A Limp in the Woods (Day 71)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 71: Monday, June 3rd, 2013
Harpers Ferry, West Virginia to Maryland! = 4 miles
Miles to date: 1,023

Unicycling the Universe

‘Twas dreamy being in a bed, but results were no different--no dreams. Probably since I slept, or tried to, on the top bunk. (Trying to sleep shouldn’t be so trying.) All night thoughts of casually rolling over to my death plagued me. A casual casualty. When bedded down on the ground, this worry doesn’t exist. Bunkers beat bunks! I do not overnight it on portaledges. Been there, done that, didn’t sleep. 

On the bunk below mine, Backstreet conducted his nightly nasal concerto. The performance might’ve disturbed had we not been firm on using foam. The earplugs are a recent addition to the gear list, but Backstreet’s beak has proven their worth. They’re worth their weight in gold. In fact, for the communal sleeper, gold holds less value than foam.

Foam and gold remind me of a story. A true story, almost. I was enduring the turbulent drunkenness of another adventure, hiking with a hooman in the High Sierra. A world-class electrical storm barreled in without invite. We were ridge-bound on one of the many passes on the John Muir Trail and suddenly in grave danger: freezing, exposed, on edge. The noon sky blackened and lightning began landing--and taking off--all around us. The odor of ozone occupied the air. We dropped our poles and our packs, fished for our foam sleep mats, and sprinted back down the mountain, praying to whoever, whatever, would listen. (There were no listeners, but it was hard to hear.)

When we reached a safer less dangerous elevation we tried the shrink-wrap method--shrink ourselves, and wrap ourselves. We crouched beneath our tarps and atop our pads, mouths agape. Theoretically, an open top hole decreases internal pressure in the event of a direct strike, improving odds of not dying. (Not dying is a good way to live.) Lightning kills, but it can strike an individual without killing. One ATer was enlightened to this truth this year, a modest bloke [now] named Lucky Strike. Lucky had been strucky and lived to tell the tale, even though he doesn’t. “What are the odds of that happening?” someone asked. “One hundred percent,” I replied, “because it happened.” Things that have happened are more than likely.

Anyway, while squatting with foam and fingers in our ears--the thunder was deafening--I noticed my play-pal Kathy wearing all kinds of jewelry: tawdry rings, bracelets, studs, gold-capped teeth, razor-blade earrings, a padlock necklace, a GPS ankle monitor, nipple piercings(1), clitoris piercings(2), a galvanized bolt through her neck, and whatnot. Our hair was on end and I wasn’t confident jewelry was such a good idea, even though she maintained they were all amulets.

Without being a rude boy, I urged a purge. Metal is an electrical conductor. It was sure to do more damage if we were hit. Thor’s hammer was nailing within feet. The tailgating thunder was accompanied by continuous airborne crackling, and I had to use sign language to be heard. It took her far too long to detach all the conductors and by the time she had, the tempest had tempered. Nonetheless, we learned something important that day, though I don’t recall what it was. E = MC Hammer, I believe.    

Wow, I’ve gone way off-track here. My original point was that foam earplugs can be a windfall--yet muffle the wind. They and the foam mats are in season at your local Wal-Mart, and anymore all Wal-Marts are local. Some, like the one we visited yesterday, are so big they’re local in two towns, stretching from city limit to city limit.

     Damn, astray again.

As for the day’s events, we spent the morning playing sightseer with all the other tourists. It was a Sunday after all, and our choice was that or church or, worse yet, the trail. We chose tourism. Harpers Ferry is of course, a great spot to tour. At least nowadays. Back in mid 1800s, not so much, for this is where the famed abolitionist John Brown essentially kicked off the (not so) Civil War.

The clipped version: Brown gathered some men, both black and white (himself a honky), to storm the federal armory. They were caught with their pants down, and Brown was hanged by a jury not hung. Thus commenced the US’s bloodiest war, when others grew fed up with the feds. And with slavery. (Fortune favors the slave.) That’s what I remember hearing in Mr. Honda’s civics class in high school, when I showed. (Asked during my second senior year why I was always absent, I could only reply it was because I was absent-minded.) In high school, friends and I went down in history. And in civics. And in home Ec. No wonder I was voted Most Likely To Suck. No wonder I live in a tent. At least I’ve still got mad tetherball skills. Sadly, civics is no longer taught in high school. (RIP, USA. The nation with no foundation in education heads for damnation.)

My high school daze, before being laid off

For a solid some hours we visited museums, read plaques and memorials, and furthered our Civil War tutelage. As tourists do, we also ate unspeakable food. And we gawked at other tourists. We lost Coolie to a local girl. Others had seen him dive in through her passenger window as she rolled down the road. It was rolled down. And I thought I was desperate. I’m told she had all her teeth. So it was just the four of us, alone again naturally.

With nothing better to do, we revisited the AT Conservancy. Daypack was loitering, rummaging through the free box for anything stomachable, but the bin had been scavenged by a previous someone whose name rhymes with Schmunnybone. He told us about his aqua-blaze endeavor--a failed mission from the onset.

Despite the rains of recent, the river wasn’t even shin-deep. “Seems the trail sponged everything up.” He and the Germans had to drag das boot most the way, a task made tougher with the coolers on board. He looked beat, an ad for ad hoc adventuring gone wrong. He knew though: it ain’t adventure until it goes wrong. In any case buoyancy was now restored.

“At least the river brought you back to the trail,” I said. “Are you sure you pointed the raft downstream? You know, go with the flow?”

When it was time to load up and leave, the four of us met a neighborly young man riding a unicycle. His rig was laden with packs and water bottles. Intrigued to no end, I had to beleaguer the redheaded, round-nosed guy, so we could find out more of his story.

It turns out Peter Hufford (aka: Butterfingers) had completed the AT last year. He was looking for another extraordinary challenge when it hit him: “I’ll take a unicycle ‘round the world!” To clarify, by take a unicycle, he means ride a unicycle. Around the world. This world, third from the light source, the life source.

Pete Hufford, the Bad-Ass (image courtesy of Pete)

We bowed down, we unworthy ones. The fortune-hunter was just three days in. He’d started in DC and was taking the C&O Canal Towpath out of the urban wasteland. Then it was toward Pittsburgh, PA(3), and eventually San Francisco. There the plan was to turn left for Los Angeles, before heading into Mexico and on to South America. In no uncertain terms he assured us his ass was already a train wreck. He was “taking it a day at a time,” just as he had on the AT.

“I miss being on my feet.”

“Exsqueeze me?” Goat asked. “It sounded like you said you miss bein’ on your feet.”

“I know. It’s messed up, huh?”

It was something we never thought we’d hear an accomplished thru-hiker say, but such is the drawback of a one-wheeled vehicle. “Imagine never being able to get off your ass,” Butterfingers sighed with a glazed, forlorn look. “Well, at least you’re about one one-hundredth of one percent done,” I joked. He did not look amused.

TK, guitar god Mountain Goat, and me

After swapping contact info and snapping photos, we parted ways with the bad-ass (yes, I know). We soon crossed the Potomac on an old train trestle, breaking and entering Maryland halfway over the murky ribbon. “Our sixth state!” Goat proclaimed. “Eight to go.”

We were now on the famed Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Trail. The C&O runs from “downtown” DC to Cumberland, Maryland, a wonderfully horizontal hundred and eighty-five miles. Unfortunately, we’d enjoy just four miles of its silky smooth flatness before heading into the hills and up the ‘Weverton Challenge,’ which wasn’t all that challenging, thankfully. The canal may have originally been somewhat of a failed mission, a debacle relegated to the history books by the westward expansion of railroads and roads, but we wished the entire AT was as endearing and inviting. The path was lined with floriferous deliciousness and all sorts of wildlife, including a few turtles, each challenging us to a race as they flew past.

We’re camped in a clearing four-ish miles beyond Harpers Ferry, just short of the Ed Garvey Shelter, presumably named after a guy named Ed Garvey. One can never be too certain. We’re hoping the trains below lull us to sleep. It’s not the AT’s most serene spot, but the trains (as well as the endless trains of the faithless) are barely discernible, thanks to the cicadas. Foam, meet ear.

"Nipple"note 1: I don't know this.
"Clit"note 2: Nor do I know this.
"C&O"note 3: The C&O canal ends before Steel City, but is met by the Great Allegheny Passage, which carries on to it. Imagine this: 335 miles from Pittsburgh to Washington DC with no automobile traffic! A must-do, I think...