A Limp in the Woods (Day 17)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 17: Wednesday, April 10th, 2013
Spence Field Shelter area to Mount Collins Shelter area = 20 miles
Miles to date: 203

Of Mice and Woodsmen (and Women)

Another night, another fight. This round it was ferocious wind and a security breach by a rogue rodent. The wind never relented--that damn butterfly in China!--but the meek mouse got the message when I flattened it with my camp pot. Had the pot only been iron and not lightweight titanium! I reentered the dream world when the critter dejectedly departed. Or I’d thought. Mickey simply settled into a stealthy silence and went to work on my provisions bag. It’d demolished what little food remained, after burrowing through both bag and tent wall. The whipping wind and my earplugs worked in its favor.

When a shelter’s near, rodents linger lecherously. No matter how many humans inhabit a hut, we’ll always be outnumbered. Some hikers bring their dutiful dogs, but canines are hopeless hunters once they’ve walked for weeks. Cats are a superior mouse deterrent, but felines aren’t low enough on brain cells to walk all day. (A catwalk is short.) Same goes for snakes; they hate walking. But my, how’d they keep resident rodents in check! I could’ve used a fierce feline last night, just as I could use breakfast this morning. I’m not one of those tough guys who eats mountains for breakfast.

Yet another trail rodent

The National Park Service requires AT thru-hikers to sleep in or around shelters within Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Mice are privy to this. And of privies, those adjacent to the park shelters have been as poor as any I’ve seen. Real shit-shows. Previous ATers assured me I’d be safer squatting in the woods, illegal or not. No one is fond of pooping atop OPP (other peoples poo), so I’ve heeded the advice. I only use privies to borrow toilet paper. If the mice haven’t ravaged it.

Anyhow. I will now reevaluate my sleep spot each night, for shelter-homing mice are worthy adversaries. Some of them are above my weight class. I’ll also rethink the earplug use; they deaden the senses too much.

The day was shaping up to be impeccable. Of the seventeen so far, few have been completely clear. Today made up for them all. A crystalline sky and some perfectly-situated mercury made for an unusual-as-of-yet day. We’d already learned that on the AT in early spring, you take what you can get, and most of what you get is a beatdown. But this was out-and-out outstanding. No wonder the wind. In with the new, out with the old.

PaddyCakes, Puddin' & Sleeping Beauty

Our loose-knit footloose group (now named The Fanny Pack, since they all make fun of me for wearing a fanny-pack. “Oh, yeah,” I say in my defense(1), “it’s called a hipster, not unlike the guy wearing it.”) decided on reaching Gatlinburg together, whether today or tomorrow. None of us were too thrilled at the thought of hitchhiking alone, figuring that although we’d decrease our chances for a single ride down from the hills, we’d at least not die one-by-one, a safety-in-numbers summation. None of us pondered that we might all be maimed together or that our cumulative aroma might kill the poor driver unfortunate enough--unwise enough--to stop for us.

We also knew the forecast called for another freezing rain sometime during morrow, so civilization sounded attractive. Even Gatlinburg sounded attractive, although Spanky assured us otherwise. “You’ve been before?” I asked him. “Not by choice.”

The drawback to today’s nicer weather came in the form of black flies. These were professional irritants, adept at fraying nerves as bad as Gilbert Gottfried. Mouth, nose, ears, ass--no orifice was free from harm’s way. The Appalachian Trail is harm’s way. But as we climbed Welch Ridge, toward the AT’s acme, Clingmans Dome (6,643-feet(2)), the pests vacated, abated, dissipated. I love loft.

Yours Unruly

The views were soon to live for, as were the wonderful wiffs emanating from the feathery spruce trees crowding the trail. Scent of the pine, you know how I feel. It was the first time our noses had been treated to such a feast.

Clingmans Dome Summit: the AT's high point

We dawdled on the circular platform atop Clingmans--friends in high places. We felt like we’d been plucked from Earth and placed into a hot-air balloon’s basket, so immense were the vistas. The bottom half of the AT (“its ass end,” PaddyCakes calls it) doesn’t often reward the hiker’s eyes, at least not on such a grand scale. It was difficult departing.

But there were miles to do. I’d been operating on fumes all day, no thanks to the scoundrel mouse. The trade-off was that my packs were light, both backpack and the fanny one. I prefer a light pack and an empty stomach to both being full, but I’ll know more about this tomorrow.

By nighttime we reached the Mount Collins Shelter, another dump of a structure, but in better nick than its predecessor. (Is it really an honor having a shelter named after you?) The old one, an upright landfill, had a chain-link fence safeguarding its front, to keep growling bears at bay. The updated model looked to let guests fend for themselves. I pitched my tent nearby, concerned more about mice and the growls emanating from my stomach.

"Fanny-pack"note 1: Further defense of the fanny-pack: it is a great way to keep things accessible and organized. In it I have notebook, pen, camera, and other important (to me) items, like the crack pipe. It also balances the weight I carry, removing it from my back and placing it elsewhere, though this is purely a ploy to bamboozle the brain: Take a load off, fanny(pack)...and (and) (and) you put the load right on me. Isn't 'bamboozle' a great word?

"Foot"note 2: There is rarefied risk of High-Altitude Pulmonary Edema on the Appalachian Trail. Proposed AT slogan: Escape the HAPE.