A Limp in the Woods (Day 50)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 50: Monday, May 13th, 2013
Trout Creek/VA 620 to Catawba Shelter = 16 miles
Miles to date: 706

Friends

Thru-hiker horoscope*: YOU WILL WALK TODAY. (Also yesterday’s/tomorrow’s horoscope.) *This applies to all signs--Ford Taurus, Leo Sayer, Ariesheads, Saggyttarius, Gemini, Virgins, Scorpio, Libra, Aquarius, Marsupial, Pisces, Cancerous, Capricorn, Unicorn or any other Zodiac or Kodiak or Kodak. You poor Kodaks, powerless in picturing your own horoscope!

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It was fairly late when we awoke, yet unfairly early. It’s been this way since adventure’s onset. Every day starts too soon. The walking is slow; the recovery from it, slower yet. Somehow though, in spite of great reluctance and lethargy, each day’s amble endures. Maybe it’s because good things don’t come to those who wait. Good things come to those who hike.

The late starts help. Easing in is the only way I can stay out. To avert hurt I tiptoe for the first eternity each day, gingerly kick-starting the legs over and over ‘til they get the memo. Only short, safe strides are taken; there are no leaps or bounds or ill-placed steps. I’m on a first name basis with the snails and salamanders along this trail.

The youngsters think of all this as pussyfooting, but these are the same types who can spring from their sleeping mats and tackle, with great gusto, any mountain or fullback in their path. They’re conditioned to travel too fast for conditions, and they are indestructible and un-instruct-able. We soon-to-be geriatrics need to proceed prudently, engaging in, and absorbing, our own lessons.

To a slight extent I commiserate with the oldies who’ve held this path in high regard. They’ve kept it on their life’s to-do list while waiting patiently for retirement, so they can finally take a stab at it. We must’ve all known going in that this trail was never going to be a cakewalk, but it’s especially difficult to have your cake and eat it too, when huge slices of humble pie are constantly shoved down your throat. The older you are, the more difficult it is to digest it all. I’m learning this.

Like many youngsters out here, our tenure travels too quickly. We’re old before our time. So old so soon. The future’s way ahead of schedule! But the remorseless clock doesn’t care. Only we do. And only as it pertains to each of us. It is sad, nearly as sad as witnessing so many of the older folks drop by the wayside of this indifferent path. (Sometimes it is the years, not the mileage!) I try my best not to step on their silver sneakers or putrefying carcasses as I go.

It is Day 50. My, oh my, how time flies when you’re having a hard time. Actually, Day 50 is a landmark of sorts. A milestone, irrespective of miles made. Historically, seven weeks always seems about the time-frame when I turn the corner on a thru-hike. My body finally grasps the task at hand, and the task at foot.

A silent symphony of anatomical synchronicity, I begin to walk in a state of flow, as though I’ve thrashed through a threshold. I find my sea legs. I hit my stride. My mind melts into a blissful background. Meditative movement. There are few worries of places elsewhere, just those immediately in front, and even they are no longer worries, only low-ranking matters of concern, tasks to master. There are few thoughts of the past or the past ahead. Just the here and now. Full flow. I am happy to have made it here. I am happy to have made it anywhere. This is your brain on Nature.

Had Backstreet not snored all night like a duck birthing a tusked woolly mammoth, I’d be even happier. His nightly nylon hull is an opera house.

The guy is unusual. For one, he comes from a two-parent home, the lucky bastard. (Hmmm.) Each parent sends him care packages! Also, he’s way more mature than his twenty-three years. Yet he has the advantage of owning a body of someone that age. It’s not that he’s staid or starchy. Just contemplative and even-keeled, unlike my callow, shallow, off-kiltered self-absorbed self.

The old soul and I have shared some great discussions to this point, and if I didn’t have a memory like a sieve, I’d be able to recall some of them. I made mental notes after each conversation, but forgot where I filed them. 

He’ll quote Monty Python without provocation, which is another of the many reasons he’s likable. The kid graduated from college--early--and hopes to get into air traffic control school after walking down this dream. This shows what kind of man he is. Responsible, intelligent, organized, motivated, dedicated. 

These are all attributes I’ve never attained. I keep thinking they’ll come to me. In this there’s a chasm between us. He’s a man. A go-getter. I’m a guy (though hardly one of the guys). A dude. A slacker. I hope to continue to keep up with him. Maybe learn some things. If earplugs are all it takes to handle him, and only at night, I’m set. Whether he’ll choose to continue to cope with me is another story.

His name came from an earlier episode when he was caught singing as he strode. He was likened to one, or all, of the Backstreet Boys, a band I recognize only by name. I’m more Meatmen than Backstreet Boy.

“We do not sing because we’re happy;

we’re happy because we sing.” 

~William James

I’ve heard him harmonize. He’s melodious and on point, a songbird, with a Rolls Royce voice. Listening to him is a sweet surrender. An antidepressant. Pure entertainment. So too is watching him fold and unfold his stuff. Twice each day, in a fastidious, timely manner, the mensch loads and unloads his pack in a systematic, scrupulous Tetris style. He does this, we joke, on the off chance he meets Backstreet Girl out here.

The cinderfella is the only thru-hiker I’ve ever known of who folds his socks! He’s not sort of a sorted sort. No one’s seen any evidence of it, but he’s believed to be toting a gas-powered iron. There’s madness to his method. If air traffic control doesn’t work out, he can always be a housekeeper. 

Or a comic. “Guess my astrology sign,” he once joked. “I’ll give you thirteen tries.”

Goat and I are a more similar stripe. A slipshod, slapdash, slovenly stripe. Beatnik, not neatnik. (My perversion: I like goats! No, I kid!) Saving ourselves time and effort, we cram our junk into our packs. No fussy folding formula for us. (One rule remains: TOILET PAPER MUST BE ACCESSIBLE, lest the bowels experience emergency evacuation orders.)

As it is with our packs, we fuss not over the interior design of our tents. They constantly look as though they’ve been through a tornado. Like murder scenes. Like they’ve been ransacked. (This ransacking precludes anyone from breaking in and trashing either place. We figure they could always be renovated later.) Our laces are untied as we walk, and sometimes the right shoe is on the wrong foot. Our hair is oily, matted and knotted, though never out of place, not out in this place. 

The risible character is twenty-six. Like me, he’s more guy than man, but there may still be hope for him. TK keeps him in line, and the few years she has on him allows her to see through a larger scope. She reminds me of my ex-wife in this latter regard, and she’s every bit as kind and attractive. I’ve told Goat time and again not to make the same mistakes I have. If life scares him to death, as it does with me, he must confront it. And share it with her. “You don’t want to look back knowing you’ve dropped the crystal ball.”

These three aren’t like others their age, whose brains are perpetually fastened to and desensitized by their phones; they’ve given me reason to have some faith in the future. All told, we make a pretty good syndicate. When Gator was around, a better one yet. Each of us puts the U in unique. Each of us possesses his or her(1) foibles (like not knowing which U it is in unique), but we tight. And we augment one another. It makes the miles flow like beer, which flows like wine. Teamwork helps the dream work.

The miles would flow again today. It’s hard to imagine a sixteen-mile walk passing by in the blink of an eye, but sometimes they do. Although it may be hard to obtain a clear picture when blinking (it’s estimated we blink a year of our life away), blinking is not blanking out. Sometimes, it is the best way out.

The Dragon's Tooth

I remember seeing the Dragon’s Tooth. (“Stay a while,” it whispered.) I remember a side-trip to Catawba Grocery for forgettable frozen flatbread fixings faked fresh. I remember gamboling in knee-deep fields of flowers. I remember high-strung birds carving the wild blue yonder. I remember the day having a spring-like appearance but a frosty fall-like feel. I remember seeing M-80, Trooper and Willow, and I remember watching Willow negotiate a stile without human help. I remember laughing with my friends more than once. But most of what I remember is seeing four fetching females at the John Spring Shelter. Then I remember wondering why I walked another mile to camp at a different shelter.

All good memories but that last one.

"Flaw"note 1: In truth, I've yet to discover a flaw in Tiny Klutz, aside from the god-awful sunglasses.