A Limp in the Woods (Day 57)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 57: Monday, May 20th, 2013
Cow Camp Gap to Seeley-Woodworth Shelter = 10 miles
Miles to date: 816

I was on the trail early this morning. I wasn’t hiking, I was sleeping, but I was on it.

In time I was upstanding. It was near noon’s crack. (I’m on mountain time.) The others who slept nearby must’ve gone around my little encampment; they were nowhere to be seen. They were probably somewhere to be seen, but nowhere near noon’s crack. Only my friends stuck around.

Last night’s cloud-punch was the roughest I’d ever endured in a tent. No one slept much. Well, except for Backstreet and those safely stowed in the shelter. Backstreet isn’t a sleepoholic or anything--necrophilia, I think it’s called--but when his head hits the ground, or whatever it is he uses as a pillow, he is O-U-T, out. No matter what’s going on around him. One time we heard him fall asleep mid-sentence. We’re still awaiting the punchline.

Throughout the night I, a non-necrophiliac, laid there with headlamp ready. I’d looped it around my neck--so I wouldn’t have to poke around for it--to check for leaks or any sagging tent sides. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. It was as soaked inside as it was out, and only slightly warmer.

I was happy the house held and that the big, bad wolf ultimately locomoted elsewhere. I swore I’d never again set up under the trees (this is like a sailor trying to avoid water), not during or prior to such a powerful storm. Two brawny suckers had collapsed during the deluge. One of them touched down too close for comfort. Touched down, as in slammed to the ground. My guardian devil must’ve been watching over me. Incredibly, I heard neither the trees, nor the devil. None of us had. Sleeping inside a tent during a storm is like sleeping inside a snare drum during a Rush concert.

We decided there should be no rush, since it was late when we got going. It was wisest to move about leisurely and to quit hiking early. No words were wasted on the matter; it just happened that way. The footing was slick and messy, and the skies disorderly and disquieting. It was best to focus on keeping our heads, rather than forging ahead. It ain’t easy walking in flippers. You don’t always get to pick your battles when thru-hiking, but you can avoid a few of them.

By late afternoon we slipped into the Seeley-Woodworth Shelter. Its entrance was a bog. The guidebook (aka The Appalachian Trail for Dummies) promised the dwelling could house eight, but with two fat wooden pillars deposited directly in its gut, it was better suited for six and a pile of packs in the middle, or maybe six and a midget.

As it stood, there were eight of us, none who happened to be midgets. There was our ragtag team and Daypack. (Daypack’s head lives a short distance from his feet--he uses the doggy door--but he’s no dwarf.) He’d just returned from the Damassacre, as the Damascus Trail Days parade was now being called. (I apologized to him upon sight, for my boorish behavior the last time we interacted. I’m no good keeping enemies, because I’m no good keeping score.) There was also a reserved, balding Los Angelean named Spacey; a whimsical Chicagoan named Coolie McJetPack; and a kid named Wiki, from who-knows-where. Probably somewhere.

We could’ve benefited from one, but no one fancied fabricating a fire. It likely wouldn’t have lit anyhow, which still would’ve made it one of the warmer ones we’ve had recently. The last time I tried building a blaze, I heard someone say, “I never seen a zero-alarm fire before. But ya gotta hand it to him, he knows how to stack sticks.” An hour into the ordeal my right shoe obliterated those superbly stacked sticks. In my case, if you play with fire, you won’t get burned.