kind--tasted like. Exquisite. It’s non-negotiable: the more salubrious, the more scrumptious.

When it came time to exit town, we walked with no sense of urgency. It seemed we each hoped someone would suggest we stay. 

The would-be wilderness ahead was comprised of thin swathes of woodland sandwiched between roads and farms and towns, like the few remaining forests of Western Europe. Such tracts are manufactured and manicured, a managed leftover of mankind’s. It’s better than no woods at all; half-assed is better than no-assed.

Gator outstanding in his field--walking

Later, after miles of grassy orienteering (“ugh this blazelessness,” said us), we met thru-hiker Vanessa, trailname Finder. Vanessa had the biggest breasts I’d seen on such a small-framed individual; they could not have been easy to lug up trail. Then again, the Seattleite has had years to familiarize herself with the duty--assuming they’re not surgical accessories; one can’t be sure nowadays--and the backpack may help with weight distribution. Above the lungs, I found Finder more attractive, making me a finder too. Ink on her left scapula read: FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE. May we all be so candid. “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle,” said Pluto, that slobbery dog-like creature. Maybe it was Playdoh. Or Plato. In any case, amen. We are each all too human. (But who here envies the wildlife?) May we forever flaunt the imperfection!

Finder

For the next fifteen minutes we’d all laugh and languish through a patchwork of farmland and fake forest, before Finder fell behind. She seemed capable of hiking with great speed, but chose not to. A Minerva. Most hikers appear to want to “check the AT off” their list. Done, not doing. Done doing. A prized few know what the journey is really about. Finder knew, or was finding out. The last I saw of her she was throwing down on the ground, taking a photograph of a fast-moving flower.

By nightfall the rest of us scaled a steep hill to reach the Darlington Shelter. It made for a twenty-mile day. We were never in a hurry--daylight lingers lusciously now--but it was clear yesterday’s respite was today’s benefit.

We’re just eleven miles short of our next town, Duncannon (pop: 1,500). Not only is the hiking getting easier, so are logistics. The woods here are chunky again, at least from our limited vantage. It only takes a few trees to block the view of (and from) the rest of the world. Tonight we’re viewing that as a good thing.

"Float"note 1: My hypothesis is as follows: just as it is with time itself, the clouds remain put; we're the ones moving. Coming, going, leaving.