A Limp in the Woods (Day 61)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 61: Friday, May 24th, 2013
Rockfish Gap to Calf Mountain Shelter = 7 miles
Miles to date: 865

Predicting Forever

Forever ago I penned in an online journal that, if it weren’t for all the walking, thru-hiking would be a most agreeable undertaking. I meant it then and I still stand behind it today, though I’d rather be seated. Walking away from Waynesboro was one of the toughest tasks yet. It’s not that the place had an allure, just that the trail is so demanding. But then that’s where the rewards are found--we tell ourselves--so we plow forward.

Impoverished hikers must exert caution in towns. They’ll bleed you dry. Beds, burgers and beer all run steep--steep like the AT--and they’re not necessary. But they sure seem so when all it takes is a little piece of plastic to procure them! Life in towns is plush; life on trail is mush. Still, the right weekly ratio in preserving sanity seems to be about six plant-based days and one cement-based day, though this depends on the town. And the plants. And the weather. And the hiker.

In addition to beds, burgers and beer (and silk shirts and Wal-Mart shoes), Waynesboro also sold Forever postage stamps, which I needed, and which, when you think about it, is amazing. Why? Because, as far as I can tell, forever is a long time. And it’s a bold statement for a business, particularly the United States Postal Service. My guess is that the Postal Circus won’t make it another hundred years, let alone everlastingly. The AT will outlive it and even little ol’ Waynesboro probably will, what with all the hiker$ passing through. Hell, the USPS business practices included sponsoring a drug thug named Lance Armstrong for crying out loud! I wouldn’t go around predicting forever.

I, for one, won’t be collecting postage stamps. Except maybe for this one...

 And this one.

We were reunited with the trail midday, continuing our voluntary minimalism after Yellow Truck returned us to Rockfish Gap. Despite the thoughtful name, the gap had few rocks and not a sole fish. (Or any other type.) Just a frenzied overpass, too many signs and billboards, a burned-down hotel (seems a theme in Virginia) and, in the direction we were heading, one park entrance.

A fellow trail hiker: a four-inch, hundred-foot centipede

The entrance was the one into the famed Shenandoah National Park, the second of a grand total of two such parks along the entire AT. This tidbit astounded me when I first learned it. The Pacific Crest Trail pierces seven national parks; the AT just a pair.

We were eager for some Shenandoah shenanigans. It was reputed to be some of the finest walking known to man and thru-hikers alike. Plus, the park doesn’t require a pricey permit, like the Great Smoky Mountains had. (It does require a permit, but more about that soon.) To add to the bargain, there are also a plethora of prospects for obtaining victuals, so we could find ourselves constantly full but traveling unfettered, an uncommon occurrence along most long trails. We’d only be forced to witness the parking lots and the lumpen masses confined to them when we wished to.

Despite the later than our usual late start, cooler climes had elbowed their way in. My button-up silk shirt proved pretty well useless on its own, so to justify the purchase I wore it over my long-sleeved shirt, like how the cool kids do. Quite the sartorial statement, but out here no one listens to any such statements. No self-respecting fashionista would stray close enough to see us.

I’ve seen men sporting skirts, women wearing baggie pants, and every other imaginable outfit: bowling shirts, Hawaiian shirts, wigs, jog-bras, plastic bags for rain-wear, mismatching socks, short-shorts, mini skirts, men in see-through stockings, and so on. Long-distance hikers care only that their clothes are functional, light, and can handle not being washed for weeks. If they elicit a laugh, all the better. In the woods no one cares what you look like, because no one is looking.

Ground Chuck; the Fashion Police ticketed me for operating without a license

The others stopped to fill in their permits at a gazebo in the woods. The kiosk was constructed from felled trees. Chopping down trees to turn into carbon dioxide, which trees need to survive. “Welcome to Shenandoah National Park, governed by your National Park Service,” a sign read. (Do you ever wonder how the forests governed themselves before humankind?) Some jokester, probably NOMAD, scribbled “Dis-” before the word Service, fetching a thin grin; dissing authority shan’t be dismissed. “Resist much, obey little,” Whitman told us.

Although authorization doesn’t cost a dime--or any other amount--it remains required for overnight hiking within park boundaries. A citation would be issued for those caught without. (As previously written, I’d respond with my time-tested, “That’s fine by me.” This would likely fall on deaf or dumb ears, given the typical meat-headed authoritarian park ranger. And anyway, can a ranger really kick someone out of the outdoors?!)

If a fee falls in the forest...

~~~~~~~~~~

DIVAGATION: As Walt or Hank or Alex Supertramp or other barbaric pot-stirrers would urge, I implore backcountry visitors to PROTEST this un-American formality, this cost of enjoying our lands! (No land is ours, said jefe Seattle, but forget him.) Be the Hayduke you want to see in this world! Agitate! Instead of voting with your dollars, vote without them. It is, HDT would advocate, a necessary form of civil disobedience, our civic duty. That is to say man’s duty to distrust/disobey/protest/resist the government “when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable.” Government is best when it governs least.

Ask yourself: where do fees go? What are they used for? Will low-income families be able to afford the outdoors? Will funds help preserve the park’s wildness? (Assuming any of it remains.) If government agencies are allowed to charge a fee or require permits to enter these lands, are we giving ownership of the lands to the agencies? Are we taking it from the people?

~~~~~~~~~~

“RESIST IN PEACE!” I yawped, continuing without companionship or compunction. A rucksack revolt. “I deny any wrongdoing, even while doing it!” 

Consent for a forest saunter? You have to pay to play? To be outside?! Add my voice to the chorus, the vox populi wishing to protect the land, but I reach out to escape red tape. Let our lives be a counter-friction to stop the machine.

Though I question the legitimacy of government and oppose (most) taxation, I don’t think of myself as a sovereign citizen. Those folks are nutters! I believe in laws and fees--those that benefit the greater good of ALL species. But fees for fee sake, please. It still burns my butt hair I was moronic enough to foot $20 to traverse the Smokies, which laid claim to the most repulsive shelters and privies--when there were any--and trail conditions yet. I do not rent dirt. (I’d’ve likely frittered the dough on Honey Buns.) My fellow undesirables did not gainsay my seditious decision but would poke fun. As expected, they caught back up.

“A middle-aged delinquent,” someone joked.

“Mister and mischievous,” someone else joked. 

“In my defense, I was unsupervised.”

“We’re with an illegal,” another someone (a young man on his hangover hike) joked.

“I’m sure Big Brother has a dossier on me. We’ll camp beyond the range of any ranger.”

“I rebel, therefore I exist!”

The woods within the park were a frothing, spitting image of those not within it. A carbon (-oxygen-hydrogen-nitrogen) copy. Trees that hadn’t been chopped down to make kiosks cloaked the path. Grasses grew tall. Flowers abounded. Each flower was at the mercy of the breeze; each played host to a band of bees. Plants love to grow in the Appalachians. I couldn’t identify one. That didn’t stop me from identifying with them. Humans have given almost everything on Earth a name, and it’s done nothing to affect or alter that which has been named. I pose: does a rhododendron know its name? And would it matter if it did? I think we can all appreciate it just the same, whatever it is called.

When the day was closing, it was eating time. When isn’t it eating time? To the thru-hiker, never! We stopped at Calf Mountain Shelter, right there in Shenandoah National Parking Lot. We cooked up forgettable, regrettable meals. (Let us hope we aren’t what we eat.) Tomorrow or the next day we can stop by one of the roadside snack-shacks dotting Skyline Drive, but tonight, no such luck. I ain’t complainin.’ Salami and cheese on crackers is a delectable dessert. Dangerous prosperity.

I posed aloud: “Adventure capitalists, I ask: what does it take to feel wealthy?”

“This,” they acquiesced, while I passed some topped crackers around. The label said the crackers were stoned; we were not.

“And what do you suppose the common people are eating tonight?”

Then talk turned serious, so we went to sleep.