An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 47: Friday, May 10th, 2013
Mile 644 to Bailey Gap Shelter = 10 miles
Miles to date: 654
Day 47: Friday, May 10th, 2013
Mile 644 to Bailey Gap Shelter = 10 miles
Miles to date: 654
Nervous. Ticks.
Of the copious concerns out here--including, but not limited to, the following: tree-falls; lightning; blisters; ‘roided up bears; venomous snakes; hypothermia; sickle-toting hillbillies; injury; norovirus; treacherous terrain; rabid porcupines; wasps; spraying skunks; personal stupidity/navigational blunders; menacing mosquitoes; biting black flies; biting wild boars; debilitating migraines; infectious mice turds; thieving mice; rockslides; slipping; tripping; road crossings; American women; hateful hikers; losing your stuff; losing your mind; and so forth--only tree-falls, blisters, treacherous terrain and lightning have struck (and struck terror) with any frequency. (I’d lost my mind when I decided to hike this trail.)
Last night, we added ticks to the ‘have struck’ inventory. Our lovely little knoll, perched high above the world, was breeding ground zero for the blood-suckers. The land of milk and honey had soured. M-80 had to scan Willow’s fur and remove four of the pests. Backstreet also had to extract a few. No one else had any auger in, thankfully, though we all had to flick a few off before they had. The battle had begun.
“It must be nice to take such a long vacation,” Pearisburg’s post office clerk said.
“Oh, we’re not vacationing,” we corrected her. “We’re hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
The battle commenced again today with a follow-up tick-check, first on the more accessible body parts and then onto those places I don’t normally care to visit. I checked out clean--or free from ticks, anyway. No self-respecting bug would dare venture near the crossroads of my legs without first donning a biohazard outfit, I’d hazard to guess.
An hour into the walk I reached the Allegheny Trail. I thought it was in Pennsylvania but now knew differently. A little pestering of a day hiker at the junction taught me I’d been thinking of the Great Allegheny Passage, a Rails-to-Trails hike/bike route. “This one’s a true hiking trail, though in most places it ain’t much of one.” I thanked him for furthering my education. One more trail to experience someday, I thought, as I moved on alone, listening to the land.
 |
| They said, “we’re back,” just like they promised… |
I haven’t a clue how these couples do it, how they maintain their equanimity or, for that matter, their sanity. But Goat and TK, PaddyCakes and Puddin’, and M-80 and Trooper are all coping in copacetic style. I couldn’t think of anything more miserable than being trapped beside someone in a tiny tent after days and weeks of schlepping a backpack and consuming dehydrated food, no matter how much I loved that person.
They say if a couple can survive a long trail together, they’re destined for lasting love. No one’s certain who they are--that referenceless pronoun--but they’ve got to be a couple, or a number of them. I just hope I can survive the they that is myself. Ideally for the rest of this hike. And ideally for the rest of my life. Otherwise, the rest of my life may not be all that long.
By midmorning I remained on my own, too far back to sniff anything and too far back not to rehearse my whistling skills. A ping pong-ball-sized finch fluttered nervously from the vicinity, while a pair of crows cocked their heads my way, intrigued. Or perhaps alarmed. Another bright salamander stood in my path, moving slower than even the slowest of hikers (ahem, no comment). Its vivid, almost unnatural hue made no sense to me or the world at large; they’ve got to be easy pickings for a myriad of predators. Then again, it can only help the hiker avoid that fateful, finishing footstep, as it has with me on numerous instances.
Animal appearances are so subjective to us bigheaded humans(1). At best, the poor creatures are only nebulously self-conscious. They don’t even know who they are, let alone how they look, yet we hominids judge their exteriors so ruthlessly. (Many humans, like myself, also don’t know who they are, but pay no heed to that for now.) A Pug is generally accepted as ugly: pugly. A Labrador is thought of as attractive, maybe even--god how I hate this word--cute. A penguin (Nature’s clown): harmless. A shark: terrifying. (Penguins appear terrifying to small fish, I’m sure.) A snake: gross. A newt: cute. And so on.
Despite 2013 being the Year of the Snake, I’ve only seen two so far, both of whom I granted permission to slither away, after some encouragement. (The legless creatures stood their ground.) Of the dozens of orange salamanders I’ve seen, I’ve stopped and rescued every one, relocating them to less dangerous domain. The path is no place for the apathetic. I’m not fearful of snakes, but I’d rather not handle them. Or charm them. Yet the snakes posed no threat and were equally as vulnerable to predators. They were even as slow-moving as the salamanders, since they’re exothermic, and only recently has it been warm.
Why this behavior? This bias? Was I taught to act this way? Or was I born like this, frightened of snakes and spiders? An innate archetype? Or does man breed fear and ignorance of the animal kingdom? Did my parents? Or are we hardwired to be vigilant with certain appearances and movements?
I didn’t know--don’t know--the answers, of course. I just know that when I picked up the salamander I found a few ticks crawling up my shoes and immediately panicked. “Little fuckers!” I yelled, carefully caressing the amphibian while flicking ticks.
When chow time knocked (on the revolving door that is my stomach), I’d reached the Pine Swamp Branch Shelter, another lackluster rooftop held in place by four-sided logs, five-sided if you include the outside. The surroundings were well assembled by Nature, however. Backstreet, Tiny Klutz and Mountain Goat were milling about, sharing smiles and mirth beneath darkening skies. Thunderous explosions echoed faintly from a distance. They seemed to be growing nearer, but there was no threat yet. I took a handful of peanut M&Ms, divided them into an equal number of each color--a pair each of green, blue, yellow, brown, orange and red--then closed my eyes and ingested one at a time. The last color left would be spared and saved for a later round of M&M Roulette, increasing that color’s chance of survival. The others did not notice, for this is characteristic conduct for those with too much time on their hands (and feet). Orange won.
Not long after the shelter the four of us reached The Captain’s Place, a private residence dotted by a small blue house on the other side of a creek. We had to take a zip-line across, though it didn’t look like it would’ve been a life-or-death proposition to negotiate it on foot, perhaps just a reduction in anatomical normality for Backstreet, Goat and me. I’d never done any lines before, so I followed the others, after making sure the cable wouldn’t snap. I figured if the cable could support Mountain Goat’s pack, I’d have nothing to fear.
The weather had improved and we sat around for a couple hours playing with The Captain’s border collie, intent on tiring it out. Naturally, we were unsuccessful. Neurotic pedigree that, but oh so smart. No one but the dog showed. No Captain. No Tennille. But it mattered not. We sat at one of the picnic benches in the huge yard knocking back generic soft drinks provided by the Vietnam vet, grinning like we had just won the lottery.
Our good fortunes would not last. First, I reached into the dog’s water dish to save a honeybee that was unable to extricate itself. The poor thing was wriggling in endless panicky circles and no doubt about to drown, so I thought I might assume the role of lifeguard and do the world some good. But then, after it realized it wasn’t going to drown, the bee celebrated its new lease on life by promptly stinging my hand, intent on dying one way or another.
Then, not even an hour later, as we strode over a sturdy bridge spanning Stony Creek, Miss Nature struck. With vengeance. The thunder was closing in like a noose, and the firmament was as dark as night, even though it was but 2 or 3pm. The rain appeared immediately and fell in sheets. And blankets. Lightning soon lit up the area, which lit up a match beneath my backside. I pressed the panic button and started running up the thousand-foot climb leading to Bailey Gap Shelter, as the others had. Only TK refrained, what with the colossal load on her back.
One by one, we dove into the sordid shelter, defeated but relieved. A pair of young lovers were already situated, Toast (female) and Rusty (male). With us four, the shelter’s quota--six--was met. It was cramped. But shortly thereafter, a guy named Wiki showed up. He looked miserable. “Hop in!” we all gestured, scooching closer together on the uneven wooden floor.
A while later, another pair of lovebirds flew in, a deep-voiced raconteur named Mr. Gigglesfit and a toothsome, dread-locked, patchouli-scented gal named Paisley. We packed together tighter, like tinned pilchards. The rain was really just a downward explosion of water and we took pity on the two, as any sardine with a beating heart would have. Shared body heat, we figured. “Mother Nature’s a mother fucker!” yawped Mr. Gigglesfit.
Shelter etiquette is one of the more fascinating aspects of the Appalachian Trail. I’d only ever slept in ski huts out west, and just two at that: the Peter Grubb Shelter near where I attempted to grow up, not far from Donner Pass, and an unnamed yurt twenty miles from the Canadian border, along the Pacific Crest Trail. But the AT is as defined by its shelters as it is by its ruggedness and splendor.
There are more than two hundred and fifty shelters along the path, approximately one every eight miles. In theory this can make for an easy thru-hike; I mean, why lug a tent?! But of course one never knows if the structures are going to be occupied--or if there’s an axe murderer staying in the one you’ve had your sights set on all day. I’ve met more than one freak on this trail (not including myself) and each time, I have sashayed on.
But there’s an unwritten rule stating that hikers must make room for anyone who can fit; I learned this on Springer Mountain on night one. The guidebook almost doubles as a rule-book in this regard, since it suggests the number that can (in theory) fit, after each shelter listing. If the book says the shelter can house six, then six is all it needs to play host to. If five hikers are in the shelter, they ought not deny admission to another individual, unless he’s wielding a chainsaw (keeping in mind, however, that he might just be a revered trail maintainer, in which case the hikers should make more than enough room). If nine are shoehorned in, like we were, anyone else showing up was, well, shit out of luck. And out in the conditions. First come, first serve. Last come…tent. That is why you carry one.
When darkness disembarked, my fellow detainees and I minded the usual duties: dinner, dishes and dirty jokes (jokes children shouldn’t hear), along with some more somber dialogue about protecting yourself on the trail. In addition, we spoke of the importance of inspecting your groinal region for ticks. I listened and participated in conversation, mostly through flatulence, for I am a grandfarter.
By midmorning I remained on my own, too far back to sniff anything and too far back not to rehearse my whistling skills. A ping pong-ball-sized finch fluttered nervously from the vicinity, while a pair of crows cocked their heads my way, intrigued. Or perhaps alarmed. Another bright salamander stood in my path, moving slower than even the slowest of hikers (ahem, no comment). Its vivid, almost unnatural hue made no sense to me or the world at large; they’ve got to be easy pickings for a myriad of predators. Then again, it can only help the hiker avoid that fateful, finishing footstep, as it has with me on numerous instances.
Animal appearances are so subjective to us bigheaded humans(1). At best, the poor creatures are only nebulously self-conscious. They don’t even know who they are, let alone how they look, yet we hominids judge their exteriors so ruthlessly. (Many humans, like myself, also don’t know who they are, but pay no heed to that for now.) A Pug is generally accepted as ugly: pugly. A Labrador is thought of as attractive, maybe even--god how I hate this word--cute. A penguin (Nature’s clown): harmless. A shark: terrifying. (Penguins appear terrifying to small fish, I’m sure.) A snake: gross. A newt: cute. And so on.
Despite 2013 being the Year of the Snake, I’ve only seen two so far, both of whom I granted permission to slither away, after some encouragement. (The legless creatures stood their ground.) Of the dozens of orange salamanders I’ve seen, I’ve stopped and rescued every one, relocating them to less dangerous domain. The path is no place for the apathetic. I’m not fearful of snakes, but I’d rather not handle them. Or charm them. Yet the snakes posed no threat and were equally as vulnerable to predators. They were even as slow-moving as the salamanders, since they’re exothermic, and only recently has it been warm.
Why this behavior? This bias? Was I taught to act this way? Or was I born like this, frightened of snakes and spiders? An innate archetype? Or does man breed fear and ignorance of the animal kingdom? Did my parents? Or are we hardwired to be vigilant with certain appearances and movements?
I didn’t know--don’t know--the answers, of course. I just know that when I picked up the salamander I found a few ticks crawling up my shoes and immediately panicked. “Little fuckers!” I yelled, carefully caressing the amphibian while flicking ticks.
When chow time knocked (on the revolving door that is my stomach), I’d reached the Pine Swamp Branch Shelter, another lackluster rooftop held in place by four-sided logs, five-sided if you include the outside. The surroundings were well assembled by Nature, however. Backstreet, Tiny Klutz and Mountain Goat were milling about, sharing smiles and mirth beneath darkening skies. Thunderous explosions echoed faintly from a distance. They seemed to be growing nearer, but there was no threat yet. I took a handful of peanut M&Ms, divided them into an equal number of each color--a pair each of green, blue, yellow, brown, orange and red--then closed my eyes and ingested one at a time. The last color left would be spared and saved for a later round of M&M Roulette, increasing that color’s chance of survival. The others did not notice, for this is characteristic conduct for those with too much time on their hands (and feet). Orange won.
Not long after the shelter the four of us reached The Captain’s Place, a private residence dotted by a small blue house on the other side of a creek. We had to take a zip-line across, though it didn’t look like it would’ve been a life-or-death proposition to negotiate it on foot, perhaps just a reduction in anatomical normality for Backstreet, Goat and me. I’d never done any lines before, so I followed the others, after making sure the cable wouldn’t snap. I figured if the cable could support Mountain Goat’s pack, I’d have nothing to fear.
 |
| Mountain Goat enjoying the ride |
Our good fortunes would not last. First, I reached into the dog’s water dish to save a honeybee that was unable to extricate itself. The poor thing was wriggling in endless panicky circles and no doubt about to drown, so I thought I might assume the role of lifeguard and do the world some good. But then, after it realized it wasn’t going to drown, the bee celebrated its new lease on life by promptly stinging my hand, intent on dying one way or another.
Then, not even an hour later, as we strode over a sturdy bridge spanning Stony Creek, Miss Nature struck. With vengeance. The thunder was closing in like a noose, and the firmament was as dark as night, even though it was but 2 or 3pm. The rain appeared immediately and fell in sheets. And blankets. Lightning soon lit up the area, which lit up a match beneath my backside. I pressed the panic button and started running up the thousand-foot climb leading to Bailey Gap Shelter, as the others had. Only TK refrained, what with the colossal load on her back.
A while later, another pair of lovebirds flew in, a deep-voiced raconteur named Mr. Gigglesfit and a toothsome, dread-locked, patchouli-scented gal named Paisley. We packed together tighter, like tinned pilchards. The rain was really just a downward explosion of water and we took pity on the two, as any sardine with a beating heart would have. Shared body heat, we figured. “Mother Nature’s a mother fucker!” yawped Mr. Gigglesfit.
 |
| I see dread people: Mr. Gigglesfit and Paisley |
There are more than two hundred and fifty shelters along the path, approximately one every eight miles. In theory this can make for an easy thru-hike; I mean, why lug a tent?! But of course one never knows if the structures are going to be occupied--or if there’s an axe murderer staying in the one you’ve had your sights set on all day. I’ve met more than one freak on this trail (not including myself) and each time, I have sashayed on.
But there’s an unwritten rule stating that hikers must make room for anyone who can fit; I learned this on Springer Mountain on night one. The guidebook almost doubles as a rule-book in this regard, since it suggests the number that can (in theory) fit, after each shelter listing. If the book says the shelter can house six, then six is all it needs to play host to. If five hikers are in the shelter, they ought not deny admission to another individual, unless he’s wielding a chainsaw (keeping in mind, however, that he might just be a revered trail maintainer, in which case the hikers should make more than enough room). If nine are shoehorned in, like we were, anyone else showing up was, well, shit out of luck. And out in the conditions. First come, first serve. Last come…tent. That is why you carry one.
 |
| Shelter etiquette: sleep order |
Tonight would be the hardest I’d laughed in years. Guttural goodness, courtesy of Mr. Gigglesfit and gang. Virginia Blues, my ass. The group ranged in age from 22 & 364/365ths (Wiki) to mid-forties (moi), but the maturity level appeared even across the board. Across the boards. It was good to see that not a single one of us had let the child inside die. But by the smell of things, something inside had died.
"Foot"note 1: Literally, we have humongous heads compared to most other animal species, proportional to body mass.
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