An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 49: Sunday, May 12th, 2013
Sarver Hollow Shelter to Trout Creek/VA 620 = 15 miles
Miles to date: 690
We’re still hanging around the Bible Belt (where I’m about to buckle), but we’ve white-blazed north enough that the locally-sourced folk pronounce things differently. Appalachian had been Apple-LATCH-Chin, like fingernails on a chalkboard. It’s now vocalized as Apple-LAY-shin. I’ve called it the Apple-Lay-shin Trail all along. I’ve called it a lot of things, but most ought not be printed here.
I gleaned this dialectal delicacy near a serpentine Craig Creek, at a roadside spread thrown by former thru-hikers. Each was a local yokel, and each pronounced it Apple-LAY-shin. I had to do a double-take with my earholes, it was so melodic.
Day 49: Sunday, May 12th, 2013
Sarver Hollow Shelter to Trout Creek/VA 620 = 15 miles
Miles to date: 690
Where the Ragged People Go
We’re still hanging around the Bible Belt (where I’m about to buckle), but we’ve white-blazed north enough that the locally-sourced folk pronounce things differently. Appalachian had been Apple-LATCH-Chin, like fingernails on a chalkboard. It’s now vocalized as Apple-LAY-shin. I’ve called it the Apple-Lay-shin Trail all along. I’ve called it a lot of things, but most ought not be printed here.
I gleaned this dialectal delicacy near a serpentine Craig Creek, at a roadside spread thrown by former thru-hikers. Each was a local yokel, and each pronounced it Apple-LAY-shin. I had to do a double-take with my earholes, it was so melodic.
The banquet was melodic and caloric, another dose of trail magic. Almost an overdose, with nary a tip jar anywhere. As trying and tumultuous as the trail is, there’s nothing but the best support system throughout its serpentine span. It’s not in fact a system; it is untold numbers of openhearted and openhanded individuals and groups. Here’s a tip for you jarred types: if you’re unsure of the human heart or the goodness in humanity, come walk the AT. Ya’ll be swarmed by hospitality.
The hosts (Signage, Lizard, Super Dave, Ann, and Jan) were each in the middle ages. Their layout was luscious. They had four Dutch ovens going, all made in China. There were tables with everything a hiker could (and does) dream of: lasagna, spaghetti, cheeses, fruit, salad, fruit salad, coleslaw, chips, dips, muffins, cobbler, cookies, cake, beer, juice, soft drinks, coffee (I like my coffee like I like my slaves--free), punch, pudding, burgers, burritos, quesadillas. And creamed corn, but no one dreams about that. I was punchless, so I had some punch. A seated shot of drowse followed.
Chairs have never been so cherished; we showed our gratitude by gaining girth by the minute, spilling food on them, and, in the case of the double-dipping dude beside me, with nonstop bouts of permeating effluvia.
It was no wonder a gathering had formed. (To cite Simon and Garfunkel: “where the ragged people go; looking for the places only they would know.”) Gridiron groupies would call it a tailgate. Boy Scouts would tag it a jamboree, though the jamming that won us was the frenetic jamming of calories down our maws.
It was no wonder a gathering had formed. (To cite Simon and Garfunkel: “where the ragged people go; looking for the places only they would know.”) Gridiron groupies would call it a tailgate. Boy Scouts would tag it a jamboree, though the jamming that won us was the frenetic jamming of calories down our maws.
Fiestas and siestas--the sign of a life well-lived.
A disheveled dude who looked like he’d just woken from a ten-year coma joked that trail life would be to his liking were it not for all the backpacking. Everyone around the kilt-wearer acquiesced, even though he seemed to have possessed the mental faculty of unflavored yogurt. When he pulled out a diabolo and began peacocking by flinging the yo-yo into the air with the use of two unsafe sticks, I knew it was time to make like a van-lifer and vanish. I thanked the hosts and hoisted my evil pack. Backstreet, TK and Goat hoisted theirs. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
‘Twas difficult departing the dirt cul-de-sac. We’d been fed as though we were never going to eat again. And though a journey of 2,186 miles might begin with the first step (if calculations are correct), it takes countless more to complete it. Sitting around does not conclude the journey, though it could. This is the risk slothful hikers face every step of the way. Chairs, unless electric, should not possess such straps. Trail angels need boots not made for walking, but for kicking.
‘Twas difficult departing the dirt cul-de-sac. We’d been fed as though we were never going to eat again. And though a journey of 2,186 miles might begin with the first step (if calculations are correct), it takes countless more to complete it. Sitting around does not conclude the journey, though it could. This is the risk slothful hikers face every step of the way. Chairs, unless electric, should not possess such straps. Trail angels need boots not made for walking, but for kicking.
Kicking on, we crossed over to the east side of the Eastern Continental Divide, where the waters divide and conquer. No, they divide and aspire to reach either the Gulf of Mexico (nineteen hundred miles away) or the Atlantic Ocean (four hundred miles away). Of course most the water is absorbed by the muddy mess we were fumbling through. It’s not surprising the Appalachians are hummocks, in light of all the heavy rain. With enough wear and tear we’re all conquered. Only time marches on, and it doesn’t even know it.
Knowing it all too well, we’d continue our two-heel drive over a mother of a mountain on this Mother’s Day. Mom’s Day and Farley Mowat’s birthday, as we all know. At Brush Mountain’s apex we came to the Audie Murphy Monument. We brushed up on our history. An engraved pillar informed us Murphy was the most decorated WWII US soldier. He survived all sorts of wartime hazards only to perish near here, as Murphy’s Law might have it, in a plane crash. That was in 1971, after he’d had a long acting career. We paid our respects then descended the mountain, ultimately reaching a pavilion-sized campsite at Trout Creek, next to VA 620. Trooper, M-80 and Willow the service dog, who’s more popular than his humans (which is reasonable), had already set up their tent, after fleeing the feast before us. Used to bossing their bitzer, they told us to stay. STAY!
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| Audie Murphy |
No one wanted to doze near a bulldozed road, but the Great Clock in the Sky told of late; early arrivals twinkled and strobed. Plus, we knew we couldn’t beat such great company. (And why would we?) There were enough of us that if some country-cousins were to amass, then try to harass, we could beat their ass. Or their olfactory canals would be overwhelmed by fumes authoritative enough to peel the primer from their trucks. A New World Odor. It was tough to tell which was the stronger of the two: the exterior bodily odors or the interior ones incessantly seeping (or exploding) out. Willow seemed especially delighted. Our fire would roar into the wee hours.
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