A Limp in the Woods (Day 75)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 75: Friday, June 7th, 2013
Antietam Shelter to Quarry Gap Shelters = 13 miles
Miles to date: 1,080

Shelter-Skelter to Shelter Heaven

Our fearsome fivesome awoke on this most important day (National Donut Day) to more moisture. Luckily, the Antietam Shelter’s tin roof kept its promise. Made from a mixture of sawdust, toothpaste, and mouse droppings, the kitty-litter-scented box is basically an animal shelter. It would cease to exist if you were to sweep vigorously--a brush with death! Not that it had a broom. The helter-shelter is one of the AT’s prehistoric models, built sometime after Neanderthals were overrun by Homo sapiens, when Hairy met Sally.

Okay, the truth. It was constructed soon after World War II. (World War Two, not World War Eleven; I use Roman numerals to portray intelligence.) What an amazing thought: that it was state-of-the-art when shell-shocked veteran Earl Shaffer attempted the AT’s first through-hike for post-war emotional rehab. We wondered: did he doss down here? Did the mice badger him? Can mice badger? Was the privy as full? Was it vandalized as much? Did he do the vandalizing? History couldn’t, and wouldn’t, educe his story.

We were drenched the second we set out. We hadn’t even struck our stride or sussed out a pecking order. The lurching foliage was the offender; the drizzle had mostly fizzled. Still, the foliage had the drizzle to blame. It felt like we were walking in a green cloud. Not quite Cloud 9, maybe Cloud 3. We were happy to reach another shelter after just a mile. It was in fact a set of structures, the side-by-side Tumbling Run Shelters. A colorful hummingbird feeder hung from a corner, and a pair of ruby-throated hummingbirds circled it with excitement, fifty blurry wing-beats per second. I tried getting their picture. I failed. The birds are tiny, and they are not slow.

Why we didn’t make it here yesterday, nobody knows. These were everything the squalid rat trap Antietam was not: roomy, level, unusually clean (in travel strangeness makes sense) and inviting. The only thing missing was furniture, but clotheslines and a covered picnic area sweetened the allure. Creature comforts differ when you’ve become a different creature.

The shelters were labeled, one for the snorers, and one for those of us who dislike snorers. More of a sleep-talker, I’d’ve been given clearance to land in either, but a one-mile sleepwalk for the day seemed pedestrian. Goat and TK felt differently. Disinclined to contest conditions, they hunkered down, bogarting magazines from one of the two racks(1). Gator, Backstreet and I kept on.

As we continued our soggy slog, the shelter caretakers pulled in. Kurt and Tanya had packs bigger than ours. Each week they check on their adopted shelters, delivering RV/marine toilet paper, a “new car smell” air freshener shaped like a pine tree (though not easily confused as one), firewood, and cleaning supplies, which they use to keep the place spotless. Amazing. We thanked them for their kindness and devotion. Camping has never been so glamorous. Glamping, we call it.

Some hikers aren’t in favor of the AT’s many amenities. In their minds, the trail is meant to be a wilderness path. Shelters, bridges, trail signs, memorials, painted trees, fire-rings, benches, picnic tables, trail magic--all of it--these purists profess to detest. Why they don’t stray from the fray I can’t say. The AT is what it is. It’s nothing to get hung about.

As with most things in life--permits, politics, borders, the economy (that gross national product), climate change (your children’s problem), pecuniary gain, status, patriotism, religion, etc--I’m emotionally constipated…I couldn’t give a crap. An almost clinical detachment. “I gave up caring about anything,” Dostoevsky said, “and all the problems disappeared.” I view our species and its mysterious, maladjusted behavior--like the need to build things to suit his needs--from the stands (of trees), never as a participant. (Unlike Byron, I love man the less.) As are my friends, I am happy to be safely insulated out here.

     Tangent time!

Let’s not mistake this urbanized trail or its surroundings as wilderness! The AT’s backdrop is no more wild than mixed martial arts is art. You cannot surround a square meter of your backyard with an octagonal fence, build a narrow corridor through it, let Nature take over, and call it wilderness. True wilderness (that is the absence of civilization, where the hands--and feet--of man do not linger) isn’t cordoned off. And it certainly isn’t managed, except by the ruthless yet perfectly balanced, perfectly sensible, socialized laws of Nature. But such a place is gone or going fast, so some small, supervised strips of land--parks, peopled wilderness--will have to do. At least for now, till man makes his exit and the planet recycles and re-wilds itself, as it forever has.

I understand these purists--those wishing to burn bridges! I too am a purist. A lover of pure air, pure water, pure landscapes, and other purty purities. Without wilderness humankind is in utter decline.

But I digress. Again.

Leaving Tumbling Run, Gator, Backstreet and I took turns at the front, clearing the spider webs and the floppy flora. In what appears to be an ongoing battle between foliage and footpath, the foliage is winning.

We worked our way up a nine-hundred-foot climb to Chimney Rocks. We were greeted with a sea of trees. The rain had abated so we partook in a catnap, resting our heads on Mother Earth’s lap, before throwing our high heels back on and heading back down to another set of shelters, the Rocky Mountain Shelters. As John Denver used to croon, before getting high and flying his plane into the ocean, “Rocky Mountain high, Pennsylvania…” Misnamed though they were, the shelters were agreeable, but not quite as pleasant or clean as the Tumbling Run ones. We didn’t loiter. The woods were wet, dark and deep, and there were miles to do before sleep.

There weren’t many miles, however. By day’s end we’d trek six more, over relatively easy terrain on a reasonably smooth trail. PA’s rocks lay in wait, stalking us, taunting us. But before we came to our stopping point we entered the Caledonia State Park, which was busy, being a weekend and all, but nowhere near as crazy as it could’ve been had the weather been cooperative. We were thankful for a smaller crowd and quickly went to work using what facilities we could, mainly electrical outlets and heated hand dryers--for drying sopping clothing--before moseying on.

We’d make it just a minute up the now-paved path--yes, this wilderness path is paved in places--before reaching a large family reunion. We smiled and tried to sneak past, but the Keefer family would have none such behavior. They insisted we too were family, inviting the three of us to join the fun. Knowing it meant a real meal, we shrewdly accepted. So as not to be entirely insolent, Backstreet imparted fair warning: that we were world-class eaters. “There might not be much left when we’re through.”

“Actually, we’re light eaters,” Gator interrupted. “If it is light out, we’re eating.”

Luck was on our side. They’d already eaten what they could and cared not to cart the food back to their homes (we estimated fifteen in attendance, not including the screaming kids; we were told about as many Keefers had already adjourned). For the next hour we each had a one-way ticket to Yumville, cleaning one paper plate after the other, with a diversity of dishes we couldn’t begin to describe. All delicious. We were even given what few leftovers we’d left over, wrapped in foil and plastic, so as not to attract (other) wild animals.

An hour later, still smiling, belching and crop-dusting one another, we called it quits. We were at the dopest shelter the Appalachian Trail knows, the Quarry Gap. Talk about curb appeal! A ceramic gnome and a welcome mat invite hikers through a picket gate. Although it’s not two-storied and fails to offer hot showers or the potential for pizza delivery, it is immaculate. Almost too manicured. This is because the innkeeper, a bespectacled gentleman named Jim Stauch, visits daily, hiking four miles to tend to the devoirs--cleaning up after dirty hikers, of whom nearly all fall eligible.

The shelter has two sleep platforms covered by a single metal roof, with a picnic bench between. Next to the picnic table sits an array of joss sticks and scented candles, presumably to camouflage lingering hiker odor. There are also games galore--checkers, chess, Yahtzee, Scrabble, Twister--along with books and magazines and a trail register. Best of all, there are no religious leaflets. It seems Jim would rather us keep an open mind than a nod to God. Dear God, long may you lose.

The trail in and out of the shelter is also without flaw: soft, wide, level, and gentle on the feet. There are also wooden tent platforms in the vicinity, lest the shelters turn crowded. Jim has hung a number of flowering plants in every possible place, and has hauled in plenty of dry fire-starter, which sits under a separate awning, not far from a covered bear box. In a pinch, the bear box could also act as a shelter, or perhaps a cell for an unruly hiker. A sundial adds to the shelter’s functionality--in the event the sun ever shines on the AT--and a cold, clear spring sits just in front of the place, behind a clump of rhododendrons. A stone culvert has been laid down to direct the water in a scenic, garden-like manner. Ears are tickled by water’s trickle.

After taking the dime tour(2) and a quick game of chess with Gator--quick, because for some reason, my king decided it was time for a kamikaze mission--we’d stake our claim in each of the shelters. We didn’t care to sardine one another. No one else was around, thru-hikers or weekenders, so Gator and I took to the left, while Backstreet and his noisy nostrils took to the right. The guys knows his nose.

Within minutes The Schnoz drowned out the melodious trickle. Then, a few hours later, a pair of young, highly disrespectful lovers arrived and drowned out Backstreet’s beat. Worse yet, our Shangri-la was soon smoked out, as the guy wanted to prove his manliness and build a fire. They hadn’t noticed the large stash of dry kindling and instead gathered a bunch of wet stuff they found on the ground, demonstrating (demon-strating?) a plenitude of ineptitude. This in turn demonstrated that the old saw, “where there’s smoke there’s sure to be fire,” isn’t entirely true.

"Foot"note 1: We've learned: when a lean-to has a bookshelf or magazine rack, most of what's left are religious pamphlets (i.e., fire-starter or, in a pinch, toilet paper).

"Foot"note 2: We didn't pay, since none of us are dumb enough/crazy enough/foolish enough to carry coins on trail; we resist all change! If dimes were aluminum, maybe.