An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 59: Wednesday, May 22nd, 2013
Humpback Picnic Area side trail to Rockfish Gap/Waynesboro = 12 miles
Miles to date: 858
Day 59: Wednesday, May 22nd, 2013
Humpback Picnic Area side trail to Rockfish Gap/Waynesboro = 12 miles
Miles to date: 858
Mirrors and Misfortune Cookies
This afternoon I stood in the locker room at the Waynesboro YMCA, where showers came free for AT hikers, and where I came face to face with a frightening entity. It was an inanimate object I was not prepared to meet, capable of striking much fear:
A mirror.
Its reflection was clear. Clearly terrifying, clearly inaccurate. It showed a lifelike appearance. I was taken aback the second I saw it. MIRROR AND PRESENT DANGER! Facial recognition software couldn’t possibly recognize the guy who started this trail two months ago. OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE SHARPER THAN THEY APPEAR!
“Don’t be mad at the mirror if you are ugly.”
~Russkie proverb
“Mirror, mirror on the wall. YOU are the unfairest of them all.” ~Funnybone proverb
The lines on the visage facing me had grown to canyon-like proportions--a road map of these long trails, a stern reminder of the hardships incurred and those ahead. The past is done and gone, like dusk to dawn. That dude is worn. Gaunt. Filthy. Offensive. If cleanliness was indeed next to godliness(1), he’d been through hell, or was heading straight for it. And now I carry two extra bags--those beneath my eyes. No doubt, life outdoors ages a person prematurely.
I forced myself to violate thru-hiker code and rinse. Nay, scour. All morning I’d been dripping what I thought was a cleansing sweat, but no. The shower water flowing off me could’ve been mistaken for a swamp. Scrubbing the shower afterward took as long as the skin sanding had.
After the hose-down, I trimmed the facial fungus. Then I swore to a day off on this off day--this bad hair day. Maybe resting would ease or delay further baggage from forming under my eyes. Too bad beards only grow downward.
An acquaintance I once knew, a fellow swamp creature and well-known multi-sport coach, spent a great deal of time blogging about appearance--his own. The blog’s gone now thankfully, but it was a love fest of the self; a study in personal supremacy. Good entertainment for those of us who love pointing fingers!
He’d repeatedly pose shirtless and in Speedos on his Wastebook page/website//blog/Twitter feed/et al., proud of the way he looked--and from where he’d progressed: a plump, less vain office worker. Friends used to joke that the office expat would stop or slow for any mirror or window reflection in his path…and many not in his path.
He had a bent to be seen; he needed to be known. If one didn’t know any better, it might appear he required attention, approval, admiration, approbation, and even applause. (As the philosopher Carlin said of the only A-s he tried for in school.)
Naturally, my part-time training partner and I differed greatly, both in appearance and in background. He was a rich little kid (or a rich not-so-little kid), who, in time, would concern himself wholly with acquiring more recognition, material wealth, and better looks. I’d been born into faulty family dynamics, on the wrong side of the tracks, to an abusive alcoholic father and a gambling, chain-smoking mother. I knew I’d likely never know material wealth, unless I started holding up banks, which I’m not strong enough to do (can’t even lift ‘em). Nor would I worry about appearing a certain way. (The advantage of ugliness is that, unlike beauty, it does not fade.)
He had a bent to be seen; he needed to be known. If one didn’t know any better, it might appear he required attention, approval, admiration, approbation, and even applause. (As the philosopher Carlin said of the only A-s he tried for in school.)
Naturally, my part-time training partner and I differed greatly, both in appearance and in background. He was a rich little kid (or a rich not-so-little kid), who, in time, would concern himself wholly with acquiring more recognition, material wealth, and better looks. I’d been born into faulty family dynamics, on the wrong side of the tracks, to an abusive alcoholic father and a gambling, chain-smoking mother. I knew I’d likely never know material wealth, unless I started holding up banks, which I’m not strong enough to do (can’t even lift ‘em). Nor would I worry about appearing a certain way. (The advantage of ugliness is that, unlike beauty, it does not fade.)
And so, perhaps as a defensive measure, I became focused on acquiring a greater understanding of the (human-less) world and of myself, along with a wider array of experience, good, bad or hideous. In search of moments, not milestones or muscles or material or money. That was about all I could hope for or control, and I’d never concerned myself with the looks or wealth I’d been bestowed (or hadn’t been bestowed).
As they say, the best things in life aren’t things. There wasn’t much I could do about the looks, not without surgery, which could leave me worse off than merely (mirrorly) ugly. Our outer layer may matter in (and to) society, but we already know how fucked up the world is; I’ve always had better things to focus on. Looking in the mirror assured me I had better things to focus on. (Anything would’ve been better!) I looked horrid, haggard and nearing death.
As they say, the best things in life aren’t things. There wasn’t much I could do about the looks, not without surgery, which could leave me worse off than merely (mirrorly) ugly. Our outer layer may matter in (and to) society, but we already know how fucked up the world is; I’ve always had better things to focus on. Looking in the mirror assured me I had better things to focus on. (Anything would’ve been better!) I looked horrid, haggard and nearing death.
I told myself the trim was more for tidiness and tick deterrence than it was for appearance. But I like the look of a beard, especially the scraggly ZZ Top types. Such facial fur reeks of manliness and sends a big, fat F-YOU! to The Man. And to those indigent suckers wedged into the workforce, who deserve both it and their fate. Plus, it acts as critical insulation--chinsulation. But a man (or a woman) must go through hell to get there--stubble trouble. On the AT one has enough hell to handle.
Bugs are the latest concern, from ticks to airborne biters. I refuse to apply DEET, since it’s known to melt plastic and possibly diamonds. So there’s not much else that can be done. My current defense, weak though it is, is to don rainwear. A bug net is kept at the ready, to drape over my noggin.
But with the heat and humidity clamping down, this is unrealistic. I may end up soaking myself in chemical repellents, like so many other hikers do. Eucalyptus, picaridin, DEET, permethrin, gasoline, whatever. Minus the cancer to come, the benefits are two-fold: the chemicals scare away blitzkrieging bugs, and they drown out one’s body odor, especially, as is the case with the gasoline, when ignited with a citronella candle.
Anyway, this all came to be later in the day, in Waynesboro. This is how I got there...
I was awake uncharacteristically early. Backstreet had already--also uncharacteristically--torn down camp. But he was in no hurry to move, examining at ground level a neon flower. Of all the things I appreciate about the guy, and there are gobs, it’s his appreciation for the right pace. My migratory manor (and manner) could’ve easily remained stationary on this fine day.
Birds were astir, singing their delicate aubades, while an affectionate breeze soughed through the fresh shimmering leaves above. What few clouds there were seemed to loiter, with nothing better to do; we could relate. Life seemed to be standing still; why shouldn’t we?
It was vital to resist the urge. I told Backstreet I’d been indolent my entire life; the AT doesn’t reward such types. At least not in full. And since in full is the goal, the prize must be sought to be got. More imperative than that though, today had an essential objective attached to it. A tangible, edible aim. Our packs were treacherously close to vacant, as were our stomachs, and lounging around wasn’t about to assuage matters. We got up and were walking within minutes, vacant stomachs, vacant stares.
All you need is love, said some Liverpool lads. They weren’t hikers.
Perhaps it was the promise of an All-You-Can-Inhale eatery in Waynesboro, or maybe it was the two thousand foot descent to induct the day, but we motored along effortlessly. Still, in spite of our speediness, Mountain Goat and TK caught us. Laughs ensued, as did chow-chatter. On protracted paths, food-talk is perpetual.
At the end of the downhill the four of us visited the Paul Wolfe Shelter. There we came across a four-foot snake. (To clarify: it did not have four feet; it was four feet; if it had four feet it would’ve just been a big lizard.) It startled Backstreet something fierce--he was in front--and he let out a high-pitched Backstreet Boy type of scream that somehow echoed through the muffled woods. We snapped some pictures of the creature and of a marble bench commemorating John Donovan. Donovan hiked the AT and was two hundred miles into an attempted PCT thru-hike when he appeared to have made a few crucial errors.
At the end of the downhill the four of us visited the Paul Wolfe Shelter. There we came across a four-foot snake. (To clarify: it did not have four feet; it was four feet; if it had four feet it would’ve just been a big lizard.) It startled Backstreet something fierce--he was in front--and he let out a high-pitched Backstreet Boy type of scream that somehow echoed through the muffled woods. We snapped some pictures of the creature and of a marble bench commemorating John Donovan. Donovan hiked the AT and was two hundred miles into an attempted PCT thru-hike when he appeared to have made a few crucial errors.
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There’s a good read about Donovan at Backpacker.com. It starts: No one will ever be sure how John Donovan spent his last days on Earth. What is nearly certain is that on May 6, 2005, as a blizzard dumped 8 inches of snow on Southern California’s Mt. San Jacinto, Donovan was trapped on the flanks of the 10,834-foot peak under an ocean of blinding whiteness...
Thru-hiking doesn’t keep the hiker out of harm’s way--e.g., mirrors--and though the risks always seem within control, there are times when we overstep our boundaries, or overstep those set in place by Mother Nature, the prettiest but most controlling woman I’ve ever slept with.
Sometimes it’s just plain ol’ bad luck--a tree fall or a dying relative back home--knocking a hiker off trail (or worse). I remember reading about John and seeing an I Shouldn’t Be Alive episode about two hikers who had gotten lost near the PCT, only to stumble into a steep-sided canyon, where Donovan’s bloated body lie. His gear (now called personal effects) ended up saving their lives, and it became part of the reason for the national publicity.
Up until that show and more recently Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, the PCT basked in obscurity--The Calm Before the Swarm. Us anachronistic types wish it would continue doing so. (The old dogs bark; the caravan rolls on.) Reese Witherspoon’s movie adaptation of the Oprah-approved book won’t help matters. Even if the film flops, it’ll inflict harm. Thru-hiking is fashionable now; the new sexy. All the cool kids are doing it.
Sometimes it’s just plain ol’ bad luck--a tree fall or a dying relative back home--knocking a hiker off trail (or worse). I remember reading about John and seeing an I Shouldn’t Be Alive episode about two hikers who had gotten lost near the PCT, only to stumble into a steep-sided canyon, where Donovan’s bloated body lie. His gear (now called personal effects) ended up saving their lives, and it became part of the reason for the national publicity.
Up until that show and more recently Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, the PCT basked in obscurity--The Calm Before the Swarm. Us anachronistic types wish it would continue doing so. (The old dogs bark; the caravan rolls on.) Reese Witherspoon’s movie adaptation of the Oprah-approved book won’t help matters. Even if the film flops, it’ll inflict harm. Thru-hiking is fashionable now; the new sexy. All the cool kids are doing it.
After the not-so-sexy shelter we’d skirt an old cemetery--where old and young people all go--and some cabin ruins, which for all we knew, was an old trail shelter. “The cemetery’s prolly full of hikers,” I joked. In keeping with trend, no one laughed. Canned laughter, but no one opened the can.
By noon we were closing in on civilization. We knew this because the trail quadrupled in width. An increase in litter also confirmed it. (Hiking paths tend to widen a mile or so from trailheads, especially in or around national parks; few day-trippers stray farther.) We soon reached a rowdy Rockfish Gap, our stopgap trail stop, partaking in the usual laughs and philosophical discussion. God how we laugh.
At the end of his all-too-brief life Chris McCandless inscribed few words, but those he did were particularly poignant:
I’m not sure I’d go that far; I really wrangle with that real part. But I knew the experience, any experience, could only be augmented in good company (especially sex, but never mind that). I don’t laugh alone much. Out here I hardly stop laughing, because I have shared great company.
“Happiness (is) only real when shared.”
I’m not sure I’d go that far; I really wrangle with that real part. But I knew the experience, any experience, could only be augmented in good company (especially sex, but never mind that). I don’t laugh alone much. Out here I hardly stop laughing, because I have shared great company.
That great company and I would catch a ride from a trail angel named DuBose Egleston, who’s more commonly known as ‘Yellow Truck.’ Yellow Truck drove, well, a big yellow truck. A huge yellow truck, like a factory on wheels. After I’d made a stupid remark about the vehicle’s size, DuBose joked, “With its ten cylinders, this baby’ll fly past everything on the road, except gas stations.” We laughed and climbed the staircase into its cab, thanking him the whole way.
Waynesboro looked inviting enough. It was a bit dead, but not quite there yet. Nature hadn’t yet reclaimed it. We didn’t care, so long as it met our foremost need: food. After a stroll through town, a visit to the library, and the above-mentioned shower at the Y, we checked into the Grace Evangelical Lutheran Church. Signing in involved a procedure reminiscent of reporting to prison, but the church was plenty comfortable and willing to host hikers for free, if we behaved. Waynesboro, no doubt, knows how to roll out the welcome mat. Be our guest, but don’t expect much.
Clean and unencumbered, we moseyed to the Ming Garden Chinese Restaurant. There, we put in our best effort to put them out of business. For just $11(2), we could ingest all we wanted. We did just that. In fact, we ate more than we wanted. But, as is to be expected after walking for two months, we were starving just an hour later. This worked out okay, since we hadn’t gone anywhere.
Someone joked, “If gluttony truly is one of the lethal sins, we’re goners.”
Someone joked, “If gluttony truly is one of the lethal sins, we’re goners.”
PS: My fortune cookie post-meal read:
Your job hasn’t even begun.
There’s true hardship ahead.
Prepare for an uphill battle.
(You are, after all, on the AT, the path that eats its young.)
Prepare to lose.
You suck.
Doofus.
There’s true hardship ahead.
Prepare for an uphill battle.
(You are, after all, on the AT, the path that eats its young.)
Prepare to lose.
You suck.
Doofus.
More of a misfortune cookie, really. But it tasted edible and wasn’t as bad as Backstreet’s fortune:
That wasn’t chicken you just had.
"Filth"note 1: Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but on the AT, where every day is a bad hair day, cleanliness is next to impossible.
"Filth"note 1: Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but on the AT, where every day is a bad hair day, cleanliness is next to impossible.
"Fair/Fare"note 2: $11 was such a good deal for an all-you-can-eat meal I bought two.
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