A Limp in the Woods (Day 8)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 8: Monday, April Fools’ Day, 2013
The Old Cheese Factory Site to Hiawassee = 13 miles
Miles to date: 69

Fool’s Day

Ruth

As is AT norm, scenery has been only at a microcosm level, down in the dirt or in the few perennials. 

Scenery < Greenery

Every twist in the trail has been like those prior: indistinguishable. On many of these twists--and the rare straight stretch between--leaves, mushrooms, insects and rocks are all that offer any view. It’s a novel experience. I’m programmed for panoramas, having spent my life snacking in the American west, from its great watery edge to its majestic mountains and deserts. All desserts. For now the allure of the new will do, but I’ll say this: signs along the Appalachian Trail ought to include Braille. You can’t see anything anyway.

Even if there were huge vistas--I’ve said this before--you’d see them only when stopped. Immobile, stationary, still. The path demands not just physical effort, but also TMI--total mental involvement. Concentration tramp. I don’t mind big bouts of physical toil, but I’m as indolent as they come when it comes to mental strain. My brain is adjusted to refrain from pain. It’s good at this.

Regardless, I was having a good time. So was Ruth and everyone we’d met. Many hikers, restless and impassioned, were racing up the trail--THRU-HIKERS: TAKE YOUR MARK!--but they too seemed to be loving life. (This is just a guess; few took the time to smile or say hi.) And why wouldn’t we be loving life? We were all where we wanted to be, sucking the marrow from life.

Ruth and I were also sucking wind. The path is hillier than we’d imagined, and what we’d imagined wasn’t pleasant. (We knew a skosh about what we were getting ourselves into, having read hiker accounts.) Progress was slow, and closer to regress. My guess is we’ve walked about five daily hours so far, stopping to catch a second wind at least as long. It’s hard to catch your second wind when you’ve never caught your first. 

Unlike it was for some of the others, there was no hurry. We sought life in each stride and, unless the skies menaced or threatened to, we never concerned ourselves with the miles ahead. What are miles?

~~~~~~~~~~

The day started with the realization I’ve yet to make it through a night without having to free my bladder of its contents. After the usual internal debate--to pee or not to pee--this has meant extricating myself from the plush penetralia of the sleeping bag (plush when it remains dry, that is). Then I slip into wet shoes, tip the doorman, step out into the arctic gales, and beeline for the nearest tree, hoping it’s enough of a wind-block.

All the heat this happy camper worked to attain goes missing the instant the sleeping bag is unzipped. Unzipping the woodshed assures I won’t be warm again for hours. This is one of the worst parts of camping. There are others worst parts.

A pee bottle would fulfill requirements, but I don’t prefer peeing in bottles. Nor do I prefer to pee in front of a dissolute voluptuary who’s forever in heat. Or before anyone else. (In sport, drug testing was a weekly occurrence--fun!) Plus, once you’ve chugged urine, you’d never choose to piss into a vessel again. Trust me on this. Pee tastes like shit.

The sky was on full exhibition when I stepped out. The clouds had retreated. I stood there thunderstruck, gawking at a gazillion sparklers, nearly peeing on myself. I could name just one asterism--the Big Dipstick. But there were dozens on display, including that one shaped like an albino orangutan holding a raised bowling pin in one hand and a mirror in the other. Stunned by it all, I wondered for a second: if the constellations had been named in recent centuries there’d probably be fewer animals up there, just as there are here on Earth. Shoot ‘em down, shooting star.

I was up again an hour later, an hour before the sun, ready to ramble. Ruth was sound asleep--that sound being SNORING--but I prompted and prodded her to accompany me on a walk on this April Fool’s Day. It’s a day, I whispered her way, held in my honor. It’s not every day you’re honored.

The Tray Mountain Wilderness and its namesake peak were first on our to-do list. Starting the day with a fiendish incline, when we’d been recline, was, well, dumb. It was too early to be sweating. “I’d like the Appalachian Trail more if it wasn’t always trying to kill us,” Ruth said.

It was easy to replenish any sweat lost, since there were many springs lining the trail. Already, we’d passed more water gushing out of the ground than I’d ever seen out west. The water was pure and potable, but much too frosty to ingest without incurring an ice headache. We’d sip throughout the day, to avoid those or any other headache. Speaking of fools, I’ve already had one dehydration-caused migraine back on Day 3, and it was severe enough to lead me to puke.

The Five-Star Deep Gap Shelter

At Deep Gap we hopped off the hamster wheel and took a side-trip to a posh shelter of the same name. It was ideal territory for a siesta. We hung everything out to dry and laid back to unwind. That’s when Boy Scout Troop 566 stumbled onto the scene. A platoon of rambunctious ramblers. Siesta de negativo. R & R was adjourned. We were subdued; they were unglued. I said to Ruth, “Like our clothes, Scouts oughta also be strung up and hung to dry.” The twerps were as obnoxious as kids get, and their parents/leaders utterly incompetent. Incompetent was the only tent they knew anything about. Ruth the one-time rookie even laughed, watching the troop leaders argue over how best to pitch a tent.

Our wits were on the fritz, so made like a banana and scrambled. We did not thank the lads for their service. Children are like farts; you don’t mind them when they’re your own. They’re little whiffs of poop when they’re someone else’s.

By afternoon we negotiated a long descent to US Highway 76 and Dick Gap, or Dick’s Creek Gap. Fortune met us there, in the form of an Indianan named Oscar. Oscar offered to take us to Hiawassee in his older pick-up, after giving us and a hiker named Jungle Juice some trail magic. Sandwiches, cookies, candy, heaven. Hoosier hospitality. The middle-aged triathlete had been parked at the road junction for an hour, hoping to meet some thru-hikers. That’s when we three breezed in. We tried to smile in appreciation, but it was difficult with our mouths so full. We eat candy while millions go hungry.

Jungle Juice kept north while Oscar shuttled Ruth and me to Hiawassee. Heeding a call to inaction, she and I checked into a classy hotel. Classy in that it had a roof that didn’t look to leak if the skies were to. We cleaned up and promptly did nothing. Slacktion! Oh to do jack squat and find it enough! Tomorrow we move only to eat. In the evening Ruth will head to a heated home, and I...back to the wet, wintry woods. Dark and damp, a place to camp.