A Limp in the Woods (Day 22)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 22: Monday, April 15th, 2013
Deer Park Mountain Shelter area to the springs past Pump Gap = 7 miles
Miles to date: 278

George’s Leap Year Lie

It’s been exactly one hundred years since Congress authorized a constitutional amendment, the Revenue Act of 1913, to collect funding via taxation. Throughout the United States citizens--tax livestock--are scrambling to file their federal tax forms by today’s deadline. (Wars require funding.) Me, I’m going for a hike. A tax hike? Nah, a tax-free hike. 

And today, not all that taxing. It was a slothful morning, the way I prefer ‘em. I am happily unproductive, and I stick to my strengths. Jenna and I remained catatonic at 7am, then again at 8am, and once more at 9am. We failed to move a muscle till 10am. (‘Twas no failure!) Before we tore down our (tax) shelters and started our stroll, two others, Dreamer and CC Rider, stopped by. They needed water. They sounded female, possibly male, possibly something else. I never got a look; I was still supine in the confines of the pines. They reconfirmed what we knew--we had chosen the choicest of sleep spots. Worth the quarter-mile side-trip.

Soon after their exit, we were moving. Moving, but not walking. (Jenna joked, “we’re lazier than the guy who created Japan’s flag.”) First we washed clothes in the streamlet, then draped them on our packs to dry. It costs nothing to do laundry in Nature. We then each washed ourselves and donned some new(ish) duds, before voyaging northward. Oh, to usher in a new day in new habiliments! What with yesterday’s marathon we each sweated up a storm. It made sense to wash that storm away. Appalachian ablutions, absolutely.

Washing one’s rags out here isn’t entirely needed. As long as those rags protect you from the biting bugs and the everyday elements, and as long as they protect others from seeing you in the raw, little else matters.

I get weeks out of my clothes on thru-hikes. Only when they can stand on their own, and only they begin to voice their opinions, do I worry. If the clothing doesn’t say anything, you can bet whole dollars hikers will.

The experienced thru-hiker knows he can wear his clothing for at least four days without repercussion:

Day 1: he wears his clean clothes as he normally would
Day 2: he wears his clothes inside-out as he normally would, keeping them clean
Day 3: he wears his clothing front-to-back (as he normally would), continuing to keep it clean
Day 4: he wear his clothes inside-out and front-to-back (you guessed it: as he normally would)

This eliminates the need for doing laundry for at least as long. I frequently go through this four-day cycle five or six times, before I even begin to consider spending cash to wash my garb. I’ve saved thou$ands this way, and not just on thru-hikes. Oh, and lastly, liberal use of various aerosol disinfectant or deodorant sprays (e.g., Lysol, Old Spice, bear spray) will restore hiking clothing to active duty for another few weeks. You can see there’s no need to use precious water for laundry purposes.

(A tip for those of you who wear underwear while hiking: wearing your underwear on the outside of your pants or shorts extends the above cycle another day or two, saving you even more.)

(Another tip, this one real. As learned hikers do, it’s wise to submerge your socks in a creek overnight. Slide a stone inside each sock--so it doesn’t drift away--and by morning each one is anew. The creek does the dirty work.)

Soon after we started Fatty and I came across two tombstones. One was a rudimentary jobber--the other, nicer and newer. They were of the Gragg’s, Eva and George…

Eva Gragg

Oct 3, 1882 – Nov 3, 1940

ABSENT, NOT DEAD

George W. Gragg

Feb 29, 1881 – May 12, 1966

Departed But Not Forgotten

We stood there in silence before I broke it. “This must be the dead center of the AT.” Fatty failed to laugh. I kept at it anyway. “It took these two entire lifetimes to get here! Proof that people are just dying to be on the AT!” Fatty continued her quiet, a roaring silence.

I noticed George’s birthday. February 29th. Leap day, 1 in 1,461 odds. Then I remembered leap years only leap on EVEN-numbered years. “That’s odd. What gives?” I wondered. Fatty sauntered on. I hung back and pondered if anyone else had noticed this.

1881 WASN’T A LEAP YEAR! ‘80 was, but ‘81 sure as hell wasn’t! I DO know my calendar! Jorge’s pulling one over on us! He prolly weren’t born at all! Wake up, you sack of bones! I demand an answer! Am I the only hiker-investigator to see this in all these years? Was it simply a whiff by the engraver? How’d anyone not notice? How did they get the bodies up here? And why, of all places, here? 

It’s said not to speak ill of the dead, but let’s face it: they’re immune from illness. And the rules change when they’re known liars. Lying liars.

February 29th, 1881? The one who lies here LIES!

Vowing to probe the Internet’s innards ASAP, I paid what respects I could (those meaningful thoughts and worse--prayers!) and kept on. My truest thoughts remained on death, while Fatty’s focus was dead set on Hot Springs, NC. The girl was out of sight. I was, one might say, dead last. Dearly departed, though maybe not so dearly--Fatty didn’t seem to care about me! I leapt down the trail, wanting to share GEORGE’S LEAP YEAR LIE. The Canadian and I reunited a short time later. She didn’t seem interested and so, by slow degrees, we worked our way toward Toasty Springs in a comfortable quiet. Maybe they don’t observe leap year in Canada.

All dressed up with somewhere to go

When we reached the paved shore of Hot Springs we didn’t know which way to go. We conferred with our combined consciences, but not our guidebooks. With two grey-matters diving to the bottom of the matter, we deduced the settlement must be to the right. Turns out we turned wrong; it was to our other right, the only one left.

We learned this when a large lady who looked to do all her traveling on her porch (the local custom, we’d soon find out) asked if “we was AT hikers?” We told her we was. 

“So the both of you’s is hikin’ thems trail?”

“Yes ma’am. We sure is,” we chirped proudly.

“NO YOU’S AIN’T!”

She explained town was “duh other ways,” and in case we still weren’t sure, we needed to turn around and head “dem other ways.”

When things aren’t going right, go left.

Neither of us was sure how we made such a blunder. The sidewalk had large brass AT markings every twenty strides. Fatty suggested hunger had pulled rank on our eyesight. We thanked the lady.

“We’re going to Maine,” I said to her. “Why don’t you join us?”

Fatty laughed. The large lady laughed. “Y’all crazy. I ain’t goin’ nowheres ‘til the Lord Almighty comes calling.”

“Almighty, all righty,” I replied, wishing I hadn’t. I have a beef with belief. But questioning belief only dishes grief.

Once in the bubbling backwater (pop: 500-ish, except when hikers invade), Fatty and I went our individual ways. I had the write thing to do, along with the other assignments. First, the library, to see if I might dig up any dirt on Mr. Gragg, the old hag. There was nothing on the ‘net; all of what I’d disinterred came from ATers merely mentioning the headstone. Not one acknowledged the invalid’s invalid birth date. Sigh. Someday I’m researching this till I get an answer, even if I’ve gotta exhume George to ask him! 

I resigned and checked email and any messages I may have received on Plenty of Whales, the free, ad-clogged human vending machine within which I’m a hopeful. (More than halfway through life and I’m still perusing singles ads; everything’s going as planned.) Unlike so many libraries that prohibit you from visiting singles or porn sites, Hot Springs’ didn’t seem to mind. My bio’s opening lines…

Do you have a boyfriend? No? Want one? On a scale from one to ten you’re a ten and I’m the one you’re looking for.

A well-rounded mom of half a dozen professed her interest: “i’m ain’t fat,” she wrote, despite photographic evidence to the contrary. “i’m just so sexy it overflows...” (The Knack, a ludicrously underappreciated band whose songs SLAP, put it another way: “she got a funny little face but her body don’t quit...”) My dream girl also mentioned she liked long walks*. When someone says she “likes long walks,” I don’t think she means it like I do.

* “i injoy ling walks,” she wrote, typos and all, “thru Target.” Humor helps, but no.

And of K bands, damn you Kraftwerk, presaging the whole online dating scheme decades in advance. (In fifty years, Kraftwerk will still be fifty years ahead of their time. How many bands will be able to say as much? Spoiler Alert: NONE!) I should’ve known I’d never score with the ladies, listening to such synthesized scores. I think I’d have better luck finding my dream girl on Google Earth.

After the depressing rom-com and doomscrolling I dropped by the dollar store. I had to load up on crap-calories--killories--for the next phase of war. Then lunch, then the local outfitters. (I needed nada, but that never stops me from looking.) The meal took place at the Hikers Ridge Resource Center next to a gurgling Spring Creek. Like the AT hiker, the creek slices right through town. Hot Springs’ main street, Bridge Street, has a wonderfully agreeable yesteryear feel, but the empty shops remind us of this day and age.

The Center was empty but open. I unwound a while, updating this rubbish. Thanks to Sleeping Beauty’s awareness and assistance, I also caught Jungle Juice trying to make off with my hiking poles. It’d been less hurtful had he tried to make out with them. Sleeping B noticed Kid Klepto as he tried to slink away, alerting me to the fact. We vowed to keep an eye out for him. The man of steal tried to convince us he “thought they were in the hiker box.” A decent defense, except the poles were nowhere near the box(1).

By late afternoon I shoved off from my (so far) favorite town, crossing the stout steel and cement bridge spanning the French Broad River. Soon after, I labored up the long hill adjacent to it. The gradient was gentle and PCT-like. Because I took my time, I took pleasure in climbing. Up and away.

"Foot"note 1: A hiker box is a communal give-or-take/give-and-take box found in most trail towns. It is set aside for hikers who may want to rid what they have or perhaps try out something out that they might find in it. If, for example, a hiker purchases a gallon's worth of stove fuel in town, but only requires a few ounces, he can pay it forward and leave the unused portion in the hiker box for someone else. In this vein, hiker box Pop-Tarts are often quite flammable and should probably not be toasted.

Common Hiker Box* Finds (*aka trash bins)
Empty Band-Aid boxes
Unmarked Zip-Locs filled w/ various oatmeal/granola
Crumbled Pop-Tarts
Powdered ramen noodles (Oh, God, r'Amen.)

Depleted batteries
Bent tent pegs
Empty fuel canisters
Old, worn-out shoes
Powdered mystery meals
Duct tape
Sewing kits
Talcum powder
Unmarked vitamins
Vaseline
Q-tips (used and unused)

Let it be known that perfectly usable carbon-fiber hiking poles are never found in a hiker box.