A Limp in the Woods (Day 81)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 81: Thursday, June 13th, 2013
Clarks Ferry Shelter to Rausch Gap Shelter = 25 miles
Miles to date: 1,172

Dances with Porcupines

The privy mutilation we had assumed was brought on by a hiker was not in fact human-caused. As it goes: ass-u-me. We came to learn this little factoid sometime around 4am when, in pouring rain, a prowling porcupine, rogue and ravenous, began peeling the shelter’s plywood siding.

The animal had already dismantled the poor pooper. Its sights--and incisors--were now set on the shelter. I never knew porcupines ate wood. More proof that that six-hundred year-old dude could not have possibly had them aboard his ark--nor the woodpeckers, the pair of beavers, and those wedlock termites(1).

It’s funny what humans believe.

It’s also funny what humans don’t know. I’ll come clean--if anyone can come cleanly--my wilderness and Nature knowledge is limited. Years of hard-won experience in the wilds and I still haven’t learned the ropes: I know not a single knot. But when I do tie one, that sucker will not come undone! I’m also alarming with map and compass, although I know which way the needle usually points. I haven’t a clue how to operate a GPS unit. I cannot sharpen a knife; I’ve never used a flint; I can’t read the weather; I know but one constellation. Classifying the clouds overhead is way over my head.

I’ll never be capable of that deafening two-fingers-in-the-mouth whistle; I don’t know how to gut a fish; and I have no idea how to skin an animal (or a human). I can’t identify any plants, or tell which ones are edible. I definitely don’t know which mushrooms are good on a pizza, or which ones are good psychedelics, or which ones can kill you, or if any can fulfill all three effects. I’ve heard of toadstools, but I don’t know what they are--bar stools reserved for toads? And I haven’t any idea what causes a rainbow, though I love them just the same.

Worst of all, I’m incapable of popping the top off a beer bottle with a plastic lighter, the thru-hiker’s rite of passage. Heck, if my fingers are cold--and they always are--I can barely use a lighter for its usual purpose. I’m told fire is a great hand-warmer, but I wouldn’t know.

But here’s the thing. If you were to quiz every thru-hiker ever, on a wide array of subject matter that could pertain their respective thru-hikes--botany, meteorology, geography, geology, biology, knot-tying, and the like--I think you’d find I’m not alone. I may even be one of the more intelligenter ones, since I know how to read (some of the words on) a map.

Still. I think I’d be in serious trouble if I ever got into serious trouble.

Thankfully, such knowledge isn’t all that necessitous on a thru-hike. Especially a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. A knowledge of thyself is much more important. That and a conservatively-estimated time-frame to the next town.

Porcupines are lethal to the ligneous. And what with the razor-sharp quills, they look lethal to all else, especially to their mom when she’s giving birth. This, despite an overall lovability. (“It looks like a brown migratory cactus,” joked Spacey.) If it weren’t for the fishhooks quills, you’d want to cuddle it.

It’s safe to presume men and porcupines would not be the best of bed buddies, morning wood or no. This is why there are teddy-bears but no teddy-porcupines. This particular one reeked of sawdust and simply would not leave, no matter how hard or how often Spacey pounded on the shelter’s side. It’s hard to know what to think of a mammal that eats wood, but we had to hand it to the critter--tenacity is at the very heart of survival. As is adaptation. 

Only we were the ones forced to adapt. We did by laughing it off, one of the many trials of the trail, one we could never have predicted. Many difficulties are anticipated; some are unforeseen. Ups and downs, highs and lows, silly moments that come and go--the thru-hiker must embrace them all.

By sunup, the spike pig and the precipitation had absconded, the former presumably to mow down the forest, the latter to let it rebuild. After examining the backside of our eyelids for another couple of hours, we examined the backside of the shelter. A hole was steadily being gnawed into existence.

For now the structure stands, but the animal had the upper hand (or whatever it is porcupines have: paws? Claws? Scissorhands?). We sat and ate breakfast and pondered what threat, what laugh, would come next. Rabid donkeys? Killer pine-cones? Insatiable nymphomaniacs? Flesh-eating bacteria? If we could only keep walking, we’d surely find out.

Achieving mobility, my compeers and I continued our relocation, trusty packs on back. It was almost summer now. With it comes more bugs and humidity than I have ever encountered. Pennsylvania is reputed to be the “rocky state,” whereas New Jersey, next on the list, is reputed to be the “swamp state,” a dreck of a trek. It was a case of “the lesser of two evils,” though none of us could decide which evil might be more malevolent. We just knew we were in for a rough ride; masochists always are. It makes the Virginia Blues seem that much more preposterous.

After the brief absence the cicadas were back in full force. We hoped they might put a dent in the black fly/mosquito population, though naturally, none of us knew for sure what cicadas fed on. “Pineapples, I think,” I told the others. “Or porcupines,” said Spacey. “Though not enough of them.”

Near PA 225 we happened upon our first venomous snake. A copperhead, someone said. It had three-inch fangs, breathed fire, and spit battery acid. The snake did too.

The viper didn’t make a move, nor a sound; we’d each strode by obliviously until Backstreet, at the back of the line, saw it. Not only do we fail in knowing our wildlife, we oft fail in noticing it.

Anyway, if a more terrifying creature exists, I don’t care to cross its path. Being respectful Nature lovers, we tried not to foment the buzz-worm and just left it alone--unlike what the late, not-so-great Steve Irwin (“Crikey!”) would have done. We gathered only pictures and memories before we slithered on, chary of other potential perils.

By the way, to all you aspiring Crocodile Hunters: poke the bear, get pierced in the thoracic wall and incur massive trauma. Nature: 1. Steve Irwin: 0. Bravo Nature! Ir-win lost.

At the Peters Mountain Shelter we ran back into Mountain Goat and Tiny Klutz, who were wise enough not to poke the bear, passing us as we hibernated. They were already hunkering down for the day, unwilling to battle the declining conditions. After seeking clearance, Spacey decided to join them.

The rain was welcomed as far as Gator, Backstreet and I were concerned. It cooled things down and kept the airborne troublemakers away. We carried on, we wayward sons, hoping there’d be peace when we were done.

Whether the weather be fine
Or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not.

With the exception of a thousand-foot climb after Clarks Creek, the topography was mild-mannered. The rocks were waterlogged, but all six of our shoes stuck like gum. The rocks’ mossy wrappers made things look treacherous, as did their polished surfaces--decades of hikers scraping their feet, you know--but we never slipped. We just slipped into our typical trudge-induced trance, minds on lockdown. Shoe choice is one of the most critical considerations when heading out for a two thousand mile walk, and each of ours, left and right, were completely right.

By nightfall, when the crickets launched into their characteristic, cadent serenading, we’d fall into the Rausch Gap Shelter. It was our biggest day in a while. We’re in state game lands--tenting in the area is not allowed--but bureaucratic jurisdiction seldom influences the thru-hiker, at least not we three. The trees are trees, the woods are woods, and what man calls what won’t affect us hoods.

A middle-aged couple are here with us, swaying in their hammocks inside the shelter. Sturdy O-bolts have been placed for such contraptions, or perhaps for kinkier stuff, I know not; it matters not. They told us their names (instantly forgotten) and said they were out for just two nights.

I warned the lovers about Backstreet’s nasal passage and offered them each a pair of earplugs (approximately one earplug for each ear). They thanked me, but refused; they’d come prepared. “We know about you thru-hikers: world-class walkers, world-class eaters, world-class farters, and world-class snorers.”

They had us pegged.

We didn’t mention porcupines. 

"Fleet"note 1: And how unfair was it to all those animals who didn't make the manifest? "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE ARE ALREADY TWO POLAR BEARS ON BOARD?" demanded Larry (of Larry and Sue fame). "We walked thousands of miles just to get here, through desert and all."