A Limp in the Woods (Day 13)

An Appalachian Trail Tale

Day 13: Saturday, April 6th, 2013
Wayah Crest Picnic Area to just past the NOC = 22 miles

Miles to date: 137

Hiker Health

No matter which way you turn it, a toilet paper roll makes for a poor pillow. I’d been forced into using one since my usual headrest, a pile of clothing, has been drenched for days. Duds don’t dry in these parts. I require few niceties when backpacking, but a pillow is appreciated. Inflatable, feather, synthetic--it matters not. If a thru-hiker doesn’t sleep well, long won’t he be a thru-hiker.

It’s tough enough to sleep when bedded in the woods. When not in the typical trigger-happy state of restlessness--some things grow best at night, like fear--I doze in and out of consciousness. So would most fear-abiding folk. There are, after all, toothy beasts in the forest--the opposite of emotional support animals--and they too do not sleep much at night. Also, at ground level, crickets sound like grizzlies. Rip Van Winkle’s lengthy lie-in in the forest is a lie.

This toss-n-turn behavior is particularly prevalent without the proper equipment, little of which the thru-hiker can afford to lug, short of importing a porter. Earplugs are of benefit, as is decent air mattress. But where do you draw the line? Pillows seem extravagant. You might as well bring a teddy bear. Anyway. Enough pillow talk.

There is nourishment being in the mountains, but two health considerations drop precipitously during a long backpacking trip: hibernation and caloric nutrition. Disregard poor dental hygiene, sunburn, lack of bathing, the likelihood of drug/alcohol intake, and other reasons thru-hiking is bad for you. These two factors are hard to maintain, at least for those of us who eat and sleep well at home. (Many hikers don’t seem to care what they eat. I know not how they maintain their vigor under such rigors. My get-up-and-go would stay down and stay put.) The Appalachian Trail is a health hazard.

Already my diet’s achieved Maximal Obscenity Intensity (MOI). In Hiawassee, I bought enough Honey Buns to snuff Mr. Snuffleupagus. The ingredient list was longer than an Agatha Christie novel--and more mysterious. The box came replete with warning label (…consult your veterinarian prior to ingestion if you are pregnant or nursing or human). Side-effects included explosive diarrhea, oily discharge from the eye sockets, headaches, nausea, rapid dental decay, cramping, internal bleeding, listlessness, suicidal tendencies, cancerous tumors, and the likelihood of death, if more than one Bun was consumed in a single sitting.

Though the Honey Bun connoisseur (conno-sewer) increases odds of early death, the Honey Buns themselves do not die. They taste bad, but never go bad. My box’s expiration date: 2094. A monument to human engineering. The inventory: forty-six ingredients! (Not one is honey.) But they do contain titanium dioxide, calcium propionate, potassium sorbate, sodium acid pyrophosphate, and other delicacies. Yum!

To clean my teeth after feasting on such festering food--if food is the proper term--and because I care greatly about the health of my remaining teeth, I picked up a pack of gum. It was sugar-free stuff, presumably World War II surplus. One never knows what he’ll find in towns along the AT. It’d’ve been easier to chew diamonds. The flavor was fantastic, lasting for two full seconds.

Hygiene is rumored to be an integral facet of health, so I also bring floss, a toothbrush and paste, a comb (for my impending beard, which has been impending since puberty), and a vial of homemade soap-like substance, in the event any of the water along the way ever melts. I don’t mind stinking, but I don’t care for filth. If I’m ever able to strip the four layers of clothing that temperatures have thus far mandated, I’ll get a better idea of just how inappropriate my funk shui is. (In the Victorian Age, they simply donned more attire rather than bathing--a sensible tactic, unless you’ve got to carry that clothing.)

Today’s temperatures kept with the arctic tenor. Climbing or no, the jackets stayed on, though partly unzipped. Only the beanie was removed, replaced with a visor, but not for long. Even if the AT were exposed to the sun, I certainly wasn’t. Skin cancer was not going to be a worry for a while.

The early going was tough going. So was the late going and the going between. “The swiftest traveler,” said country boy Thoreau, who made a sacrament of walking, “is he who goes afoot.” He never trod the AT.

After laboring up Wayah Bald and onto the Cold Spring Shelter, I sat down. People were taking pictures of themselves. I didn’t take a picture of myself--why ruin a good photo? Instead, I took pictures of people taking pictures of themselves, sort of like a photoed echo. Then I offered moi a much-needed foot-fondle, before eating lunch. Germaphobes would do this in the opposite order--lunch, then feet--but we observers of mountains aren’t focused on things we cannot see. Germs are part of the thru-hiking experience; the salty hiker understands that they, the germs, are often the only friends he’ll have en route. And their loyalty to the thru-hiker cannot be doubted.

The top of Wayah Bald

One of innumerable white blazes

My poor feet (RIP) had been taking all kinds of abuse. This was the first time I’ve showed them affection. They’ll surely require more TLC as the weeks roll on. (IF they roll on; there are no guarantees given on the AT.) To the trail, your feet are punching bags.

The views had exploded all day. To the east there were mountains as far as the eye could see, but no farther, because that wouldn’t make sense. All springs gushed gallons a minute and a few small flowers started to appear. Spring is brazenly making an attempt.

By late day I’d gone twenty-two miles, my farthest forestry foray so far. I’d reached the Nantahala Outdoor Center, the N-O-C in hiker jargon. The place was bustling with business and busy-ness. I didn’t know a soul, so I slunk by, choosing to camp beyond the chaos. I’m stealthing it near a set of shiny railroad tracks in an ankle-deep bed of tree debris, snuggled up beside my teddy bear. 

(Stealth camping means hiding. It means [hopefully] avoiding detection. It tends to imply hiding from other hikers, but here it meant hiding from the land owner whose property I trespassed. Privacy on private property! The golden rule of stealth camping is to set up at dusk or dark, and to get going by sunrise.)

I hate when I’m scared to be social, but it’s a pre-existing condition. If all the world’s a stage and you’re filled with stage fright, what’re you supposed to do? There were a lot of people about, and they were all OTHER PEOPLE. I rationalized my decision, because deadness defeated diffidence, fatigue flattened fear. I’d backtrack in the morrow and pay my respects (and dollars) to the River’s End. The restaurant might enable me to sleep with something other than hills in my head.