A Limp in the Woods (Day 152)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 152: Friday, August 23rd, 2013
Bald Mountain Brook Lean-to to near the Piscataquis River = 16 miles
Miles to date: 2,065

Of Dragons and Dragonflies

A FOREWORD...

Last night I learned Felon and Sinner both snore like congested fire-breathing dragons in a battle to the breath. I got up, timorously strode into the tempestuous night, and pitched my pariah’s pad, Rancho Costa Plenty, at a safe distance from the racket. Roughly half a mile. Even then I employed earplugs. Two in each ear and one in the hindquarters. No sound in or out.

~~~~~~~~~~

A PREFACE...

The earplugs escaped by morning. A dragonfly woke me. Half dragon, half fly, full on mad. In years past I’ve been roused by bears, bison, bobcats, deer, cattle, humans, horses, dogs, frogs, hogs, llamas, goats, alpacas, martens, donkeys, monkeys, marmots, mosquitoes, moose, mice (so many mice!), chipmunks, skunks, squirrels, raccoons, roosters, pikas, possums, sheep(1), flies, foxes, ticks, a turtle, the morning turtlehead (so many morning turtleheads!), spiders, snakes, lizards, birds, coyotes, elk, kangaroos, scorpions, javelinas, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pair of pear trees. I guess it was the dragonfly’s turn.

The poor bugger was trapped in my tent’s foyer, its voluminous veranda (also amatively referred to as guest quarters), unable or unwilling to dislodge herself by diving downward. There, an extensive opening would’ve allowed her absolute autonomy and the chance at redemption had she decided to dive-bomb my tent, kamikaze style. Or Gangnam style. Instead, she insisted on bombinating and using her four-inch wingspan to continuous fly upward into the inescapable nylon roof.

It was the longest I’ve been so close to the magical monster. With the help of readers, I observed her in detail. And in awe. Thin mesh was all that separated us, so we could examine one another in wonderment. Or wonderment in my case; sheer terror in hers. Her wings were highly effective, with minimal movement needed to sustain flight; her head was almost entirely eyeballs, capable of rotating on a swivel and in all directions, like a bobble-head doll whose springy neck had been stretched. I looked into those bulging eyes and could see--could feel--the panic. Losing life. Can’t. Go. Much. Longer. Don’t just watch me die. Help!

Loathe to inflict or watch any suffering other than that of mosquitoes, I peeled the duct-taped netting and opened the Velcroed vestibule. The buzzing ceased when the dragonfly flew for freedom. (Isn’t this why anything flies?) Free too, and free to, I went back to sleep, darkness long gone. Some female dragonflies fake their death to avoid mating with unwanted males. I wasn’t faking mine.

AN INTRODUCTION...

It was just this side of ten o’clock when I woke a second time. It may have been that side. Whatever the side, I was on the verge of action. Moxie Bald stared down on me. The sun, straight overhead, also stared down, but was smothered by sheets of sullen gray. Not even the slightest tinge of guilt could find my mind. I’d learned long ago that rest is a critical component of hauling a backpack long distances, and that sleep is the only quality recovery/modality within reach of the trail. There are no (free) hot springs on the AT, and no natural salt baths. I hold out hope I’ll meet a masseuse on one of these hikes--preferably a blue-eyed brunette--but it hasn’t happened, and I recognize the likelihood is anything but likely. Sleep is it. (And sleep is where I can recover and dream about her.)

THE NARRATIVE...(and a “cliff note”)

Erect(2) and walking, I was at first alone, as far as human companionship goes. All the other players abounded. Wrens, ravens, grouse, buzzards circling like undertakers, deer, blueberries, the breeze, the trail…they all kept me company. And, in the case of the trail, occupied. One stretch atop a granite slab involved--necessitated--full focus. The path skirted a vegetated void for fifty-plus yards, where a wiggle to the right could end so very wrong; a shortcut to the morgue. There was little separating step and misstep. “Fall,” I warned myself, “and you’ll end up in a treetop. If lucky.” (That which does not kill you…can still leave you paralyzed.)

Stay Left!

I stopped and peed off the rim, onto the pines waiting patiently below, marking the territory I dearly love. I then shot a picture or two. I could hear others taking shots in the distance. I hunt to capture an animal on film (though only virtually), these anthropocentric types hunt to end an animal’s life (but only in reality). Bullets raped the silence. They live in hopes of bagging an animal. An even more repellent word hunters like to use: harvest, as in harvesting an animal. They call it sport. I’m not sure what the hunted call it, those speechless, stupid sorts.

(Visitors take note! City side or countryside, the US is a war zone. The nation has a serious firearms obsession. Wear orange. Or a bullet-proof vest. Especially near schools. [“…today in health class we’re going to learn to treat gunshot wounds.”] We can buy only one box of Sudafed at a time, but as many guns as we’d like.)

I wonder how hunting fits with the whole Leave No Trace hymn. (He who wonders may be lost.) Fear not, there shall be no such hunting dissertation forthcoming! I get that blood hunters have helped land conservation efforts in the US--yet many snivel about license and permit fees!--and I’m appreciative of that. (Let’s be clear here: hunters and trappers are interested only in protecting their opportunities to kill animals, not in conservation.) I can also think of good reason to own a gun--to murder televisions and computers, for example. I also support the right to arm bears! But men, well. Real men don’t need guns.

Let beings be, said Herr Heidegger. Be true to the earth, said Nietzsche. Contempt for animal life leads to contempt for human life, said Ed. I must say, however, that when I meet consumptive outdoorsmen and women--ATVers, dirt-bikers and those who kill for entertainment--and they try to traduce tree-huggers, as they seem wont to do, I remind them, that without the original tree-hugger and his spawn-off, The Sierra Club, there’d likely be no public hunting grounds. Maybe tiny tracts. My allegiance will always be with the wilderness and the animals that who inhabit it, with the exception of the bipedal tool-making types.

One with Nature--not just one in Nature--I soon caught the early birds. Now three with Nature, we were walking through--within--vast tracts of wilderness, a part of it, not apart from it. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku or forest bathing, an immersion in wild surroundings. Eco-therapy. The Japanese say to bathe still, but we find serenity in movement.

Often I could make out others on large granitic slabs well ahead of me--sometimes an hour or more ahead. Other times I could detect hikers an equal distance back. I am sure to stop to see the path not solely from my direction of travel, but also from the southbounder’s vantage--and from a child’s perspective: with eyes full of wonder and curiosity and joy. It requires no work, thankfully.

Lunchtime. I sat and ate with Goat and TK, pondering nothing. The eating was thought-provoking enough. It’s hard work, constantly having to shove calories in just to maintain weight. Forget maintaining energy. Chronically enervated, I vow now never to ingest another Honey Bun in my life and shall in fact soon (within a couple weeks, it looks), be cleaning up my intake in to the point of purity. Funnybone lays off the bone. Gone goes the multi-ingredient Frankenfood, the empty grains, the animal flesh, the animal byproducts. All cold turkey. It is odd that after walking through two thousand miles of them, I crave plants.

More glory as we continued through the master cathedral. Edible plants, ground-dwelling birds, branch-dwelling birds (and their dozens of ariose dialects), rambunctious rabbits, chirpy chipmunks, lively breezes. Rain felt imminent, appeared incipient, but there’d be no such incident. The clouds circled and swooped, but never punched. When socked in, we followed our shoes and socks and the ubiquitous white blazes, the latter often painted on rock now, smearing the sublime scene. Strangely, the solitary painted path would lead us our separate ways; there are many ways to go one way. The paint, in the end, led us each into nighttime, quitting time.

After talking to--or listening to--a glaring non-hiker at the Horseshoe Canyon Lean-to, prudence told me to serve myself an eviction notice, pronto. I abided, and skulked on. The questionable character lacked an instinct for fun. He seemed to want me dead, for reasons he didn’t make clear. No other hikertrash were around. None alive, anyhow. 

These crackheads come out of the woodwork when a road sits near a shelter, as it did here; a strip called Perkins Road was not far (enough) away. I reckon it takes ten miles to remove bipedal threat, but you can never be too sure. People can do amazing things on drugs. This rando was a breathing anti-camping advertisement. If you value your life stay home!

We’ve all heard of trail angels, but some of us get to experience trail gremlins. They walk among us. 

This gremlin, a burly one, was as shady as any I’d seen on trail--an umbra hombre: elongated blade on hip, cotton flannel on top, brusque mannerisms on tap. As twitchy as a rattlesnake tail. Built like a brick privy, built for prison. A chained wallet--disgusting things. Oversized canvas military bag! Fully-loaded! He had been heating his supper with a portable blowtorch. There was a steel fuel tank attached, one of those dusky green Coleman jobbers that no backpacker in her right mind would ever carry, ever.

I couldn’t say if it was drugs or what--I hoped it was drugs--but Inbred Jed was so addled he could only knock at reality’s door. I’m sure attendees missed him at tonight’s MENSA meeting.

“The fuckin’ Illuminati,” the Manson-looking parolee had lamented. (Out here the term fully-loaded applies in more ways than one--Tales from the Narc-side.) Other vocalizations were tinged with an equal degree of lunacy, which meth-mouth made no effort to conceal. 

“The AT is awesome,” a friend told me before this hike. “Just don’t carry cash.” He also told me he was glad he completed the AT. “Now I don’t ever have to hike it again.”

Forever a bladerunner, I hustled to put distance between me and the malefactor. I don’t think the police would ever capture my killer, just as Scott Lilly’s killer hasn’t been caught. I thought of many things as I galloped--“Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity”--but what stuck in my head the most was the Mitch Hedberg line: “If someone robbed me, they’d only be practicing.” I carry nothing worth stealing, but my life depends on it.

Oh, well. I’d rather sleep among animal friends than near human strangers.

I’m now parked along the waterline of the two-fathoms-deep Piscataquis River, sequestered on an eroding embankment in the sticks. A hillbilly hideaway, a rube retreat. A thousand spider eyes reflect my headlamp’s beam; they look like droplets of water, only the water moves when I do. 

I hear murmuring, haunting voices whenever I camp near running liquid. I also hear large toothy animals snapping sticks as they circle my tent. Is my mind playing tricks? Or are old spirits telling me something? Why do I enjoy camping? Will daylight ever come?

I cannot even bring myself to try to pronounce this river’s name--Piss-got-a-key?--so I’ll call it the P River, not to be confused with the Pee River. As a conscientious outdoorsman, I know not to pee anywhere near a water source. Unless I’m swimming in it, natch.

"Foot"note 1: No lambs however. The Silence of the Lambs?

"Foot"note 2: Morning wood in the late-morning woods.