A Limp in the Woods (Day 67)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 67: Thursday, May 30th, 2013
US Hwy 522 to Manassas Gap Shelter = 11 miles
Miles to date: 976

Primed to be Primal

When I awoke, on time somewhere, She-Bear approached and offered a ride into Front Royal. Food stores were depleted, as was I, so I took her up on her kind and tender offer, offering her some kind of tender, in the order of gas greenbacks. 

“Don’t be a tool,” she said, pegging me perfectly. “It’s four miles, I drive an electric car, and I’m heading in for work. But I’m late, so get a move on, Funny Boner.” 

There’s something seriously askew about an older lady calling someone Funny Boner, but I opted not for particulars. 

I tore my town down and jammed it in my pack in under a minute. I knew I could reorganize it to a more satisfactory standard later, if only I knew what such a standard looked like. A quick check of the lawn assured me I hadn’t forgotten anything, as did a double-check. OCD forced another double-check, so I did as my head said. Forget something on a thru-hike and your hike might be through.

Ben was sad to see me off, but I patted him and vowed in a language he grasped, Pug Latin, he’d be burying his beak in crotches aplenty in coming weeks. He probably already knew that. This was his favorite time of year, in human years or dog years.

She-Bear shoved me out at L’Dees Pancake House. I’d inhale omelets (one Greek, one Spanish), a pile o’ pancakes (blueberry-banana), two glasses of brown milk, a bowl of gloppy oatmeal (with cranberries, pecans and forkfuls of butter), plus many cups of plus-sized coffee (spurious “creamer,” no sugar, butter). Life at L’Dees was life at its finest. Then came the tab. I thought I ought dine-and-dash, but surrendered the cash; my distended abdomen wasn’t about to authorize dashing anywhere, save maybe the lavatory.

After the feedlot I tooled around Front Royal’s downtown and fell in love. Royally. It had flavor and an allure few US towns will ever know. Why the city council doesn’t aim to vacuum more hikers in, I know not; we’re good for business. Sure, the central business area felt touristy (“The Gateway to Skyline Drive” read the sign), but you could sense the locals were actually--and rightfully--proud of where they lived. In a country full of homogenized, sanitized, decentralized big box retailer type of towns, Front Royal was a treat.

But when I traced the spokes from that hub, I learned it was like every other US burgh: ugly, sprawling, made for motorists, and utterly indistinguishable from any other populated place. My little walk-through became another lesson in the zoology of American dysfunction. I even walked past the customary panhandler and his dog, an excitable Australian Shepherd. He, the primate, was flying a sign. TuFf TiMez it read, and nothing more.

Q: Where are the Christians? 

A: Giving their tithes to their prosperous preachers, instead of helping the poor.

Forgive me here, but each time I see a panhandler with a dog, I can only think, if times are so tough, why’ve you not eaten that dog? But instead of provoking confrontation, I eke by, escorting my eyes elsewhere, wishing I carried some Milk-Bones in this dog-eat-dog world. Dogs keep us alive, and we should not eat them. Well, except pugs. Someday I’m going to run a pug extermination business.

Before delving into the day’s communique, let me say something about these towns along the trail.

I’m not foolish enough to pretend I can get to know the soul of a place because I’ve passed through for an hour or two. One must remain much longer--a lifetime or two--to even get an idea. Still, with the US’s growth-at-all-costs mindset, a place changes--metastasizes--so fast that any intimacy with it will only be fleeting. I just track what I observe, knowing it is pretty much meaningless.

One custom everywhere I go is a nagging need to know: could I live here? Not could I survive here?, for I am adaptable and could survive anywhere. Even the city. But rather: would I want to live here? Would I want to be part of this place, this community? Would I find enough stimulation here? Could I find an easy escape route? Are there attractive women? These Case-a-Place musings are ubiquitous when I travel, and they often occur subconsciously, involuntarily, instinctively. 

Few settlements fall into the positive-response column. (Usually small campus towns with easy escape hatches into lonely land.) Sadly, most places earning a YES all seem to be far away; I’d likely need to learn a whole ‘nuther language. Pug Latin, for example.

And so, on we go, baggage and I. Moving, exploring, dreaming, shopping for greener pastures. Could there be a worse curse? 

Thru-hikers, belonging no more to one spot than the next, possess a better sense of pace than place. We’ll never develop the sense of an area when our pace quickly places us elsewhere. Elsewhere is the aim; knowing somewhere...ain’t. But is rootless fruitless? We drifters don’t seem to think so.

Because of sprawl, it took a while to wend my way and take care of the necessary chores--groceries, library, post office, lunch. By the time my to-do list was done, I was done. Physically, emotionally. Fatefully, I ran into Coolie and his liveliness rubbed off. The kid is offbeat, but he is upbeat. We laughed and lounged and lunched, before launching ourselves back to the cordillera.

I wasn’t set on fleeing town. No, I was intent on playing the part of immovable object. I’d just fallen in lust with a gorgeous library guest. Full bombshell. To make matters awkward, I introduced myself, a rusty stab at a date. “Maybe in a million years,” she stabbed back. (The plan now is to live at least as long and hope she does too, only without aging.) I’m not sure why the elevated libido on long trails--heightened hormones, animalistic instincts, long bouts of loneliness--but elevated it is.

I also wasn’t sure I was prepared to face the trail or the extreme temperatures. But Coolie persevered. We soon found ourselves on the narrow, melting shoulder of US 522, where heat waves could be seen rippling upward, dancing as they do. The sun stared down on us, with magnifying glasses. I thought I might pop, ant-like.

I stood there trying to look dignified and trustworthy while Coolie began cutting a rug. Two contrasting styles of hope. His was the most entertaining approach to hitchhiking I’d yet seen, even more ebullient than Goat’s. It was as if IT DID NOT MATTER whether he caught a ride! I found this amusing and noble and contagious. Yep. Offbeat, upbeat.

Sweaty already, I gave up my staid stance and joined in, doing all sixteen dances. A true adventurer would never pass the chance to dance. Unfortunately, motorists weren’t motoring. Those who did drive up drove past. They thought we were nuts. They had that much right, but then surely they could tell we were just a couple of ATers, needing to go but a few miles.

“Maybe we oughta walk,” I suggested, kicking some roadside rubbish.

“Never!” Coolie replied, gyrating even more enthusiastically. “This road wasn’t made for walking--there’s no shoulder. Patience, comrade. Keep working on your happy dance. It needs it.”

     He was correct on all counts.

Eventually a silver-haired hippie and her son, a twenty year-old with special needs, picked us up. (We’ve all got special needs.) She was driving a four-seater beater, a rusted Subaru wagon with stick-shift--an endangered species. Too old to be an Eddie Bauer edition, it looked more like an Edward VIII edition, but was as noisy as an Eddie Van Halen edition. The vehicle had a COEXIST decal and a roof rack. A Schwinn clunker was perched atop. Every car looks better with a bike on it. But considering the car’s condition, I believe the bike acted more as a lifeboat.

She rearranged the car’s contents to make room. We insisted, for simplification purposes, we could sit with packs in our laps; she insisted we don’t act like heathens. If only she knew. The kid kept staring back at us when we realized his situation. “I like your dancing,” he said, clumsily clapping his hands. My guess was he’d have more rhythm than either of us. His mom drove with the hazards on the whole time.

Once more moored to the trail in the two-thousand-mile botanical garden, our botanical guardian, I asked Coolie if he thought our driver was attractive. “No.” No mulling it over, no pondering what she’d be like in the sack, no thought of what it’d mean to be marooned on a uninhabited island with her, no mention of any of her attributes. Just no. He’s young.

I was desperate. First, by hounding Kalamity, then by turning on the Chuck-charm on a poor young woman who just wanted to visit the library unimpeded. (Chuck-charm is a lady’s bad-luck charm.) Lastly, by lusting over a fifty year-old flower child who might’ve smelled worse than me. Today, on Animal Planet: the cagey Horn Dog. I’d become a walking boner. Primal. No--feral. Seems I could no longer control the leash. I could no longer be left unsupervised. I have a simple male brain.

Kalamity

It’s challenging enough being on your feet and being hungry all day, but an untoward sexual yearning only adds hardship, so to speak. I’d purchased sunscreen in town and knew I’d be using it for purposes besides skin protection. As mentioned, the trail is called the Green Tunnel for good reason, but I was dreaming of other passageways, and a womanless man needs boy butter before pulling his muscle. (Not too much of the stuff, for the best course of action is coarse action.) To make matters tougher, I can hardly muster any imagination anymore, so some material was in order, to assist in the task. Electronic eye candy.

My little tablet/writing device would now double its duties as a movie projector. I’d camp far from others so as not to offend. (I only want to rub myself wrong; I don’t care to rub anyone else wrong, or any other way.) On-trail carnal urges require planning and, in my case, some questionable downloads courtesy of the library’s free WiFi. Admitting this, I’m certainly not about to mention the websites I visited, especially not that wwf.StickItWhereTheSunDon’tShine.orgy one. 

Coolie and I carried on, seeing another bear en route, when we met back up with TK and troupe. I was happy to see them and immediately apologized for my crass comportment around Kalamity. She was one of the messed up ones on trail, it was easy to see, but there was no reason for her to have laid into TK the way she had back at the resort. There was no reason for me to believe I’d’ve had more fun with her than I would with my mates.

By dark we reached the off-kilter Manassas Gap Shelter, another forgettable one in a long line of them. It was fairly distinctive, however, with its white toothpaste-like filler sandwiched between each of its logs. Rather than pitch my tent and use my sunscreen (or use my sunscreen and pitch my tent), I sandwiched myself in with everyone, thus proving that laughter can even overcome coming.