An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 36: Monday, April 29th, 2013
Damascus to Lost Mountain Shelter = 16 miles
Miles to date: 483
Day 36: Monday, April 29th, 2013
Damascus to Lost Mountain Shelter = 16 miles
Miles to date: 483
A German Virgin in Virginia
Lately I’ve been crazy busy meditating, but never mind that.
After three days of debauchery in Damascus I was due to disappear. Everyone with whom I’d arrived was gone. Fresh faces were strolling in every few hours, and fresh faces cause great anxiety in me. They would you too, had you witnessed some of them. Fresh is not the right word. Let’s just say thru-hikers ain’t about to prevail in any beauty pageants, but I’d definitely go see the show. Anyway, if I didn’t saddle up soon, I was never going to leave. My limp had gone limp.
Walking felt foreign, but I figured I’d figure it out; human legs are learners, and this newcomer would come around. It is truly astonishing what a couple of no-walk days does to the backpacker. Or to this one. Fitness isn’t lost per se, it just lays dormant, like I had. The thing is it’s a double-edged sword. I need the rest, but hate how it leaves me feeling. The thru-hiker knows: muscular momentum is a bona fide phenomenon. It is best to keep moving and lay off the layoffs. At least lengthy ones.
But I never learn. Trail towns are fun towns, and so they become vacuum-like vortexes. (“I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it,” said Shakespeare.)
By the time I gathered my goods and made a break for it, it was noon. Departing Damascus warranted a backward glance. For once I was thankful the forest was thick, leaving me with no invite back.
Two German kids, Engineer and Agent Orange, each on their Wanderjahr, that all-important postliminary school recess, would fly by as I worked my way up and out of town. I couldn’t catch their conversation, for I can’t quite grapple with their throaty, angry language. I don’t understand German and I don’t speak German. But I can speak English with a German accent.
Oral understanding or no, it was clear die kinder possessed all the bullishness of early manhood. (Optimism is a lack of information.) Give it time muchachos; you’ll be cranky old men before you know it, once life throws you enough Sturm Und Drang. They’d leave the crankiness to me as they kept cranking along. Scheiße, I sighed.
I was crotchety in part because the path--this psycho path--did its usual steep zigzagging. It eventually dropped back down to the Creeper Trail after a bunch of senseless climbing. As it was in Hampton, some hikers took the more sensible route out of town, sticking to the old RR track. I wish I had too, despite the onrushing tide of cyclists. My self-imposed rules for thru-hiking do not involve any such purism (or rules), and I could never find fault in how someone else scripts his or her adventure. (Though naturally, I do.)
2) Be open to adventure and possibility. Embrace the unexpected detour. ‘Trail’ is one letter from ‘rail.’ Step off the tracks as necessary. Derail yourself; become unhinged.
3) Don’t be rushed, even when speeding. Stop and smell the flowers, even when none exist. The last one to Katahdin wins! More and more hikers measure their success through the speed at which they travel; don’t fall for this.
4) Don’t fall, period. Injury impales many a hiker. Don’t be one of them.
5) Enjoy the journey and ALL that comes with it: good (scenery; people; independence); bad (people; food; mosquitoes; sleeping on hard ground or harder wooden bunks); or ugly (weather; body odor; mirrors).
6) Record the journey. Write! Take pictures! But be in the moment and not just focused on capturing it--or boasting about it. A human being, not a human doing! Recording real life renders a different reality, one nowhere near as enjoyable or rewarding.
7) Be part of your surroundings. Eschew technology removing you from it. Stop, look around. (See #3 above.)
8) Nothing in moderation!
9) Spend time alone. You’ll never be lonely if you like who you’re alone with. Loneliness is the condition of the true traveler.
10) Make a friend en route, if even just yourself.
And of course, travel light; every ounce counts in large amounts. Lighter is...righter.
And yes, leave no trace! (If aliens and Bigfoot can do it, so should we.) Better still, erase a trace. Make the world a better place.
Thru-hiking is a goal-driven activity. It necessitates almost constant forward progress, a goal in and of itself. If you wish to hike the entire Appalachian Trail in one go, you must, above all else, walk. Lots.
Two German kids, Engineer and Agent Orange, each on their Wanderjahr, that all-important postliminary school recess, would fly by as I worked my way up and out of town. I couldn’t catch their conversation, for I can’t quite grapple with their throaty, angry language. I don’t understand German and I don’t speak German. But I can speak English with a German accent.
Oral understanding or no, it was clear die kinder possessed all the bullishness of early manhood. (Optimism is a lack of information.) Give it time muchachos; you’ll be cranky old men before you know it, once life throws you enough Sturm Und Drang. They’d leave the crankiness to me as they kept cranking along. Scheiße, I sighed.
I was crotchety in part because the path--this psycho path--did its usual steep zigzagging. It eventually dropped back down to the Creeper Trail after a bunch of senseless climbing. As it was in Hampton, some hikers took the more sensible route out of town, sticking to the old RR track. I wish I had too, despite the onrushing tide of cyclists. My self-imposed rules for thru-hiking do not involve any such purism (or rules), and I could never find fault in how someone else scripts his or her adventure. (Though naturally, I do.)
My Hiking “Rules”
(These are not ironclad code! They’re theoretical, lenient. I’ve written them for ME!)
1) Take the scenic route. Take the more scenic route. Which is which? You’ll know it when you see it.2) Be open to adventure and possibility. Embrace the unexpected detour. ‘Trail’ is one letter from ‘rail.’ Step off the tracks as necessary. Derail yourself; become unhinged.
3) Don’t be rushed, even when speeding. Stop and smell the flowers, even when none exist. The last one to Katahdin wins! More and more hikers measure their success through the speed at which they travel; don’t fall for this.
4) Don’t fall, period. Injury impales many a hiker. Don’t be one of them.
5) Enjoy the journey and ALL that comes with it: good (scenery; people; independence); bad (people; food; mosquitoes; sleeping on hard ground or harder wooden bunks); or ugly (weather; body odor; mirrors).
6) Record the journey. Write! Take pictures! But be in the moment and not just focused on capturing it--or boasting about it. A human being, not a human doing! Recording real life renders a different reality, one nowhere near as enjoyable or rewarding.
7) Be part of your surroundings. Eschew technology removing you from it. Stop, look around. (See #3 above.)
8) Nothing in moderation!
9) Spend time alone. You’ll never be lonely if you like who you’re alone with. Loneliness is the condition of the true traveler.
10) Make a friend en route, if even just yourself.
And of course, travel light; every ounce counts in large amounts. Lighter is...righter.
And yes, leave no trace! (If aliens and Bigfoot can do it, so should we.) Better still, erase a trace. Make the world a better place.
Thru-hiking is a goal-driven activity. It necessitates almost constant forward progress, a goal in and of itself. If you wish to hike the entire Appalachian Trail in one go, you must, above all else, walk. Lots.
My rules don’t always account for this, so I often wrestle with the WHY of it all. (When you come to a WHY in the trail, take it.)
I do want to see the Appalachian Trail. But how much of it is necessary? Bill Bryson wraps up A Walk in the Woods with: “We didn’t walk 2,200 miles, it’s true, but here’s the thing: we tried. So Katz was right after all, and I don’t care what anyone says. We hiked the Appalachian Trail.”
I agree. And I don’t. I want more.
It’s greedy self-fulfillment, but that’s what adventure-seeking is. Seeking anything beyond our next meal and perhaps a warm, safe place to sleep is greedy. Give us humans an inch and we’ll take twenty-two hundred miles!
It’s greedy self-fulfillment, but that’s what adventure-seeking is. Seeking anything beyond our next meal and perhaps a warm, safe place to sleep is greedy. Give us humans an inch and we’ll take twenty-two hundred miles!
Even an anonymous act of altruism is an act of selfishness. Reciprocal altruism. We give because we’re getting something from it. (And when it comes down to it, the dutiful types seeking heaven are as greedy as they come, desiring to live eternally[!], yet so many of them disingenuously espouse selflessness.) Selfishness is all part of survival and self-preservation is visceral, no matter the creature. Pure instinct. Some say suicide is selfish, but just the same--so is living. (I’m holding off on suicide ‘til the day I die.)
Whilst I follow these tangents, a pal once told me he never knew how selfish he was until he’d become a dad. I responded, “nothing could be more selfish than having children--creating a replica of you.” Our friendship diverged.
But I diverge.
Back down on the Creeper Trail, I crept along in another hypnotic state, enjoying the easier ambulation. God, how wonderful it is not having to watch where you step! The route reached an old trestle and then took an immediate left after it, back into the woods for good. The woods are good. But it was back to watching where the feet went.
I’d mosey alone (i.e., selfishly) most the day. It felt strange, after interacting with so many others in town. It was largely a shadowless day and at times drizzly; I think it frightened others from leaving the comforts of town. We all want perfect hiking weather, all the time. It’s not too much to ask for. But the gods, they do not listen.
By nightfall I stumbled into the Lost Mountain Shelter (elev: 3,400-feet). Engineer and Agent Orange were there, along with one other guy, an older, jovial gentlemen whose name escaped one ear just as it entered the other. They had a fire roaring and were venturing to melt the packets of foil left behind by previous backpackers(1).
Whilst I follow these tangents, a pal once told me he never knew how selfish he was until he’d become a dad. I responded, “nothing could be more selfish than having children--creating a replica of you.” Our friendship diverged.
But I diverge.
Back down on the Creeper Trail, I crept along in another hypnotic state, enjoying the easier ambulation. God, how wonderful it is not having to watch where you step! The route reached an old trestle and then took an immediate left after it, back into the woods for good. The woods are good. But it was back to watching where the feet went.
I’d mosey alone (i.e., selfishly) most the day. It felt strange, after interacting with so many others in town. It was largely a shadowless day and at times drizzly; I think it frightened others from leaving the comforts of town. We all want perfect hiking weather, all the time. It’s not too much to ask for. But the gods, they do not listen.
By nightfall I stumbled into the Lost Mountain Shelter (elev: 3,400-feet). Engineer and Agent Orange were there, along with one other guy, an older, jovial gentlemen whose name escaped one ear just as it entered the other. They had a fire roaring and were venturing to melt the packets of foil left behind by previous backpackers(1).
The flames were treasured. It was freezing. We’d crouch and encroach, repositioning ourselves as the slow-swirling smoke insisted. The elder nodded off before the rest of us, a slave to the harsh reality that is AGING. Our trio would laugh nonstop (but softly) for the next few hours, although no matter how many times I repeated it, they didn’t quite get my lone German joke…
Q: What do you call a German virgin?
A: Good-n-tight!
By the way, here’s a shitty ditty I’ve been tinkering with out here called just that: German Virgin (trail mix edition). This lo-fi campfire melody is owed in part thanks to the loaner guitar at Miss Janet’s. The poor guitar was wondering what crime it committed to be sentenced to my fingers. Last I checked I’m not Jimmy Page.
Q: What do you call a German virgin?
A: Good-n-tight!
By the way, here’s a shitty ditty I’ve been tinkering with out here called just that: German Virgin (trail mix edition). This lo-fi campfire melody is owed in part thanks to the loaner guitar at Miss Janet’s. The poor guitar was wondering what crime it committed to be sentenced to my fingers. Last I checked I’m not Jimmy Page.
"Fire Ring” note 1: Garbage is a widespread occurrence on the AT and no more so than in fire rings.
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