A Limp in the Woods...or not (Day 60)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 60: Thursday, May 23rd, 2013
A Waynesboro Walk Not Day = ZILCH miles
Miles to date: 858

Group Mentality

I plead the fifth. 

Today was a day off, my fifth. Off the trail. Off my feet. And off, once more, to the Ming Garden. Chopstick rehearsal. Chinese-like food at its finest. Its re-fined-est.

Staying off the feet was straightforward, save for the compulsory humanistic errands. (Animals do not do errands.) We hung out as a group, eating, drinking, laundering. What a sight I was, relaxing in rain pants and a 1970s polyester vest I borrowed from the Laundromat’s lost & found. But I took a backseat to Backstreet. I kid not, the kid looked like this:

He reminded me of those mutants from Akron. And you know who Devo reminds me of? No one.

Thru-hikers prefer the look of permanent wardrobe malfunction. We don’t follow fashion; that’d be a joke. And you do what you have to when all your clothes need bathing. We looked like a Tide ad in reverse.

After boiling our duds we hit “Good”will. I nabbed some wearable art, a $2 silk shirt perfecto for perambulation. Then it was off to a certain retail leviathan. On aisle 509 I found a $7[!] pair of the same shoes I’d been hiking in to this point. I feel for the toddler laborers in China, but I tip my (made in China) hat to them. Where we’re born determines much.

Next we toured a music shop. It sold instruments, not recorded sound. Goat displayed preternatural talents on the guitar I had only ever paid to hear. Mah boyz whicket smaht. We ended the day with more eating, quaffing, loafing, and laughing. This time it was refined burgers and, in the case of Backstreet, one too many beers. Make that two too many beers. “I’ll drink to that!” he said. “Take me to your liter!” More on the liter later.

~~~~~~~~~~

Some communication on cohesion. 

Groups form on trail from the get-go; it makes me ponder how many lives I could’ve been a part of, and how many lives could’ve been part of mine. No matter; I know I’m part of the trail’s coolest coterie, though I suspect most hikers feel this way, perhaps none more than those traveling alone. We combine forces not for strength or to fight the forces of Nature, but to give birth to mirth. Goat, TK and Backstreet had been part of a mob called The Goat Herd, but the cabal slowly disbanded into smaller factions.

“When family becomes colony it’s time to strike out,” said Backstreet, the ex baseball player.

There’d been an escalating schism within the ranks, and all the usual fratricidal strife. He, Goat and TK didn’t care to be sucked into it. The laughs were moribund and near dead, he said. It is also unfeasible for such an omnifarious passel to perform and feel the same way day-to-day. Gargantuan groups don’t last--another AT casualty. Anyway, that’s when I sashayed in and latched on, having fallen off The Fanny Pack. Birds of a feather winging it together, on the same migration route. North for the summer. Summer, for the north.

My handpicked hiking clip would have me closer to ten miles each day. But since meeting this gangly gang the daily devotional is holding steady at thirteen to fourteen miles. Now that I could use another break, I suspect I’ll be nudging north in solo style, at least until melding into another sect. I seem to be a social barnacle. A loquacious leech. I must be lonely inside. I must be lonely outside.

The saddest thing about groups is they often become cliques. These cliques defend themselves from infiltration with the use of body language and inside jokes. Inside jokes outside. It’s weird when you see this standoffishness happening, but boy does it. An outsider might be accepted, but not welcomed. I figure anyone willing to behave in such a manner only limits him or herself in meeting others, including interesting people like me. But we’ve all seen it, this coalition disposition. We can only wonder why some humans are the way they are. Your vibe attracts your tribe. 

One thing I love about the tribe I’m with, besides the collective sense of humor and the sodality, it’s that they’re welcoming to all; there’s no esoteric sociolect or secret handshake required. Everyone is part of the brotherhood--even red-headed stepsisters. Even a gauche guy like me (though not necessarily me).

Anyhow, it’s a zero day; I refuse to muse to the point of snooze. Onto booze; I should acknowledge Backstreet and the “one too many beers” comment. If only so I remember.

We were having our lunch sequel, this time at a distinguished brew pub serving distinguished beers. We were seated outside, gawking at our server as coolly as a bunch of hopelessly infatuated, horny boys can. TK ignored us--a wise business decision on her part. Said server was an attractive thing who was far more than a thing…a model-esque face, an engaging smile, an incredible body, and a willingness to laugh at our horrifying jokes (“…are the French fries local?”). She was everything a male hiker dreams of, and she came with food.

Goat saving time whilst awaiting our first of three lunches

When she came to my order, I had no game plan. I just let the menu and other higher powers reach out. I was already uncomfortably drunk, due to dehydration. A bucket of social lubricant sounded soothing, but I figured it an emetic; ergo…forgo. According to science, beer is a solution. But I figured it a clear case of Beer & Present Danger.

Backstreet, however, figured there’d be no harm in a liquid cleanse. The patron saint of unrestraint thought he could outsmart alcohol. Perhaps hoping to get drunk to make the AT--or us--more interesting, the roaring pirate ordered two pints of happy hydration, a pour choice. As parched as the lot of us, the poor kid was blasted before polishing the leadoff. We didn’t think to pull the second hitter; we were food-focused. By nighttime the drink slinger was violently ill. He yakked up the strong water and, worse, all he had eaten, but not before a series of laughing fits. We worried he’d be kicked out of the house of God. And, by God, if he went, we went.

One of Backstreet’s curiosities was a guy on the sunset side of fifty. The dude was said to be thru-hiking. Said by him. Was not. A foot-fraud, Crazy Horse was as true to the trail as pro wrestling is to sport, or as Milli Vanilli is to singing. His pelt was as pasty as Elmer’s glue. His muscles were soft and un-toned. His shoulder-length do was dyed black and too straight and spotless to qualify as hiker hair. He whiffed of deodorant and aftershave. His outfit further proved the point. Nothing was ripped or soiled or, for that matter, used (despite visiting “Good”will as mentioned below). He wore an over-sized cap and his dyed hair jutted from the sides of it like Wayne of Wayne’s World. This was made more appropriate, we joked, since we were in Waynesboro.

Crazy Horse’s Doppelgänger

We’d seen Crazy Horse at the thrift store. He was seated in his junker. Yet here he was fleecing trail angels, sponging off the church. His reputation had preceded him. As we can attest, AT thru-hikers are treated like royalty. Because of this, the path hosts plenty of posers, be they homeless vets or moochers looking to exploit others. (Failing this, they’ll live off hiker boxes, pilfering all contents.) Crazy Horse wasn’t the first full-time freak(1) we’d seen doing this, but he was the most laughable. Particularly to Backstreet.

As he grew nearer to blacking out, Backstreet began blurting, “Wayne’s World! Excellent!” Mountain Goat and I lost it. Crazy Horse was planted a few people away, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We were enjoying a lasagna dinner provided by the church. To avoid getting the boot, we’d yell after Backstreet, “Waynesboro!” in hopes it’d drown out his “Wayne’s World!” yak. With a forefinger over the lips, I implored Backstreet to pipe down. “It’s not nice to make fun of others,” I whispered. “Even when merited!”

Backstreet out cold; the cup is not Photoshopped

About midnight (true midnight, not hiker midnight--9pm), Backstreet the happy drunk was out like a light. What wasn’t light was his log-sawing. The boy simply will not go gentle into the good night. There were twenty of us spread around the church’s dungeon, each on a saggy cot. I was still feeling ground down, yet wound up. Since I’m not much the social sleeper, I was unable to doze.

I decided to throw down some fresh beats on this here tablet device. My earbuds were only halfway plugged in and Gotye’s ‘Somebody That I Used to Know,’ probably my Top 1 tune evah (especially THIS version, which motivated me to finally dust off my guitar and sell it), echoed throughout the building. It did so without my knowledge. Within seconds all but one of us were quietly singing along, including Backstreet. Crazy Horse, who might truly be crazy, was the one.

Freak-note 1: I cannot find fault with these freakazoids, for they must be desperate, as we each may be someday.