A Limp in the Woods (Day 66)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 66: Wednesday, May 29th, 2013
Byrds Nest #3 Hut to US Highway 522 near Front Royal = 31 miles
Miles to date: 965

The Playground’s Become a Proving Ground

Last night’s premonition that it would be a long one was spot on (and not spotty). Just as we began tumbling to sleep, the mice shifted in to hyperdrive. Mus musculus behaved like headless chickens, criss-crossing the shelter platform dozens of times. “Ugh,” Spacey sighed. “This place is rat-ified.”

These were heavily-armored rodents that couldn’t’ve been killed with hammers. But then, just like that, they scurried into their hideouts. Minutes later four thru-hikers showed, taking the place of the vexatious critters. Spacey and I had had the joint to ourselves--mice aside--but our luck ran out when they ran in.

Bad trade. These were the biggest pills on trail. No wonder I prefer mice to men. It was 11pm, yet they chose to crowd in, but not before cooking, chatting, spilling fuel, shining lights in our faces, and noisily hanging their food (on the shelter’s provided metal pole). They even had the gall to start a fire, the smokiest the world’s ever known. Clueless cretins.

“Guys, please,” I barked. “Etiquette.”

Someone was using a small, battery-operated pump to fill a crinkly air-mattress. Noisy, heavy, lazy.

“Oh, man, sorry dude. We thought you were asleep,” one of the muskier ones said, burning craters in my retinas with his 8-million lumen headlamp.

“I had been.”

“Oh, man, sorry bro.” The racket rolled on.

“Guys, please,” I repeated. “Ya can’t show this late, and then be loud, without irking others. I get that there are just two of us here, but you still need to show respect. Plus, I’ll tell ya: that guy doesn’t seem like the most stable horse around. He’s a twitchy mofo, and I saw that he carries a handgun.” 

I was pointing to Spacey, who was awake but pointedly remained motionless.

“So, for your sake and mine, pipe down and switch off your light-sabers.”

“We’re trying,” a different one replied. He had an accent. (Assholes are a worldwide problem.)

“Yeah,” I replied curtly, “very trying.”

Right then I (half-man, half-child) decided that sometime in the god-awful hours I’d exact some sort of revenge. I’d repay the favor and be more obnoxious. And so this morning that’s exactly what I did: exact.

The sun hadn’t even begun to take care of its first mission and I was packed and ready to unleash a paroxysm of clatter. Spacey had already scrammed. And so it was I banged into things; tried starting the smokiest fire I could (damn thing lit up nicely for once, producing no smoke); spoke loudly how my hike was paid for through a GoFundMe page(1); shined my headlamp directly into various ugly faces; removed a pair of shoelaces from two different pairs of shoes; and tied the world’s tightest knot in another pair.

I also fired off a fusillade of feature-length farts as forcefully as ever, letting each gaseous bubble build till it would do the most damage. The reverberation was profound, and the scented substance had a lingering shelf life--it smelled as though I’d pooped my shorts. (I came close.) In spite of my performance none of the jerks stirred. Not even a mouse had.

I lifted my pack and prepared to leave, shoelaces in hand. First, I skimmed the shelter notepad to see who these cocksure, knuckle-scraping mouth-breathers were. “35 miler today,” bragged one of the driveling dimwits. “We keep BLOWING PASSED slowpokes!” The misuse of passed and not past bothered me more than the boasting. Dimwits indeed.

They’d started May 1st and were averaging thirty-four miles a day. So they said. I suspect they’d caught rides along the way, gauging by their gear’s glisten. A number of hikers do this, so they could check the trail off and boast about their alleged accomplishment. The playground has become a proving ground. A PR event.

After reading the register, I sashayed over to inspect the bear bag pole. I wanted to resolve how a mouse could scamper up it. I knew mice were phenomenal creatures--tales of their abilities abound--but I had no idea they could climb metal poles. It turns out the pole was badly rusted, allowing the tenacious critters to get a purchase on it. I was chuffed to see that they’d chewed scores of holes through the obnoxious hikers’ food bags. Score! A stab of joy! Reap the whirlwind, asshats. Karma is real.

Comprising three dudes and a bothersome chick-man gung-ho type of ho, the four were on my mind much of the morning. You know the type of woman, one with a man’s voice, calling everyone dude. A girl who grew up a tomboy and is now a tom-man. The three (less manly) guys were obviously pink-blazing, chasing tail up trail, as I had been with the striking Kalamity Jane. Enfeebled ones, we males.

By noon on this sixtieth anniversary of Norgay’s and Hillary’s summiting of Mount Everest I’d calmed down. I redirected my thoughts back into the trail and all its majesty. It ain’t as stunning as Nepal, but Shenandoah is pretty spectacular, and I was snapping photos left and right. Still, I think if the Southern Sierra fell prior to this point, no one would ever make it this far. 

The Sierra is known as the Range of Light; the Appalachians are the Range of Dark. I’ve had my fill of forests; I’m eager for New Hampshire’s exposed granite. But the Live Free Or Die state, aka the Granite State, is almost a thousand miles up trail. As much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to get ahead of myself just yet.

Later, as temperatures neared ninety degrees Farfignüten, I’d exit Shenandoah National Park. I was with Coolie McJetPack, who bears a resemblance to an earlier-version Dustin Hoffman. I’d met and mentioned him before. The youngster has a natural flair for chaos and disaster. He walks with a stutter; everything in his path, and some things not in it, become bowling pins. He’s quick but stumbles more than he strides--an accident not waiting to happen. He doesn’t go looking for trouble, but it always seems to find him. A Catas-Trophy candidate. I give him a safe distance, but I like him. His deportment, his sense of humor, is entirely engaging. A hundred and forty pounds of Silly Putty. I was pleased to be in his society.

The park exit was something. There were no signs facing either direction, just an altogether different trail, and immediately so. A steep scramble down a series of rocks scared me into thinking the passive miles of the park were suddenly a thing of the past. All things suddenly become a thing of the past. But the path mellowed, and the miles--and mirth--rolled on.

At one point a bear--radio collar, ear-tag, and all--barreled down a hillside in front of us, gazing our direction reproachfully. A short while later we’d witness our first rattlesnake. Unlike the bruin the serpent didn’t have a radio collar around its neck, nor an ear-tag, but it struck more fear into us than the brute had. I’d unwittingly riled it with a hiking pole. It meant we’d now have to be vigilant where we placed our hands when scrambling. The Appalachian Trail requires stacks of scrambling. It cannot be hiked without the use of hands or arms. A call to arms! A show of hands! A hands-on experience! Don’t Tread on Me!

Worse, we’ve been assured that the AT’s northern half undergoes a seismic change and makes the southern end look like a sidewalk: the cakewalk is replaced by interminable servings of humble pie. Portions out of proportion. A tale of two halves. Watch your step! Watch your hands!

Our first rattler, just left of the picture's middle

Later yet I was once more on my own. I left Coolie and his graceless enthusiasm at the Tom Floyd Wayside Shelter. He could fend for himself. Huts were again labeled shelters, whether they offered shelter. But the Floyd structure was one of the ritzier ones. The building would run a hundred grand or more if it were on the market, and it came replete with a huge neighbor-less yard, a capacious patio, and plenty of seating along its wooden railing. Seats are a godsend on trail, be they man made (rumps on stumps) or Nature-made. A bench sat nearby and the poop depository stood far enough not to remind you of its presence, an unmistakable bonus in shelter layout design. It was clear why Coolie stayed. He said he was so exhausted he didn’t have much choice. “I’m tired of bein’ this path’s piñata.”

I told him I hoped to hike with him again. Unlike it’d been with others, I meant it. He’d fit right in with TK, Goat, Backstreet, and me. Few persons wouldn’t.

Those who wouldn’t fit in would include last night’s sleep saboteurs. The vapid foursome never caught up today, leaving deeper doubt about their purported average daily mileage and/or start date. Liar, liar, hiking shorts on fire! Then again, I’d manage a workmanlike thirty-one miles. Blue collar miles. Or ring-around-the-collar miles. (White collar types work with their brains; blue collar workers work with their hands; we ring-around-the-collar ilk work with our feet.) Thirty one miles is a full fifty kilometers in that nutty metric parlance. So I daresay I’ll see the checklist-hikers again. I’ll have my earplugs, and my boxing gloves, ready.

My nightly billet is anything but boxed in. I’m on the extensive lawn of She-Bear, a booger flick from the trail and a quarter mile shy of a seldom-used US Highway 522. She-Bear’s daughter, whose name I never caught, and who’s away at university, hiked this path last year. She wanted to repay some of the kindness she received on her hike, so she enlisted her mom! They’ve hung a sign offering water, the use of outlets, and the yard space. To a hiker, it is high-class accommodations, save for Ben, their big, black Labrador, who can’t help himself and keeps lunging for loins.

"Fund"note 1: This hike was NOT paid for through GoFundMe, the crowdfunding platform. Even I would get a job before insisting others pay my way. I'd like to start a website called GoFundYourself!