A Limp in the Woods (Day 76)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 76: Saturday, June 8th, 2013
Quarry Gap Shelters to Pine Grove Furnace State Park = 17 miles
Miles to date: 1,097

AT3

All narration is interpretation. And so, in the interest of accuracy and authenticity, I’ve checked the events depicted in this journal with other GA-ME-rs. There’s (almost) an agreement that the renditions of events are (almost) accurate. There’s also consensus we were, at one time, sensible individuals. This cannot be verified.

Unfortunately, the hardships of the AT have gnawed away at us--at our physical prowess and more recently, at our sanity. We laugh at abysmal jokes; we brawl over M & Ms found on the ground; we use overflowing privies (when the shit hits the fun!); we solve all major philosophical arguments; we sleep with mice and ants; we ingest food the animals won’t even touch. But our resolve stands firm, and we have reasons to continue celebrating each day; they are fraught with marvels. The Appalachian Trail is the ideal ordeal.

This day marked an especially momentous milestone. We passed the AT’s halfway point!(1) Hikers observe the occasion by attempting to eat a half-gallon of ice cream, a stunt reminiscent of Cool Hand Luke downing fifty eggs. The “Half Gallon Challenge,” it’s called, and for many it is just that: a test. For some of us it is mere child’s play, a cinch, a piece of cake. We are major league eaters. We eat 110%.

Indeed, if I tallied the times I’ve eaten a half-gallon (back when manufacturers sold half-gallon sizes--not today’s quart-and-a-half in half-gallon-sized containers), I’d need to use all the digits on my hands and feet, along with other anatomical appendages. And I’d still come up short. (By ‘short,’ I’m referring to being short on numbers, not on the anatomical appendage.)

“Ya think you could do it, Funnybone?” Backstreet asked earlier. We were purposefully starving, thus readying, ourselves.

“Small potatoes, spudboy. I know you can too; I’ve seen ya eat. But let’s not time our efforts.” (Thru-hikers are hyper-competitive and often clock themselves during such challenges, to see who’s “best.”)

Anyhow, we didn’t reach this 50-50 point without some walking, and this is how it all went down. (Most of today’s topography did in fact go down; ‘twas some of the easiest terrain the trail knows, though the increasing prevalence of rocks negated any would-be benefit.)

We woke to the shrill of cicadas and the strident twittering of birds. Only Backstreet was keen to get going. Gator and I were hesitant to leave such a top-notch shelter. The young pair of lovers never made it into the wee hours, for they knew not how to build a fire or pitch a tent, and so they returned back to their car and out of our lives for good, so very good.

After a gourmet breakfast of instant oatmeal (a member of the plywood family) we were mobile, the signature move of those moving through the woods for months. By mid-morning we reached an unkempt, uninspiring shelter, the Birch Run. Coolie was there with a pair of rough-looking customers. We stopped to chew the fat.

Coolie was as delightful as ever, but with a shared IQ of 150, the lovers were the star attraction. (They’d each taken an IQ test, but the results were negative.) The not quite so attractive(2) pair were attempting to “live on the path as long as possible.” This does not make them crazy (we all admired the idea), but it was how they planned to go about it, relying on hikers to help outfit their continued existence. Hikers aren’t the best of targets. Most of us carry the least we can; everything hauled verges on critical. Inutile superfluities don’t exist. So imagine my surprise when I was asked if I “was carrying a spare sleeping bag.”

“Let me check,” I replied.

They needed everything except food. Their bellies were not empty, or maybe they were, but there was a wealth of adipose yet to get through, especially on him. I felt sorry for the two; the learning curve outdoors is sharp.

In this era of the weightless plastic bottle they carried wartime canteens. They had blankets and cotton clothing, two big-time no-nos, ever since the advent of sleeping bags and synthetics. Sure, yesteryear’s pioneers didn’t have any high-tech gear--and look what they accomplished. But those same bad-asses possessed skill and understanding and oodles of tenacity. It was all too evident these two would never make it (or have made it), even with Lewis, Clark and Sacagawea babysitting them.

We carried on, cheerful the two had found one another. They’re sure to breed someday, pumping out fat, unintelligent offspring, as though their genes are worthy. This is what the dumb do. They impregnate and place a burden on the rest of us of dummies, and on the environment. They walk among us.

“Proof that there’s a lid for every pot,” Backstreet said.

“May their marriage survive, even if they don’t,” I said.

With some trouble-free landscape ahead, our intrepid trio made good time. Trail time is good time. We soon stumbled upon a graveled Woodrow Road. A small piece of paper lay soaked on the ground. It stated we’d indeed made it to the trail’s fulcrum. 1,092.9 miles down. 1,092.9 miles to go. For a mongrel like me, the thought was mind-boggling.

It took seventy-six days to reach this point. If it were to take as long to complete the second half, I’d be atop Mount Katahdin on August 23rd. That’s earlier than hoped. I am assured by those in the know, however, that the trail’s northern half is seriously demanding. It requires at least as much time as the southern half. This, even though the hiker has long since established the construction of his or her trail legs.

Looking at the guidebook, things are relatively benign for the next eighty-ish miles. The trail’s elevation doesn’t surpass two thousand feet for the next four hundred miles, finally doing so near the Connecticut-Massachusetts border. But elevation is a poor measure of the AT’s difficulty. There’s so much more to it. The AT is ETA unknown.

Milk Duds

Late afternoon we reached Pine Grove Furnace State Park and its small store, four miles past the midpoint. Hikers celebrate their half-assed achievement here. We decided we’d hold off on the ice cream till tomorrow since, while at the neighboring Appalachian Trail Museum, we met a fellow named Bruce (aka ‘The Yak,’ from the AT Class of ‘83, or ‘AT3’ as he pointed out).

Bruce asked if we cared to join their AT3 reunion another quarter-mile onward, past the museum and the store selling the overpriced ice cream. “Care to?” I repeated. “Yes we’d care to; we’re hikers!” Free food may well be the hiker’s two favorite F words.

July 6th, 1983. AT3ers Julie 'Big Mama' Settle, Eric 'Cap'n Incorrigible' Olson, and Bruce 'The Yak' Berlin (picture courtesy of 'Gonzo' at 2000milehike.com)

(About the above photo, I can’t but wonder where the hikers in these 1983 AT photos are today. Whether they dream of hiking the AT again all these years on; whether their lives turned out as joyous as the trail experience had been; if they’re still alive. For whatever reason, looking back in time always serves a deep reminder to live today!)

After a few hours Goat and TK pulled in. They were treated to a meal, just as we delved into our third. After the feast, we compared stories and equipment with the old-timers. (One AT3er wasn’t that old: he was seventeen when he completed the trail.) Another fellow had his entire set-up on show, the same one he’d carried for the length of the trail thirty years ago.

Everyone began comparing its weight to that of my pack, stunned any of today’s hikers would have the audacity to complain about the hardships involved. Boy, if they ever read this journal! My pack was near empty and in need of restocking I assured the crowd, but they wouldn’t have it. They just kept shaking their heads in disbelief. “The entirety of your gear weighs under eight pounds?! Unreal.” It was as though none of them had backpacked in three decades.

I hoisted the ‘83 rendition of what I was packing and nearly ruptured a disc. Even a bearded Bulgarian weightlifter would’ve broken something, though perhaps just a sweat; those women are TOUGH! The external-frame Kelty pack was also empty on expendables--no food, water or fuel--but still weighed six times what mine did. The spare Levi’s weighed two pounds.

“The wafflestompers I wore weigh as much as your entire set-up,” hooted a hairless coot. They too were on display; he wasn’t kidding.

“I don’t think I’d’ve made it this far in 1983,” Gator joked. “At least not without a stunt double.”

“Or maybe you’d just be reaching this point now,” I replied. “Here in 2013.”

When dark slunk in, we chose to stay put, at the behest of the AT3ers, all of whose names we’d forget the second we heard them. The group, glaring pyromaniacs, had a massive fire going, visible from the moon (and competing with the sun). They had plenty of camp spots available. Hikers would normally have to pay to stay at the park, but the AT3ers had already taken care of the costs. We thanked them profusely, because it’s not often that someone pays for you to sleep on the cold, damp ground.

"Foot"note 1: The trail's true midway point falls in a slightly different spot each year, since the trail continually evolves.

"Foot"note 2: To be politically correct.