A Limp in the Woods (Day 62)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 62: Saturday, May 25th, 2013
Calf Mountain Hut to just past Doyle's River Cabin Junction = 18 miles
Miles to date: 883

National Park #2 (of 2)

Shenandoah National Park is just one hour from the craziness called Washington DC. It’s that much closer to its outer sea of sprawl. You’d hardly know it.

It’s what the civilized world calls a weekend, but we awoke to a peacefulness no city--or district--has ever known. The rule of silence. (And silence is better than no sound at all.) In the name of Longfellow--a silence like a sleep. If not silence--a sweet, murmuring, bottomless stillness. A different world, yet so accessible. We might as well have been walking on the moon. It’s been months since we’ve heard a siren or a car alarm. Rarely is Nature is raucous.

As we eased into our play-date there was a hodgepodge of webs draping the trail. If there’s one thing I’ve picked up hiking, besides a backpack, it’s that the early riser gets a face full of spider webs. Every hundred feet another elaborate net hung in our way. In the name of fairness, we took turns perforating the mess. Silk blazing. The webs were as sticky as cotton candy, though nowhere near as tasty. Curse words ensued. So much for silence. 

When it was my turn to play spider-man, I walked with my hiking stick raised, waving it up and down in front. I’d trade arms as each grew weary. My legs were hardened now, but my arms were feeble; they’re often mistaken for a couple of threads sticking out of my sleeves. A lean, mean sputtering machine. Unarmed but unharmed.

An hour in, we’d enjoy a slow breakfast--a breakslow?--but we refused to sit there and do nothing all day. It was sunny, it was temperate, and the path summoned, as paths do. Thru-hiking is transition. And hikers are often homesick for somewhere else, sometimes--often times--for a place they’ve never been. Homesick for the horizon. In German it’s called fernweh--the opposite of homesick. Farsickness. A lovely word and a bittersweet concept. We took pleasure in where we were, but our inclination for migration took precedence. The thru-hiker’s veins flow with gypsy blood. We all long to move along. To see, as Benton MacKaye quipped, what we could see.

Bear meat is allegedly tasty, but tonight...

...it’s venison

Inside the park, shelters are called huts. To honor this change, I’ll call ‘em that throughout. We don’t care about such trivialities, so long as they’re there when needed. (Hut one, hut two, hike!) It’s also nice if they don’t have mice or spider webs--and don’t leak. The weather in these mountains tells us we’re never in the clear, even when it’s clear; that much is clear.

With my laughable pre-hike No Shelter rule long disowned, I now anticipate structural support. I also get that huts, shelters, lean-tos, hovels, bothies--or whatever else they’re called--are all part of the AT experience. Everything is a part of it. The trail acts as a metaphor for life itself; indescribable highs, appalling lows, and loads of labor between beginning and end, wherever the end ends.

We were thankful the spiders never made their presence known, despite the persistent web entanglement; all day they’d cross our path. (Or we’d cross theirs.) Of all creatures that fill me with dread, the eight-legged ones stand out. Spiders, scorpions, mites, ticks, crabs, octopus, barbershop quartets.

Since the first sighting near Pearisburg we’ve constantly scanned ourselves for affixed ticks, be they deer ticks, dog ticks, wood ticks, or luna ticks. We’ll be doing so for another thousand miles. I’m glad I trimmed my mask in Waynesboro; I couldn’t think of anywhere worse for a tick to embed than on the face. Or maybe I could.

In addition to the pervasive white blazes, the trail was now arranged with cement posts, each with a narrow strip of sheet metal fastened to the top. The metal was stamped with the distances to key points: huts, stream crossings, road crossings, and food stops. Unlike the not-so-Great Smoky Mountains, Shenandoah National Park appears well-maintained and welcoming.

The affable Coolie McJetPack at a weird rock formation

Near Doyle’s River Cabin (not a hut, I guess), well done with the day, we’d caught Dino DNA. He shared more news of the Damassacre. Unbelievably, no one was seriously hurt. Bruises and road rash, mostly. Rainbow Bright had it worst, with a single broken toe, the littlest piggy. Still, it’s enough to bring the southern belle’s hike to a halt till she heals. Six to eight weeks.

He told us, once mended, she’d jump ahead to rejoin her tramily--those she’d been walking with. She’ll return to finish the miles she’s missed after reaching Katahdin. Hikers call this trail-hopping a flip-flop, and in most cases it’s enacted to beat winter’s emergence. Anything to complete the trail. (“You complete me,” it cries.) “The wind may have been knocked out of Rainbow Bright, but the tempest remains,” Dino said. “She’s a warrior. Her sparkle cannot be dulled.”

The five of us decided to take the short side-trip to the cabin/hut/hovel/lean-to/shelter. We knew the place would be locked and was never intended for ATers. Our guidebooks told us it is to be reserved and paid for in advance, two requirements that disqualify nearly every thru-hiker. We just wanted a break from the breakdown. Though the terrain and temperatures were fairly tame all day, the weeks of walking in our legs assured us that the breakdown is passed down.

As we approached, we detected laughter. It seemed to be from women, the more-improved gender. All of us but TK perked up. As we drew nearer to the cabin, I was leading and could see the women through the trees. A gaggle! They were nine in all and each of them looked to be in their mid-twenties. More to the point, they were all good-looking. One of the ladies was wearing a wedding veil.

“Leapin’ lemurs!” I murmured to the others, “it’s a bachelorette party!”

I clasped my hands together, looked toward the heavens and paused briefly.

“Thank you God,” I whispered, “thank you!”

Backstreet, Mountain Goat and Dino DNA burst into laughter, grabbing the attention of the girls. As I was thanking God, they were declaring, “Oh, dear God.”

We strode up and offered some feeble hellos. “Be you angels?” I asked. TK laughed at the scene, and how pathetic we boys were. One of the women, the most agreeable looker as far as I was concerned, inquired if Dino DNA was single. It appeared alcohol consumption had removed all inhibitions.

Before he could mumble a response, I, being the eldest, implied we leave. It was best to let our female revelers enjoy their shindig without some freaky, festering wildlings loitering. TK concurred. She and I started back down the side path. The others came, reluctantly. We camped a three-quarters of a mile beyond, near the Loft Mountain Amphitheater, a mile shy of the Loft Mountain Store. In the distance the coyote crowd serenades. A full moon, the third of the hike, emits the sun’s reflection at full strength, like a giant chalky mirror. This bodes well. We take comfort in knowing the sun is still around. On the AT a hiker is never certain.