A Limp in the Woods (Day 54)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 54: Friday, May 17th, 2013
Jennings Creek to the Harrison Ground Spring region = 17 miles
Miles to date: 769

Roads Make Us Cross

“Thank God it’s Friday,” says my inner office worker.

“Thank Gawd I’m not in an office,” says my outer thru-hiker. 

I am an outie.

We’d not have noticed it was a Friday but for an influx on the Blue Ridge Speedway. (Blue Ridge motorists seem motivated by a blue ribbon.) Roads act as a weekly almanac of sorts. The trail acts as the Speedway’s sidewalk. The difference in noise level from yesterday was palpable, as was the exhaust. 

I’ve never understood driving for scenery sake. Granted, cars safeguard against ticks and mosquitoes, and they come with cupholders, but the pace is all wrong. Slow as it is, ours is perfect. We miss nothing.

The world could use less pavement and more paths; an escape from the wheel, back to the heel; more trees and less ease; less oil, more toil; less exhaust, more exhaustion. Dirt first!

On average the AT intersects a road every four miles, too frequent for an alleged wilderness path. But in this age of effortless transport and unchecked population, there’s little that can be done about it. There are many people(1) and they want to get around, but without the exertion--Chevrolets, not Chevrolegs. They want to experience wilderness from the ease and comfort of their car, from the giddiness of gift shops, and through their phones and computers. They won’t succeed, but that’s their lesson to learn. 

Thankfully, most these roads are of the microscopic backcountry strain. They’re unpaved and not much roomier than the trail itself. Few cars travel them and, if left alone, the woods would rapidly, rightfully reclaim them. But more pavement is on the way, always. These poor mountains, facing death by a thousand cuts.

Where we're going we don't need roads

The saddest aspect isn’t just the growing number of roads; it’s their effect. Where the motorist goes, the litter shows. Bring on the bubblegum droppings; the pee bottles; the bottle caps; the cigarette butts; the glass; the bullet shells; the snagged plastic bags; the toilets paper; the oil stains; the shredded tires; the forgotten clothing; the inoperable appliances; the used condoms; the feces; the...

Never mind the carcasses. I’ll get to that.

I didn’t care to write about it at the time, but just two days ago I was striding along the Speedway’s slender shoulder, breathing fumes, as this wilderness path required. Cars the size of buses brushed me. One was too close for even discomfort, its pilot oblivious to pedestrian presence--or not. Its occupants were eager to be elsewhere. Engines encourage elsewhere, even within sublime park-lands. My heart rate rose accordingly, uncontrollably, uselessly. “Be careful,” I said to myself, “or be roadkill.” Had I been hit, Virginia law states it would have been my fault. Contributory negligence, it’s called. Since I contributed to my injuries by being there, I’d have no legal recourse. Cars come first.

Thru-hikers have been hit before, a sad ending to their hikes, and for Jane and Flicka Rodman, their lives. The same SUV that pinched me struck a rabbit. The hare had darted out at a most inopportune moment, a victim of progress. Carmageddon. Silly rabbit, poking its nose where progress goes. (I like to think of it this way: the rabbit wasn’t crossing the road; the road crossed the forest.)

I watched as the doomed critter tried to make sense of what’d just happened. It was dazed, baffled like a down sleeping bag, and squirming for its fuzzy little life. Its hind half was squished flat and stuck to the pavement. Blood and guts seeped. Sinew jutted out. I didn’t know what to do, so I hopped like a rabbit on the F-train. “FUCK!”

     “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Of all AT memories, this’ll surely be the one to stand out. I cling to the morose and this was not a pretty picture; not from my perspective, and definitely not from the rabbit’s. I rummaged roadside for a large rock I might hoist and drop--to put the poor creature out of its agony. But the thought made me agonize. Be it kind or not, right or wrong, I knew I’d never get over such a brutal deed. I tried finding consolation in that, although they’re too frequently killed by cars, rabbits are known for their breeding prowess. They evolved to reproduce rapidly. (Thus, “breeding like rabbits.”) This rabbit likely helped create hundreds of offspring.

Moreover, part of the animal kingdom will benefit from the hare’s death, if only the meek maggots and servile bacteria; they too deserve a shot at a happy life. Raw rabbit, edible material.The rabbit’s life is--was--intended to feed other lives. Just as it is with ALL lives. Every life-form depends on other life-forms. Elementally, nothing ever dies. We simply pass our energy and our elements onward, entrusting it all to the next needful beings. They will do the same. After all, the animal kingdom is no kingdom at all; it is the ultimate form of socialism. All lives belong! (The illusion humans are above or separate from the web of life is delusion. Perhaps some people will understand this better after they’ve died.) On Earth, life has the right of way.

These life-doesn’t-end thoughts did little to help. Kindly rock-drop or no, the terror in the rabbit’s eyes will haunt me for some time. I haven’t thought about much else since and wondered whether I should even broach it. This is supposed to be a happy journey.

As a cyclist I witnessed thousands of animal lives extinguished by cars. Most the animals were long dead, bloated or flattened, left to decay. But hundreds of deaths occurred in front of my bloodshot eyes. These were mostly low-ranking prairie dogs, mice (serves ‘em right!), squirrels, and rabbits, but there were also birds (some chowing on roadkill), lizards, snakes, cats, dogs, frogs, deer, elk, horses, turtles, and once, a bear--a very messy hood ornament. One time I even saw a live fish get mowed over. It had jumped from a pail in the back of a fisherman’s pickup, only to meet a tailgater’s tires. Just as well, I suppose--dinner for the more deserving.

There were innumerable run-ins with moths, butterflies, grasshoppers, and other armored insects; I even killed a bunch, although unwillingly. I’ve even seen bats get hit--proof that sonar isn’t faster than the speed of light passenger cars. All dead or maimed upon impact, left to languish. The song’s wrong: life ain’t a highway. Death is a highway. Life is a footpath. Roads are ruthless killers. Predator or prey, nothing destroys wilderness like they do. I’m lucky I made it out alive. My Olympic Training Center roommate wasn’t as fortunate. Be thou at peace and pedal on, Stenner.

“What’s mainly wrong with society today is that too many Dirt Roads have been paved.”

~Lee Pitts

“All roads lead to dirt.” ~Funnybone

The irony is this: we were designed to move under our own power! Our ability to walk upright came before our larger brains. Our bodies are meant for distance done at the right speed; we evolved over many millennia to be über-efficient at it. There are few mammals we bipeds can out-sprint and catch; having four legs gives them the advantage. But because we sweat instead of pant--we do both on the AT--and because we can store a lot of usable energy, few animals can out-walk us. Yet for some reason today’s two-leggeds prefer a sedentary lifestyle, behind the wheel or in front of a screen. Or both at once.

     Anyway.

It remained tepid through the night, due mostly to our low-hanging elevation, nine hundred and fifty feet above a rising sea. The average elevation of the entire AT is up for debate. It’s in the neighborhood of two thousand five hundred feet, but that’s a guess on my part. I guess things often; knowing an answer is less amusing. Anyway, nine hundred and fifty feet is considered AT sediment. The lowest spot, near Bear Mountain, NY, sits at one hundred and twenty-four feet and happens to be in a zoo. (A low point in more than one way.) This bears repeating: the AT dissects a zoo. (I imagine its captives consider thru-hikers as kinfolk. I wonder if people pay to watch us walk by.) At least the furry prisoners won’t be mowed over by cars.

On average, each mile of the AT has an elevation gain of about two hundred and fifteen feet(2). Our first mile of the day climbed closer to four times as much, before climbing some more. Maybe I’ve mentioned it before, but if the AT teaches you anything, it is this: what goes up…continues going up. We topped out on Fork Mountain, which, I joked to the others, “ought to be re-dubbed Spork Mountain” in honor of the trail and its well-equipped users. “As the saying goes, ‘when you see a spork in the road, take it.’”

I was saluted with silence.

“Oh, you’re still here?” Mountain Goat asked.

After the summit our little bloc dropped another eight hundred feet before starting right back up a mile later, following a short-lived standstill at the two-storied, Taj Mahal-esque Bryant Ridge Shelter. (Usually, ‘two-storied shelter’ implies an attic space or loft, but a hiker could stand upstairs in this singularly genteel palace; it was surprising there was no chandelier or permanent bipedal residents.) The obstacle ahead, Floyd Mountain, stood two thousand, three hundred feet above us. It was named after a guy we did not know, but detested just the same. Virginia had been pleasingly tame, but our broken little trail went and got itself wild once more. A bucking bronco, this path. Lean back, hang on, and ride that wild horse.

Backstreet in the Bryant Ridge Shelter attic 

But things were Arcadian now, minus the paved graveyard. Most thru-hikers were off trail. Not because they’d been unhorsed--or had told the trail to buck off. They were back in Damascus for a dose of ruckus, enjoying the apex event, Trail Days.

The four of us preferred the path this way, away from the fray, even though we each confessed to enjoying most everyone’s company. Funny that. We seem to want the thoroughfare to ourselves, but see eye-to-eye with and respect those we meet. Would solitude make for a better experience? I’m not so sure. (The others said it would, which hurt.)

TK, Goat & Backstreet, who's NOT that short; we're on a slope

Two hours beyond Floyd Mountain, TK and I reached the 4,225-foot Apple Orchard Mountain. The boys were waiting our arrival. Or TK’s, anyway. The mountain overlooked neighboring Suck Mountain and might’ve offered better views, had they not been interrupted by the massive communication tower on top. (The two peaks should switch names, somebody joked.) The Federal Aviation Administration asks hikers, on a dozen conspicuous signs, not to mess about. We took to our butts and enjoyed some snacks.

“Ya think it’s okay to sit here absorbin’ all these radio waves?” Mountain Goat asked.

“I grew up next to a radar station,” I replied, using a sleeve to wipe peanut butter and sardine oil off my chin. “It ain’t affected me none.”

This must’ve distressed the gang. They were soon tunneling their way toward The Guillotine. Running, really. Good timing. The weather was turning rancorous and it only made sense to re-enter the armor of the trees.

Just as we sidestepped the Thunder Hill Shelter, within the Thunder Ridge Wilderness Area, the deep clap of thunder could be felt underfoot. Felt. A few weekenders were stowed inside the tight lean-to. They were of the genial genus, but we continued and stopped farther down the hill, in an impromptu campsite with just enough room for three-fourths of us. One of us was out of luck. His name rhymes with luck, but his is bad.

The Guillotine

Our crash pad was uninspiring, but the storm reminded us, in no uncertain terms, that focus should be on it and little else. As you wish, I thought, setting my nylon nest atop a sloping bed of damp, decaying leaves. The added padding might help squelch an electrical blow. As for the slanting tree overhead, well, all I can do is pray. First crushes seldom go well.

"Foot"note 1: The US is overpopulated. By my count it was that way the day I was born. But I think in my case I'm happy an exception was made.

"Freeze"note 2: If the AT had no downhills, this would place the thru-hiker eighty-nine miles above sea level at trail's end; as much as we malign them, we are thankful for downhills.