A Limp in the Woods (Day 74)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 74: Thursday, June 6th, 2013
Falls Creek to the Antietam Shelter = 7-ish miles
Miles to date: 1,067

One Nation Under Goods

As far as AT states go, Pennsylvania is notorious among thru-hikers. Ask any ATer about the place and you’ll get a prolix response, complete with words you probably wouldn’t want your children (or any others) to hear. It is, as it’s been said, where boots go to die. The reason: rocks. More than two hundred miles of them. But I’m a half-mile into the two hundred and thirty-mile state and I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I’d be hard-pressed to unearth a single rock. So far, so good.

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Somehow, somewhere, some time yesterday, I’d passed the others. This leapfrogging takes place a lot on the AT, since so many of the shelters and springs are not on the trail, but rather a short, oh-so-long distance off. Poorly scrawled notes are often posted at junctions saying things like, “Bird Nerd, I was here @ 2:20pm and waited for your ugly ass for HOURS; maybe we’ll catch up in Waynesboro…Scare Crow.”

But I never saw any notes.

I don’t mind a few side trips from time to time, but I refuse to make this a must-visit-every-shelter hike, or I’d never attain the main aim: Maine. I figured TK and krew must’ve swung by the Pen Mar Park or one of the shelters, whilst I beelined for the Mason-Dixon line.

Anyhow, they mowed me down soon after I’d started walking today, just as a light rain began. The weather was unexpected; I’m with one of those rare consorts of youngsters who refuse to incessantly stare at their phones, be it for forecast or Facebook. (I have yet to witness a phone on trail among us; maybe we all fear exorbitant roaming charges when in roam.) We’ve had so many hot, clear days in a row now that we never thought we’d see a cooler rain again.  The Appalachians are a misleading mountain range.

No one seemed too enthused to come to blows with Madre Naturaleza, or to try to outrun Her. So, with our umbilical cords still knotted to civilization, we decided to hitch down into Waynesboro.

The AT has two trailside Waynesboros, the one back in V-A and one here in P-A; we reluctant ramblers figured we’d best compare the two. We took great pleasure in the first and hoped we might be equally as fond of the second. Regardless, we knew the place offered more elemental protection than the trail would.

In town after an easy hitch we ran into Gator; it’d been a couple weeks since we last saw him. He had been missed, much like a mouth or a cog misses its teeth. We all sat inside a Subway at another enormously active Wal-Mart, eating and entertaining inquisitive customers.

“Are ya fellas hikin’ the AT?” asked an older man with a red nose and a reduced sense of personal air space. We were each a person of interest, as authorities might say.

“We are,” I replied proudly, ready to assume responsibility for the ensuing torrent of questions. Response responsibility.

“Oh,” he said, and walked off.

“That was weird,” I mumbled to the others, mouth crammed with my second Meatball Marinara sandwich. My aplomb had bombed. 

As it was, I was glad not to be forced into making small talk. The others echoed the sentiment. We just wanted to eat like hikers do, unobstructed and with lots of flatulence and burping and grinning, with glazed gazes off into a distant nowhere; this is happiness. Fortunately, no other customers ventured near.

After we’d had our fill, it was time for some shopping. (This was a Wal-Mart Supercenter after all, where slightly more than everything was obtainable; one nation under goods.) We then headed back into the miasma.

Hitchhiking in rain is normally a surefire losing proposition, but in towns along the AT success is guaranteed, as was the case for us. Townsfolk tend to enjoy the camaraderie of thru-hikes, despite the conspicuous aromatic drawbacks. Our ride, another chatty, smiley, chunky middle-aged woman, came fully equipped. She laid a few thick beach towels down before we soiled her nice leather-like seats.

Back in the maleficent mountainous mire, we came to a large stump, a relic symbolizing a life that once was, a life no longer. It had to have been seven feet in diameter and might’ve made for an ideal sleep stand had moss and decay not taken over. But the moss proved that Nature always wins. Life never leaves.

Further proof awaited us around the next bend. This time a waist-high sapling grew atop another huge nurse stump, wisely using its ancestor for mineral content and support. Maybe even emotional support; who’s to say? The trees were likely taken down and taken away half a century ago, but the forest marches on. Man may forever attempt to resist Nature, but Nature shall fully resist man in Her own sweet time, and it is always Her own sweet time. 

“I identify sexually as a tree,” I joked to Backstreet. “I find hewn forests offensive.” (Response: recoil. Dosage: silent treatment.) We both knew not to take offense; in the long game, everything ends up as it’s supposed to, even if it never really ends up. Life overcomes death. The powerful play goes on.

Overcoming death, the five of us--Gator, Backstreet, TK, Goat--plodded for three-plus miles ending up at a rudimentary rooftop, the Antietam Shelter, which can be rearranged to spell antimatter heels. It was unexpectedly unoccupied. We hadn’t come across another hiker when we were in town, but it seemed all others bailed from the trail and remained in Waynesboro. What pansies!

Man, how I envied them.