A Limp in the Woods...or not (Day 34-35)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Days 34-35: Sat/Sun April 27th-28th, 2013
Damascus Do-Nada Days = 0 trail miles
Miles to date: 467

Hostel Takeover

Damascus’s promotional name is Trail Town USA(1). It’s acceptable, as marketing monikers go. Three prominent paths converge here in the Blue Ridge Mountains: the Virginia Creeper National Recreation Trail; the Trans-America Bicycle Route; and the Appalachian Torture Chamber, my personal trail of tears. All three are intended for burning calories, not carbon, but the Trans-Am Route is really just a linkage of existing roads, on which the all-mighty automobile reigns. (Read: risk.) On the AT, cars only have access at road crossings or during those instances when the trail is a road, like it is here in downtown Damascus.

About this. The trail itself is not entirely a trail. Because the Appalachians are as much a gated garden as they are wilderness, and because there are roads criss-crossing and enclosing these mountains, there are many stretches of path where the dirt discontinues. Man-made surfaces assume responsibilities. A few of us joke that this makes the trail angry. What?! Sure, angry. Since the AT is not an unbroken footpath, it feels it needs to break those who walk it. It is the bowling ball, we are the pins. But it is its broken-up bits--the wooden walkways, the pavement, the sidewalks, the alleys, the bridges---that allow the hiker a break from the usual breakdown. Break points that keep us from our breaking point.

Thanks to Rails-to-Trails, the Creeper Trail metamorphosed into a bike path from its railed self, like a working-class caterpillar who turns into a first-class butterfly. The path runs from Whitetop, VA, near the NC border, through Damascus on its meandering way to Abingdon, thirty-five miles with an elevation drop of two-thousand feet. If the route were a river, it would creep along nicely.

This ease of layout makes the path astonishingly popular, attracting families out the wazoo. (I’m unsure where that is, but it doesn’t come as a shock that it’s in the Appalachians.) Families are transported to the higher terminus by local businesse$, so that they may coast almost entirely downhill to Damascus, before a slight incline to its other end. (Its ‘other end’ must be where wazoo is!)

The Trans-America Route, formerly known as Prince the BikeCentennial Route (a.k.a. Route 76), runs from Astoria, Oregon to Norfolk, VA and is now managed by an organization called Adventure Cycling Association. I wouldn’t see a single cyclist on it or riding any of the streets in town, but there were hundreds on the Creeper Trail, which I’m told isn’t too unusual on a weekend. (I was also apprised that it was a weekend, which I had not recognized by feel.)

The AT was the brainchild(2) of Harvard-trained forester Benton MacKaye, back in the early 1920s. MacKaye’s wife had died by suicide--by drowning herself--and he wanted to honor her love of long-distance walking. MacKaye’s initial article on the proposed path didn’t make much news, but it made history. The trail was completed in 1937, when the US population was two and a half times smaller (or fewer, anyhow) than what it is today. Now in its 75th anniversary, the hardened coal anniversary, this arboreal pipe has become one of the most celebrated long-distance trails on Earth.

Sure, more well-known trails exist--the Inca Trail, the Camino de Santiago, the Trail of Tears, the Sante Fe Trail, The Trail of Poop Running Down My Leg, to name but a fist full. But these tend to be historical routes, not hiking paths. They’re nowhere near as long or taxing as the AT. Of the trails accessible* today, the AT is the marquee destination of them all, the path nonpareil. (*Two-thirds of US citizens live within a day’s drive of the AT; and the predatory march of civilization continues to constrict.)

Though the path’s layout changes from year to year--due mostly to erosion considerations and subsequent sculpture--it’s largely been the same for seventy-five years. And its popularity is growing; each year, more mud-seekers set foot. (Some, like me, repeatedly set butt atop it.) It’s a personal paradox. I’m pleased to see more humans outdoors, but I also prefer a quieter escape. More wilderness, more loneliness. Still, the AT remains a workable escape hatch, especially given the population density in the east. One certainty: despite my love/hate bond with it, the trail is sacred. An American gem. It is absolutely worth keeping and upkeeping.

Anyway, I tended to the typical tasks in this town adrift in time. Shop, eat, wash, socialize. It was nice to share conversation with someone besides myself. (It’s okay to talk to yourself; it’s okay to respond to yourself; but it’s sad when you have to repeat yourself because you weren’t listening.) I’d spent two nights at The Place, a hostel run by the local United Methodist church. Whirled Peas, a fellow thru-hiker, described it and its situation perfectly...

“For a $6 donation, you get a wooden bunk in a neat old building. First you are given a stern talking to, read your rights, and ordered to take your shoes off. The caretaker, Bayou, is an interesting character from New Aalins. Sadly, his job requires him to run the place with an iron fist, and he does a better job of putting people off than making them feel welcome. I know he doesn’t have it easy, but many hikers leave feeling negative about the place, thus they are less willing to offer more generous donations or their extra time.”

It’s the same place I’d stayed in 1984. Back then it was just me and a cyclist named Ted Madison; there was no caretaker, and no need for a caretaker. Ted was pedaling west to enjoy some of the Olympic events in LA; his journey had just started. I was in transit to Norfolk, VA. (I’d decide to U-turn there and ride as far west as finances--and fall--would allow, before flying from the old Stapleton Airport to my beloved Sierra Nevada, where the peaks climb halfway to the stars, and where the trip had commenced.)

Thousands of miles into my ‘84 Trans-AM ride on a bike cobbled together with used parts

A picture Ted Madison took (I rode west with him before turning back east) 

The Place hadn’t changed much since. There’s new siding, a wall-mounted donation box, and a small pavilion. A parking lot has taken over the lawn. It was also more congested/infested this time around. (Each night was a complete snoregasbord, as every bunk was occupied.) And, as Whirled Peas mentioned, it’s managed more strictly.

The Place in 2013

Sadly, this is today’s trend. A few Johnny Rottens spoil it for us Johnny Appleseeds. So rules are implemented and structure put into place, be it in The Place or any other place. Thru-hikers are a predominantly dependable variety, but every time I head out on another long hike, I see a ballooning basket of bad apples. 

It’s the same types each time: young, male party animals with wizard-length beards. They bring their packs and a sense of entitlement wherever they go. Often they’re rich kids pretending to be impoverished, but their spending habits (on booze and contraband) are a dead giveaway. Ergo, establishments like The Place are forced to clamp down--or shut down. Given the long-running economic decline in Damascus, it wouldn’t be surprising if The Place were to close its doors in the near future. In the meantime, it’s Bayou’s way or no way. The way it should be.

The Place’s offbeat, iron-fisted manager, ‘Bayou’

Tonight, I’m bunking at the $10/night Mount Rogers Outfitters Hostel, alongside a twenty-three year-old guy named Gator. The black-thatched New Hampshirite is as mellow as they come. But he too had had enough of The Place. We’re roosted atop two rudimentary, unyielding wooden platforms. Our sleeping pads and bags act as bedding. Unyielding, all right--Gator joked that on this AT diamond anniversary we could cut diamonds with the bunks. The room has an impregnable prison cell aesthetic. It’s been stripped of anything of value, as if hikers might steal it. There’s just enough space for the platforms and our packs and not much else. We’ll take it.

Gator became Gator not because he wears an Izod shirt. It’s because he sports Florida Gator sport colors; he’s never been to the Sunshine State. (Sunshine State, ha! Colorado gets more sun.) Trailnames can be clever. All the same, they can be lame(3). My roomie is too relaxed to care about his label, or any other, so it stuck. The trail is swarming with these simpatico sorts. Although the AT is anything but easy-going, many on it are easy-going to a fault. The hardships tend to mellow even the most uptight types, for when the going gets tough, it’s best to remain easy-going. Bayou should hike it. Soften his stance some.

Tomorrow it’s back to being a bowling pin. But before the mountainous muck, it’s all about coffee and the biggest breakfast I can find. First I do the coffee; then I do the things. I don’t care what food is served, if it’s warm and filling and provides enough energy to allow for another day on this wonderful, godforsaken path. One needs ammunition to forestall the attrition.

"Fest"note 1: Host to the world’s largest annual gathering of backpackers, Damascus is to hikers as Sturgis is to bikers. This year’s Trail Days Festival is May 17-19th. I haven’t decided if I’ll attend. (Most hikers who go aren’t in fact in attendance, thanks to extensive drug use.) I’ll likely need another break from the trail by then, but I’m not thrilled to hitchhike back here, just to hitch to where I’ll be on trail at that point. (At the rate I’m going, that may be but a mile north of town...)

"Foot"note 2: For an AT tutorial go here: https://appalachiantrail.org/explore/
 

"Foot"note 3: If it matters, HERE is how I got my trailname.