An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 103: Friday, July 5th, 2013
Hwy 55 to Native Landscapes Garden Center/Hwy 22 = 8-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,445
During yesterday’s prescribed Do Little Day (prescribed by Dr. Doolittle), a few of us commandeered Amy’s VW Something or Other and headed into the noxious breath of civilization, such as it is. Our mission: the most accessible Wal-Mart, to resupply and collect provisions for the shindig. It was the day’s sole assignment and required only a slight expenditure of vim. I was fortunate to find that the store had the same shoes I’ve been wearing since Georgia, Starter brand no-names. This pair was INSPECTED BY NUMBER 17, or so said the fortune-cookie-sized piece of paper inside. They were slashed to just ten bucks, so I bought two pairs--two left shoes, two right--which should be sufficient enough to get me to Katahdin(1). But then, on the AT, nothing is guaranteed.
As I got to the front of the store to pay for my haul only two checkouts were open, of the thirty available. This is standard operating procedure for Wal-Mart; they’d prefer customers use the Self Checkout. This saves them dough, augmenting their already-fat bottom line, the only line they care about. It must be noted that two cashiers are all that are ever available at any Wal-Mart, except during super busy times, when just one is.
I despise and oppose self-checkout (whether at the store or when examining for ticks), probably because I’m not the most proficient of cashiers (or “associates,” as WallyWorld dubs ‘em). I’ve never been trained for the job. Plus, unlike so many other “humans,” I flat-out refuse to let machines run my life. Especially when they benefit CEOs and other moneyed stockholders.
So I stood and waited for human-like help. I was the last one back to the car, where we’d agreed to reconvene before entering the building. No one complained. They could only laugh and smile, though I suppose they were doing so because I’d decided to use one of the store’s electric riding carts.
“No sense walkin’ any more than we have to!” I laughed. Sometimes I do let machines run my life.
After a slow start to the day I was off and hobbling. Amy had dropped three of us off at Route 55 (unlike Hagar, she can drive 55!) (and no: there will NOT be any Sammy Hagar links here within), where we’d left off: the lovely Tumbleweed, the likeable Porch, and the less lovely or likeable guy scribbling this rubbish.
Day 103: Friday, July 5th, 2013
Hwy 55 to Native Landscapes Garden Center/Hwy 22 = 8-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,445
Nuclear Lake
During yesterday’s prescribed Do Little Day (prescribed by Dr. Doolittle), a few of us commandeered Amy’s VW Something or Other and headed into the noxious breath of civilization, such as it is. Our mission: the most accessible Wal-Mart, to resupply and collect provisions for the shindig. It was the day’s sole assignment and required only a slight expenditure of vim. I was fortunate to find that the store had the same shoes I’ve been wearing since Georgia, Starter brand no-names. This pair was INSPECTED BY NUMBER 17, or so said the fortune-cookie-sized piece of paper inside. They were slashed to just ten bucks, so I bought two pairs--two left shoes, two right--which should be sufficient enough to get me to Katahdin(1). But then, on the AT, nothing is guaranteed.
As I got to the front of the store to pay for my haul only two checkouts were open, of the thirty available. This is standard operating procedure for Wal-Mart; they’d prefer customers use the Self Checkout. This saves them dough, augmenting their already-fat bottom line, the only line they care about. It must be noted that two cashiers are all that are ever available at any Wal-Mart, except during super busy times, when just one is.
I despise and oppose self-checkout (whether at the store or when examining for ticks), probably because I’m not the most proficient of cashiers (or “associates,” as WallyWorld dubs ‘em). I’ve never been trained for the job. Plus, unlike so many other “humans,” I flat-out refuse to let machines run my life. Especially when they benefit CEOs and other moneyed stockholders.
So I stood and waited for human-like help. I was the last one back to the car, where we’d agreed to reconvene before entering the building. No one complained. They could only laugh and smile, though I suppose they were doing so because I’d decided to use one of the store’s electric riding carts.
“No sense walkin’ any more than we have to!” I laughed. Sometimes I do let machines run my life.
After a slow start to the day I was off and hobbling. Amy had dropped three of us off at Route 55 (unlike Hagar, she can drive 55!) (and no: there will NOT be any Sammy Hagar links here within), where we’d left off: the lovely Tumbleweed, the likeable Porch, and the less lovely or likeable guy scribbling this rubbish.
The heat was faithfully extreme and enervating, and our paralyzing paralyzed pace reflected it. It didn’t help that I again had a heavy load, including the extra pair of shoes, which I had tied to the outside of my pack for lack of space inside it, a rambling rummage sale of sorts. The AT is long; it is a lot longer with a large load.
We soon separated but regrouped at a shimmering yet shady Nuclear Lake. The lake was named as such because back in ‘55 (there’s that number again) the Rockefeller Group purchased the land, which had been a nature preserve, to contract the construction of a nuclear fuels processing research facility. A company called United Nuclear ran the complex under license of the US Government, experimenting with bomb-grade uranium and plutonium from 1958 to 1972, when it was forced to shut down due to a chemical explosion and resultant plutonium spill. The explosion killed an employee and the spill contaminated the region.
For years the land sat unexploited, with ominous warning placards placed on fencing surrounding the area:
Eventually the National Park Service acquired the land and rerouted the Appalachian Trail straight on through! The trail had been ushering hikers on neighboring roads at the time, where it wasn’t a whole lot safer.
When I first overheard word of the lake it conjured up images of the toxic pond in The Simpson’s. The one at the power plant where Homer works, chocked with mutant three-eyed fish and the Swamp Thing and neon-colored waste water flowing into it from a huge pipe. Nuclear fishin’.
None of us carried a Geiger counter, but trusted the lake was innocuous, as the EPA and other governmental agencies had confirmed. Fully anti-establishment, I’m not one to put faith in gubmint or any other large group of animals, but in this instance, it seemed better to take our chances and find our inner dolphins than be seared by the sun or pricked alive by mutant mosquitoes. I only wished I had a personal flotation device. Or two.
We soon separated but regrouped at a shimmering yet shady Nuclear Lake. The lake was named as such because back in ‘55 (there’s that number again) the Rockefeller Group purchased the land, which had been a nature preserve, to contract the construction of a nuclear fuels processing research facility. A company called United Nuclear ran the complex under license of the US Government, experimenting with bomb-grade uranium and plutonium from 1958 to 1972, when it was forced to shut down due to a chemical explosion and resultant plutonium spill. The explosion killed an employee and the spill contaminated the region.
For years the land sat unexploited, with ominous warning placards placed on fencing surrounding the area:
PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVERNMENT.
NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT.
POTENTIAL RADIOACTIVE DANGER.
Eventually the National Park Service acquired the land and rerouted the Appalachian Trail straight on through! The trail had been ushering hikers on neighboring roads at the time, where it wasn’t a whole lot safer.
“For the first time in the history of the world, every human being is now subjected to contact with dangerous chemicals, from the moment of conception until death.”
~Rachel Carson
~Rachel Carson
None of us carried a Geiger counter, but trusted the lake was innocuous, as the EPA and other governmental agencies had confirmed. Fully anti-establishment, I’m not one to put faith in gubmint or any other large group of animals, but in this instance, it seemed better to take our chances and find our inner dolphins than be seared by the sun or pricked alive by mutant mosquitoes. I only wished I had a personal flotation device. Or two.
Nuclear Lake was an idyllic spot for a respite. It is sublime and serene in every sense, including its radiance. We stripped down and got our glow on, enjoying a relaxing float. It felt good to scrub the layers of lifeless skin from our feet. An erstwhile triathlete, I tried a little butterfly stroke. I wanted to stretch the body a bit. All the heavy lifting (aka backpacking) has curved my spine and pushed me forward and downward, so I knew it’d feel good giving it a whirl.
Judging by the looks Porch gave, I could’ve been mistaken for a drowning swimmer. I killed the butterfly (and the attached barnacles) before anyone grew worried. My beard was coming in nicely now, Old Testament-like; it’d’ve been difficult for anyone to perform mouth-to-mouth.
A few beardless twenty year-old Amish boys joined us, having traveled from their farmland in Pennsylvania for a week-long plod of the AT. They could not help themselves, continually gazing Tumbleweed’s way, spellbound.
After the break, we three loaded up and left. Then right. Then left. Then right. Then wrong. On the AT the simple act of walking ain’t so simple. You zig, you zag, you dig, you flag. Rocks and roots rarely allow for easy perambulation, as mentioned maybe a million times before. The weather, still reliably oppressive, added to our troubles.
An hour or more later we’d skirt the AT’s single largest oak tree. The three hundred year-old Dover Oak, with its twenty-foot girth, stood immediately beside the slightly less old West Dover Road, looting none of the luster that the Keffer Oak down in Virginia possessed (despite that one being flanked by hideous, monstrous powerlines). Man has always used noted landmarks for road-paving purposes, since humans desire the natural experience, only without the natural effort.
Another hour or so later we pulled up to the Appalachian Trail Railroad Station, next to a rowdy NY Hwy 22. The station was little more than a raised wooden platform intersecting the trail, but with old-fashioned markers and a garbage bin. Bins are a hiker’s bonus.
After the break, we three loaded up and left. Then right. Then left. Then right. Then wrong. On the AT the simple act of walking ain’t so simple. You zig, you zag, you dig, you flag. Rocks and roots rarely allow for easy perambulation, as mentioned maybe a million times before. The weather, still reliably oppressive, added to our troubles.
An hour or more later we’d skirt the AT’s single largest oak tree. The three hundred year-old Dover Oak, with its twenty-foot girth, stood immediately beside the slightly less old West Dover Road, looting none of the luster that the Keffer Oak down in Virginia possessed (despite that one being flanked by hideous, monstrous powerlines). Man has always used noted landmarks for road-paving purposes, since humans desire the natural experience, only without the natural effort.
 |
| Tumbleweed and Porch on a smooth stretch after the Dover Oak |
A hundred yards on I set my hermit kingdom up on what would soon feel and sound like the middle of the tracks, behind the Native Landscapes garden center. Peace train, my butt. Porch and Tumbleweed pitched their tent nearby. The business allows hikers this luxury free of charge. We told the foreman if they sold snacks their business would really blossom: “Hikers only like the plants they can smoke.”
Later, as another train to nowhere (lovely nowhere) bellowed by, we sat and ate at a cement table behind the building. Porch and Tumbleweed tried to teach me Gin Rummy, which sounds alcoholic but only involves fifty-two pieces of plasticky paper. They gave it a valiant effort, in spite of my cries that card games aren’t my strong suit.
Later, as another train to nowhere (lovely nowhere) bellowed by, we sat and ate at a cement table behind the building. Porch and Tumbleweed tried to teach me Gin Rummy, which sounds alcoholic but only involves fifty-two pieces of plasticky paper. They gave it a valiant effort, in spite of my cries that card games aren’t my strong suit.
“Nothing is,” I went on to warn my convives. “But card games are especially bad.”
They learned.
"Foot"note 1: I still don't expect I'll ever see Katahdin. And that's precisely what keeps me going.
They learned.
"Foot"note 1: I still don't expect I'll ever see Katahdin. And that's precisely what keeps me going.
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