A Limp in the Woods (Day 82)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 82: Friday, June 14th, 2013
Rausch Gap Shelter to the 501 Shelter = 17-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,189

The AT 100 Years from Now
(A Eulogy for Times Gone By)

“We might expect a peculiar change in the mentality of the world in the next fifty to one hundred years.”

~Carl Jung, 1929

Upon waking, Gator said, “My feet have a hangover.” We laughed and laughed, the drunken children we are. We’ve come to the unobstructed realization that long trails play host to widespread happiness. Thru-hikers all know as much; we feel we’re in on a secret, albeit a dirty one. We desire our days, we covet each corner, we pine for each passing moment. There’s no better way to spend half a lap around the sun, even if it’s an invisible sun.

“The purest joy of all is the joy of nature.”
~Leo Tolstoy

Most my life has involved some sort of quest for moments. For the unexpected, the unscripted, the uncomfortable. But, as it is with so many of us, fear frequently establishes its grip, and my days are often little more than a carbon copy of the day before, and a precursor of the day to come.

Out here there’s routine aplenty, but there is seldom boredom. Although we observe many of the same things daily--trees, leaves, rocks, roots, mud, blood--and although we’re often absolutely tired, we do not grow tired of any of it. Nature casts such a spell. There’s always something to do (i.e., walk) and there is always something new to see and appreciate. It’s what spurs the long-distance backpacker forth...

...that next corner.

Like the religiously faithful, we succumb to the romantic ills of thinking that elsewhere things must be more. More beautiful, more peaceful, more enchanting. Elsewhere, around that next bend, be it the next bend in life or the next bend in the trail, the one just ahead. Bloated with hope, we are fascinated with the unknown and the unknowable, the unseen and the unseeable. So it goes. So it is. And so goes the maxim: if a tree falls in the forest, we want to be there to hear it.

It’s strange there are so few of us, relative to the numbers who have easy access to the trail(1). Perhaps it’s time to admit that backpacking no longer fits the lifestyle of modern recreationalists, since it occurs outdoors. But the sum is indeed increasing each year. This is good--more people need to appreciate the outdoor world. However,  like most outdoorsy types, I’d prefer more of it for myself, a classic case of NIMBC--“Not in my back-country!”

As we strode blissfully along, after much natter of food matter, we pondered the AT’s future--what it would be like a hundred years from now, a hundred years deeper into the dark tunnel of environmental apathy. Will it remain this grand? Although the trail may appear timeless, and although it may pass by what appears to be a timeless setting, the society who uses it is anything but. Times change and modern man changes with them. Most of all, he changes a lot in his wake.

“Progress was all right. Only it went on too long.”
~James Thurber (who could’ve been referring to an AT hike)

I’m rehashing it now, late in the day, but we imagined a different trail from the present one (though much nicer than syphilization will be at that time). There will simply be more like us…and many more not like us.

The AT will still be a quasi-wooded, reasonably rugged path, though its mountains will be a little less high, due to vast strip mining and a prowling sea level; even a hundred years from now, Republican politicos and their followers--ignorant, anti-science, servile, sycophantic schmucks--will fail to grasp that sandbags don’t stop rising oceans.

(I’m politically homeless, but I’ve traveled too much to be a Re-pube-lickin.’ Like so many others who view with wonderment this fabricated fight--US v. THEM--I’m proud to say I don’t belong to either side, just to the v.)

Hiking permits will be heavily regulated because of the number increase--tens of thousands will enter the compulsory lottery to see if they win the chance to thru-hike, and there will be a long waiting list for those wanting to; wealthier wannabe thru-hikers will bribe the entities in charge.

It’ll be a Pay-to-Play path. Authorization--via the US Timber Management Service, as the Park Service will be known--will run upwards to $1,000, depending on timing and desired amenities. (The Appalachian Trail Conservancy, owned by the Ironman Triathlon Corporation, will provide porters for those with special needs.) Hikers will don coded electronic wristbands to verify they’re officially permitted; these will contain necessary tracking numbers, much like today’s parcels. Folks at home, comfortably situated, themselves incapable of hiking due to health concerns that didn’t exist a hundred years prior, can stalk hikers remotely.

Passports will be required--no smiling allowed--and not just for international hikers. There will be checkpoints en route! Privy use will be mandatory and these dumping stations will be located even where shelters aren’t, approximately one every two miles. Shitting in the woods will never be as easy!

Gradients will be gentler (due to past erosion and subsequent trail redesign), though handicap access won’t yet be fully completed. The trail will, however, be fully commercialized, with a donation-based Adopt-a-Trail program in place, as government backing will no longer exist, or be at a negligible amount at best. Corporations and individuals both will vie for advertising rights, on signs, shelters, bridges, lights, rocks and banners. “This portion of trail is dedicated to the memory of my dog Fluffers, who absolutely adored hiking” or “Facebook reminds you to hike responsibly.”

Shelters will be more numerous. Many will be made from stone, to combat the exponential increase in forest fires and vandalism. Some shelters will be situated underground, though their use will be limited at best, except during colder periods. All will cost money to stay in. (Welcome to the 22nd century!)

Campfires will not be allowed inside or out, as firewood and other fuels will be in short supply. If caught, non-law-abiding campers will be cited and/or jailed by militarized wilderness rangers. These government functionaries will travel mostly by foot (imagine that!), but also by way of electric motorcycle and state-of-the-art hot-air balloons, the latter of which will be powered by solar energy, assuming suns rays can perforate the pervasive worldwide smog; long-range views will often be obstructed--if not by smog, by heat waves, power lines, 100G communication towers, and whatnot. 

The Green Tunnel will be brown and less of a tunnel, so pyromaniacs and other lawbreakers should be easier to seize. Fortunately, the anti-establishment ideology that once existed will, by then, be less of a concern. Humans will (be forced to) follow orders, especially when outdoors. Other crimes--violence--will increase on the trail but nowhere near to the degree that cities will encounter.

As touched on, pollution will be rampant, both the ground-level physical stuff and air quality. Acid rain will have destroyed much of the forest (as it has heretofore, alas), at least that which still stands after innumerable forest fires (brought on by an increase in regional and global temperatures and a decrease in precipitation, brought on by greenhouse gases). Beetle infestation, mutating virus and bacterial and fungal infections, as well as poor federal land management will also all have taken effect by that sultry time. Overgrazing will be a serious scourge, ever since millions of hooved locusts were relocated into the east, after government-subsidized ranchers and cowboys and drought destroyed much of the western United States landscape. Wildlife will have been almost entirely replaced by cattle and sheep.

Twice as many roads will crisscross the trail, to meet the demands of the US’s ever-expanding population plague, a blight which will, by then, encroach a billion. Consequently, the ATC will proudly claim that trail access “has never been easier!” which of course will contribute no benefit to the trail or its users hoping for a little breathing room. (Already, alas, the AT is an easy trail to get to know(1).)

Finding potable water may be the primary issue to the tourist industry thru-hiker, as trail magic will be banned in the year 2113 and hikers will be terrified of it anyhow (after a series of deaths, brought on by poisoned water and laced snacks left in coolers along the trail). But fear not! Large, covered water tanks will be set trailside by the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (paid for by advertising dollars and painted to show it, of course), so water concerns will be kept to a minimum. This tank water will still require filtering, however. Bathing near the tanks will be banned, but will be required to limit the spread of pandemics and infectious disease, which will be a far greater concern for society and hikers alike.

Security/surveillance cameras and the aforementioned hot-air balloons will allow officials to monitor perpetrators bathing near water tanks. Yep, Big Brother is only getting bigger. (Web-cams will enable armchair travelers the opportunity to hike the AT from the safety and comfort of their homes, or watch those they love do so!)

Trail infrastructure will allow for straightforward navigation, as signs will be placed once every half-mile on average, with bridges and paving stones and staircases (with hand railings!) in place as needed. Digital guidebooks will continue to homogenize the experience, an experience most will confuse for adventure. A plug-n-play adventure! Much of the trail will be raised on a wooden sidewalk of sorts, to avoid damaging the fragile ecosystem upon which the trail sits. Solar-powered LED lamps will help illuminate signs and bridges for those who would rather night hike, as permits will dictate. Electrical recharging stations will be placed every five miles, so hikers can keep their instrumentation fully charged, so the documentation and boasting can continue. WiFi access will be fully via satellite in 2113, so no WiFi hotspots will be necessary, keeping the trail wilderness experience intact. With fourteen times as many satellites wheeling around the globe as there was in 2013, reception and transmission will be quite dependable.

Smoking will be banned, including federally-legalized marijuana.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

The 1984 2113 thru-hiker will also be different from today’s--more concerned with matching others and proving his or her journey, via social media--though that already occurs today, and in unbridled fashion. He or she will carry a handheld laser gun and wear a body camera, for safety sake. Resupply will be much less difficult for this bucket-lister, and he or she will only need to walk ten miles on average to purchase food and equipment; as a result he or she will be less physically fit for the undertaking. (Mobile catering services will also peddle supplies at busier road crossings, in addition to shuttling hikers for a nominal fee.) Wilderness skills will be absolutely lacking, what with our survival instinct slowly being bred out of us, but they will also be completely unnecessary. (The will to survive comes out only in extreme circumstances, which are generally avoided in the future, as they are now; most people go their entire lives without being tested, and more will.)

One similarity our descendants will share is they’ll surely reminisce about the good ol’ days. And they’ll speculate about how the trail’ll be a hundred years on.

How much of this should prove true we’ll never know; we won’t be around to see it. But we could foresee it. Backstreet, Gator and I all imagined a future like this to be a long, dark path (not unlike the AT). The future’s so dark, I gotta wear night-vision goggles. All I see is a long goodbye.

We were glad to be alive in this day and age, although, in my case, it still feels too late. I’d’ve been better off with smaller cities, fewer perfume-wearers, and more land open for exploration. Never mind Facebook, “smart”phones, online social “interaction,” and all the other dehumanizing crap.

     “LIKE!”

Due to the in-depth discussion, the first half of the day rolled by rapidly. Before we knew it (or much else) we’d stumbled upon a beguiling beach adjacent to a cold, unnamed stream. Suffused with millions of reflective diamonds on its rolling surface, the creek knew where we belonged. For the next couple of hours we’d recline and lounge and laze around. Then we’d soak our feet and eat and skip stones.

We’d all been warned that letting the golden hours flow by was a threat to our thru-hikes, for we’d get nowhere with such behavior. But we knew better: some hours are only golden because we let them slip by. Slow isn’t always the right pace when backpacking, and fast rarely is. Sometimes it pays to come to a standstill. Sometimes the grass is greenest where you are.

When all our lounging wasn’t pleasing enough we tried our hand(s) at Rock Skeet, a game I’ve participated in since juvenescence--which is, of course, still unfolding. (I kid not: I adult not.)

The game goes like this: with an underhand lob you chuck a palm-sized rock high into the air and then attempt to strike it with another, similar sized rock, thrown overhand from the opposing hand, your dominant one (if you have one). It’s an unsafe pastime, but a perfect way to pass the time. I never expected anyone to score, but Backstreet, the former little leaguer, managed the feat in no time. His arm was a flamethrower, but it was his accuracy--surgical precision--that was downright dazzling. We assured him if we were ever forced to hunt for survival, it was his fire-arm we’d be arming ourselves with. If he refused, we’d strong-arm him.

I joked that my arms, ever useless, would be the first things eaten in such a survival situation, if they only had some meat on them. “We’d prolly be better off using ‘em to floss with,” Gator jabbed. 

While Backstreet started to doze, bored having scored, the two of us continued to try to land a hit “at least once” before we walked. We’d have been better off with our eyes closed. “I think I forgot to disengage the safety,” Gator joked, rubbing his aching weapon. On intimate terms with failure, we joined Backstreet in a catnap.

When our mojo returned we departed the magical milieu and resumed our transitory task. The path was mostly a stone-sprinkled trench, but, as ever, it was easy to follow. I think it’s safe to say that AT hikers favor physical hardship over the cerebral challenges of route-finding. People get lost on the trail, as I already have once or thrice, but it’s never the trail’s fault. Nothing ever is.

A few hours on we reached the William Penn Shelter. There we managed our time intently and did a whole lot more of nothing. This is one of the more wonderful aspects of backpacking, when the backpack comes off and you’re OFF. YOUR. FEET. Backpacking may make the backpacker, but it’s the not backpacking that makes most the moments, as well as making the most of those moments. The shelter was curious looking, though not the usual carbuncle. It stood two-storied, replete with laddered loft, and was larger at the top, like an inverted pyramid. A black galvanized mailbox (with red flag raised) was attached near its entrance.

“The mice here probably pay rent,” someone joked.

It was getting to be late in the day, what with all the lazing around, and for a while we deliberated remaining put. We liked the place and we could afford the rent. But then we remembered we could order a pizza from the 501 Shelter, just four miles up trail. Not only order it, but have it delivered there. Our loaf fest now had a tangible, tasty goal, and our pace could have been mistaken as a mad dash. Mountain Goat and TK were back with us and so we strung out in our usual single-file queue and plowed forward, passing the 1,000 MILES TO GO unmarked marker.

We also passed two older hikers, Molar Man and Don’s Brother. We’d been leapfrogging the two for a few weeks. They’d pass us, we’d pass them; a common occurrence on the AT. Don’s Brother was named after Don, who passed away last year after an all-too-brief battle with ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. Don had always wanted to hike the AT and so his brother thought he might honor him and his life--and life itself--by doing so, even though he’d never really hiked before. Honorable indeed. 

Perhaps I’ve mentioned it before but the two were slack-packing, thanks to Sweet Tooth, Molar Man’s wife. She tracked her husband by car, carrying both his and Don’s Brother’s gear as they chased the dream (and Don’s dream) of completing the AT. We envied the two for not having to haul much more than a day’s worth of rations. Some hikers claim that such behavior is cheating, that it doesn’t qualify as real thru-hiking, but none of us cared one whit. To each his or her own. Hike Your Own Hike. Live and Let Live. Live and Let Die. Why anyone would care what others are doing out here was beyond any of us. We cared only about pizza and our feet, the same feet that looked like a less enticing meat lover’s delight pizza.

An hour later we sat in the expansive 501 Shelter, each smiling like only an ATer could, anticipating the arrival of our pies. Caretakers reside in a stuffy house near the shelter, since the highway, Highway 501, is much too close for comfort, and for vandals. A few small cats roam the property, overlords of the jungle. One of them has a plastic food container lid stuck around its neck. Try as we might, we couldn’t draw near enough to assist the sheepish critter. The mice weren’t about to mock him, but we couldn’t help ourselves. Some animals just aren’t cut out for life in the wild, I guess. I’d write more, but the pizza guy just pulled up.

     “LIKE!”

"Foot"note 1: They say seventy-five million humanoids live within a day's drive of the trail. (Billions live within a day's flight of it.)