An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 58: Tuesday, May 21st, 2013
Seeley-Woodworth Shelter to Humpback Picnic Area side trail = 28 miles
Miles to date: 844
At heart I am a mountain man. I’ve forever loved all things alpine and have lived in mountains or at their base my entire life. When I am luckless enough to be stuck elsewhere, my head remains in the mountains, usually in the clouds. Even when I dream I see myself atop large peaks, though the kind I’m usually looking down upon are bouncier in nature, be they natural or silicone-impregnated(1).
Yup, I live for mountains, sculptures of the natural world. And why wouldn’t I? I grew up in ‘em, just outside the Himalaya, near a town called Rough and Ready, California, not far from Rucky Chucky, not far from Smartsville (but not close enough). I learned their good tidings there in the 916. (Now known as the 530. Gack!)
Day 58: Tuesday, May 21st, 2013
Seeley-Woodworth Shelter to Humpback Picnic Area side trail = 28 miles
Miles to date: 844
My BFF
At heart I am a mountain man. I’ve forever loved all things alpine and have lived in mountains or at their base my entire life. When I am luckless enough to be stuck elsewhere, my head remains in the mountains, usually in the clouds. Even when I dream I see myself atop large peaks, though the kind I’m usually looking down upon are bouncier in nature, be they natural or silicone-impregnated(1).
Yup, I live for mountains, sculptures of the natural world. And why wouldn’t I? I grew up in ‘em, just outside the Himalaya, near a town called Rough and Ready, California, not far from Rucky Chucky, not far from Smartsville (but not close enough). I learned their good tidings there in the 916. (Now known as the 530. Gack!)
When my life nears its conclusion, if it makes it that far, I hope to die in the mountains. If I’m not so charmed, I’d like my ashes--or my bones and remaining teeth--to be littered in or atop them. (Ideas: Bighorn Plateau, Sequoia/Kings Canyon National Park and Two Ocean Plateau in Yellowstone National Park. These paradises are far apart, so get an early start. Be sure to remove all mercury amalgam!)
The desert also clasps a special chunk of my old heart. I am a true cactus hugger. (Add Canyonlands’ Needles District to the list of places to dump my remains.) And while I’m chawing on it, unscathed oceanfront property also helps my heart find its beat. (Is that all the Earth is? Property?)
But no other place tops the peaks--except maybe the seductive sandbox and perhaps the unscathed oceanfront land, if any’s left. It’s in these sectors I’m most at ease in this world, despite the potential perils and scores of hassles. It’s also where I plan to make my final stand, if I can be bothered. Can one sit and meditate while making a stand? Mahatma already cleared that up, I guess.
So far, the Appalachians fail to enthuse. (Newest Hampshire and Maine may leave me wishing I never made mention of any of this.) I’m eight hundred miles in and I can count on two grimy hands the open slopes I’ve scaled--the kind most sane hikers prefer. After all, if trees can grow atop them, they are not, in any respectable dictionary, mountains. They’re not even castrated mountains; they’re hills. Tree-clogged hills. Mind you, in the case of the Appalachians, they’re abrupt hills. I don’t mean to make molehills out of them. But they ain’t mountains. (The difference between a hill and hell is a fine line.)
The desert also clasps a special chunk of my old heart. I am a true cactus hugger. (Add Canyonlands’ Needles District to the list of places to dump my remains.) And while I’m chawing on it, unscathed oceanfront property also helps my heart find its beat. (Is that all the Earth is? Property?)
But no other place tops the peaks--except maybe the seductive sandbox and perhaps the unscathed oceanfront land, if any’s left. It’s in these sectors I’m most at ease in this world, despite the potential perils and scores of hassles. It’s also where I plan to make my final stand, if I can be bothered. Can one sit and meditate while making a stand? Mahatma already cleared that up, I guess.
So far, the Appalachians fail to enthuse. (Newest Hampshire and Maine may leave me wishing I never made mention of any of this.) I’m eight hundred miles in and I can count on two grimy hands the open slopes I’ve scaled--the kind most sane hikers prefer. After all, if trees can grow atop them, they are not, in any respectable dictionary, mountains. They’re not even castrated mountains; they’re hills. Tree-clogged hills. Mind you, in the case of the Appalachians, they’re abrupt hills. I don’t mean to make molehills out of them. But they ain’t mountains. (The difference between a hill and hell is a fine line.)
Then there’s the whole issue with pavement; the AT’s two uppermost points play host to asphalt. Lame!
But I shan’t complain: the wilderness, the roadless stuff, has claimed me forever. Wherever. Untouched Nature has always been, and shall always be, my first love. My BFF, my bestie. (We are, if I might boast, Facebook friends.) And it needn’t always be rocky terrain or terrain placed on its side to initiate that internal warmth. It need not always be “the best!” as I declare when thrilled, as I frequently am when outside. There’s a microcosm that deserves--and often captures--the same level of love and interest. Hell, today I’d walk past no fewer than fifty salamanders, all curiously inviting to the eye, all eyeing me. Why they’re so bright, I’m not bright enough to comprehend. Is there a purpose to it? Aren’t they afraid of sticking out? Mahatma probably already answered that, too.
Their flamboyant pigment reminded me of the Victor Williamson line: “Being one of a kind means we’re automatically the best in the world at what we do.” The salamanders, and maybe Mahatma too, probably already know this; who, after all, can doubt Nature?
I’d also observe snails; a few small snakes; one big snake; lizards; grouse (THE THUNDER CHICKEN!); and too many insects and birds to count (or eat). The only bugs I could identify were bugs-bunny and ladybugs, and, for all I knew, the ladybugs may have been less lady-like. In any case there were dozens crossing the path. There’s no paucity of creepy-crawlies on the AT. All but the snakes seem to share a laser-like focus in getting where they’re going. Not unlike thru-hikers.
Although every stick had now taken on the appearance of a snake, the walking trended toward the straightforward. It was not straight or forward, but my legs traded their usual limping along for some leaping along. I was simply along for the ride, as is the case every day, as shall be the case during any subsequent lifetimes I might be subjected to.
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| The one big one |
By lunchtime I strode away from the others and was on my own, daydreaming as usual, deep in discussion of matters far and wide. I felt fantastic and decided it was best not to bank on feeling like this again anytime soon. So I obeyed my good fortunes, and this strange ever-undulating bodily rhythm. The others would surely catch by nightfall, or in coming days. If not, no big deal, for if nothing else, I am a selfish hiker. A thru-hiker.
Up a grunt called The Priest, truly a big deal, I stopped along a narrow, gravely road. Plants were reclaiming the road in a battle it will not win. A few new hikers--new to me--were there, as was a uniformed--and, as I’d soon learn, informed--RidgeRunner.
A RidgeRunner is a paid seasonal employee of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. I didn’t catch her name, but since she looked about seventy-five, I’ll call her Esther. Or Doris. Fake name, real person (as far as I could tell).
Esther-Doris was thin and fit, with skin befitting her age. She had a Master’s degree in ecology and a can of mace on her hip. A gregarious gal, she (attempted to) educated us on the local flora. She also offered to take our garbage, so we didn’t have to lug it out. Weird work, I thought to myself, but how I wanted such a job! If I were ever going to get one. When Doris-Esther got to my trash, one man’s trash and no one’s treasure, I warned her I was one of the ecologically-minded hikers who packs out his poop, “so as not to spoil the soil.” I figured an ecologist would appreciate my efforts. I’d filled a plastic bag with a mound of mud and leaves while she was collecting the bags of others, while she wasn’t looking, and then handed it to her mid-sentence.
For further effect, I added, “you know what they say: a turd in the hand is worth...ah, never mind.”
Her reaction was priceless. The others burst into laughter. I assured her I was only joshing, since there’d be too much bulk in such waste (as mentioned on Day 48). No backpacker cares to carry more. “Waste pot, want not,” somebody joked. No one laughed.
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| I’m just going to note there are initially two hikers |
I kept on toward Priest Shelter, passing discus-sized mushrooms, their heads begging to be kicked. I needed to scrub hands (mine, ideally) and top up reservoirs (mine, ideally). I considered the Ridgerunning gig. Seasonal or no, it’d be one of the more notable jobs on a résumé. It’d be enjoyable work, work that’d come easy; the chief task is to be outside and play trail steward. A pure sinecure.
The Ridgerunner’s focus is uncomplicated: do what’s right for the path and its environs (like not toppling mushroom heads). He or she often encamps at heavily used campsites, keeping them clean and orderly. Attempts are made to teach hikers how they might minimize their impact, so that not all places become so worn or littered. No cutting switchbacks or leaving non-combustible garbage in fire rings--those sorts of things.
A Ridgerunner also reports any issues to maintaining clubs or to the ATC and other agencies, depending on the organization in charge of a given stretch of trail. And, if you meet the right one, she might even carry your crap out.
I’ve never envisioned myself in any form of uniform, but the Ridgerunner’s regalia might just fit.
I didn’t loiter at the lean-to long. Just long enough to sign a confessional in its register (“Dear Father, I’ve committed many a sin, over and over again.”) and to bottle some water. It was only three or so miles to the next source at Cripple Creek--a creek named for invalids like me--but with the temperature and a slight headache on the rise, a hangnail of the head, it was critical to remain hydrated. It always is on a long-distance hike.
I’ve never envisioned myself in any form of uniform, but the Ridgerunner’s regalia might just fit.
I didn’t loiter at the lean-to long. Just long enough to sign a confessional in its register (“Dear Father, I’ve committed many a sin, over and over again.”) and to bottle some water. It was only three or so miles to the next source at Cripple Creek--a creek named for invalids like me--but with the temperature and a slight headache on the rise, a hangnail of the head, it was critical to remain hydrated. It always is on a long-distance hike.
I was peeing just twice daily now. Not optimal. Often, when urinating, nothing more than a gust of chalk would exit. POOF! There’s no paucity of water this year(2), so I’m forced to chalk it up to being stupid. Shocker.
Views became plentiful soon after the shelter. Endless dales and valleys surrounded the little strip of mud we call the AT. It was breathtaking. High above, a lone hawk screeched its delight with such a fine day, while chipmunks darted about with worried looks on their faces. They stopped only when we would, and only to panhandle. It was impossible not to stop every so often, in attempt to absorb it all. Land locked sponges, us lot.
Backstreet, TK and the ludic Mountain Goat caught me sometime mid-afternoon. The levity launched soon after. It does that around them. I hadn’t expected to see the gang, but they too were en route to a longer-than-normal day. There must’ve been something in the air. Daypack was already in a different time zone ahead. (He hiked the AT last year, completing Maine’s 100 Mile Wilderness in two and a half days!) Perhaps it was the excitement of reaching the celebrated Shenandoah National Park, just thirty miles to the fore. I don’t know, but with thru-hiking, it’s not considered a crime to walk far. There are worse crimes against Nature.
Views became plentiful soon after the shelter. Endless dales and valleys surrounded the little strip of mud we call the AT. It was breathtaking. High above, a lone hawk screeched its delight with such a fine day, while chipmunks darted about with worried looks on their faces. They stopped only when we would, and only to panhandle. It was impossible not to stop every so often, in attempt to absorb it all. Land locked sponges, us lot.
Backstreet, TK and the ludic Mountain Goat caught me sometime mid-afternoon. The levity launched soon after. It does that around them. I hadn’t expected to see the gang, but they too were en route to a longer-than-normal day. There must’ve been something in the air. Daypack was already in a different time zone ahead. (He hiked the AT last year, completing Maine’s 100 Mile Wilderness in two and a half days!) Perhaps it was the excitement of reaching the celebrated Shenandoah National Park, just thirty miles to the fore. I don’t know, but with thru-hiking, it’s not considered a crime to walk far. There are worse crimes against Nature.
Note to future self: a good band name, that. Crimes Against Nature.
After descending to the Tye River and the trampoline-like suspension bridge spanning it, we had before us a long grind up one of the toughest climbs yet, a three-thousand-foot nut-buster called Three Ridges Mountain. The trail was politely graded, but the heat was now cranked up and the bugs were gyrating, aiming for every orifice. How do they know how to annoy most?
After descending to the Tye River and the trampoline-like suspension bridge spanning it, we had before us a long grind up one of the toughest climbs yet, a three-thousand-foot nut-buster called Three Ridges Mountain. The trail was politely graded, but the heat was now cranked up and the bugs were gyrating, aiming for every orifice. How do they know how to annoy most?
I’d opted not to tank up at the river. It resembled mud more than water--and you can’t decant a flowing mud puddle. But I’d quickly regret the decision. Thirst soon struck. It was three of the slowest miles to date in reaching the next source, near the Harper’s Creek Shelter. The others had gone on. None of them signed the official register. ‘Official register’ on the AT generally suggests an old, tattered notebook. It did here too.
Rhythms come, rhythms go. My falter fest wouldn’t last long. I’d catch my amigos near Chimney Rock. We were laboring and soaking wet from vinegary sweat, but for once we were rewarded with views. Just spoils for our toils!
Rhythms come, rhythms go. My falter fest wouldn’t last long. I’d catch my amigos near Chimney Rock. We were laboring and soaking wet from vinegary sweat, but for once we were rewarded with views. Just spoils for our toils!
Near the top I found the loveliest of Appalachian graces, a spring-fed streamlet. 2013 has been a wet dream; springs are springing up everywhere. But here near the summit, no one in his right mind would ever expect one. I sat down and dumped my thick liquid in exchange for the uncontaminated mountain version. Enter ice headache.
I rubbed my temples and considered: how do springs flow at the top of mountains? There aren’t any taller mountains around…how can all this water flow upward to here? As it is with most questions, I knew not the answers. But I vowed to pester the first geologist or geometrist or google-ist I met. My uneducated deduction was that aliens were in charge. They’re in charge of a lot.
It was three miles, all downhill, to the Maupin Field Shelter and it took no more than forty-five minutes. We had to swerve around corners. This is by no means normal speed on the AT. For me, normal rates fall closer to one mile every forty-five minutes. I felt I should’ve been wearing a helmet, in the event of a fall. But here’s the thing. Although downhill hiking may be fast, it is much harder on the body. All that pounding adds up--and beats you down. Hikers who soar are hikers who are sore. I would pay for this later.
The remainder of the walk wasn’t as quick. And although we weren’t in a hurry--we’d been sold on the idea that Maine wasn’t going anywhere--it was time to stop, for we had been benighted. The problem was, where? Darkness discombobulates. Backstreet and I were ahead on our own at this stage and could not pin down a place to lie down. The home game had begun. A housing crisis.
I rubbed my temples and considered: how do springs flow at the top of mountains? There aren’t any taller mountains around…how can all this water flow upward to here? As it is with most questions, I knew not the answers. But I vowed to pester the first geologist or geometrist or google-ist I met. My uneducated deduction was that aliens were in charge. They’re in charge of a lot.
It was three miles, all downhill, to the Maupin Field Shelter and it took no more than forty-five minutes. We had to swerve around corners. This is by no means normal speed on the AT. For me, normal rates fall closer to one mile every forty-five minutes. I felt I should’ve been wearing a helmet, in the event of a fall. But here’s the thing. Although downhill hiking may be fast, it is much harder on the body. All that pounding adds up--and beats you down. Hikers who soar are hikers who are sore. I would pay for this later.
The remainder of the walk wasn’t as quick. And although we weren’t in a hurry--we’d been sold on the idea that Maine wasn’t going anywhere--it was time to stop, for we had been benighted. The problem was, where? Darkness discombobulates. Backstreet and I were ahead on our own at this stage and could not pin down a place to lie down. The home game had begun. A housing crisis.
All we could see through our lights’ constricted/constricting beams were sleep-defying slopes. The paved Parkway paralleled our path, and it was flat enough for sleeping--stealth camping at its finest!--but nothing else was. The trail itself was slanted. But had it been level it would not have mattered. It was a bed of nails--a jumbled mess of rocks and roots and mud. Not the best of bed buddies. We needed hammocks. We did not have hammocks.
After far too long we stumbled upon an idyllic clearing overlooking hundreds of square miles. It was roomy enough and dotted with a coppice or two--potential windbreaks. But another someone had already staked claim to the area; etiquette suggests you do not intrude. Especially when dark. It could freak him or her out, into a petrified, stiff silence. We didn’t want to frighten the poor soul by pointing our light beams everywhere. But then that soul woke up and spoke up. It was Daypack. A huge sigh of relief! He squirmed out from under his tarp, and offered to make room for us, but we decided to mosey on. The ground was not as nice as it’d seemed. Does it ever seem nice?
After far too long we stumbled upon an idyllic clearing overlooking hundreds of square miles. It was roomy enough and dotted with a coppice or two--potential windbreaks. But another someone had already staked claim to the area; etiquette suggests you do not intrude. Especially when dark. It could freak him or her out, into a petrified, stiff silence. We didn’t want to frighten the poor soul by pointing our light beams everywhere. But then that soul woke up and spoke up. It was Daypack. A huge sigh of relief! He squirmed out from under his tarp, and offered to make room for us, but we decided to mosey on. The ground was not as nice as it’d seemed. Does it ever seem nice?
Moreover, a large, pulsating thunderstorm was brewing to the west. It was too distant to encourage any anxiety just yet, but it looked to be edging our way. It made sense to ferret out a less exposed locality.
An hour further on and we were still walking, using echolocation. We were far less fussy about finding the right camp spot. The wrong spot would’ve done us fine at that stage; we were so bushed we’d have slept atop a bush. Thorns and all. Even poison ivy could have--would have--seduced us. Leaves of three, let it be…our home.
Too lymphatic to set up our shelters, we settled on a substandard spot--the trail itself. My head rests a foot higher than my feet, with a large pointy rock pressing into my upper legs. Some bed. Bedrock. It feels like a midget steadily beats at my thighs with a ball peen hammer. A Charley horse is under construction. (The last Charley horse I had was so big it could’ve been mistaken for a Trojan horse.) As I scribble this I keep sliding down my groundsheet, toward my feet. The Forest Luge.
Still, it is surprising how comfortable the ground is after you’ve walked all day. And as far as we’re concerned, this is a five-star accommodation, only with billions more stars.
"Foot"note 1: Women and their doctors have been making mountains of molehills for decades now. Sillycones, I call 'em.
"Foot"note 2: Even on a dry year the lengthiest water-less stretch along the AT doesn't last much longer than a day's hike--a hop, skip and jump compared to those mirage-inducers on the toasted terrain of the Pacific Crest Trail.
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