A Limp in the Woods (Day 83)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 83: Saturday, June 15th, 2013
The 501 Shelter to Eagle’s Nest Shelter area = 15 miles
Miles to date: 1,204

Prescript: As a token of my appreciation toward any visitors of this particular blog entry I’ve included an audio version of this entry, read by yours unruly. Because let’s face it: reading is fatiguing. Warning: I am not slick and I cringe when I hear my voice; you might too.

Into Thick Air

Cramping has only rarely been a concern for me--writer’s cramp, muscle cramps, females cramping my style--but this morning, while lying in one of the many inhospitable wooden bunks at the 501 Shelter, I attempted a full-body yawn, only to end up, from scalp to soles, in a state of rigor mortis. The bunk itself would’ve been easier to bore a hole through. Pizza, for all its glory, does not hydrate one well.

But I was sweating upon waking, as the 501 Shelter’s air-conditioner seemed to have been misplaced or stolen. In an apparent attempt to survive the hot onslaught, my testicles have descended an inch or two below their normal resting place. Worse yet, the humidity is not just measurable now; it is virtually visible. Summer is officially days away still, but the season got a jump on the calendar, and it appears it is no false start. If the Appalachians were real mountains in these parts and not just molehills, there might be some available relief, but alas, of such a scenario we can only dream. And steam.

Sweating, of course, is the body’s sprinkler system. But the sprinklers don’t really do their job when the air is already wet. There’s no evaporative, cooling effect whatsoever. I’m not sure how the body adapts. Or whether it does. It has not hitherto. We can only take solace in knowing we are heading north, toward the pole, toward colder places. Though it lacks the diversity of its western counterpart, I find the AT to be a trail of harsher extremes.

So, rather than serve up further punishment on the rocks, I headed down to nearby Pine Grove (population, not including the local graveyard: 2,150). I went there with Sweet Tooth, to collect a cold drink and a few more provisions. The others each gave me a wish-list of their likes, and I vowed I’d see them again by the time they started their morning commute, return ride pending. Sweet Tooth was continuing on and so I would need to travel back to the shelter via thumb. One can never be sure of such travel, as thumbs are often opposable when standing roadside.

Sweet Tooth, the traveling trail angel

But I caught a quick ride back with a local retiree named Dennis, who lived within a literal stone’s throw of the trail, and not just a Backstreet stone’s throw, but rather a much shorter, more realistic, humanistic one. I thanked Dennis and rejoined the others before we loaded up and began loping along. TK and I were alone within minutes, having fallen off the pace. “Oh, it’s so much fun always being the caboose,” she sighed.

“‘Caboose’ implies we’re still part of a train,” I responded. We were not. At least not until the locomotives ahead came to a halt.

But the terrain kept rolling by and it seemed nothing could derail us, not even the rocks placed atop our tracks. They were as bad as anything I’ve ever “hiked” on. It was difficult to keep balance, as most were about basketball-sized, only not so round or grippy. Many were much larger, and they all radiated shimmering heat waves. Hiking poles helped us remain upright but it was tricky planting them where they wouldn’t bend or break. I found this out the hard way when I snapped the end of one of mine clean off. A quick search of the woods allowed me to secure a replacement stick, made from wood and not carbon-fiber, enabling at least some security as we lumbered along.

For greatest effectiveness, hiking poles require two hands, or approximately one pole per hand. Unfortunately, the trail wasn’t the only entity with an appetite for blood. A small but persistent cloud of biting black flies pursued both TK and I, and so we needed a free hand to frantically wave them away. Naturally, this had no effect whatsoever--they clearly mistook our gesticulation as a sort of ‘hello!’--though it did allow the two of us to lose our balance more easily. Where the flies go when no one is around, we could not speculate. Nor could we comprehend how the little shits knew exactly where to aim. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, butt-crack. One particularly large, pesky one, presumably the lord of the flies, flew in one of my ears and out the other. Or so it felt. If I could draw up a blueprint for the perfect thru-hiker, he or she would not have any such orifices, just to show those flies a thing or two. Our partnership with Nature isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. 

Opting to live to fight another day, the five of us called it quits early on. We’d hiked just fifteen miles, which is a solid effort given the challenges du jour, but still quite shy of what we’re now capable, especially in light of the long days. It is truly crazy to imagine walking fifteen or twenty miles each day, every day, and we all were feeling pretty blessed for such an opportunity. No one ever regrets hiking for five or six months.

“Fuck you, you fucking flies!” Gator screamed.

When his little tirade had ended, I asked the gang: “At what point is this not worth it?”

“There is no point.”

“Do you mean that this is all just pointless?” I responded.

There was no answer.